Duke City Split (9 page)

The two of them walked to the slump-shouldered house, pausing to look down the driveway. The littered backyard was surrounded by a high fence.

When they reached the weather-beaten porch, Hector said, “Allow me,” and banged on the front door with the flat of his hand.

“FBI! Open up!”

He and Pam stepped to the side, in case bullets might come splintering through the door. They waited several seconds. Nothing.

Hector banged on the door again, then stepped back, his hand on the Glock at his hip. Pam gave him a nod. He was aiming a kick at the door when he heard a lock snap and the doorknob turned.

The door opened inward, revealing a shadowy living room with gut-sprung furniture. A tall, thin man in grimy jeans and a once-red T-shirt stood in the doorway, wiping at his sleepy eyes.

The peeling logo on the front of his shirt was a cartoon conquistador, complete with goatee and plumed helmet. The mascot of the local minor-league team, back when they were called the Albuquerque Dukes. Hector still liked Dukes better than the current team name, the Isotopes. The old name had history: Albuquerque was named after a Spanish duke. Lots of people still called it Duke City. An isotope? That was some kind of atomic thing. He preferred not to think about atomic bombs and such. He’d grown up with Kirtland Air Force Base and the Sandia national defense lab on the edge of town. The hills were alive with the sound of nukes. Better to think about conquistadors, his ancestors.

After a prolonged yawn, the skinny Dukes fan said, “What the hell, man?”

“Federal agents,” Pam said. “We’d like a word.”

“About what?”

“Can we come in?”

He looked back over his shoulder, as if weighing what they might find inside. Then he shrugged his narrow shoulders and stepped out of the way.

“Sure, man. Come in the kitchen. I need coffee.”

As he turned away, he yelled toward the back of the house, “Dwight! We got company!”

A short, broad-shouldered guy appeared in a doorway on the far side of the living room. He had two days’ growth of whiskers on his square jaw and a thatch of curly brown hair that sat on his narrow head like a beret. He, too, wore grungy jeans and his feet were bare. His black T-shirt fit close to his heavily muscled body.

“You Dwight Shelby?” Hector asked him.

“That’s right. Who are you?”

“FBI Agent Hector Aragon, and that’s Agent Pam Willis following your buddy to the kitchen. Let’s go with them.”

Hector kept his hand on his pistol as he went into the kitchen. He never took any chances inside perps’ homes. Lots of places to stash weapons.

Pam kept her distance as the skinny guy loaded up a filthy Mr. Coffee. Dwight sat at the kitchen table, shoving aside sticky plates and a saucepan that held the remains of what looked like brown chili. The kitchen smelled like something was rotting in the overflowing trash can.

“I take it,” Hector said, “that you’re Rex Cutler.”

“That’s right,” the taller man said as he turned away from the coffeemaker. “I don’t know what you folks want with us. Dwight and I have been keeping our noses clean.”

“That’s not what we heard,” Pam said. “We heard you two were in the robbery game.”

“Naw, man,” Rex said. “We don’t play that shit no more. We’re respectable now, ain’t we, Dwight?”

The muscleman nodded.

“We’re starting our own business,” Rex said. “We’re house painters.”

No trace of paint on their fingernails or on Rex’s freckled arms. None in his reddish-brown hair, a greasy crest that clearly hadn’t been washed in days.

“I didn’t see any paint gear outside,” Hector said. “Don’t you need ladders and stuff?”

“Yeah, well, we’re just getting started.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t mind if we looked around your house,” Pam said.

“Hang on,” Rex said. “You got a search warrant?”

“Do we need one?”

The two crooks exchanged a look. Rex’s eyes narrowed.

“We let you come in, first thing in the morning, to have a little talk. But I don’t want you tossing the place. I know my rights.”

Hector thought tossing this place would probably improve its condition, but he said, “All right. We’ll just talk.”

“Hey, we want to cooperate. Ain’t that right, Dwight?”

The one at the table nodded. Hector tapped him on his meaty shoulder and said, “Don’t you ever talk?”

“Sure.”

Nothing more. Hector sighed and turned back to Rex.

“Where were you guys yesterday morning?”

“Yesterday? What time?”

“About nine-thirty.”

“In the morning? Man, we were still asleep. We’re never up before ten.”

