What Happens in Reno (2 page)

“Sure, darlin.’”

“Double tequila, please.”

“You got it, double bloody Maria, coming right up.”

Matt watched her big ass jiggle as she made the drink. He put the last twenty from his wallet on the bar and watched her make change as he swallowed the drink in one gulp.

“One more please.”

“Are we celebrating or trying to cure a hangover?”

“A little of both, I guess.”

He drank the next a little slower. Two swallows instead of one.

The bartender went to the other end of the bar to serve the shouting regulars.

When she came back, she poured them both a shot of Jose Cuervo.

“This is on me.”

Wow, he could get to like this new addition to his least favorite dive. Maybe he’d become a regular, after all.

“I’m Beth,” she said, extending her right hand.

“Matt.”

They shook. She smiled.

“What are we celebrating?”

“I’m about to leave town with a bundle of money. Maybe do a little gambling.”

So what if it was a lie? Who the fuck cared?

He drank his shot. She drank hers. She looked him straight in the eye. Big sexy smile.

“Oh, that’s always nice. Getting out of dodge with a big fat wallet.”

Matt felt great, drunk as hell. The White Elephant glowed. Bright, shiny, and beautiful. The liquor bottles behind his new friend sparkled and hummed. He saw his reflection in the mirror. He looked good, handsome even. Full head of blond hair, blue eyes, hardly a wrinkle. His eyes only looked a
little
puffy.

He pictured himself in a casino, playing poker, wearing a black silk bowling shirt, crisp khaki shorts, and brown leather slip-on Italian shoes. Big pile of chips. Beth stood beside him, running her nails up and down his arms. Two aces in his hand and the dealer dealt two more—one in the flop and one on the river. He went all in.

Back in his reality, he put his right hand on Beth’s left.

“Why don’t you come with me?”

Beth laughed.

“I’m serious. I promise we’ll have a great time.”

“I don’t think my husband would like that.” She pulled her hand back. Moved back down the bar to the right and started washing beer mugs. Matt stared. She didn’t look back. Eventually, Beth went to serve and flirt with the regulars on the other side of the bar.

Whatever. Her loss. He remembered Lydia and the tummy tuck and everything else.

Shit.

Checked his watch: 8:50. The room spun as he got off his stool. He looked at the back of Beth’s head on his way out. Then he noticed Hunter Manning standing against the wall. He had never seen him in the Elephant before this morning. Dude stared at him with vicious cold eyes. He wasn’t drinking.

H
e signed the papers without breaking down. Didn’t want to cry in the fancy Smithson Title conference room. As he took the check from the woman handling his closing, he thought about the house. It had been a quiet dark house with the shades always drawn, one of those places friends never want to visit.

At one time, Matt’s father, Benjamin, headed the premier cardiology practice in Modesto. Just after Matt’s seventh birthday, Benjamin and Matt’s older sister, Holly, died in a car wreck. Delores was the driver, and she and her husband were drunk. On Highway 99, on their way to pick up Matt from Vacation Bible School at the Church of the Brethren, Delores and Benjamin got into a fight. Delores tried to choke him. The car flipped three times before landing upside down in a canal. Delores managed to swim to safety, and her blood was never checked for alcohol. She was addicted to Jim Beam as well as numerous prescription pain killers for various injuries—real and imagined—the rest of her life.

With a shudder, Matt put the images from his childhood out of his mind and drove straight to the bank.

He waited in line and filled out a deposit slip.

Lindsay, one of the many very cute tellers, called him over to her spot. Lindsay had long red hair. She wore a lot of makeup. Her large tits strained the stitching of her uniform white polo shirt. Matt liked Lindsay.

“Can I help you?”

Matt didn’t hand her the check and the slip. He placed them on the counter in front of him.

Lindsay smiled.

“Sir?”

Matt picked up the check. He looked at the numbers. Thought about Reno. Thought about Las Vegas. He tried to stop himself from swaying by putting a hand on the counter. He smiled at Lindsay. God, what a hot-looking bitch.

“Hello?” she said. “Sir? How can I help you today?”

“I’d like to cash this.”

“Could I see your ID and debit card please?”

