Duke City Split (13 page)

“The man’s sitting on millions of dollars,” Rex said. “I imagine he keeps a gun handy at all times.”

“Fine,” Dwight said. “You got a gun. I’ll kick in the door, and you go in blasting.”

Rex sighed. “What if the money’s not in there? How can we get him to tell us where he stashed it if he’s already dead?”

“We could just knock on the fucking door. See if he answers.”

“All right, goddamnit. Go knock on the door. I’ll wait here.”

That gave Dwight pause. “What if he’s in there?”

“Tell him you got the wrong apartment and walk away.”

“But that doesn’t—”

“We’ll figure something out,” Rex said. “Just go see if anyone comes to the door.”

He slipped the revolver out from under the tails of his loose shirt.

“I’ll be watching in case he gives you any trouble.”

Dwight nodded and got out of the truck. He paused to stretch his overdeveloped arms, then crossed the street. With his bowed legs and broad shoulders, he looked like a gorilla out for a stroll.

At the apartment door, he looked over his shoulder at Rex, who twirled a finger in the air to tell him to hurry it up.

Dwight banged on the door with the palm of his hand, loud enough to be heard a block away. He waited, glancing back at Rex, but nobody came to the door. He knocked again. Still nothing. Dwight made a show of shrugging and shaking his head before he returned to the truck.

“That was some good acting there, Dwight,” Rex said as his partner climbed back into the cab. “You’ll be up for an Oscar soon.”

“Fuck you. It told us what we needed to know. He ain’t home.”

“That’s right.”

“So now what?”

“So now you go around back and find a window to climb through.”

“A window?”

“Yeah. Take that tire iron with you. Nobody’s listening around here, or they would’ve come out to see what all the knocking was about. Go find a way to get inside. I’ll keep watch out here.”

Dwight mulled this for a moment. “Then what?”

“Let me in the front door, genius.”

Grumbling, Dwight climbed out of the truck and walked around the apartment complex. He had the tire iron in his hand, most of it concealed up the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

Rex rolled down his window, listening intently, and pretty soon was rewarded with the crash and tinkle of broken glass. None of the apartment doors flew open, so he figured they were safe. He got out of the truck just as Wyman’s door opened and Dwight peeked out through the gap.

Holding the pistol under his shirttail, Rex crossed the street and went inside.
Smooth as could be.

The place was tidy and sparsely furnished. Rex went straight to the bedroom. Daggers of broken glass littered the floor. He checked the closet and looked under the bed. A few clothes and a box of tools, but nothing that could conceal a big pile of money.

He stuck the pistol in his belt and pulled his Buck knife from his hip pocket. He unfolded the four-inch blade and slashed open the pillow on the bed, but found nothing inside but foam rubber. He was cutting open the mattress when Dwight appeared in the door.

“No money in the living room,” Dwight said. “Bathroom, neither.”

“It’s not here,” Rex said, “but I never really expected it to be. Look for a key or a piece of paper with an address on it, something like that.”

Dwight nodded and went back into the living room. By the time Rex finished with the bed and joined him there, Dwight had followed his lead and sliced open every cushion. Yellow foam bulged from the sofa and chair. Dwight had moved to the kitchen, where he was dumping out boxes of cereal and other shit into the sink, searching for a clue.

Frustrated, Rex kicked over an end table, sending a lamp crashing to the carpeted floor. Dwight didn’t even look up from what he was doing.

Rex went into the bathroom. He looked in the toilet tank and in the cabinet under the sink but found nothing out of the ordinary.

“Goddamnit.”

Dwight was crashing around in the kitchen, and Rex found his partner dumping every drawer. Silverware and other stuff littered the tile floor.

“Forget it,” Rex said. “He didn’t leave anything here to show where that money is. He’s smarter than that.”

Dwight followed Rex into the living room and surveyed the damage. “He’ll sure know we’ve been here.”

“That’s all right,” Rex said. “Give him something to worry about. Let’s get out of here. We’ll swing by later, see if he’s come home.”

“Hang on,” Dwight said. “I need to take a leak.”

“Go ahead. I’ll wait in the truck.”

Dwight unzipped his jeans there in the living room and unleashed his spray on the carpet and the gutted furniture, giggling like a chimp.