“I thought house painters liked to get an early start.”

“I told you we’re not working yet.”

“You got anybody can vouch for you being at home?”

Rex grinned. Hector felt his mood slipping.

“As a matter of fact, I had a friend spend the night. She didn’t leave until nearly noon.”

“She got a name?”

“Yeah, but I’ll keep that to myself for now. No reason to drag her into this. Trust me, though, if I need an alibi for yesterday morning, I’m solid. Ain’t that right, Dwight?” The seated man nodded. He, too, was grinning now.

“Maybe we were misinformed,” Hector said. “Maybe you boys aren’t involved.”

“What is it we were supposed to have done anyway?” Rex asked.

“You hear about that bank robbery yesterday? The one that’s on the news?”

“We don’t have access to a television at the moment,” Rex said. “Some kind of big heist?”

“You could say that,” Pam hedged.

“Hell, man.” Rex started laughing. “You think we’d still be camped in this shithole if we’d hit it big?”

“You fit the physical description,” Hector said. “Tall guy and a short guy.”

Dwight’s face flushed. Hector guessed he didn’t like being called “short.” No doubt that was the reason for the bodybuilding. All the weightlifting in the world won’t make you taller.

The more he looked at them, the more Hector thought these two couldn’t be the ones from the bank robbery. The techs hadn’t recovered much from the bank’s security videos, but these guys didn’t fit the images. Dwight seemed too broad-shouldered to be the short guy, while Rex seemed too thin to be the tall one.

“You two have a history of pulling robberies together. And you’ve been seen together at Silvio’s, where felons hang out.”

“Is that right? Silvio’s? I had no idea.” Rex laughed again. “I thought that place was your basic blue-collar bar.”

Pam gave him her “Oh, please” look.

“Guess we’ll have to stop frequenting that saloon,” Rex said to Dwight. “We don’t want to mix with the criminal element.”

More laughter. Hector could tell Pam was getting pissed off. Probably best for them to leave.

“Let’s go,” he said. “These aren’t our bank robbers.”

“You’re right. These two are too fucking stupid to put together a million-dollar heist.”

The mirth vanished from Rex’s face. “No reason to get ugly about it. After we’ve been so hospitable and all.”

Pam headed for the front of the house. Hector followed, backing through the kitchen door, keeping his eyes on the crooks.

“Don’t y’all want some of this coffee I made?”

“Not unless it comes with penicillin,” Hector said.

The men’s laughter followed them out the front door.

Johnny Muller skipped lunch, still feeling the effects of the previous night’s binge. The hours at Big Blast Audio crawled past, and his poor head pounded with hip-hop drumbeats from the in-store music.

Not much longer
, he reminded himself. Another week or two, maybe a month, playing along with the plan. But once he got his hands on that cash,
everything
changed. No more tedious shifts at Big Blast Audio, no more guff from his boss. He’d quit this stupid job and take a nice vacation. Go to a beach somewhere. Sun, sea, babes in bikinis, umbrella drinks. Just the thing to clear his mind before he launched his own venture.

A bell sounded as the front door opened. Johnny sighed and plastered a smile on his face as he went forward to meet the customer. As he stepped around a display case of car speakers, he got a look at her and forced another sigh. She was a middle-aged Hispanic woman, her black hair coiled on her head like a snake. Tons of makeup, sparkly pink fingernails. She wore a red tube top and jeans that hugged her wide hips. Her naked shoulders were decorated with tattoos of red roses on green vines.

Christ
, he thought, just what I need. A fucking window-shopper with no idea about stereos. Johnny saw the next hour of his life flitting away in a blur of bullshit that would end in “no sale.” Still, he kept the smile on his face.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. Could I help you?”

A flash of annoyance in her black eyes at the “ma’am.” She looked him up and down, like she was trying to decide where to bite him. Her gaze seemed to linger on the tattoo on the inside of Johnny’s wrist. He’d cuffed his sleeves up earlier, too hot to wear long sleeves, despite what the boss might say. Johnny figured his tat couldn’t possibly matter to this
chola
with the intertwined roses on her shoulders.

“Yeah,” she said, “my boyfrien’? He bought a car stereo here. Can you come outside and look at it?”

Worse and worse. Not even a window-shopper. A complainer. Her boyfriend probably cranked the volume and blew the fucking speakers. Happens all the time.