Matt grabbed his driver’s license and ATM card out of his wallet. He dropped the license on the floor. He bent to pick it up and banged his forehead on the counter. Saw stars.
Shit
. Steadied himself as he finally got the plastic card in his hand and placed it in front of Lindsay.

“Oh my,” Lindsay said. “I’ll be right back.”

Lindsay went over to a female bank employee who must’ve been a supervisor. They talked for a long time. They both looked at Matt. He tried not to stare. Finally, the woman came back with Lindsay. Her name tag said Helen. He’d seen Helen at the bank before. She appeared to be a stupid bitch. He thought they may have had words once, but he wasn’t sure. If so, he was probably drunk at the time.

Helen looked at the computer screen.

“Good morning, Mr. Hodges,” Helen said. “How are you today?”

She punched some keys and stared at the screen some more. Looked at Matt’s license again and again.

“Great, thanks,” Matt said. “Is everything okay? I figure since the check is actually from this bank, you’d know it is good. Right?”

“How would you like that?” she said.

“Give me ten thousand in hundreds and the rest in twenties and whatever.”

“Lindsay will take it from here, Mr. Hodges.”

Helen walked away. Matt watched Lindsay count out the money.

It was a
lot
of hundreds and twenties.

“Would you like an envelope, Mr. Hodges?”

“Yes, please.”

Lindsay handed him a manila envelope full of cash. Matt took out ten twenties and ten hundreds and put them in his wallet. He stuffed the rest of the money in a tight stack and folded the envelope so that it was roughly the size and shape of a small brick. He put it in the larger, bottom pocket of his cargo shorts, where it fit perfectly. He’d always wondered if he’d ever use one of those pockets.

Matt hurried out the door and got behind the wheel of his beautiful car.

He debated between Las Vegas and Reno. As he drove, he decided to go with Reno. He had better luck there, and Vegas cost way more. He wanted his money to last. He could always go to Vegas later.

He passed the White Elephant on the way to the northbound on-ramp for Highway 99. Looked in the parking lot for Hunter Manning’s brand new black Chevy Silverado 3500 pickup. Didn’t see it. Matt did not understand how a guy who was always in and out of prison with no job could afford such an expensive vehicle.

He thought about Beth. Fuck her. Reno had hundreds of Beths, maybe thousands.

Matt stopped for gas at the AM/PM on Prescott Road. Went inside to pay cash. He purchased an extra-large extra-strong coffee (“high octane”) and a six pack of Coors 16-ounce cans.

He needed to stick with paper money for this little adventure, to make sure Lydia couldn’t find him. He took the battery out of his cell phone and stashed both in the Mercedes’ glove box.

He saw a brand new black Chevy Silverado parked right behind him. The truck’s front bumper touched the rear bumper of the 280SE. He looked in the cab and saw no one inside. Put the coffee in the drink holder and the beer on the passenger seat. Placed the nozzle in the gas tank and started fueling. Slowly walked to the front of the market to look inside for Hunter Manning. Didn’t see him.

It made no sense for Hunter to follow him. It had to be a weird coincidence. He thought of the money and Lydia, and Hunter, again. An image of Hunter punching him in the face while he clutched the envelope of money to his chest popped into his mind. Matt took the nozzle out of his tank, even though there were several gallons left on his payment.

He drove away. Travelled down Prescott to the 99 as quickly as possible but not so fast as to attract the police. The Silverado did not follow. He relaxed and decided he had no real reason to be scared.

He drank the coffee first. He felt giddy. Happy. Figured he’d deal with Lydia later, whenever. He could send her the money for her stupid tummy tuck after he got a little ahead. Not like she needed it. She was getting laid. Plenty.

He stopped at a market and gas station in Manteca that also sold liquor. Finished filling up his tank and bought a 750 ml bottle of Patron. As he drove north to Reno, he kept the Patron on the seat next to him and an open Coors between his legs.

He put the AC on high. Turned on the oldies station. It was Eddie Money’s “Two Tickets to Paradise.” Amped up the volume and sang along. He knew every good oldies and classic rock station between Modesto and the other side of Sacramento. He drove, and he drank. He sang.

He was free.

H
unter Manning liked to appear as if he had it all together. Like he was the King of the Hunter Manning Universe and the Hunter Manning Universe trumped all others. He projected a certain reality, a story, and in that story Hunter Manning knew all, owned everything and everybody, and had total control of all things.

