by Mike Monson
“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.
Chapter 3
Hunter 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 tho
ught 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.”
Trujillo sighed and went out the door to get his paralegal, Lydia Hodges.
After he finished with Lydia, Hunter left the office and got hard at work obtaining whatever cash he could from wherever he could. He collected on scattered debts, he extracted as much as possible from the proceeds of his “cash-based endeavors.” At the end of the day, he was short exactly twelve thousand, six hundred dollars.
Chapter 4
Matt took it easy on the booze. Excited about his trip, he wanted to get there, get his car parked, get a room, and get to gambling, before he really let loose. Proud of his restraint, when he arrived in Reno, just after three in the afternoon, he’d drank only four of the beers and barely half of the Patron.
During the drive, he had decided to find a cheap but comfortable hotel somewhere off the strip and then walk to the fancy casinos to play.
He had visited Reno for the first time at 18 to marry his pregnant girlfriend, Ginny Barnes. They stayed at such a cheap motel that the second-floor railing broke when Ginny leaned back to take a swig of Jaeger. She fell on top of a Cadillac and lost the baby, and they cancelled the marriage. No one thought to sue the hotel.
He’d been to Reno several times since then, almost always staying at discounted rooms at Atlantis, Harrahs, the El Dorado, or the Silver Legacy. Two of his three actual marriages took place in the Biggest Little City. The first, when he was 21, at a wedding chapel. He was so drunk he had no memory of the place. He and his bride Stephanie—his girlfriend from his job at Toys R Us—did not buy any photos or keepsakes. They stayed at Harrahs for a week. When it was time to go back to Modesto, Steph told him that she’d interviewed for a cocktail waitress job at the hotel the previous day while he slept late after a night of drinking. She got the job and wanted to stay and hoped he’d leave. Her parents got the marriage annulled, and he never heard from her after that.
The second time he was 32. He married Jennifer Marlin, his AA sponsor. He’d been sober 18 months. She was 52 and had been sober 25 years. They got married and stayed at the El Dorado. Jennifer brought her adult son and daughter as well as 18 of the 26 other drunks she sponsored, along with their assorted wives and girlfriends and children. The entire group attended local AA and Alanon meetings in between bouts of gambling and serious falls off of several wagons. Five were arrested: one for his third DUI, one for robbing a gas station, and two for public drunkenness. Jennifer’s daughter, Stevie, was caught trying to steal a diamond ring from a hotel store. Since it was her second offence, she spent a year in a Nevada state prison. Jennifer divorced Matt two years later, after his third slip became permanent, and after she got tired of supporting his lazy ass.
He drove up and down Virginia Avenue and stared at Atlantis and Harrahs and the Sands Regency and the El Dorado and the Silver Legacy. He decided he deserved at least one night in a fancy room, in a nice place. It was a sad day, after all. Right?
He kept driving, undecided, until, about two miles from the main strip, he saw the spectacular Peppermill Resort rising up like some magic city. He knew where he needed to go.
Pulling up to the valets in his mom’s old car, Matt could not believe the size of the entryway. There were at least four lanes across full of cars, limos, and buses. Bellmen rushing everywhere, bright rainbow lights. Matt felt like he was entering a dream, a fantasy cocoon of safety, comfort, excitement, and possibility. It was fucking great.
He put the two leftover Coors and the Patron in a plastic AM/PM bag. Luggage. Left the motor running, jumped out, traded a twenty dollar bill for the valet ticket and basically ran through the big front doors and to the front desk. He briefly felt the intense dry heat outside and then basked in the frigid air inside the hotel. His timing sucked because he came in right after three young couples, two elderly couples, and a large family. Didn’t matter, he had his bag of booze. Just snuck a quick snort of tequila and then popped open one of the Coors.
Matt was very happy. The adventure was still to begin.
“Do you have a reservation this evening, sir?” said Murray, a very friendly young guy.
“No. But I was hoping to get a room for the night.”
