Duke City Split (5 page)

His forehead rested on his hands, and he rolled his head to the side a bit so he could glimpse the man with the shotgun. Tubby little guy, though some of the thickness could be a bulletproof vest under the trench coat he wore buttoned at the throat. He couldn’t see the robber’s eyes behind those dark glasses, but they clearly could see him. The shotgun swung his way, and Diego slammed his eyes shut.

He took another peek as the bigger man walked past. The third one, the one in the ski mask, was coming around the counter, carrying a couple of blue duffel bags. They must’ve been heavy because the slender man seemed to be struggling with them. The big guy took one of the bags from him, and they hurried across the lobby toward the door.

Why the ski mask? Diego wondered. The other two were content with ball caps and sunglasses for their disguises, why did the third man risk pulling on a ski mask before he came into the bank? What if someone outside had noticed? He hoped no one had seen the robbery in progress. Last thing he wanted was for the cops to show up before these fuckers were gone. He had no desire to become a hostage.

As the man in the ski mask passed, Diego noticed something, a detail he felt sure no one else saw. While the man was wrestling the bags around, the sleeve of his sweatshirt crept up, exposing a tattoo on the inside of his wrist. A star within a circle. Similar to the brass badge on Diego’s uniform.

The two robbers went out the door, carrying the duffels. He heard car doors slam out there, then the big man came back inside, carrying a fistful of white plastic flex cuffs. Diego closed his eyes tightly as the big man knelt and roughly pulled his arms behind him. The plastic cut into his wrists as the robber cinched him tight.

The big man moved away and Diego sneaked another peek, saw him kneeling beside the bank manager, cuffing her hands tight enough that she let out a little squeak of pain.

With his hands pinned behind him, Diego had no choice but to rest his face against the cold tile floor. He closed his eyes and tried for calm. This was almost over. The robbers had the money. They would depart soon.

With his eyes shut, the image of the man in the ski mask returned, along with the nagging certainty that Diego had seen that tattoo somewhere before.

Bud Knox watched as Mick finished with the women. One of the tellers was quietly weeping, terrified. She had long, light brown hair, like his wife, Linda. He looked away, pointing the shotgun toward the ceiling now that everyone was secured.

As Mick got to his feet, Bud moved toward the door. He didn’t like that young Johnny was outside with the van full of money. The engine was running, and Bud worried the kid might get a sudden ambition. But as he pushed through the door, he saw the van was as he’d left it, Johnny a dark shape in the backseat.

Bud slipped the shotgun inside his coat as he stepped out into the sunshine. Mick bumped into him as he backed out the door.

“Go.”

Bud hustled around the front of the idling van and climbed behind the wheel. As he stashed the shotgun in the duffel between the seats, he looked in the back. Johnny still wore his black mask, and his blue eyes glowed in the eyeholes.

The van rocked as Mick’s bulk settled into the passenger seat. Soon as he slammed his door, Bud goosed the van backward, curving away from the bank, then eased up to the driveway where the parking lot gave way to the street. He came to a complete stop, waiting for traffic, then headed south, keeping to the slow lane, minding the speed limit.

Johnny bounced in the seat behind him, a bobbing presence in Bud’s rearview mirror. The kid was feeling the adrenaline now, giddy with it. Bud met his eyes in the mirror and made a shushing sound. He didn’t need excitement right now. He needed calm and quiet, paying attention to business until they could get rid of the van. The kid seemed to get the message. At least he sat still, which helped.

Mick slumped against the passenger-side door so he could see better in the side mirror. Bud knew there was nothing back there. No sirens, no flashing lights, not yet. But it wouldn’t take long for the bank employees to get to their feet. Even with their hands bound, they’d be able to sound the alarm. Should’ve tied their feet, too, he thought, but it was too late now.

He caught a break at the big intersection where Wyoming crosses Osuna, hitting
the left turn lane just as the arrow turned green. Only a few businesses along this stretch. Housing developments showed their blank back walls to the street. Another few blocks, then Bud veered into the parking lot of a big white church, careful to use his blinker.

The steepled church was closed on a Monday morning, naturally. Bud steered the van around the building until its bulk screened them from traffic, and parked next to the only other vehicle in the large lot—Mick’s blue Charger, left here earlier, backed into its parking space, ready to roll.

