Duke City Split (14 page)

Caro looked around the bar. A couple of the customers looked interested in their whispered conversation, but nobody was close enough to hear.

“I’m not saying he was involved directly. But maybe he heard something, you know? Some of these guys in here, they look like they could be bank robbers.”

Silvio looked around, too, then his dark face split into a bright smile.

“They do, don’t they? Motherfuckers. That’s why I don’t come down here much anymore. You get to be my age, everybody looks like a fuckin’ criminal.”

Caro returned the smile. “Even me?”

“
Especially
you.”

They had a good laugh together. Caro fished out his wallet again and took out a hundred dollar bill. He showed it to Silvio and added a cream-colored business card.

“Keep this handy,” he said to the old man. “You hear anything about that bank, give me a call. I’ll make it worth your while.”

Silvio shook his head, still chuckling, but he slipped the money and the card into his shirt pocket.

Mick Wyman was on the move. He couldn’t simply sit in his motel room, waiting for night to come. Instead, he drove around town, swinging by Felix’s Real Mexican Food occasionally to make sure Johnny wasn’t there, trying to double-cross them. Mick knew he wasn’t accomplishing anything, knew not to mistake movement for action, but it was better than sitting still.

He slowed as he drove past his apartment building on Truman Street, checking for police vans or any other sign of trouble. He went to the end of the block and turned around, checking every parked car and every window for the silhouettes of surveillance men. If anyone was watching the apartment, they were doing a damned good job of hiding it.

Mick was so busy looking for cops, he almost missed that the door to number 6 stood open a couple of inches.

He parked the Charger at the curb and sat there a few minutes, the engine running. No sign of movement inside his apartment. Just that tantalizing gap at the door. He’d locked the place up tight when he left, so someone clearly had been inside since. Were they still in there?

Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore. It might be an ambush, but he had to check for himself.

Mick kept the Colt .45 close to his thigh as he crossed the street to the apartment building. He ducked past his living room window and stood beside the door, his back against the stucco wall. He gave the door a push. It swung inward silently.

Nothing.

Mick peeked around the doorjamb, then jerked his head back. Gave himself a second to process what he’d seen. Nobody in the living room, but the place was wrecked, furniture slashed and lamps smashed. Another peek told him nothing more, but he did get a whiff of urine.

“Son of a bitch.”

He wheeled into the doorway, gun first. He crossed the living room, saw the mess in the kitchen. Checked the bedroom and the bathroom.

Nobody. The bedroom window was broken. Everything cut open and searched.

What had they been looking for?

He’d been careful not to leave behind any clues to his whereabouts. He had his keys, his IDs, and his weapons either in his pockets or in the car. But someone knew his name and knew where he’d been living. They’d killed Harris to get that information, and now they were making use of it, hunting for him.

They hadn’t needed to slash his bed to conduct their search, and they sure as hell hadn’t needed to piss all over his living room furniture. Were they trying to scare him? They’d have to do better than that. But if they were trying to make him angry, they were succeeding. He was mad as hell.

Diego Ramirez and Dolores Delgado pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store across the street from Big Blast Audio. The car stereo store was closed for the night, a metal screen down over the front windows, security lights glaring.

“He could’ve chosen a darker spot to meet,” Diego said. “He must want to look us over.”

“I’ll give him something to see,” Dolores said, brandishing the little pearl-handled semiautomatic she kept in her purse.

“Put that away,” Diego hissed.

He looked around the brightly lit lot. This wasn’t the best place to park. Too much coming and going.

“Wait here,” he said. “I’m going to take a look around.”

“At what?” Dolores said. “You can see the whole place from here.”

“I want to check the alley. Make sure it’s not a trap.”

“If there’s a trap, it won’t be here. It’ll be wherever he takes us next.”

“I want to check.”

“Leave me the keys. I’ll listen to the radio.”

She slipped her .22-caliber pistol back into her leather handbag and checked to make sure she hadn’t chipped her nail polish. The glittery green nails looked like dragon claws, not that Diego would ever say such a thing out loud.

He got out of the car as Dolores punched buttons on his expensive stereo.

