trees.
“Not bad,” Cody said, balling the foil and tossing it in a trash can. “What was the barkeep’s problem?”
“He’s the owner, and the ABC put his liquor license on probation.”
“Serving minors?”
“That, and crank was being dealt out of the bathroom. And a month ago a man was stabbed near where we were sitting.”
“A quaint, charming place, known for its discerning clientele and gourmet menu.” Cody stood and blew his nose in a napkin. “Let’s roll.”
We spent the rest of the afternoon bouncing around local hangouts on the California side of the border, before crossing into Nevada.
“Are we gonna hit the casinos?” Cody asked.
“Just the security offices. I know a couple of the managers. Do me a favor and play it low key, would you? I want to stay on good terms with these people.”
“Isn’t it getting close to happy hour?”
“I thought you didn’t feel like drinking.”
“Did I say that?”
“You want to wait in a bar while I take care of this?”
“Naw, I’m good.”
I parked in the back of Harrah’s, Tahoe’s largest casino. The casino conglomerate that owned Harrah’s also owned Harvey’s, and a smaller adjoining casino that targeted a younger crowd. The security chief at Harrah’s, a sexless black woman in her fifties, oversaw security for all three casinos, and we’d gotten along well the one time we’d met. But that was a while ago, and I didn’t know if she’d remember me.
I went to a half-door next to the cashier’s cage, where a sign said SECURITY in large, gold letters. A balding man with a mustache stood behind the door, writing on a clipboard.
“Joan Wallace, please.” I handed him my card and he glanced at it, his lips downturned, his eyes shaded with disinterest. Then he handed it back. Maybe he felt the big boss had more important things to do than talk to the likes of me.
“What’s it pertaining to?” he said.
“An armed robbery suspect jumped bail and we think he’s in the area.” I held up a picture of Jason Loohan’s face. “Ever seen him?”
“Nope.” He continued writing on his clipboard.
“How about Ms. Wallace?”
“She’s a busy woman, buddy. Do you have an appointment?”
I felt Cody move closer.
“I’ll just call her then,” I said, punching numbers into my cell. “What did you say your name was?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Hold up there. Let me go see if she’s in her office.”
“What’s his deal?” Cody said, watching him walk away.
“His wife’s blowing the milkman, his hemorrhoids are killing him, and the cat shit in his shoes.”
“Really?”
I shrugged. “Just my overactive imagination.”
We waited for a few minutes until the man came back and opened the door for us. We followed him into the bowels of the casino, past a team of workers counting and recounting stacks of cash, until we came to an office. He knocked lightly and let us in.
The African American woman behind the desk looked at me from over her glasses, her grayish eyes steady and penetrating.
“Mr.
Reno
, as in, no problemo. What can I do for you?”
“You have a good memory, ma’am.”
“I never forget a face.”
“I imagine that’s an occupational hazard at times.”
“Who’s this?” she said, ignoring my remark and shifting her eyes to Cody.
“Cody Gibbons, ex-San Jose PD,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”
She dismissed him with a nod. “I hear you were involved in a shooting a few nights ago,” she said.
I scratched my ear. “Word gets around, huh?”
“I’m connected to law enforcement agencies on both sides of the border, Mr. Reno. It’s part of my job to stay informed of local criminality.”
“Maybe you can help me, then. I’m looking for Jason Loohan, a known felon from New Jersey. He’s a friend of the man I shot, a rapist from New Jersey.” I handed her Loohan’s picture. “He jumped bail on rape and armed robbery charges.”
She studied his face, then ran the sheet of paper
“Not bad,” Cody said, balling the foil and tossing it in a trash can. “What was the barkeep’s problem?”
“He’s the owner, and the ABC put his liquor license on probation.”
“Serving minors?”
“That, and crank was being dealt out of the bathroom. And a month ago a man was stabbed near where we were sitting.”
“A quaint, charming place, known for its discerning clientele and gourmet menu.” Cody stood and blew his nose in a napkin. “Let’s roll.”
We spent the rest of the afternoon bouncing around local hangouts on the California side of the border, before crossing into Nevada.
“Are we gonna hit the casinos?” Cody asked.
“Just the security offices. I know a couple of the managers. Do me a favor and play it low key, would you? I want to stay on good terms with these people.”
“Isn’t it getting close to happy hour?”
“I thought you didn’t feel like drinking.”
“Did I say that?”
“You want to wait in a bar while I take care of this?”
“Naw, I’m good.”
I parked in the back of Harrah’s, Tahoe’s largest casino. The casino conglomerate that owned Harrah’s also owned Harvey’s, and a smaller adjoining casino that targeted a younger crowd. The security chief at Harrah’s, a sexless black woman in her fifties, oversaw security for all three casinos, and we’d gotten along well the one time we’d met. But that was a while ago, and I didn’t know if she’d remember me.
I went to a half-door next to the cashier’s cage, where a sign said SECURITY in large, gold letters. A balding man with a mustache stood behind the door, writing on a clipboard.
“Joan Wallace, please.” I handed him my card and he glanced at it, his lips downturned, his eyes shaded with disinterest. Then he handed it back. Maybe he felt the big boss had more important things to do than talk to the likes of me.
“What’s it pertaining to?” he said.
“An armed robbery suspect jumped bail and we think he’s in the area.” I held up a picture of Jason Loohan’s face. “Ever seen him?”
“Nope.” He continued writing on his clipboard.
“How about Ms. Wallace?”
“She’s a busy woman, buddy. Do you have an appointment?”
I felt Cody move closer.
“I’ll just call her then,” I said, punching numbers into my cell. “What did you say your name was?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Hold up there. Let me go see if she’s in her office.”
“What’s his deal?” Cody said, watching him walk away.
“His wife’s blowing the milkman, his hemorrhoids are killing him, and the cat shit in his shoes.”
“Really?”
I shrugged. “Just my overactive imagination.”
We waited for a few minutes until the man came back and opened the door for us. We followed him into the bowels of the casino, past a team of workers counting and recounting stacks of cash, until we came to an office. He knocked lightly and let us in.
The African American woman behind the desk looked at me from over her glasses, her grayish eyes steady and penetrating.
“Mr.
Reno
, as in, no problemo. What can I do for you?”
“You have a good memory, ma’am.”
“I never forget a face.”
“I imagine that’s an occupational hazard at times.”
“Who’s this?” she said, ignoring my remark and shifting her eyes to Cody.
“Cody Gibbons, ex-San Jose PD,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”
She dismissed him with a nod. “I hear you were involved in a shooting a few nights ago,” she said.
I scratched my ear. “Word gets around, huh?”
“I’m connected to law enforcement agencies on both sides of the border, Mr. Reno. It’s part of my job to stay informed of local criminality.”
“Maybe you can help me, then. I’m looking for Jason Loohan, a known felon from New Jersey. He’s a friend of the man I shot, a rapist from New Jersey.” I handed her Loohan’s picture. “He jumped bail on rape and armed robbery charges.”
She studied his face, then ran the sheet of paper
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