Bud killed the van’s engine and dropped the stubby screwdriver into the bag with the shotgun.

“Give me that mask,” he said to Johnny.

The kid pulled the mask off his head and handed it over. His blond hair was spiky and wet with sweat. Bud stuffed the mask into the duffel and zipped it up.

Mick, meanwhile, bailed out of the van and opened the Charger’s trunk.

“Help him load the bags,” Bud said.

Johnny slid open the van’s side door, which faced the Charger, and began passing the heavy duffels to Mick, who stacked them inside the trunk.

Bud got out of the van, carrying the gun bag, and walked around the Charger to the passenger side. By the time he’d settled into the bucket seat, Mick was slamming the trunk.

Johnny squirmed into the Charger’s backseat. Mick got into the driver’s seat and started the car.

“We’re just gonna leave the van here?” Johnny said.

“No one around the church this morning,” Bud said. “By the time somebody reports it as an abandoned vehicle, we’ll be long gone.”

The Charger’s tires made a single chirp as they bit into the asphalt. Bud opened his mouth to remind Mick to take it easy, but he didn’t need to say it. Mick had himself under control. He paused at the street, then drove east, farther into the residential reaches of the far Northeast Heights. The Sandia Mountains loomed up ahead, a vertical mile of sunlight and shadows and stone.

“Where we going now?” Johnny asked.

“We’ve got a place ready,” Bud said. “A place where we can lock up the money.”

“Lock it up?”

Bud smiled at the kid over his shoulder. “Just while the heat’s on. You’ll get your share soon enough.”

Johnny chewed on that for a minute. “But where can we put it that someone else won’t steal it?

“You’ll see when we get there.”

Back at the bank, Diego Ramirez got up onto his knees, his forehead pressed against the hard floor, then struggled to his feet. A lifetime of Catholic training, all that kneeling, finally coming in handy.

The women were trying to do the same, their skirts hitched up, exposing the dark tops of their panty hose, but Diego didn’t try to assist them. He hurried around the counter and looked underneath for the panic button built into the floor, the one that would set off the silent alarm.

“I did it,” he shouted to the others. “I tripped the alarm.”

“Sure,” grunted Jean Hutchins, the manager, as she sat up. “
Now
you’re the big hero. Where were you when they were here?”

“Hey, I’m supposed to be a
deterrent
to robbery. Nobody said I’m supposed to take a bullet for this bank.”

“You didn’t deter much,” she said. “They disarmed you so fast, the rest of us didn’t have a chance to make a peep.”

A siren wailed in the distance.

“The cops are coming,” he said. “You can tell your troubles to them.”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

The other women were sitting up now as well, but they didn’t get the rest of the way to their feet. One of them, that long-haired girl Carrie, was sniffling and red-cheeked, snot on her face that she couldn’t wipe away.

Diego edged over to the vault and peered inside.

“Oh, man. They got all that casino money.”

“Great,” the manager moaned. “On my watch.”

Phones started ringing all over the bank, but of course nobody could answer. Diego turned his back to the counter and fumbled around, trying to knock a receiver off the teller’s phone so he could shout into it, but there was no need.

A gun-wielding cop pushed the front door open an inch and shouted, “Police! We’re coming in!”

“Come ahead,” Jean Hutchins said bitterly. “You’re too late. The robbers are
gone.”

Johnny wanted to take his share of the money home with him—right now—and count it and stack it and fondle it. Maybe spread it out on his bed and roll around in it, like rich folks do in movies.

“Why do we have to hide it?” he blurted. “The money. Why don’t we just split it up now?”

Bud turned in the passenger seat. He took off his black sunglasses and studied Johnny’s face.

“You know what cops do after a bank robbery?”

Johnny shook his head.

“They look for anybody who’s suddenly spending a lot of money at bars, strip joints, pawnshops. People buying fancy cars with cash.”

“I understand that, but we wouldn’t have to spend it right away.”

“What else would you do with it? Hide it under your mattress?”