Diego wore a dark denim coat that came down to his hips. It had hand-warmer pockets big enough to hold his .32-caliber pistol. He would’ve preferred to carry something with some stopping power, like the .38-caliber revolver the robbers had taken at the bank, but this was the only other gun he owned. It would have to do.

The parking lot had streetlights at two corners. A budding elm tree threw a ragged inkblot onto the pavement, and Diego waited in the shadow a full minute, watching, listening. All he heard was the whoosh of passing traffic and the bounce of
ranchera
music, coming from his own car. He sighed. Dolores and her south-of-the-border tunes.

Diego walked between Big Blast Audio and the neighboring jewelry store, which
was also closed for the night. Behind the stores, the alley was empty. He checked the delivery doors. Locked. He opened the Dumpster that the stores shared and peered inside. A few cardboard boxes and a couple of trash bags, but no gunmen. He walked around the stereo store and emerged on the other side.

Dolores was probably right. This wasn’t the place for a trap. It would be at the next stop, wherever the blond kid took them. That’s where the danger would lie.

Diego got into his big purple car and turned down the blaring stereo. Dolores gave him a look.

“It’s all good?” she asked.

“It’s fine. There’s nobody.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We wait. In a little while I’ll move the car across the street.”

“What about the police?”

“What about them?”

“They see a lowrider parked in front of a stereo store, they’ll think we’re burglars.”

“We won’t be there long. Soon as our guy gets there, we’ll take off.”

“With him in our car?”

“In the backseat,” Diego said. “You can keep your gun pointed at him while I do the driving.”

That made her smile. “He tries anything, I’ll shoot him.”

“Let’s get the money first,” Diego said. “Then you can shoot him all you want.”

Johnny Muller was so busy thinking about the rendezvous, he nearly crashed his Jeep on the way there. He was driving south on San Mateo, in light traffic, and didn’t realize the cars in front of him were stopping for a red light until he was right on top of them. He stood on the brakes, tires shrieking.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Snap out of it.”

Too much on his mind. He felt strung-out, taut. The bank heist had gone well, but hardly anything had gone right since. And he still hadn’t received a dime of the loot.

Now here he was, on his way to meet the bank guard, unarmed and afraid, with no idea what was about to happen. Mick had said on the phone that he and Bud would have a surprise waiting, but what could it be? Would they jump the guard? Kill him? Johnny didn’t want to be a part of that.

But better to kill than to die. Better to kill than to go to prison.

Johnny stopped for a red light. A yellow Mustang pulled up beside him, a young guy behind the wheel, his head bobbing to a thumping beat. Johnny wondered whether he’d sold that kid his stereo. His dream of opening his own stereo shop seemed far away. He was thinking short-term now, like surviving the night.

He drove another mile along the busy four-lane, then turned on his blinker. Big Blast Audio was on the right up ahead. He swung into the lot, his headlights raking the purple Cadillac parked in front of the store.

Two people inside the car. The passenger was the guard’s tattooed girlfriend.

Johnny parked next to the driver’s side of the Cadillac and rolled down his window. The guard did the same, and said, “Get out. Nice and slow.”

“What’s she doing here?” Johnny asked.

“Just get out of the fuckin’ car.”

His heart thumping, Johnny slid out from behind the wheel and closed the car door. He pocketed his keys, resisting the urge to run away.

“Lift up your shirt,” the guard said. “Turn all the way around.”

Johnny was wearing a black polo shirt with jeans, and he pulled up the tails of the shirt and did as commanded, glad that he hadn’t tried to bring a weapon.

“Okay,” the guard said. “Get in the backseat.”

Johnny pulled down his shirt and opened the back door of the Cadillac. As he slid into the seat, he saw that the girlfriend was turned around, watching him. She had a little gun in her hand, resting on the back of the front seat, the hole in the barrel an unblinking black eye.

“No need for guns,” he said, a quaver in his voice. “Nobody’s trying to cheat you or anything.”

“Damned right,” she snarled. “Nobody cheats us.”

Her lips were thickly coated with red lipstick, and her eyes were elaborately decorated under thick brows. She wore a red blouse that shimmered under the interior light. Her fingernails were green.

