The workers kept packaging the drugs. Gang members I tagged as “runners” moved in and out of the building, bringing money in and taking drugs out. When money arrived, the two men at the counting table put the bills in the machine, packaged them, and handed the blocks to Mateo, who checked the entry logged on the laptop, opened the safe, and stacked the money inside. I watched over his shoulder as he deposited the money.
Around four in the morning, Mateo gestured with his chin at the guards watching the drug packaging process. One of the guards rapped the butt of his gun on the table. The workers finished what they were doing and, one by one, stood up, pushed in their chairs, and waited behind them—like a bunch of schoolchildren at dismissal time.
This “school” had no dismissal bell, though, and the “children” waited with their hands in the air. The two “table guards,” under the watchful eyes of the other three guards, searched each worker. As soon as a guard cleared a worker, he or she lined up by the door. No one spoke, not even in whispers.
I pushed myself up from the floor and maneuvered toward the exit so I could better observe what was going on. The line of workers held the curtain of fabric strips aside and I was able to see out the entrance. Through the open door I watched a group of the workers file into a van. When the van was full, it sped off. A second van pulled forward. The remaining workers loaded into the van and it, too, departed.
The guards secured the remaining plates of drugs on the table. They poured the leftovers back into a plastic sack lining a box—a box that looked a lot like the boxes stacked on the floor of the safe.
When the powder had been returned to the sack, one guard tied the sack with a twist tie, and closed up the box. Mateo opened the safe and placed the box atop the other four boxes on the floor of the safe. He closed the safe and directed a few last-minute cleanup details.
A sense of urgency gripped the room. Mateo barked orders to his men who rushed to complete them. Mateo sat down and studied the screen on the laptop while the others scurried around finishing up. I hung near Mateo, trying to read the laptop's screen. Mateo made a few notations in the file and then a printer behind us whirred, spitting out a single sheet of paper.
The outside door opened, and the men cleaning up froze. Even Mateo stilled. Instinctively, I backed away and shrank into “my” corner of the room. The nanomites chittered nervously.
Mateo and his men stood to attention as two guys I recognized strode into the room. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck rose. That's when I knew who was right behind them.
Dead Eyes followed his guards into the drug house. The other two men I'd seen with Dead Eyes when I'd peeked into Mateo's living room window brought up the rear.
Neither Mateo nor his crew moved. No one even twitched. Every face was shuttered as the gang's new leader swept the room with his cold gaze, noting every detail, missing nothing.
When Dead Eyes sauntered up to Mateo, Mateo swallowed and offered the printed sheet to him. No words were spoken. Dead Eyes scanned the sheet and jutted his chin toward the closet. Mateo opened the closet, then the safe. He removed the blocks of money and the box of unpackaged drugs and placed them on one of the tables.
Dead Eyes pointed with his chin again, this time at one of his men. The man took the sheet of paper from his boss and scanned the stacks of money, touching each bundle, counting as he did so. He inspected the box of drugs. He looked at the paper and then to Dead Eyes and nodded his affirmation.
Dead Eyes studied Mateo, and I, from my vantage in the corner behind him, shuddered. Mateo somehow managed to bear the scrutiny with no visible emotion other than the sweat beading on the back of his neck and shaved head.
“I’ll pick up this week’s take tomorrow, same time.” It was the first time I’d heard Dead Eye’s voice, and my skin crawled. “I expect the quota to be met.”
“It will be,” Mateo replied.
“It will be, what?”
Mateo cleared his throat. “It will be, sir.”
Dead Eyes leveled his killing scowl at Mateo. Mateo kept his eyes down, as though meeting Dead Eyes’ look might fry him. I don’t think he was breathing anymore. I wasn’t.
The tense moment lingered until, with a last jerk of his chin, Dead Eyes and his guards ambled toward the store's entrance. The door slammed behind them, and I heard the very faint sound of an engine starting and then fading away.
