Free Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel by Dave Stanton Page A

the blue surface of the lake, as if painted on a sheet of glass.
    Driving with his window open, John tried to enjoy the scenery. But it felt artificial, as if he was watching a movie, and once it ended, an ugly reality would resume. He shook his head at the thought. The gig in Tahoe had saved his ass from financial ruin. Sal Tuma had personally extended himself, offering John a deal he should be grateful for. So why couldn’t John accept the situation and be content?
    The answer was obvious, he thought, walking to the Employees Only entrance at Pistol Pete’s. It was bad enough he was forced to board the HCU jackasses for a month. Now three of them had befriended Robert, and it seemed they would become frequent visitors to his home. If they showed John a modicum of deference, that would be one thing. But instead they displayed an utter lack of respect, in effect dismissing him as an old man whose comments and opinions carried no more weight than a child’s. In his prior life, it was an offense no sane man would make.
    John had not asked Sal Tuma or Vic Severino why the HCU goons had been brought from Jersey to South Lake Tahoe. In truth, John didn’t give a shit, as long as they weren’t stupid enough to draw Robert into any trouble. But they were stupid, and that was the heart of the problem. No doubt HCU would be involved in criminal activity. If Robert was hanging around with these bozos, trouble would be inevitable. Go to bed with dogs, wake up with fleas.
    Clearly it was time to have a serious chat with the so-called musicians who’d enlisted Robert as their drummer. John would start with the guitarist with the nose ring–Tom, if he remembered right. Nothing physical, just a one-on-one conversation to let him know the issues. And if he copped an attitude, then what? John felt a delicious rush course through his veins. How long had it been since he’d been involved in a violent situation? Twenty years, at least. He’d left his life as a mob hitman after what he’d thought was a supernatural warning. In retrospect, maybe it was just nerves. Regardless, his life as a legitimate businessman had suited him fine. But the situation in Tahoe might call for different tactics.
    John sat at his desk until his emotions subsided and the impulse to crush Tom’s skull with a crowbar faded. He was surprised he would so readily contemplate reverting to his old ways. His career as a real estate investor had sometimes involved dealing with difficult adversaries, but from the beginning, he’d squelched any temptation to use muscle. All things considered, it had simply not been necessary.
    But now he was playing in a different league, one where the rules of lawful citizenry might not apply. If Robert’s new friends weren’t the types to respond to reason, so be it. There were other ways to make a point.
    John thumbed the cap off his scotch bottle and poured himself a short drink. Strong-arming any member of HCU presented a few problems. They were under the domain of Vic Severino and Sal Tuma, and pissing off either mobster would be a bad strategy. Severino signed his checks, and Tuma was John’s gravy train. So he would have to show restraint when the time came—he might rough up Tom a bit, but nothing heavy, no broken bones, just slap him around and send a message.
    Whatever happened, John reminded himself he must avoid the police radar. As the paper owner of Pistol Pete’s, he could not afford problems with the law. Sal Tuma would have his ass if he didn’t keep his nose clean.
    John spent the next hours handling miscellaneous paperwork. His signature was required on various documents on a daily basis. Besides the actual casino operation, in itself a complex undertaking, Pistol Pete’s also ran its own restaurants, gift shops, video arcade, and theatre, each managed as a separate profit center. The theatre alone was a large business, a two thousand-seat venue for pop concerts, comedy acts, cabarets, and the like. The