“I don’t know,” Johnny said. “I hadn’t thought it through yet—”

“Exactly. We know better. You don’t keep the cash on you. What if the cops pick you up? What if they get a warrant to search your home?”

“So you put it somewhere safe. A bank, maybe—”

The robbers laughed.

“Put a fortune in a bank,” Mick said, “so somebody like us can come and steal it?”

“Banks got insurance,” Johnny said.

“Sure they do,” Bud said. “They’ve also got rules. Any deposit of ten grand or more must be reported to the feds. They set it up that way to catch drug dealers who try to launder money through banks.”

“Okay, so banks are out. But isn’t it a risk, keeping the money together, hiding it all in one place?”

The robbers exchanged a glance.

“We’ve got a place where it’ll be safe,” Mick said. “We’re almost there.”

Johnny looked out the window. They were on Juan Tabo Boulevard, six lanes
wide, lined on either side by an endless blur of stores and cafés and gas stations. What the hell kind of hiding place could they have along here?

Mick turned his blinker on and steered the Charger into a driveway next to a boarded-up restaurant. The sign out front said
FELIX’S REAL MEXICAN FOOD
, but another sign tacked underneath said the property was for sale and gave a real estate office’s number to call.

“This is the place?” Johnny asked in disbelief. Nobody bothered to answer.

The restaurant had been white with red trim, but the paint was peeling now. Nailed over the windows were sheets of plywood that had weathered to a light gray. The asphalt lot wrapped around the rear of the restaurant, most of the parking spaces out back, with a driveway on either side of the building. A service entrance was centered in the back of the building, a heavy black door framed by two overgrown evergreen shrubs. Mick stopped the Charger next to it.

“This is crazy,” Johnny said. “This place belongs to somebody.”

“It’s been vacant for a year,” Bud said.

“But what if somebody wants to buy it? What if the real estate people come by?”

Mick looked at Johnny over his shoulder. “We’re not going to leave the money lying around in plain sight. You’ll see.”

The men got out of the car and Mick opened the trunk. He slung a heavy duffel over each shoulder, the straps mashing his gray jacket. Johnny grabbed the other two and struggled to lift them out of the trunk.

Bud, meanwhile, was using a key to open a padlock on the service door. The padlock was shiny and new.

“I broke into this place the other night,” Mick explained. “Replaced the locks with our own. If somebody wants to get inside, they’ll have to get a locksmith. We’ll be keeping an eye on the place.”

“Ah.” Johnny was beginning to get it now, though it didn’t make him feel much better.

The door opened into a dusty, shadowy kitchen. Mick propped it open so daylight spilled inside. As his eyes adjusted, Johnny saw that a big dishwashing machine sat to one side, and a grimy stove and empty steel shelves filled the middle. He dragged his bags over to a swinging door that opened into the dining area and saw it was mostly empty in there, too, just a few tables against one wall, illuminated by shafts of light leaking around the boarded-up windows. The wooden floor was scuffed and furry with
dust.

“See?” Mick said. “Been empty a long time.”

Bud went to a corner of the kitchen, where a stainless steel door was set into the wall. He unlocked another brand-new padlock—this one required a combination—and popped open the door, revealing a walk-in refrigerator.

“Put the bags in here,” he said.

Johnny looked in the empty fridge. The air inside was musty and hot. He wrestled the blue duffels inside, then stepped out of the way so Mick could put the other bags in there, too.

Bud locked up the fridge, then they went out through the service door. Still no one around as he locked that door, too. They quickly climbed into the Charger and Mick cranked up the engine.

“How long do we have to wait before we split up the money?” Johnny asked.

Bud looked back at him. “There’s going to be a lot of heat after such a big haul. For all we know, they have a list of the serial numbers. We need to let lots of time pass before we start spreading any of that cash around.”

“Sure,” Johnny said. “I understand.”

The Charger pulled onto Juan Tabo, headed north.

“We’ll take you home now,” Mick said. “Give you a chance to relax. Don’t call anybody. Just stay home and act natural. Do your laundry, whatever you’d normally do on your day off.”

“Right.” Johnny hesitated, then said, “But what’s to stop you two from going back there and taking the money?”

The robbers looked at each other, then Bud said, “I thought I just explained that. We can’t touch that money for a while.”