Stateline (3 page)

The bar was about forty feet long, and the floor was made up of what looked to be ancient wood planks, but they felt solid and didn’t bow when I walked across the room. I took a seat on the far side of the bar, near a wood-burning stove. There were about a dozen cocktail tables on the floor, set up to view a small, raised stage with a drum set and a pair of guitar amps. Three old-fashioned Western-style chandeliers hung from heavy beams that sectioned the ceiling.

About half the seats in the bar were full, mostly on one side where a group of locals were laughing and talking loudly. The bartender, a brown-haired girl with tight jeans and a white half shirt, finished pouring them a round and walked over to me.

“Do you still have beef stew on the menu?” I asked.

“Sure do,” she said, pointing it out on the menu with a purple designer fingernail. She smiled, showing teeth that were a little too small for her mouth. But that didn’t distract me—she had smooth skin, long, shiny hair, and her outfit was the type that suggested she was proud of what she looked like when she took it off. The type of woman that made for good, idle, bar fantasies.

A worker threw some split wood in the stove. I relaxed in the heat of the fire and watched the joint begin to grow more crowded. I ordered a beer and a shot of Canadian Club when the bartender brought out my dinner, and then a couple of men pulled up seats next to me. One of them, a blond dude with a three-inch billy-goat beard, said, “I’d like a Beam on the rocks, and get my date here a Shirley Temple.”

“No, no, a double Jack and Coke!” the other guy exclaimed, while his buddy grinned. I tried to mind my own business, but the blond guy leaned forward and said to me, “Don’t worry about my friend here. He’s gay, but I’ve trained him to keep his hands to himself.” I laughed, and the poor guy who was the butt of the joke looked over at me, sputtering, searching for a remark to save face. Then his eyes widened, and he said, “Dan!”

“Brad-o-Boy?” I had to look at him for a moment before I was sure. It was Brad Turner, my old next-door neighbor from San Jose.

“What the hell, buddy?” Brad said, standing and embracing me in an awkward hug.

“Good to see you, Brad,” I said. “It’s been too long.”

Brad sat down and ran his hand through his thick mane of dark hair. He was about six years younger than me, and when we were kids I felt like I was the older brother he never had, which was unseemly considering the relationship I had at one point with his sister. Ahh, fun-loving Lana Turner. My teenage first.

“Is that you, Whitey?” I said, looking around Brad at the other man.

“You’re goddamn right it is,” Brad said. “You’re looking at The Cheeseball himself.”

Derrick Whitehouse and Brad had been best friends since elementary school. Brad had referred to him as The Cheeseball for as long as I could remember. Whitey was a gregarious, round-headed guy with an ample beer gut. I remembered he used to drink imported beer and smoke pot profusely. Looking at him, I got the impression not much had changed.

I shook hands with Whitey. “How have you been, man?” I said.

“Dude, I am insane,” he replied.

“What you been up to, Dan?” Brad said, clubbing me on the shoulder with his open hand, looking at me with watery eyes. His complexion was ruddy, he needed a shave, and he smelled like cigarette smoke. It had been some years since I’d seen Brad, and he didn’t look like the innocent, happy-go-lucky kid I remembered. I’d heard he’d been in and out of rehab a few times, had gone through a court-mandated twelve-step program, and had a failed marriage with a couple of kids behind him.

“Same stuff, Brado, just workin’.”

“You know, I was in the Y-Not a couple weeks ago, and they still got a chunk of that guy’s spine on the shelf.”

“What?” I said, my fork hovering in front of my mouth.

“It’s in a jar of vodka behind the bar. And you know what? They put up a sign next to it that says ‘No Preverts.’” Brad started laughing and took a long swig from his drink. “Fuckin’ classic,” he said.

“His spine?”

“You knew about that, right? When you shot him, it blew one of his vertebras into the Corvette the bartender used to drive. Right? So the bartender cleaned it up and put it behind the bar.”

I’d never been back to the Y-Not Lounge after the night of the shooting. It had been more than five years. I threw back my shot of whiskey. That night had caused me a heap of grief.

“Well, I guess that is classic,” I said.

“Damn right it is. So, you just up here on a ski vacation?”

“Yeah, but I’m going to a wedding tomorrow.”

“No shit? At Caesar’s?” Brad looked at me in surprise.

