What Happens in Reno

by Mike Monson

  Later, after they married and he stopped working and she realized that he never made any money, she investigated his former employer. It turned out the company’s name only sounded like a famous Wall Street investment bank. Matt actually shilled for a multi-level-marketing scheme that charged its recruits $200 for the privilege of urging other people to join the company and … pay $200, etc. There actually was a legitimate insurance product, but Matt never sold any of those. Never attracted any recruits, either.

  Stupid her, she saw the suit and heard the job title and assumed he was college educated with an MBA or something. Took her a while to get it out of him, but he finally admitted that his only education past high school was a semester at Modesto Junior College in which he earned all F’s.

  Matt said he lived with his mother in that dump out on Rumble on a temporary basis because she was dying and needed his care and help. Part of that was true, at least. The bitch did have cancer and was near death, and Matt seemed to really love her, but he didn’t give her much care—she had County Hospice for that. She thought that nice old Mercedes was his, but it turned out it was the mother’s. He drove it because he didn’t have a car of his own. He did help her spend her social security checks. In fact, she was certain that he kept cashing those checks for months after she died to finance his drinking and gambling. He didn’t even hide that he was selling off anything of value in the house on eBay and Craigslist. She figured that’s how he paid for the suit.

  “Hey,” he had said, “It’s all going to be mine anyway, I may as well get whatever I can out of it now before it gets all tied up in legal shit. She’s so hopped up on morphine now she can’t appreciate any of it anyway.”

  Matt was vague about everything and changed his stories all the time. As far as Lydia could tell, he’d been living with his mother since his crazy ex-wife Jennifer Marlin kicked him out eight years earlier.

  Lydia and Matt married at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas. Still in her Matt-induced fog, she paid for it all because he said he was having “cash-flow” issues with some of his investments. They were there four days. The first two days were fun, and, yes, they did get married by an Elvis impersonator—the video was a big hit at parties—and they spent a lot of great time in bed.

  Then, on the third day, Matt started drinking. Well, he always drank, but up until then, he was very controlled, just like anyone else. Nothing like Ralph Tilley, or some of her boyfriends in the past. But at this point, he stopped faking. They were playing the slots at the Mirage at around noon, and all of a sudden, he was gone. Worried something happened to him, she was about to call the police when he came into the room at 2 A.M., sat in a chair, and peed and shit all over himself before passing out.

  In the morning, when he got up, she was packed and ready to end the marriage. No more drunks for her. Somehow, he talked her out of it, but she never did feel as close to him after that. She did try, though, she really did.

  That afternoon, he won more than three grand at a progressive slot machine. When they got back, he quit his fake job because he said he “needed to deal with his mother’s death and think about how best to utilize his skills in the investment marketplace,” conveniently forgetting he didn’t have any skills. The money disappeared in a couple of weeks, and after that, they remained a one-income family.

  So, it was very bad news that Matt was on the loose with the money. She really should have known better. Should have gone with him to the closing and then to the bank. If she hadn’t been so stressed out over Hunter Manning and so obsessed with her operation, she would have handled things very differently. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  She knew that Matt was at one of the local Indian casinos. Or Reno, or Vegas. Those were definitely the only choices. Knowing this was true and knowing Matt, the longer he was gone the less chance there was of the money lasting. She had to find him and stop him as soon as possible.

  Seeing no alternative, she called Hunter Manning.

  “Look, man,” she said. “Matt must have cashed that check and left with all the money.”

  “I’ll be right over,” Hunter said.

  He arrived with Tanner.

  “I expect you to become quite an asset to my family, young man,” she heard Hunter say as they walked in the door.

  What did that mean? “Quite an ’asset’?” Family? Oh god.

  Then again, maybe this was good. Tanner had needed a father figure since, like, forever. Maybe it wasn’t too late for him. He sure looked happy as fuck. The kid was beaming.

  When he saw Lydia sitting on the couch in the front room, Hunter said, “Please leave me alone with your mother for a minute.”

  Tanner looked at Lydia. Hunter put his hand up for a high five. They slapped. Tanner went to his room.

