Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jo
Those were the longest two hours of my life. I paced the room in the bathrobe. It took me fourteen steps to walk the length of the room. I watched the tourists walk up and down Virginia Street, and the cabbies drop off their fares. At nine-thirty, I stared at the phone. He hadn’t called yet. Ten minutes later, I checked to make sure it was on. It was. At five minutes before he was supposed to call, I turned up the volume on the ringer. I picked up the phone and found Tate’s number, but I didn’t hit Send. I waited.
At exactly ten o’clock, the phone was silent. Clint was late and I was scared. I knew I should call Tate, but Clint had wanted to do this on his own and I didn’t want to ruin it for him. But I also wanted him to be safe.
I called Clint’s phone. It rang and eventually clicked over to voicemail.
I called Tate.
He wasn’t much of a conversationalist. When I told him the situation, he was quiet for a long moment. “Stay in the hotel room and don’t open the door,” he ordered. Then he hung up.
Oh god. I stared at the little cell phone. Was Clint really in trouble? Maybe he and the guys had just lost track of time and were in the hotel bar or something. It couldn’t be that dangerous if I just went to take a look. I knew that if I were in trouble, Clint wouldn’t just scope out the hotel bar. He would go looking for me.
I took a deep breath. I needed to find him.
Clint left a bit of cash in the room and I slipped it into my purse and put on my clothes. After strapping on my knife, I put my throwers in a leather sleeve and shoved them in my back pocket. There was no hesitation. Clint would do it for me. I grabbed my cell phone and the clamshell Clint had given me and went to find him.
Taking the elevator to the main casino, I headed for the bar. The best-case scenario was that the guys had forgotten about the time. If that was the case, I might get lucky and find them having a drink. Worst-case scenario, they went looking for the Silver Souls. I had no idea where the club’s headquarters could be and I needed directions. A friendly bartender might be able to give me directions.
The hotel had a couple of bars. I checked out the smaller ones and asked around, but had no luck. Once I found the main bar, I did a quick scan. Three gigantic guys wearing leather vests weren’t hard to spot. They weren’t at the main bar either.
“Hey,” I said to a cocktail waitress. She was waiting at the drink station while the bartender mixed up a couple of margaritas. “I’m looking for a bunch of guys who wear leather vests.”
The bartender let out a low whistle and topped off the drinks. He glared at me and then disappeared into the back.
“I ain’t seen any all night. Sorry, sweetie.” The waitress shrugged and dumped some lime wedges into the drinks.
“What about locals?” I asked, dropping the volume of my voice. “The Silver Souls.”
“The Silver Souls, huh? They run the Lucky Winner.” She gave me an assessing look. “But I don’t think that’s your kinda place.”
“Am I not dressed fancy enough?” I looked down at my clothes. I had on jeans, a T-shirt, and a hoodie. Did they have some sort of dress code for their casino?
“That’s not quite it.” She raised an eyebrow as she dropped some cherries into the drinks. “I’m gonna be blunt, honey. They don’t like outsiders there. Especially people with skin that ain’t quite white. Steer clear.”
Shit. That had to be the place. I put a twenty-dollar bill on the bar.
“Which direction should I avoid?” I asked.
“When you go out the main doors, you’ll be on Virginia Street. Turn left. Go two blocks past the train tracks.” She pocketed the cash. “I’m serious, sweetie, you don’t want nothing to do with them. Reno is real good for tourists, but that’s a locals-only kinda joint.” She hefted the tray of drinks onto her shoulder. “You be careful.”
“Thank you,” I called after her as she started on her rounds. At least I knew what I was walking into. I had dealt with racist assholes in bars before. I could handle it—especially if it meant finding Clint.
Following the waitress’s directions, I left the casino and started to walk down Virginia Street. Souvenir shops and larger hotels lined the blocks. The businesses thinned out until it was mostly pawnshops and small casinos. These places weren’t like the big hotel where Clint had rented our room. They were nothing more than big rooms, some no bigger than a two-car garage. Their doors were wide open and I could see a few customers inside—mostly people who lived on the street.
Crossing the train tracks, I finally found it, the Lucky Winner. It was two stories, and the inside just appeared to be one long room with rows of slot machines. I took a deep breath and walked in. Clint had to be here.
One woman sat at a penny slot and mindlessly hit the spin button. She had all her gear with her, two army surplus backpacks propped against the bank of machines. When you live on the street, that’s the lowest you can go. Dragging all of your stuff with you meant you couldn’t even afford a locker at the bus station. Her clothes were decent, though. She must have had access to a church or free thrift store at least.
I sat near her. Putting a dollar into the machine, I bet a penny and looked around while the reels spun. The glittering gold-covered plastic wall adornments had seen better days. They were burnished and had a bit of a green tinge.
“Hey,” I said to the woman, trying to make eye contact. Maybe she was a regular.
Her eyes flickered over to me for a moment, but then she went back to the slot machine, hitting the button over and over again. I gave up trying to talk to her.
A security guard noticed me looking around and made eye contact. Damn. He walked the aisle behind me as I bent back to my slot and pretended to focus on whirling cherries and bars. There was a carpeted staircase in the back, disappearing into the low ceiling. Probably their break room and casino offices.
As I played, I realized there was a tiny lunch counter to the back. Maybe I could strike up a conversation with someone there. Once the security sat down on his stool in the corner, I got up and walked slowly toward the back.
The restaurant was tiny. It was like something you’d find on a train. A couple of bar stools and one guy working. Three other people were packed in, waiting for their orders. I’d never heard of a biker cafe, but I’d heard of plenty of biker bars.
“Burger?” the fry cook asked me. There were three other patties on the grill. Must be their specialty.
“Yeah, burger.” The clerk nodded and turned back to the frying beef. While I waited for my order, I smiled at the older guy sitting on the bar stool. “Are you from Reno?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, nodding slowly. “Bet you’re just here for a little fun, right? You’re from San Francisco or Sacramento?”
“San Fran.” I smiled. This brought back memories from when Dad and Angel and I used to run cons. Time to start spinning my story. “Actually, I’m looking for a friend. He asked me to meet him around here. Said there was a bar in back, but all I see is this lunch counter.”
The man sobered up. I’d hit a nerve. “You’d best be on your way back to the tourist casinos. This ain’t no place for you,” he said, turning to grab the foam box that contained his burger.
“Kinda tired of hearing that,” I said, laughing. I took a deep breath—time to drop the bomb. “My friend wears a leather vest. Seen him lately?”
Metal crashed against metal. The fry cook was staring at me, his metal spatula dropped on the grill top. He looked at the old man and then turned back to his work.
“I can show you where your friend might be.” The old man scowled. “After you pay for my burger.”
“Where?” I asked, putting a twenty-dollar bill on the counter.
“Out the back, turn left. Up the stairs behind the Dumpster.” He slipped the twenty into his pocket. “Ain’t your kinda place, though. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”