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dude with the busted head and nuts. I sat on the sheriff’s bumper, taking in the spectacle.
    “Mr. Reno,” said the sheriff, looking like he was repressing a smile. “I understand you have a license to carry a concealed weapon. I assume you’re not tonight.”
    “It’s
Reno,
” I said, correcting his pronunciation. “As in ‘no problemo’. My piece is locked in my trunk.”
    “Are you here on business or pleasure, Mr. Reno?”
    “Pleasure, although what happened tonight wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
    “I hope not. I’m Marcus Grier, sheriff,” he said, smiling briefly and showing a big gap between his front teeth. He handed back my license. “I’d like you to stop by my office tomorrow and register. It’s required of anyone with a license to carry a firearm.”
    “No problem. Am I free to go?”
    “For the time being you are. I don’t believe Jake there will be pressing charges. But he is the son of one of the big shots who runs Pistol Pete’s, and we don’t condone fighting in this town.”
    I looked at him, trying to figure his meaning, but he wouldn’t meet my eye. He took the clipboard from his hood and began writing.
    “Sheriff, I believe he’s under the influence of coke or probably crank. You may want to search him.”
    Marcus Grier looked up and sighed. “I’m familiar with the habits of Jake Tuma, I assure you.” An ambulance pulled into the parking lot, and two paramedics stepped out and pulled a wheeled gurney out the back doors. The man named Jake Tuma was still on the ground but was sitting upright. They began to help him onto the gurney, but he pushed them away and tried to climb on himself, lost his balance, fell down, and tipped the gurney on its side. Two deputies came over to help, and they finally loaded him into the ambulance. It drove away slowly, its tires spinning on the ice. I looked around for Fingsten, but he was nowhere in sight.

4
    O n the way back to the Lakeside, I hit the red light at the intersection across from Caesar’s. Near the entrance to the casino I saw the white Chevy four-by-four truck. I pulled in, and, sure enough, it was parked in a handicapped spot. I dialed the number on Marcus Grier’s card, and a female officer answered. I reported that a vehicle I believed had a phony permit was parked illegally. The woman said they’d send a car to check it out.
    When I walked back into the Lakeside, it was eleven P.M. The casino was packed, and the noise level sounded like a television turned up too loud. I went straight to my room, drank a tall glass of water, and lay on the bed.
    The fight at the bar had evolved so quickly that there was no way to defuse the situation before it turned violent. Not that it bothered me—there wasn’t much doubt Jake Tuma deserved whatever unhappy fate he brought upon himself. He was sadly typical of most of the criminals I dealt with in my career. I rubbed the bruised knuckle on my right hand and thought briefly about icing it. “Typical,” I muttered out loud. Then I reminded myself to let it go and not let others randomly impose their problems on my life.
    But the conversation with Sheriff Marcus Grier kept nagging at me. It had been too quick, too easy. I expected to be in that parking lot for a lot longer, possibly even end up down at the station. But when Grier and his deputies saw Jake Tuma, they seemed to draw conclusions on their own. The remark Grier made about Jake being the son of a Pistol Pete’s casino executive left me with the distinct impression he was afforded special privileges. Grier also said he was “familiar with the habits” of Jake Tuma, which I assume meant drug abuse and other related troubles, but I didn’t get the idea the Silverado County Sheriff’s Department intended to charge him with any offense.
    I figured there was more to it, but it was none of my business, I told myself.
    • • •
    I’d been asleep for only five or ten minutes when someone knocked on my door. I sat