Jesus, these people. Dressed up like they were out on a date, in their fucking purple lowrider. About as subtle as a neon sign.

The guard was watching Johnny in the rearview. When their eyes met in the mirror, he said, “Where are your partners?”

“You think I’d tell them about this meet? They’d blow my brains out if they knew. This is strictly between you and me.”

“All right,” the guard said. “Where we going?”

“To a place over on Juan Tabo,” Johnny said. “An old restaurant.”

“That’s where my money is?”

“That’s right.”

“Why couldn’t you just give it to me here?”

“Because I don’t have it. We stashed the money after the holdup.”

Following Johnny’s directions, the guard drove halfway across town to the boarded-up restaurant. He slowed almost to a stop before turning into the driveway, not wanting to drag the Cadillac’s low rear bumper on the concrete.

“I remember this place,” the woman said. “We ate here a couple of times. The food was okay, but it went out of business years ago.”

The guard grunted, busy checking out the parking lot. Johnny looked around, too, wondering where Mick and Bud were hiding.

“Go around back.”

No vehicles in the lot, which was illuminated by a single security light on a pole. The few shaggy shrubs that clung to life around the perimeter were all too small to hide behind.

“Park over there,” Johnny said. “By the delivery door.”

As the car swung around, the headlights picked up a gleaming padlock hanging next to the doorknob.

“You got the key to that lock?” the guard asked.

Johnny gulped. “Sure. Of course.”

“Okay, get out and open it.”

Johnny got out of the backseat, leaving the car door open, and hurried over to the service door.

Behind him, he heard the guard say to his girlfriend, “Watch my back. Once we get inside, come in behind us. Have your pistol ready.”

“I’m ready,” she said.

Johnny’s shadow fell over the padlock, and he couldn’t tell whether it was unlocked until he grasped it and pulled. The U-shaped shackle was lined up with the body of the lock but wasn’t pushed into it. Johnny twisted the lock open and slid it free.

The guard came up beside him, and Johnny stuffed his hand in his pocket and jingled his keys, trying to make it seem that he’d put them back after opening the lock. The guard didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy jabbing a pistol into the side of Johnny’s neck.

“All right,” he said. “We go inside now. You first. Anybody tries to jump us, and you get the first bullet, right through the throat.”

Johnny’s voice was raspy as he said, “You’ve got nothing to worry about. It’s just us here.”

“We’ll see.”

A car door slammed. Johnny turned his head just enough to see the girlfriend coming up behind them. She was looking all around the parking lot for an ambush.

Johnny gave the door a push, and it yawned open to reveal a dark interior. He started to ask for a flashlight but didn’t get the chance. The guard had brought one from the car, and he flicked it on, shining it past Johnny’s head. The beam of light danced across the dusty interior, illuminating steel shelves and stoves and, to the right, the big dishwashing machine that Johnny remembered from the previous visit.

“Go ahead,” the guard said.

Johnny stepped across the threshold, his knees shaking. No sounds from inside, no smells other than dust. If his partners were in here somewhere, they were keeping well-hidden.

The guard still had the pistol against the nape of his neck. He pressed right up behind Johnny, shielding himself behind his torso.

“Sure we’re alone in here?”

“You see anybody?” Johnny said. “I told you it would be fine.”

“Where’s the money?”

“Over to the left. In that big cooler.”

The flashlight beam reflected off the fridge’s shiny door. Johnny was relieved to see the combination lock was gone.

“You sure?” the guard whispered.

“I’m sure. That’s where we left it.”

“It better be in there, or you’re a dead man.”

He gave Johnny a little shove. Their feet scraped on the dusty floor as they crossed the kitchen. The woman’s heels clacked behind them.

“I don’t like this,” she said. “It’s too dark in here.”

“We won’t be here long,” the guard told her. At Johnny’s ear, he said, “Open that cooler.”

Diego stepped away from Johnny as he went to open the stainless steel door. He kept the light trained on the kid, but he moved to the right, so he wouldn’t be directly in the way if the door fucking exploded or something. He glanced over his shoulder at Dolores. She was keeping well back, too.