Fortunately, for Hunter Manning, this story was a reality in most of the known universe in and around the general vicinity of Modesto, California, and in certain prisons throughout the state. Unfortunately, for Hunter Manning, there were several universes actually greater and more powerful than his, and he was currently in debt to the most powerful one of all: the Internal Revenue Service.

The day before the closing of Matt’s house, Hunter Manning had a meeting with his criminal attorney, Jaime Trujillo, and Summer Tiegs, the tax law specialist at Gilbert & Roland (or, “that stupid cunt” as Hunter referred to her). They’d been warning him for months he needed to square things with the IRS for the previous three tax years.

As they carefully explained again and again, if he didn’t pay what he owed, his little enterprise of burglars, thieves, meth cooks and distributors, contract killers, and pimps and prostitutes (his “various cash-based endeavors” as they called it), would be dismantled. He’d lose all his property out on Ladd Road, his guns and whatever contraband and equipment there would be seized, and in the end, he would be locked up in federal prison—and not one of the nice ones.

“Good news,” Trujillo said. They were in his office. Trujillo sat behind a large oak desk. He wore a lovely blue suit. He was a dark-haired handsome man in his mid-thirties. Teigs sat opposite him in a black skirt and a white silk blouse and knee-high black leather boots. She weighed about 300 pounds. She perspired constantly and had a foul body odor. She never smiled. She wore her platinum blonde hair in a high loose bun, like a lady from the turn of the previous century.

Hunter did not sit. He paced the office, glaring at the two attorneys. He wore cut-off jeans shorts, white gym shoes, and a black tank top.

“There sure as fuck better be good news. What is it?”

“Maybe I should let Summer explain,” Trujillo said. “She’s done an amazing job negotiating with the IRS agents on this.”

Hunter walked behind Trujillo. He stared at the papers on Trujillo’s desk, picked up a file and looked inside and put it back down in a different spot.

Tiegs cleared her throat. “The IRS is being unusually cooperative with your case, Mr. Manning.”

“Good. So it’s all over?”

He moved from behind Trujillo’s desk and sat beside Tiegs.

“Not, exactly,” she said.

“Not
exactly
?” Hunter reached out and touched the bun on top of Teigs’ head. He patted the ball of platinum hair. Teigs looked at Trujillo. Trujillo raised his eyebrows and nodded.

“You still owe back taxes of one hundred seventy five thousand dollars. But, and this is highly unusual, if you deliver them a lump sum of fifty thousand dollars by this Friday, they are willing to work out a payment plan for the rest.”

“Shit! Fifty fucking K?”

He stood up and walked back over to the front of Trujillo’s desk. He picked up a piece of wood engraved with the words: Jaime Trujillo, Esq. Put it in his back pocket. Leaned back against the desk and stared at Teigs, blocking Jaime Trujillo’s view.

“Correct.”

“By this Friday?”

“And it is very likely you will avoid incarceration. At least as long as they do, in fact, receive the rest of the money according to the payment plan.”

Hunter sat down next to Summer.

“How did you get that name, Summer?”

“My mother thought it was nice, I guess. I don’t really know. It’s what she named me.” She sighed and looked over at Jaime.

“You don’t look like summer. You look like a stuffed hog in a dress and a wig.”

Hunter reached out and patted her platinum-blonde bun again. Summer kept her eyes on Trujillo.

“This is a very good result,” Trujillo said. “Of course, you will need to work with Summer to, uh, adjust your accounting methods to avoid this problem in the future.”

“You mean she is going to teach me how to better launder my money?”

“Absolutely not,” Teigs said.

“Whatever,” Hunter said. He walked over to Trujillo, motioned for his attorney to stand, and when Trujillo stood up, Hunter sat in his desk chair. He leaned back and put his hands behind his head.

“I’ll have the money by Friday.” He pointed at Summer Tiegs. “You get the fuck out of here, you stupid cunt.”

Tiegs stood up and glared at Trujillo, who nodded. She walked out the door.

“And you, Jaime. Find something else to do for about an hour. Send Lydia Hodges in here and be sure she locks the door. I have personal things to discuss with that sexy bitch.”

Trujillo hesitated.

“Don’t be an idiot, counselor. I know you don’t want to piss me off.”