I wondered, though, how I must look to all those good folks in Iowa, Indiana, Ohio, Illinois, any of those Midwestern vowel states. Guilty as sin, no question. Big lumbering guy like me could lop off a head in no time.
So…now what? Go solve the case or cases? Fat chance, in spite of Dallas’s hopes. Troops of Reno’s finest were on the job, crawling all over it. I had no hope of win, place, or show.
But a job was a job. Dallas had only said try. To her, a couple thousand was blow-off change. Greg and I had no chance of finding Jonnie’s killer, but Dallas might have felt obligated for some reason. Or maybe she needed to feel more in control.
But…where to start?
Truth was, I was worn out, exhausted. I’d been a private eye for only two days, and I’d already found Jonnie Sjorgen, Milliken, and maybe fixed things over at Skulstad’s. Gregory was dead wrong. This gumshoe business definitely had its heart-pounding moments.
Except that I could see him now, going door to door, business to business, trying to get a line on Jonnie that no one else was getting. Shoe leather grunt work. Hopeless, I thought. He’d go over to Sjorgen Fence Company out on East Sixth, or to the Silver Strike Motel, of which Jonnie had been part owner. What the hell could he ask? I couldn’t even imagine. “Hey, guys, any of you see anyone threaten Jonnie’s life around here in the past month or two?”
Like I said, hopeless. If anything like that had happened, the police would’ve had it days ago.
I was lost. I had no idea where to start. I still didn’t know who K was. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this private eye thing after all.
K, I found, was really starting to rankle.
In the meantime, I was hungry. I also had a memorable face and size, had been on TV too much of late, was due for a serious bath, and I’d lost my house, my kitchen, shower, bed, and every last shred of privacy I hadn’t realized I valued so highly until it was gone. And my formerly nondescript Toyota was becoming the White Ford Bronco of Reno.
So—I drove it on back to Dallas.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THAT NIGHT WAS not one of fun and games. Nor had I expected it. I hadn’t expected it the night before, either. But Dallas came straight from the shower into my bed, and I held her until we both fell asleep. That was nice. Sometimes nice is more than enough.
I dreamed that a pack of dogs was chasing me—or wolves. When I looked back, they were one faceless, silent-running man, wielding a machete, and his eyes were as blank as silver dollars.
* * *
Early the next morning in the Grand Sierra’s parking lot, I found that the media had discovered my Toyota. They hadn’t gathered in an obvious way, not like a British soccer riot, but from the top of the stairs overlooking the southeast lot I saw half a dozen vans scattered around. Reporters and cameramen were out stretching their legs, drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups. They were a wiry looking pack, fleet of foot, ready to spring into action.
I had two choices: back off, or get on TV in Bangkok, Paris, Rangoon, everywhere on the planet where they had electric power and free time on their hands. I didn’t give a damn what they thought about me in Rangoon, but Hawaii was another matter. What would Mom think?
I hadn’t given any thought to that. By now, Dori Angel had to have heard about the stunning successes of her one and only son in his new career. It was possible she’d been on TV in Maui, telling them God only knew what about me. Next chance I got, I would have to ask K if Mom had phoned with her congratulations.
I retreated, caught a De Luxe cab under the Grand Sierra portico.
“Court Street,” I said to Ralph Lockett—none of this Rasheed Abdul stuff you get in New York City. Ralph was a hundred pounds overweight, finishing a jelly-center donut with powdered sugar on it, drinking coffee from an ancient Thermos. A fine dusting of sugar trailed down the front of his shirt. He took one look at me and almost spewed Maxwell House over the windshield.
“Jesus, you’re that heads guy, huh?”
“Heads?” I gave him a blank look. “Tractor parts convention. Got in from Iowa last night.”
He peered at me in the rearview mirror. “Then you better get yourself a hat, fella. Guy here in town looks just like you, probably been cutting off people’s heads.”
“No shit? That guy? Wow. Heard about it on the news, way over there in Des Moines. They haven’t caught him yet, huh?”
“Not yet. He’s pretty smart. But they’ll get ’im, don’t you worry.”
Straight from Joe America. Mortimer Angel was one dangerous sonofabitch. Smart, too. I sorta liked that.
Ralph cruised down the ramp, headed for Glendale Avenue. He glanced back at me again and shook his head before making the turn. “I’d buy me a fake moustache, too, I was you.”
* * *
Twenty-five minutes later, sporting a porkpie hat and a bristly, Scottish-looking moustache from a place called Life-Like Hair for Men, I climbed the back stairs of Gregory’s office building. Damn if that Ralph fella didn’t have a good head on his shoulders.
I got there at 8:53, before Dale or Gregory showed up and had to wait in the hallway. No one had thought to give me a set of keys. I nodded to two young women who opened the gaming school, feeling idiotic, touching the moustache every couple of seconds to make sure it hadn’t