Rex sighed and went outside. Squinting against the bright sunshine, he crossed the
street and got into the pickup. Sat there waiting for Dwight, wondering how they could track down Mick Wyman and the money.

Dolores Delgado was painting her fingernails when the doorbell rang. Glittery green wasn’t her usual color, but it reminded her of money, and money was all that was on her mind today. Soon, they would hear from the blond boy at the stereo store. He would call and tell them where to pick up the cash. He had no choice.

Once they had the money in hand, she could press for the big wedding she’d always wanted. Tell Diego the windfall was a sign from God: The time had finally come to tie the knot.

Not that things couldn’t go wrong. She knew they were playing with fire. But she trusted that Diego could handle whatever came. He was in the kitchen now, cleaning his pistol, getting ready in case the gringo tried to double-cross them.

Now the doorbell. No sense asking Diego if he would answer it. She knew what he would say. Instead, she carefully set down the bottle of nail polish, got to her feet and went to the door, holding her wet nails out to the open air.

“Who is it?” Diego called from the kitchen.

Dolores checked the peephole and saw a dark-haired man in a narrow black suit.

“Some man in a necktie,” she shouted over her shoulder.

Careful not to mess up her long nails, Dolores used her palms to turn the doorknob and opened the door a crack.

“Sí?”

“I’m looking for Diego Ramirez. Is he here?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Special Agent Aragon.” He flashed an ID. “FBI.”

“Oh.
Sí
, come in.”

Dolores swung the door open wider, shouting over her shoulder, “Diego! It’s a man from the FBI.”

“This is my partner,” Aragon said as a woman in a matching black suit stepped onto the dusty concrete porch. “She was parking the car.”

The woman introduced herself as Pam Willis and tried to shake hands, but Dolores stepped back. “My nails are wet.”

The woman smiled at her, but Dolores didn’t see much friendliness in it.

Diego came out of the kitchen, drying his hands with a dish towel. He was dressed in jeans and an old T-shirt and his brown feet were bare.

“Mr. Ramirez,” the woman said. “You didn’t go to work today.”

Dolores fought to keep a scowl off her face. She’d
told
Diego he should report for work, try to make everything appear normal, but he’d wanted to stay by the phone all day, waiting for the call. Now the FBI was here.

“I called in sick,” Diego said. “I didn’t get much sleep, and I had a bad headache.”

“You seem fine now,” Aragon said.

“I’m much better. Guess I was still a little shook up about the robbery, you know. Makes it hard to sleep.”

The agents glanced around the living room, but Dolores didn’t offer them a seat. She wanted them out of her house as quickly as possible.

“Did the bank ask you to come over here?” Diego asked.

“No,” the woman said. “We just thought it was unusual that you’d phoned in sick two days in a row after the robbery. Thought we’d better check it out.”

“Oh, I’m okay,” Diego said. “You could’ve just called me on the phone.”

“We like to see things for ourselves,” she said. “You have any new thoughts since we talked at the bank?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe you remembered something that you didn’t think to mention at the time.”

“No. Nothing new.”

“You sure?”

Dolores didn’t like this woman. “Are you accusing Diego of something? After all he’s been through?”

“Take it easy,” Aragon said, smiling at her. “We were just checking on him. Anything unusual after such a big crime gets our attention.”

“I’ll be back at work tomorrow,” Diego said. “I just felt a little, you know, under the weather.”

“Okay,” Aragon said. “Well, thanks for your time.”

Diego held the door while the agents departed. As he closed it, Dolores hissed at him: “See? What did I tell you?”

He shushed her and checked the peephole to make sure the agents went away.

“Don’t worry,” he said as he turned back to her. “Everything’s fine.”

Ooh. He made her so mad.

“I’d scratch your eyes out, but my nails are still wet.”

The phone rang.

Johnny Muller waited anxiously for someone to answer. He’d gone outside to make the call, and he couldn’t wait around, redialing, without his boss noticing he wasn’t on the sales floor. On the fifth ring the phone was picked up and a man said, “Hello?”

“You told me to call,” Johnny said. “Then you let it ring five times?”

“What’s the matter?” Definitely the bank guard’s voice. “You nervous or somethin’?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“Oh, but I
was
worried, amigo. Your time was almost up. I was getting ready to call the cops.”

