him closer to the edge. To say his relationship with Sheila Majorie concerned me was probably an understatement.
If Sheila was using Cody somehow, and I was fairly sure she was, it was my intention to prevent Cody from doing anything self-destructive. It was a fool’s errand. From our high school days, I’d never seen Cody Gibbons show the slightest restraint in his behavior. He threw his varsity football coach in a Dumpster, proposed to the head cheerleader and moved out of state the day after she declined, and was involved in eight shootings in three years of active police duty. And, he once saved my life by shooting a man to death.
I knew there were dark places in Cody’s psychology that drove him to behave as he did, but Cody Gibbons also was the most loyal and steadfast friend a man could have, especially when the going got tough. He had stood by my side during my bleakest hours, when I was drinking heavily after I first killed a man, when I was broke and jobless, and when my marriage ended. And when my life was threatened last winter, he put his own on the line without hesitation, and was nearly killed himself.
• • •
The next morning I had breakfast at the casino, then drove out to a nearby gym and lifted weights for an hour. Noon came and I hadn’t heard from Cody, so I headed over to the Mirage for a little recon work. I checked to make sure the orange Lamborghini was still in place, then went into the casino.
I toured the Mirage’s bars, showing Jimmy’s picture to the bartenders. A couple recognized him, and one, a short Mexican man, remembered him well.
“Sure, that guy. He was here for a few days, I think. He was always drunk, or drugged out. He talked like a big shot, a joker like that. He even said he might buy the Mirage.”
“Did he talk much about his plans for the future, like where he might be going?”
“I heard him talking about whores in Costa Rica.”
“Anything else you remember him saying?”
“He talked about buying a mansion, mentioned Lake Tahoe.”
“Interesting. Thanks, amigo.”
“Hey,” he said. “Why are you interested in this stupid guy?”
“He might be in trouble.”
“One day he tried to talk to these ladies who came by for a drink. He paid for their drinks, but then they left. I think it made him very mad.”
“No kidding?”
“I think maybe he should stick with whores.”
We laughed, then I left the waterfalls and tropical foliage surrounding the bar and headed out into the heat of the day to kill some time.
It was a bit after six that evening when my cell rang, showing the alert code for my GPS unit. A red arrow appeared, moving down Las Vegas Boulevard. I dialed Cody’s cell.
“Drop your cock and grab your socks,” I said. “The Lamborghini’s on the move.”
“Five minutes, in the lobby,” he said.
“Bring Sheila,” I said, but the line was already dead.
Cody showed up in the lobby alone, drinking a bottle of beer and smoking a cigarette.
“Since when did you start smoking again?”
“Since ten minutes ago,” he said, flicking the butt onto the hot pavement. He carried his beer with him into the car.
“Try not to get us pulled over,” I said.
He finished the beer and tossed the bottle into the back seat. “Drive,” he said.
We followed the GPS through the traffic on the Strip, and after a couple of U-turns, I spotted the Lamborghini pulling into the parking lot of an expensive restaurant. We cut across three lanes of traffic and parked a few spots away.
A man climbed out of the car, walked around to the passenger side, and opened the door for a young blond girl.
“That’s not Jimmy Homestead,” I said.
Cody reached them first. “This your car, son?” he said. The kid looked barely drinking age.
“Ah, no, actually. I’m borrowing it for the night.”
“This car is supposed to be secured in valet parking at the Mirage,” I said.
“Oh, uh, really?” he sputtered. His date stared at us open-mouthed.
“Do
If Sheila was using Cody somehow, and I was fairly sure she was, it was my intention to prevent Cody from doing anything self-destructive. It was a fool’s errand. From our high school days, I’d never seen Cody Gibbons show the slightest restraint in his behavior. He threw his varsity football coach in a Dumpster, proposed to the head cheerleader and moved out of state the day after she declined, and was involved in eight shootings in three years of active police duty. And, he once saved my life by shooting a man to death.
I knew there were dark places in Cody’s psychology that drove him to behave as he did, but Cody Gibbons also was the most loyal and steadfast friend a man could have, especially when the going got tough. He had stood by my side during my bleakest hours, when I was drinking heavily after I first killed a man, when I was broke and jobless, and when my marriage ended. And when my life was threatened last winter, he put his own on the line without hesitation, and was nearly killed himself.
• • •
The next morning I had breakfast at the casino, then drove out to a nearby gym and lifted weights for an hour. Noon came and I hadn’t heard from Cody, so I headed over to the Mirage for a little recon work. I checked to make sure the orange Lamborghini was still in place, then went into the casino.
I toured the Mirage’s bars, showing Jimmy’s picture to the bartenders. A couple recognized him, and one, a short Mexican man, remembered him well.
“Sure, that guy. He was here for a few days, I think. He was always drunk, or drugged out. He talked like a big shot, a joker like that. He even said he might buy the Mirage.”
“Did he talk much about his plans for the future, like where he might be going?”
“I heard him talking about whores in Costa Rica.”
“Anything else you remember him saying?”
“He talked about buying a mansion, mentioned Lake Tahoe.”
“Interesting. Thanks, amigo.”
“Hey,” he said. “Why are you interested in this stupid guy?”
“He might be in trouble.”
“One day he tried to talk to these ladies who came by for a drink. He paid for their drinks, but then they left. I think it made him very mad.”
“No kidding?”
“I think maybe he should stick with whores.”
We laughed, then I left the waterfalls and tropical foliage surrounding the bar and headed out into the heat of the day to kill some time.
It was a bit after six that evening when my cell rang, showing the alert code for my GPS unit. A red arrow appeared, moving down Las Vegas Boulevard. I dialed Cody’s cell.
“Drop your cock and grab your socks,” I said. “The Lamborghini’s on the move.”
“Five minutes, in the lobby,” he said.
“Bring Sheila,” I said, but the line was already dead.
Cody showed up in the lobby alone, drinking a bottle of beer and smoking a cigarette.
“Since when did you start smoking again?”
“Since ten minutes ago,” he said, flicking the butt onto the hot pavement. He carried his beer with him into the car.
“Try not to get us pulled over,” I said.
He finished the beer and tossed the bottle into the back seat. “Drive,” he said.
We followed the GPS through the traffic on the Strip, and after a couple of U-turns, I spotted the Lamborghini pulling into the parking lot of an expensive restaurant. We cut across three lanes of traffic and parked a few spots away.
A man climbed out of the car, walked around to the passenger side, and opened the door for a young blond girl.
“That’s not Jimmy Homestead,” I said.
Cody reached them first. “This your car, son?” he said. The kid looked barely drinking age.
“Ah, no, actually. I’m borrowing it for the night.”
“This car is supposed to be secured in valet parking at the Mirage,” I said.
“Oh, uh, really?” he sputtered. His date stared at us open-mouthed.
“Do
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