  “I saw the dude go to the AM/PM after the bank,” Hunter said. He sat in the easy chair opposite Lydia. “I figured he just needed gas and some beers. When he left, I stopped paying attention.”

  “His phone is turned off, and I can’t find him anywhere,” Lydia said.

  “Where’s your computer?”

  “Over there,” she pointed to a little desk between the dining room and kitchen.

  Hunter stood up.

  “Show me the bank account. I’ll need to know your ID and your password, both.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  Hunter looked at Lydia. Raised his eyebrows. Lydia took him over to the desk. She sat down and turned on her internet browser. Hunter stood behind Lydia and watched. She went to her favorites and found her bank.

  “My ID is Lydia72.” She typed it in and pressed enter. “And my password is legalslut69.”

  She typed in her password and pressed enter. Her checking account appeared.

  “Lydia72 and legalslut69,” Hunter said.

  “Correct.”

  “Click on checking, let me see the balance and recent transactions.”

  “See. There’s my payroll check from two days ago. And there’s Matt using his debit card at Denny’s at some point early this morning. Whatever he ate, he vomited all over his clothes. Anyway, no twelve thousand six hundred dollars.”

  “Is your husband really that big of an asshole?”

  “No shit he’d pull would surprise me anymore.”

  “How do I know you don’t have the money? Or know where fuckwad is and are keeping him away so I don’t get my loan?”

  “I don’t see how. Clearly, the money was never deposited in the bank. And you saw him go there after the closing. He had to have cashed it. How could I have it? Dude, this is serious. He’s at the Chicken Ranch, Jackson Rancheria, Blackoak, or Reno, or Vegas. And if we don’t find him quick, that money is going to be so gone. The guy is a total loser.”

  Hunter looked Lydia in the eyes. She could tell he was trying to decide whether or not he believed her story. He nodded and took his cell phone out of his pocket.

  “I need a picture,” he said.

  Lydia looked in her phone for an image of Matt. She finally found a good one. From his mother’s memorial service. He and Lydia were the only people there except for the hired minister from Grace Lutheran.

  Hunter had a friend who worked as a dealer at Blackoak. He sent the man the picture of Matt. He called his “cousin Johnny” and sent him the photo as well and told him to go Jackson Rancheria to look for Matt. He contacted somebody named Fuckhead Roy and sent him to the Chicken Ranch.

  “Now what?” Lydia said.

  “Let’s just wait a while and keep monitoring that bank account,” Hunter said. He looked at Lydia. “I can think of an activity to keep you occupied in the meantime.”

  Oh, god.

  “Do we have to do it in front of Tanner?”

  Hunter laughed.

  “Don’t bullshit me, you fucking slut. I know that never stopped you before.”

  “I just mean can we go into the bedroom?”

  Lydia reached back and grabbed Hunter’s dick.

  “And can I please give you head this time? Prett
y please?”

  “Darling, you can do whatever you want.”

  Chapter 15

  That day had been the best ever for Tanner.

  In the afternoon, Hunter called him to the compound. Took him alone to the clubhouse and had him sit at the card table. Grabbed a pistol out of one of the cabinets and placed it in front of Tanner.

  “Do you know what that is?”

  Tanner studied the gun. It was a revolver, he knew that. He thought it was beautiful. Black rubber grip, shiny stainless steel, short barrel.

  “Is it a Smith & Wesson snub nose?”

  “No.”

  “But Uncle, it says Smith and Wesson right on the short barr—”

  “That doesn’t mean shit.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  “No. Look at it again. What is it?”

  “A gun?”

  “No, dumbass, try again.”

  Tanner studied the gun. “Can I pick it up?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Tanner picked it up. He’d never held a gun before. He put his hand around the grip and put his index finger on the trigger. Power flowed from the gun up his arm and into his chest.

  “It’s a weapon.”

  “That’s right, nephew,” Hunter said. “And what is it for?”

  Tanner pointed the gun across the table away from Hunter.

  “To kill people.”