A palpable sense of relief washed over the room. Mateo pulled a kerchief from his jeans and wiped the back of his neck. He said something to one of the men and his crew shared in a nervous laugh.
Three new guards entered the store and reported to Mateo. They appeared fresh and rested. Everyone else prepared to leave. The atmosphere had all the markers of a shift change: Mateo was leaving the gang’s place of business in the hands of these three guards.
That would work for me. I could handle three guards.
Mateo snapped a few last-minute instructions and strode out the door. The rest of his crew, excepting the three guards, followed him. With the departure of all but the new guards, the room stilled. The guards made a pot of coffee and talked together in quiet tones. One of them said something and they all laughed.
I was growing tired from the long night, and I yawned. The coffee smelled heavenly as it brewed. I again squatted in the corner. I didn't have to wait much longer. The men poured coffee into travel mugs and secured the lids. They shouldered their guns and headed for the door. I got up and followed behind.
That's when things went a bit amiss.
I had assumed they would take up their posts outside but leave the door unlocked. Even if they locked it, I figured I could unlock the door from inside.
I had figured wrong. The lock was keyed on both sides. They closed and locked the store from the outside—leaving me locked inside.
You idiot!
I railed on myself for not checking the lock as I’d snuck inside the evening before. Already expecting the attempt to be futile, I turned the door's handle anyway, taking care to make no noise. The deadbolt, as I'd known it would be, was in place and the door did not budge. I rubbed my tired eyes and tried not to panic.
It's just a matter of time, I reasoned, assuaging my anxiety. Someone will come back inside to get more coffee or use the restroom. I just need to wait and not freak out. But my plans were falling to pieces.
A wisp tickled my cheek. Even as I instinctively brushed the sensation from my face, I understood what it was.
A tiny blue spark spurted from the keyhole followed by an audible click: The door had unlocked.
“Nano. Thank you,” I whispered. All my suspicions as to whether or not the mites occasionally helped me had vanished on the mountain with the epic operation now code-named “Serpent Sauté.” Whether or not they “approved” my sometimes-rash actions, the nanomites were proving themselves to be my protectors, if not my allies.
I decided that I needed to reconsider our evolving situation when I got home, perhaps even again attempt to communicate with the mites. But first I needed to get home—and before that, I wanted to accomplish what I’d come here to do.
I raced into the main room and over to the closet. Mumbling the combination I’d seen Mateo use on the safe, I turned the dial to each number.
With a sigh of escaping air, the heavy safe door swung open. I smiled at the blocks of cash on the shelf—the answer to my pressing money problems. Could I take it all? Would it all fit in my bandolier-style shopping bags? Would my baggy shirt stretch to cover the filled bags? Would I have to leave some of the wrapped bundles behind?
That last question didn’t sit well with me. Dead Eyes was expecting to collect the money tomorrow night.
Why leave a single dollar for these thugs? I eyed the boxes of uncut drugs on the safe’s floor with disgust. Why leave that? Especially that. Why not put a real dent in their operations? Why not—
I raced over to the filthy coffee station. I rifled through the kitchenette’s drawers and came up triumphant
. I had what I needed: a dirty, bent book of matches. Only three matches remained in the book. I would have to work smart.
I almost gagged when I entered the bathroom. It, too, had not been cleaned in recent history. The paper towel and the toilet paper dispensers were empty.
No matter. What I really wanted was the empty cardboard TP spool. I yanked it from the holder and returned to the kitchenette. There I found a supply of coffee filters. I crumpled a few of them and stuffed them into the empty spool.
I brought the rest of the coffee filters with me to the printer, where I found several unopened reams of paper. I ripped a ream open and crumpled the ream’s wrapping, several sheets of paper, and the rest of the coffee filters and stuffed them into the wastebasket near the laptop.
That was all great, but I needed more, something to ensure that what I started would continue. I browsed through the kitchenette again, finding only one more useful item: the stub of a candle. As I stared around the store, my searching gaze fell on the cardboard-covered windows and the flimsy curtains hanging over them.