“My pleasure, sir. Let me see what is available.”
My pleasure, sir. Freaking awesome.
“I’m a software engineer from the Silicon Valley. Just here for the night, I think.”
“Very nice. I hope we can make your brief stay a pleasant one.”
“Sold a new app just this morning for a lot of money. On my way to meet my investors in Aspen.”
Murray hit keys and stared at his screen. “How exciting.”
“We’ll see, sometimes these venture capital guys can be big jerks, you know what I mean?”
“Oh, I can imagine, sir. Ok, we have a queen smoking in the West Wing, a king non-smoking deluxe in the Peppermill Tower, and …. we have two Villas available in the Tuscany Tower.”
“Tuscany Tower, huh? That’s the new one, right? The big glass building?”
“Yes sir.”
“Villas are pretty nice, like a suite, only better?”
“Oh yes, the Tuscany Villas are quite luxurious. Top three floors only. Three hundred and ninety nine dollars for the night. Should I book you?”
Matt thought luxury suites cost three times that. Four hundred? No problem.
“Yes, that sounds great.”
“City or mountain view?”
“City.”
“Excellent. Could I see your ID and a major credit card?”
Matt handed over his California Driver’s License but held onto his credit cards.
“I’d rather just pay cash tonight, Murray.”
“You can certainly settle your bill on a cash basis, but we require a major credit card to cover incidentals.”
Shit. Lydia constantly monitored their bank and credit card accounts online. Nosy bitch. If he handed over a card and they used it for a deposit, within hours, she’d know his location.
“Is there any way around that?”
“Well, sir, you could leave a cash deposit. One hundred dollars per night.”
Thank god. Clearly, they were used to people in his predicament.
“Could I have the room two nights? I think I need to chill a little before Aspen.”
Matt handed over eleven one-hundred dollar bills.
“Certainly.”
On the way to the elevator, Matt saw the men’s clothing store was open. In the window, hung the kind of clothes he’d daydreamed about at the White Elephant. He picked out three elegant silk bowling shirts, two pairs of khaki shorts and a beautiful pair of leather loafers. He also bought a new belt, socks, and some underwear. At the last minute, he added a bath
ing suit in case he wanted to take a swim later, to relax and celebrate his winnings.
The sales woman rang up his total: $623. He handed her seven hundreds from his envelope. Her name tag said Misti. She had long dark hair and barely looked 18. Not Matt’s type. Too young. All his life, Matt preferred women in their forties and fifties. He could go mid-thirties, maybe, but his ideal was a beautiful woman with a hint of crow’s feet and experienced, knowing eyes. Barely 34 when he married her, Lydia was an exception. She could still pass for her late twenties. No crow’s feet on his wife.
“Please keep the change and have these delivered to my room as soon as possible.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“I’m producing a movie, and I’m just here scouting locations for a couple of days.”
“Oh sounds exciting. What is the movie about?”
“Just a gangster thing set in the world of Reno poker rooms. Robert Downey Jr. is playing a poker pro.”
“Wow.”
“He’s a lot nicer than you’d think. He’s actually a pretty great guy.”
His suite was the nicest hotel room he had ever seen. As far as he could remember, he had never even had anything called a “suite” before. He kept going from the main room, to the bedroom, to the large bathroom, and back to the main room, again and again. There was a large HD flat screen in both rooms and a smaller one in the bathroom. There were paintings and sculptures and fancy chairs and little tables and shit everywhere. An elegant black silk robe hung in the closet. Nice. There was a wet bar. Yes.
He touched the granite counters over and over. Sat at the desk. Looked out the window at Reno. Ran his fingers across the bed sheets. Squeezed the pillows.
He poured three fingers of Patron into one of the fancy glasses at the bar. Drank it up and chased it with the rest of his Coors. Belched.
He studied the book of hotel amenities. Called the spa and made arrangements that afternoon and evening for a Tuscan Ritual full body massage, a manicure, a pedicure, and a shampoo, haircut, and style.