  “That’s right. Just like your fists, your feet, a knife, a rock—that’s all it is. It’s a weapon you use to kill people. Don’t get all caught up in all the technical bullshit. Those gun nuts that go on and on about Glocks and Colts and Berettas and revolvers versus autos or whatever are full of shit. A real criminal doesn’t care about all that. All a real criminal cares about a gun is is it right for the given job? Will it kill? Sure, this is a Smith and Wesson .38 snub nose revolver. It holds five rounds. It’s easy to load, easy to reload, and easy to aim and shoot. It’s nice because it’s so easy to carry and conceal, plus it’s powerful enough to stop a man’s heart or shatter his skull. But there are all kinds of guns—big, little, weak, powerful, revolvers, automatics, whatever. Doesn’t matter, they all kill real good, believe it. All you need to do is get good enough to look at any gun and know how to get the bullets in and how to shoot the thing.”

  Tanner listened. He aimed the gun.

  “Get it?” Hunter said.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, follow me.”

  Hunter grabbed a box of bullets and loaded the pistol as he led Tanner out the door. He took him to a field about a quarter of a mile behind the clubhouse. There was a clearing and in the clearing stood a six-foot-long two-by-four stuck in the ground, upright. Hunter had Tanner stop abound ten feet from the board. He handed him the gun and pointed at the piece of wood.

  “Shoot it. Now.”

  Tanner immediately brought the gun up and shot at the four-inch-wide target, hitting it at a spot even with his own head. He had no idea how he did it, but, just like in a fist fight, his skill was effortless.

  “Just as I suspected,” Hunter said. He smiled. Hugged Hunter tight. He stepped back. “Never hesitate. When the gun is in your hand and you see your enemy, just shoot the fucker. Now. No muss. No fuss. No thinking allowed.”

  Hunter handed Tanner the box of bullets.

  “Now,” he said, “I got somewheres I gotta be. Keep shooting until all the bullets are used up. Then, put the gun back in the clubhouse, in the same place I got it.”

  “Okay, Uncle.”

  “Meet me at the gym at five, ready to work out.”

  Tanner shot the board again and again as Hunter walked away. Never missing. By the time all the bullets were gone, Tanner lost interest in the board and longed to use the gun to shoot and kill a person.

  Chapter 16

  Matt woke up at 4 A.M. He knew exactly where he was and exactly what he’d done. The details of his humiliating poker loss were confused and dreamlike, but he was clear on the basics of what happened.

  He checked his pockets for the remaining five grand. All there.

  Starving, he left his room to go down and get some breakfast. He went the wrong way to the elevator and ended up wandering up and down the hallway. He heard a door open ahead. A woman in a black silk teddy and a tiny black thong stepped out and then bent over to put a room service tray on the floor. She had long shiny blonde hair. She was heavily made-up. She saw Matt and smiled.

  “Hello,” she said, straightening up. Yes, cleavage, lots of cleavage. Fake, probably. Who cares?

  “Hi,” Matt said. He stopped about five feet way.

  She looked Matt up and down and grinned.

  “What are you up to, cutie?”

  Oh, man. Is this really happening?

  “Not much. Just trying to have some fun.”

  “Aren’t we all? Come a little closer. I won’t bite. At least, not right away.”

  Matt walked to within two feet of the woman. Close up, he could see past the heavy make-up that she was maybe 65 or older. The skin between her panties and the bottom of her teddy was stretched tight and wrinkled. Varicose veins dominated her legs, especially her thighs. The hair was obviously a wig.

  “Did you leave your wife in the room?”

  “No, I left her at home.”

  “Perfect. I’m just about to have a nightcap. Why don’t you come in and join me?”

  She opened her door wide, walked in, and motioned him to follow.

  It was another suite, just like his. She led him to a table in the front room. He saw a 750 ml bottle of Grey Goose set deep in an ice bucket next to two elegant cocktail glasses. It looked like the place to be.

  As they sat, Matt heard loud, uneven snoring from the bedroom. The kind that sounds like the person’s breathing stops every three or four minutes.