“Those,” I whispered. I ripped all but one set from their rods and piled them on the floor under the window still hung with curtains. Then I remembered the thick fabric strips hanging between the main room and the hallway leading to the outside door. The strips were nailed to the doorframe. I tore the strips from their nails and piled them with the rest of the stuff I’d collected.
I carried the wastebasket over and dumped the crumpled paper on the floor and then surrounded the paper with the loosely piled curtains. I dragged a couple of rickety wooden chairs to my pile, leaned them against the wall, and then set an old wooden table over the pile of debris. Finally, I laid some of the curtains over the table and chairs so that they hung down to the rest of the pile.
I returned to the open safe and hauled the boxes of drugs to my makeshift pyre. I opened a box and its plastic sack and poured the contents on the curtains. I sneezed and jumped back when the powder sifted toward my face.
I’d never used drugs—and didn’t intend to start now. I pulled the neck of my uncle’s oversized shirt up over my mouth and nose and finished dumping the drugs—all five boxes. Even if the building failed to burn to the ground, the drugs would be toast.
Back at the safe, I stripped off my shirt and shook out the fine powder that had accumulated on it. Then I filled my two shopping bags with plastic-wrapped bundles of money. If it didn’t all fit, I would burn what was left.
I preferred burning the money to leaving it for the gang’s leader.
The thought of Dead Eyes’ reaction when he learned about tonight made me tremble. Yes, the man terrified me, but at the same time, he provoked something in me, a deep desire that longed to frustrate him, wound him—perhaps even defeat him. And I wished with all my heart that I could be there to witness his impotent rage when he heard the news.
Who knows? Maybe I could be.
My shopping bags were filled. I again pulled my uncle’s old shirt over my head and tugged it around the bags bulging from my sides. It was a tight fit, but as soon as the shirt settled, it and my burdens disappeared.
I tore the two remaining piles of cash apart and spread the bills over the curtains. At the last minute, I chucked the guns and ammunition I found on the top shelf of the safe onto the pile, too. I had no idea what fire would do to them, but decided that it made no sense to leave them out of the fun.
All righty then.
My plans and I were ready.
I returned to the pile of paper, fabric, drugs, and cash. I lit the candle with one precious match. I held the TP roll stuffed with crumpled coffee filters in one hand and the candle in the other. As the paper inside the roll caught, I turned the roll one way and the other, waving it to make the fire burn faster. When the paper was burning well, I dropped the roll in the middle of the pile of rotted curtains.
I was surprised how fast they caught—faster than the TP roll had. I held the still-burning candle stub near other fabric edges. They caught quickly, too.
Within a few seconds, any doubts I’d had that the fire might not “take” dissipated. I laid the candle under an edge of the pile and backed away. When the fire blazed up, I retreated toward the door.
The flames ran up the curtains and licked at the furniture I’d piled over and beside it. Tongues of fire gobbled at varnish on the old table and chairs and shot upward. The last thing I saw before I ducked into the hallway were flames streaking up the hanging curtains and the cardboard covering the windows.
I turned the door’s handle and counted to sixty to give the fire as much time as I dared. The smoke and smell of the fire were filling the hallway when I eased open the door. I didn’t hesitate—the fire needed fresh air. I flung the door open wide and raced outside in the same motion. The fire “whooshed” and billowed from the open door.
I was across the alley when the first guard noticed the open door—and the fire crackling within. He hollered to alert the others.
It was too late, though. As I stumbled toward the street, awkward under my load of cash, I heard their shouts of alarm. I stopped and turned to look.
Smoke and flames pushed the guards back. One of them was on his cell phone, coughing and shouting.
I’d seen enough. My heart pounding furiously, I plodded toward my car. I was glad I’d parked far enough away that no one would associate my vehicle with what happened behind me, but it was a long hike to tote my heavy load.