“Is there some problem with the system, ma’am? Maybe we should get a technician—”

“Just come outside. You’ll see.”

She turned and went out the door, her hips swinging as she teetered on her stiletto heels. Johnny sighed and followed her out into the sunshine.

A thirty-year-old Cadillac with chrome rims and purple paint as sparkly as the woman’s fingernails sat beside a limp elm that provided the only shade in the parking lot. They’d almost reached the lowrider before Johnny realized someone was sitting behind the wheel.

The driver’s door popped open and a man climbed out. He was around forty, with slicked-back hair and a Clark Gable mustache. Johnny didn’t recognize him, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t waited on him in the past. All the customers started to look alike after a while.

“Hi there,” Johnny said brightly as he rounded the front of the big car. “Do we have a problem with your stereo?”

The man smiled. “No, the stereo is fine.”

Johnny, confused, looked back at the woman, who’d followed him into the dappled shade. She was smiling, too. What the hell?

“You don’ recognize me?”

Johnny looked the man over, trying to place him. He wore a black shirt with short sleeves cuffed over his brown biceps. The tails of the shirt hung out over tight-fitting jeans.

“Sorry, I’m not so good with faces. How long ago did you buy your system here?”

The oily smile slipped off the customer’s face.

“You’ve seen me more recently than that,” he said. “You saw me yesterday.”

A chill traveled down Johnny’s back, but he managed to say, “Yesterday?”

“Oh, you probably didn’t recognize me. I was on the floor at the time, facedown.”

Uh-oh.

“And I was wearing my uniform then.”

“I, um, I’m not following you. A uniform?”

“Don’t give me the bullshit, boy.” The customer wasn’t smiling now. His dark eyes had taken on a hard glint. “You maybe didn’t see me, but I recognized you, even with that mask on your face. That tattoo on your wrist.”

Johnny could feel the blood rising in his face. He tucked the tattooed wrist out of sight behind his hip, but it didn’t help. He glanced over at the woman, who’d stepped
closer, so they had him hemmed in beside the long car.

“Once I remembered where I’d seen that tattoo, I realized I had a choice. I could be a hero, go to the cops, tell them who you are, let them arrest you. Then go back to being a humble bank guard.
Or
, I could be rich.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man. I just work here—”

The guard held up a hand to stop him.

“Don’t waste your fuckin’ breath. I’ve already decided how I want to handle this. I choose rich.”

Johnny felt dizzy and nauseous, the shock and the hangover working together, trying to bring him to his knees.

“Here’s what I want,” the guard said. “I want half of your share. What’s that, half a million? That’s how much I want.”

Johnny shook his head, but words failed him.

“I’m bein’ reasonable,” the man said. “I’m not asking you to hand over everything. I know you’ve got partners. Expenses. That’s fine. You split with me, give me half a million, and I’ll go away happy.”

“Who
are
you people?” Johnny said. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Don’t even try it. I’ve got you right where I want you, and you know it.”

His fingers dipped into the pocket of his shirt and came up with a scrap of paper. He handed it to Johnny. It bore only a phone number, scrawled in black ink.

“You call me there, tell me where I can pick up my share of the money. You’ve got twenty-four hours.”

Johnny swallowed. “And if I don’t call?”

“Then I go to the cops. Be the hero after all. Get to be on TV.”

Johnny looked down at the phone number, then back up at his tormentor.

“Don’t get any ideas about finding me, either,” the guard said. He lifted his shirt in the front so Johnny could see the flat pistol stuck in his waistband.

“Tell your partner, that big guy, I want my revolver back, too,” he said. “Bring it to me along with the money. But take the bullets out first. We don’t want anybody getting excited and making a mistake.”

He gave Johnny the oily smile, then jerked his head at the woman. She clacked around the car and poured herself into the passenger side.

The driver got behind the wheel, cranked up the purple car, and swung around
toward the street. The car was out of sight before Johnny jerked out of his daze and went back into the store.

Mick Wyman was parked at a convenience store across the street from Big Blast Audio. Partly screened by another car, but he saw Johnny meet with the Hispanic couple in the parking lot. He wished he’d brought binoculars. He might’ve been able to get a better idea of what passed between them. But even without help, he recognized the man in the garish purple car.