“No, don’t do that. I’ve got what you want. Or, I will have it. By tonight.”

“What’s wrong with now?”

“I’m still at work. It’s better if we go to the money after dark.”

“You don’t want anyone to see your hiding place?”

“Something like that.”

“Or, maybe, you’ve got a trap planned for me. Maybe you’ll have friends hiding in the dark.”

“Nothing’s going to happen.” Johnny glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was still alone on the sidewalk. “I’m going to hand over the cash, and you’re going to go away. We’ll never see each other again.”

“That’s the plan, amigo. Don’t fuck it up.”

“Meet me tonight at nine o’clock at the parking lot in front of my store. I’ll take you to the money.”

“Okay. Nine o’clock. No tricks.”

Johnny folded his cell phone and slipped it into his pocket. He took a deep breath and glanced at the high clouds that streaked the sky. Then he hurried back into the store.

Vincent Caro paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the gloom inside Silvio’s Bar. More patrons inside than he’d expected in mid-afternoon, but he supposed some were here to pay tribute to the slain bartender and cadge free drinks in his honor. Nearly all men in the place, and most turned to check him out. He was the only one wearing a suit.

The fat man behind the bar was dark and leathery, with gray hair combed straight back. He wore a black leather vest over a white shirt with the cuffs turned up. Four chunky silver and turquoise rings on his thick fingers.

Caro propped a hip against an empty stool. The bartender waddled over to him and gave him a squinting appraisal.

“You a cop?”

“No. I’m a customer. I’ll have a double scotch. Your best brand.”

Caro looked past the man at the racks of bottles on the wall but didn’t see any single malts. Not that kind of bar. Still, he’d been inside worse joints. At least the other customers seemed to be ignoring him now.

The bartender filled a shot glass with Dewar’s and set it on the bar.

“Six bucks,” he said. “It’s happy hour.”

“Doesn’t look very happy,” Caro said as he slipped his leather wallet from inside his charcoal-gray jacket.

“We’re a little down today. Everybody’s favorite bartender got killed last night.”

“I noticed the crime scene tape outside,” Caro said. “Sorry for your loss.”

The fat man gave him the appraising squint again, as if trying to determine whether Caro was kidding him.

“You sure you’re not a cop?”

“My name is Caro. I’m from out of town. Are you Silvio?”

“That’s right. I own this place, but I’m working the bar until I find a replacement I can trust.”

“Trust is important.”

Caro lifted the glass and took a sip. Managed not to wince at the taste.

“Your bartender. Somebody shot him?”

“Worse than that,” Silvio said. “Somebody busted him up. Broke his leg, his arm, most of his fingers.
Then
they shot him.”

“Jesus.” Caro made a face. “Why would someone do that?”

“Who knows? Maybe they were on drugs. Maybe they had a grudge against him.”

“ ‘They’? You think there was more than one?”

“Oh, hell, yeah,” Silvio said. “Harris was a big guy. A biker. It would take a couple of assholes, at least, to do that to him.”

Silvio shook his head as he moved away down the bar. He sold a couple of beers to old-timers at the far end, then drifted back to Caro, who patiently sipped the scotch.

“Want another?”

“Little early for me,” Caro said.

Silvio grunted but didn’t move away. Caro could tell he was curious about the out-of-towner who was asking questions.

“You know what it sounds like to me?” Caro said. “Sounds like somebody was trying to get information from your bartender.”

“Information?”

“Sure. One of them holds a gun on him while the other one works him over, trying to get him to talk.”

“Talk about what? He’s a fucking bartender. What could he tell them?”

Caro gestured him closer. Silvio leaned in, and Caro spoke just above a whisper.

“That big bank robbery in town? You heard about it?”

“Just what I saw on TV.”

“Somebody told me there’s a connection between that robbery and your bar.”

Silvio’s eyes widened. “What kinda connection?”

“I don’t know.” Caro gave a little shrug. “Maybe nothing. Maybe it’s bullshit. But maybe your man Harris knew something about that holdup.”

“No, no, no. He wouldn’t get mixed up in anything like that. He was completely straight. He did a stretch years ago, and swore he’d never do it again. That was one of the reasons I hired him.”