Duke City Split

by Max Austin

  Mick said nothing. Bud glanced at him, saw he was chewing it over.

  “Besides,” Bud said, “if you go the white-collar route, then you have to trust the machines. You have to trust the bankers who make those clicks possible. And you don’t trust anybody.”

  “Just you, Bud. Just you.”

  “You’re not going to have me much longer. I’m looking forward to retirement. Then I won’t be cruising around the city at night, carrying millions in cash.”

  “Beats cruising around broke.”

  “I suppose. But I’d sweat it less.”

  “Slow down. It’s up here on the right.”

  The storage lot sat between a self-service car wash and a store that sold fancy wheel rims and other auto accessories. The car wash was brightly lit, but the store was dark. Only one streetlight glowed over the storage units and it was near the street, where a wrought-iron gate was locked for the night.

  Following Mick’s directions, Bud turned in at Duke City Rims and pulled around back. It was even darker back there, in the shadow of the flat-roofed building.

  They sat silent for a full minute, listening. Then Mick picked up the wire-cutters from the floorboard by his feet. They looked like pliers, but the handles were eighteen inches long. Bud had brought them from his tool kit at home, as instructed, and he could see now what Mick had in mind.

  The storage complex was surrounded by a six-foot-tall chain-link fence topped with coils of razor wire. Mick got out of the car and walked to the corner of the fenced lot where the chain-link was anchored to a steel pole. He knelt and started snipping the wires, close to the pole, starting at the bottom of the fence.

  After he cut through ten links, he stood and peeled the fence upward, folding it back on itself, then wedged the handles of the wire-cutters through the holes to hold the flap in place. He glanced back at Bud and looked around the dark lot, pulling the pistol from his waistband.

  Mick crawled through the hole in the fence. He stood in the shadow of the concrete-block storage building, listening, then went around the corner out of sight.

  The plan was for Mick to get his unit unlocked before they unloaded the money, so Bud stayed behind the wheel. Mick reappeared a minute later and gave Bud the thumbs-up.

  Bud got out of the Equinox and went to the back. He opened the rear door and pulled out one of the heavy duffels. He lugged it over to the hole in the fence, where Mick was waiting. Bud slid the bag through the hole, and Mick snatched it up and disappeared around the corner.

  Bud unloaded the other three bags one at a time and moved them to the gap in the fence. Keeping to the shadows, Mick returned, taking two bags away. Bud pushed the last bag through, then got down on his hands and knees and crawled through the hole. He lifted the bag and followed Mick around the corner.

  Three long storage buildings were set in a big U around the lot. Mick’s unit was at the rear. Its roll-up door was open, yawning black against the gray concrete. Bud carried the duffel inside and nearly bumped into Mick in the dark.

  “Over there,” Mick whispered. “By the back wall.”

  Bud set the bag with the others, then stepped out of the way while Mick moved some cardboard boxes in front of the duffels.

  “That won’t help if the cops search the place,” Bud said.

  “They won’t,” Mick said. “It’ll be locked up.”

  “Doesn’t the manager have a key to your lock?”

  “There’s a place to put another lock on the door. You still have that combination lock in your pocket?”

  Bud fished it out of his pocket and held it up. “It won’t be enough to keep ’em out, if they get onto us.”

  “Might slow ’em down.”

  They stepped outside and Mick rolled down the rattling door. They each knelt at the bottom, putting locks through hasps anchored to the concrete walls.

  Then they slipped around the corner, sticking to the shadows, and crawled back through the hole in the fence. Mick peeled the chain-link flap down and mooshed it back into place. He joined Bud in the Equinox and they drove away.

  “We still haven’t counted that money,” Bud noted as he steered onto West Central.

  “There’s plenty of time for that,” Mick said. “Once we’re sure nobody can take it away from us.”

  Chapter 30

  It was nearly closing time at Silvio’s, only a handful of customers left, when bartender Sid Harris noticed the two losers come through the door.

  Harris didn’t know Rex Cutler and Dwight Shelby well, but he knew he didn’t want anything to do with them. If he owned Silvio’s, trashy types like Rex and Dwight wouldn’t be allowed to stink up the place. But Harris was just an employee, under orders to serve drinks to any lowlife who entered. Easy for the owner, Silvio Ulibarri, to set such low standards. Silvio hadn’t been inside the bar more than a handful times since he retired.