“How’d you know?”

“Because that’s why I’m here, buddy! Osterlund’s in the wedding.” Brad smiled and sucked on his drink.

“Sven Osterlund?”

“Yeah. He’s in there at the rehearsal dinner.” Brad pointed toward the hallway that led to the fancy restaurant. “As soon as it’s over we’re heading back to Caesar’s for the bachelor party.”

“You’re still buddies with Osterlund, huh?” I said. Sven Osterlund had gone to the same high school as I did, but was a few years younger. He and Brad had become friends sometime after I left home, and I had never met him, but I’d seen him on TV doing commercials with his mother, Zelda Thomas, a popular psychic in San Jose. Osterlund always had his shirt off in the commercials, for no reason other than to show off his steroid-enhanced physique. Brad had told me stories of wild parties in hotel rooms with unlimited cocaine and expensive strippers, all funded by Osterlund. According to Brad, Whitey had pissed off Osterlund at one of those parties by suggesting that Osterlund didn’t really work but was supported fully by his mother. Osterlund gave Whitey the option to fight him or jump from the hotel room’s second-story balcony. Whitey jumped, and nearly bit his tongue off when his knee slammed into his chin on impact.

“Osterlund’s all right,” Brad said. “He’s not a bad guy–”

“For a douchebag,” Whitey interjected.

“Anyway, he offered to drive us up here, and he’s got a righteous new truck,” Brad continued. “It’s a totally maxed out, brand-new Chevy four-by-four. Cost fifty grand.”

“Must be some truck,” I said.

“Dan, why don’t you stop by the bachelor party? I’m sure it’d be cool,” Whitey said. Then Brad leaned toward me. “If you need anything for the nose, let me know.”

I looked at Brad, hoping he wasn’t dealing. He’d always had a compulsive personality, and was the type that would probably snort himself out of business in a hurry and maybe end up owing some serious people a lot of money.

“You holding, Brado?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No. But Osterlund is. He’s got a connection in Placerville, and he picked up a pack earlier today. Dan, this shit’s da kine. You ever have core?”

“Core? Never heard of it.”

“It’s like half coke and half crank with ecstasy mixed in. It’s the best junk I’ve ever had.”

“I’m just going to take it easy tonight, Brad,” I said, and excused myself to go to the head.

• • •

The door to the men’s room at the Midnight Tavern was locked, so I walked down the hallway to find the restaurant bathroom. A waiter balancing a large tray of desserts hurried by me, and I followed him down the hall to the entrance of the main dining area, where the rehearsal dinner was being held. I heard the tinkling of silverware against glass, and the din from the large gathering subsided. A man in a steel-gray business suit stood at a podium on the far side of the room. His head was bald and his taut features were offset by a neatly trimmed gray mustache beneath a hawk-shaped nose.

I turned to continue down the hall, but when the man started speaking, I found his voice arresting. Despite feeling like an intruder, I stopped and listened.

“I’d like to thank everyone for being here in Lake Tahoe for this momentous event, the wedding of my son, Sylvester, to Desiree.” The speaker was John Bascom. His voice came over the PA system with perfect clarity.

“Many of you, both family members and my good friends, have traveled great distances to be here, and I especially appreciate that. This is a major event for me personally. Those of you who know me well know how strongly I feel about family. A strong marriage is the basis for a strong family, and behind every successful man stands a strong woman. I can attest to that.” He gestured toward a demure, sophisticated-looking woman sitting in the front, who stood and waved to a scattering of light laughter. “I’ve seen Sylvester develop over the last five years,” he continued, “since he graduated from college, into a fine business executive. I’d like to feel I taught him well, and I believe I have, but all the teaching in the world is meaningless unless the student has ability. And instincts.” He paused, leaned forward, and tapped his temple with his index finger.

“Sylvester,” he said, “when you return from your honeymoon and walk into the offices of Bascom Lumber, you’ll do so as our new vice president of operations.”

A number of people in the front stood and clapped, and eventually half the room rose to their feet. John Bascom stepped down from the podium and shook hands with his son, then picked up a glass of wine and returned to the microphone.

“I’d like to propose a toast to the success, prosperity, and happiness of my son and his new wife, Desiree.” Everybody clapped again and drank.