  “Oh, that’s just my husband. Don’t mind him, he’ll be out for hours. Fucker only drinks after he wins, and he’s been winning big.”

  Matt poured about four ounces of vodka into a glass. He didn’t bother with ice. He drank half of it right down.

  “I guess you were thirsty.”

  “I’m never not.”

  “Me either. I love to drink. I’m drunk as shit right now as a matter of fact.”

  “I hope to be soon.”

  “How long are you here for?”

  “Just tonight and tomorrow night.”

  “Really? Us too! How convenient.”

  She straddled his lap. She took a sip of his drink and then brought the glass to Matt’s lips. He could see the impression of her peach-colored lipstick on the glass, and it made him feel sick. He stopped looking at it and let her pour the rest of it into his mouth. She smiled a lascivious smile. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a for real lascivious smile before but, if hers wasn’t, then he didn’t understand the definition of lascivious.

  He stared at her, and he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. For a moment, she looked like an old man in drag. He checked, and it didn’t look like she had a penis. He could see the little bit of fabric-looking weave in the middle part of her wig. Then he looked again, and she looked just like his mother.

  She leaned over to kiss him while putting her hands around his throat. Her tongue went in and out of his mouth like a snake’s. It was small and hard and pointed. He tried to let go and get into the kiss, but he could not. He pulled at her hands and tried to get up. She tried even harder to shove her rapid tongue into his mouth. He finally broke the kiss and stood up while holding her wrists. She flailed her arms to make him let go and to regain her balance.

  “Sorry,” Matt said. “I gotta go.”

  “But you just got here, sweetie.” Somehow, her wig had gotten twisted, and he could see some of her gray hair secured tightly to her scalp with bobby pins.

  “I really need to eat something.”

  He rushed toward the door just as he heard the man in the other room choking. He kept going. The woman rushed into the bedroom. A moment later she screamed.

  “H
erman,” she kept saying, “Herman, what is wrong? What is wrong?”

  Matt wanted to leave right then, but something compelled him to go into the room.

  An old man in the bed was clearly choking on something. The woman was shaking him by the throat. His face was turning bright red. Matt tried to pull her off, but her grip was too strong. He knew the man was dying. This wasn’t his first encounter with aspiration of vomit from alcohol abuse. He’d been saved from the same kind of death once before—when he was barely 16. He’d twice prevented the death of his mother from the same cause.

  He knew what needed to be done. He got his hands under the women’s arms and managed to pull her off Herman. She fell off the bed. Her wig came off.

  Matt turned the man over on his side and put his fingers in his mouth and cleared his throat. He roughly massaged the man’s back. After about three minutes, the old guy began to breathe normally and his color returned. He woke up and looked at Matt on top of him and at his wife crying on the floor next to the bed.

  Matt got off the bed and took a couple of steps toward the door. The woman stuck the wig back on and joined her husband on the bed.

  “What’s going on?” Herman said, focusing his eyes. “Who is that man?”

  Herman reached out and opened his nightstand drawer. He pulled out a large revolver with a very long barrel. His wife jumped over and held his hand down.

  “No Herman, no,” she said. “It’s okay, he’s a friend. When you were choking, I went out in the hall and started yelling for help, and this kind man just happened to be walking by. Good thing he knew what to do.”

  The man looked skeptical and angry. He let go of the gun. He glared at Matt. Matt went to the outer room and out the door as fast as he could. He had the odd sensation that he knew Herman from somewhere.

  As he left, he heard the woman say, “He saved your life Herman, he saved your life.”

  Herman said, “He did?”

  “He sure did.”

  “Just walking by, my ass.”

  Downstairs, Matt found a men’s room and washed Herman’s vomit from his hands. He went to the all-night café and got steak, eggs, and hash browns. He was the only customer. He could hear the sounds of slot machines dinging and of gamblers shouting at a craps table. He poured tabasco sauce over everything on his plate and ate every bite. The young and very cute waitress smiled and smiled at him and seemed to want to start up a conversation, but he didn’t respond.