I opened the back door of my Toyota and crawled inside. There, hunkering down behind the front seat, I removed my baggy shirt and the shopping bags. I piled the bags on the floor and covered them with the shirt. Then I climbed over the seat and got behind the wheel.
Just before I pulled out onto the street, I heard sirens. I kept driving and rounded a corner, moving away from the fire trucks before they came into view.
Chapter 22
My car rolled into the garage near the crack of dawn and I dragged my weary self into the house. My life was taking on more of a nocturnal rhythm with each passing day—and all my nighttime activities were taking a toll on my body. I was exhausted and keyed up, but at least I had money now—more than enough for my foreseeable needs.
I left the bags lying on the floor of my back seat, telling myself I’d take care of them later. I was, at that moment, quite glad I had installed security bars and doors on the old garage and a sturdy new door on the car entrance.
When I woke about six hours later, sanity and a reasonable dread woke, too. I stumbled to the kitchen to make coffee—scaring Jake out of another life on my way there. While my coffee brewed, I chewed the inside of my cheek and checked out my back door to assure myself that the garage was still intact, the stolen packages of money undiscovered. That was when the weight of my actions truly hit me.
What I’d done could have—must have—dire repercussions, even grievous ones. No way would Dead Eyes allow anyone to twist his nose as I’d done without bringing down the weight of his wrath somewhere, upon someone.
In my vivid imagination, I saw the money in my car morph into a pulsing neon arrow pointing right at me and shouting, “Here she is! Come and get her.”
“I have to hide it. I have to put it somewhere safe, but not here in the house.” I was feeling the immensity of what I’d done, but I wasn’t experiencing any regret.
As I drank my coffee, I browsed the local news on my laptop. There it was: A fire had destroyed an old, boarded-up neighborhood store in southwest Albuquerque. One of the news stations had photos of the smoking ruin.
“Wow,” I breathed, admiring the utter destruction of the drug house. I read every account posted online. It was KOAT’s article that caught my attention.
Sources in APD’s gang unit believe that the building had housed a drug processing hub belonging to a local gang with ties to a Mexican cartel. A spokesperson for the gang unit, who asked not to be identified, suggested that the fire might have been started by a rival gang out of California seeking to hor
n in on the market and trafficking routes through Albuquerque. The unit has cautioned APD to be on the alert for gang-related reprisals.
Another gang? The possibility was brilliant—especially since it took the spotlight off me.
Not that Dead Eyes or Mateo would have considered me a threat. I shrugged and sipped on my third cup. I was already talking myself out of feeling guilty.
I finished my coffee and went to the other bedroom, the one that had once been Genie’s and mine. I rummaged through the closet and came up with an old suitcase. I hoped it was the right size. I had decided that a small suitcase would keep the cash dry if I decided to bury it somewhere.
I laid the case on the bed and opened it. The case’s contents—some of Aunt Lucy’s old clothes, special things of hers I should have given away a long time ago—stared back at me. At the time, not long after her death, it had been easier just to pack the items away rather than to grieve over the finality of giving all of her away.
I can do this, I told myself. I’ve finally let her go. It’s okay to let her stuff go, too.
It wasn’t okay, but I made myself act like it was. With suitcase in hand, I slipped out to the garage where I had a stack of boxes from recent online purchases.
I was so nonchalant about leaving the house now. I hardly worried about anyone seeing me—or spotting a suitcase carrying itself to the garage.
I moved Lu’s things from the suitcase into one of the boxes. Before I closed it up, I placed a kiss on my fingers and touched them to the blouse on top. Shaking my head, I determined to call one of the local secondhand shops who would come pick up clothes from the curb. I would put the box out on the curb the night before they agreed to come—or right before I abandoned my house.
Setting the box on the garage floor, I pulled my two shopping bags from the backseat and unloaded them, counting twenty-three plastic wrapped blocks of money in all. I had no idea how much was in a block, but I selected one for immediate use. The rest of the blocks I packed into the suitcase and put it in the trunk.
Stealthy Steps Page 30