I found the restroom, but as I was walking out I nearly tripped over my ex-wife and her husband, Parkash Singh.

“Watch where you’re going, you doofus!” Julia said, her eyes twinkling in amusement at having caught me off guard.

“Oh, hi,” I said.

“What are you doing here?” The freckles on her cheekbones danced under her brown eyes.

“I was having dinner over in the bar.” I turned to her husband and stuck out my hand. “What’s happening, Parkash?” I said, feeling a grin spread across my face.

“Very good of course, Dan,” he said. “And you are well?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

Julia had married Parkash Singh two years after we divorced, and despite occasional pangs of remorse over my failed marriage, I found it impossible not to like him. He came to America from India ten years ago and had established himself as a successful pediatrician. He seemed to be continually amazed and delighted with American culture, but after getting to know him, I saw through it. His naïve tourist persona was genuinely part of his charm, but Parkash was a shrewd, tough man. He had spent some difficult years in India, had seen two of his sisters disappear, and did three months in a squalid jail in Bombay when he complained too loudly. Despite his background, he was a naturally effervescent individual; he exuded good humor, laughter, and optimism.

“Why don’t you come join us for an after-dinner drink?” he said.

I looked at Julie. “Come on, say hello to the gang,” she said.

“Okay, just one drink.”

“Excellent,” Parkash said. He had an affinity for sweet drinks. I’d seen him swill copious amounts of Grand Marnier, peppermint schnapps, Yukon Jack, and the like.

People were milling around the plush dining room as the waiters served coffee and the last of the desserts. We sat at an empty table.

“My god, I would be so pissed if I was Desiree,” Julie said.

“Why?”

“You should have heard all the speeches before dinner. Nobody hardly said a word about Desiree, it’s all about how amazing Sylvester is. Then, to top it off, John Bascom announces the great Sylvester is getting a big promotion.”

“Didn’t Jerry get up and say something?” I said, referring to Jerry McGee, Desiree’s father.

“I don’t think they even gave him a chance,” Julia said. “I think if the Bascoms had any class they would have said something nice about Desiree themselves.”

“Sounds a bit self-centered on their part,” I offered.

“That’s an understatement. I think they’re a bunch of snobs.”

Jerry McGee saw us and walked over, preventing Julia from elaborating further. Jerry was a handsome man, but even for an event like tonight’s, he hadn’t deviated from his typical dress code. His blue Dockers were rumpled, and his old pink oxford shirt looked like it had been pulled out of a laundry hamper. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and his worn, brown belt was too long—the end hung halfway down his pocket. I looked down and was relieved to see he was wearing shoes; Jerry’s habit was always to take off his shoes when indoors.

I shook hands with him and said, “Congratulations, Jerry.”

“Thanks…I think,” he replied, but then he laughed. “The Bascoms are nice people. I’m very happy for Desiree.”

“I hear they are famously wealthy,” Parkash commented.

“Well, I suppose that’s true,” Jerry said.

The guests were beginning to disperse. John Bascom, his wife, and the rest of the group at the head table stood and began making their way toward the exit. I spotted Desiree, looking quite slender and chic, and her husband-to-be, Sylvester Bascom, a well built, balding man of medium height. They went their separate ways; Sylvester joined a cluster of fellows I assumed were the groomsmen, and Desiree was gathered up by the bridesmaids.

In my peripheral vision I noticed a curvy female figure in black walking toward us. The tantalizing shape of her body was clearly visible through her sheer gown. It was Mandy McGee, Desiree’s voluptuous sister.

“Hello, Dan,” Mandy said, peeking at me from under her thick eyelashes. The bangs of her dirty blond hair hung in a straight line over her eyebrows. An electric jolt charged through my groin, and immediately my heart rate picked up. She gave me a sly little smile, leaned down, and brushed her lips against my cheek, affording me an unavoidable, close-up view of her large breasts, which were barely restrained by the lacy bra beneath her low-cut dress. I averted my eyes, embarrassed by the provocative gesture, especially because it was in plain view of her father and my ex-wife. But Mandy didn’t seem to care—I’d known her since she was sixteen, and she’d always loved to tease. I suspected she’d been doing so since she first reached puberty and realized the power she held over men.

“Hi, Mandy,” I said, and took a long sip from a cognac that had appeared in front of me. “How are you?”