Way Down on the High Lonely by Don Winslow Read Free Book Online

hills and the broad plain to the east.
    Neal made Virginia City by midafternoon and then posted himself on a convenient bar stool where he could see the street. He nursed some beers until a van with tinted windows and tourist stickers all over it pulled up and parked. A few minutes later a small rental moving truck cruised slowly by and parked. Two very large men got out and went into a coffee shop.
    Nice touch, Neal thought. He found a restaurant on a side street and had himself a rare steak with some fried potatoes and a piece of cherry pie. He lingered over coffee until it got good and dark out, then walked down to the Lucky Dollar Saloon and Casino. The street was about deserted on a Monday night and he listened to his own footsteps on the wooden sidewalk. The widely spaced streetlamps cut harsh silver wedges in the darkness, and it was cold for a summer night.
    The Lucky Dollar was mostly a tourist trap. It had swinging saloon doors and old wooden tables. Slot machines lined three walls and an enormous wooden bar occupied the other. An old lady, thin as a weed, stood holding a plastic container of quarters in one hand and feeding the slot machine with the other. An old guy who might have been her husband sat at a video blackjack machine, staring at the electronic cards as if they might break down and show him what the dealer had down. Neither of them looked up when Neal walked in.
    The guy behind the bar was about fifty. His red hair was going to orange and his cheeks were headed south. He had a drinker’s nose and deep-set blue eyes. His shoulders were wide, his forearms were thick, and he didn’t look like he needed a bouncer to work the place with him.
    “We don’t get many out-of-towners on a Monday,” he said as Neal took a stool at the bar. “Most people go to Reno nights, anyway. Too quiet.”
    “I like it quiet.”
    “What can 1 get you?”
    “Scotch.”
    “House brand?”
    “Fine.”
    Neal took his drink, got ten bucks in quarters, and lost at video poker for a while. Then he went up to the bar, ordered another scotch, and asked, “Hey, you know, I thought I’d see Harley McCall in here.”
    Neal realized that he was nervous. Making the approach was always the dicey part of one of these jobs, because you didn’t know who it was you were approaching. If the bartender here knew Harley’s situation, or worse, if he was a member of the Identity movement, Neal could just as easily get a baseball bat across the face as any information.
    “It’s his night off,” the bartender said. “How do you know Harley?”
    Neal could feel sweat dripping down the back of his neck. I haven’t done this shit in a long time, he thought. This is screwed. Maybe my backup is too far away. Maybe Ed should have put someone in here with me. Maybe this guy can see I’m scared.
    Come on, now. Don’t start doubting yourself. That’s when you get hurt.
    Neal gave the bartender a crooked smile and one of those I-don’t-know-if-I-should-say-this shrugs.
    “You knew him in jail, right?” the bartender chuckled. “Where?”
    “LA.”
    “LA is a jail.”
    “You got that right.”
    “He owe you money or something?”
    Neal laughed. “Nah. Harley said if I was ever in the area to look him up, so I was in the area and thought I’d look him up.”
    Should I say anything about Cody? Neal wondered. No, it’s too quick, I might spook him.
    “He lives in a little motel at the north edge of town,” the bartender said. “The Comfort Rest. Shitty name for a motel. Shitty motel. Cabin 5, last one down.”
    “Hey, thanks a lot. I think I’ll finish my drink and wander down there.”
    Neal forced himself to sit back, sip his whiskey, and let his heart rate go back down. It was tougher than he thought, getting back into the business.
    Over at the slot machine the old woman cackled as coins poured out into her plastic cup. The old man looked up from the blackjack machine and cursed her good luck.
    Neal finished his drink, waved