  The class of clientele had steadily declined until the bar was frequented by felons and fuckups, and almost nobody else. Harris regularly thought about finding a different job, but, hell, he was a felon and a fuckup. Working at Silvio’s was what he deserved.

  Rex and Dwight represented an even lower life-form. They were the kind of brainless thieves who stole as a reflex. They’d steal from a church. They’d steal from children. They’d steal from their neighbors. Hell, they’d steal from each other, given the chance. There were some criminals who rated respect, professionals who lived outside the law. Tough guys like Mick Wyman, who survived because they were cautious and cool. But Rex and Dwight were about as uncool as two fools could be.

  They settled onto two of the ten stools that fronted the bar. Rex sported a red Hawaiian shirt under a black leather jacket, and his curly-haired partner wore a gray sweatshirt that stretched tight over his broad shoulders. Harris was a big guy himself, his tattooed arms so meaty that he wore the sleeves cut away on his shirts, but he came by his muscles naturally, lifting kegs and cases of booze. Dwight was the kind of thick-necked mook who lifted weights for fun.

  Harris felt himself frowning as he took their orders. Both wanted Budweiser, and he pulled them a couple of drafts.

  “Six bucks,” he said when he set the mugs in front of them.

  “Why don’t we run a tab?” Rex said.

  “Why don’t you pay me now?”

  Dwight’s muscular brow clenched. “Not very friendly.”

  “It’s almost closing time, fellas. I don’t want to have to settle up with everyone in here while I’m trying to get you out the door.”

  Rex’s eyes narrowed to slits, but he shrugged and dug his wallet out of his hip pocket. He fished out a five and a one and slapped them down onto the top of the wooden bar.

  “There? Happy now?”

  Harris took the money and turned to the register. Behind him, he could hear the pair slurping and gulping.

  He avoided eye contact with them when he turned back, his gaze drifting around the bar, seeing which drink needed refreshing. It was late on a weeknight, and most looked as if they’d had enough.

  “Hey, tell me something.” Rex crooked his finger so Harris would step closer. “Anybody in here been asking about us?”

  Harris shook his bald head.

  “Well, somebody’s been talking about us,” Rex said. “We had the FBI stop by our place this morning.”

  “What could the feds want with you two?”

  Rex leaned across the bar so he could whisper. “They said somebody here at Silvio’s tipped ’em to us. Said we were suspects in that bank robbery that’s all over the news.”

  Harris snorted before he could catch himself. The thought that these two lamebrains could get away with a bank robbery was laughable.

  Rex glared at him. “What’s the matter? You think we couldn’t pull a job like that?”

  “Sure, Rex. Whatever you say.”

  “I mean, it wasn’t us. Not this time. But they said they were looking for two guys, one taller than the other, and somebody mentioned us.”
r />   Harris shook his head at the pride in this fucking idiot’s voice.

  “Haven’t heard anything,” he said. “If somebody dropped a dime on you, maybe it’s because they’ve got a grudge against you.”

  Rex leaned back on his bar stool as if swatted.

  “That’s not possible,” he said. “Everybody likes us. Right, Dwight?”

  “Sure.”

  “Whatever you say. Want another round?”

  “I’d drink another one,” Rex said.

  He refilled their glasses. As he set the beers in front of them, Rex said, “So you don’t have any ideas yourself? About who hit that bank?”

  Harris tried to keep his face blank but wasn’t sure he succeeded. He had a very good idea of who was behind that robbery. He even thought he’d helped it happen by introducing that kid to Mick Wyman. But the last thing he’d do is tell these assholes.

  “I just tend bar.”

  “Aw, come on,” Rex said, leaning toward him. “Everyone knows you’re a broker. You set shit up all the—”

  “That’s enough chatter,” Harris said coldly. “Beers are on the house. Drink ’em and hit the road.”

  He walked to the far end of the bar, keeping his back to the two losers until he was sure they’d left.

  Chapter 31

  Rex Cutler and Dwight Shelby sat in Rex’s jacked-up Dodge pickup truck, watching the back door of Silvio’s. They were parked next to the only other vehicle in the potholed lot, a fancy Harley-Davidson motorcycle that was the bartender’s pride and joy.

  “You sure about this?” Dwight asked.

  “Did you see that motherfucker’s face when I mentioned that bank job? He knows something. You bet your ass he does.”

  “How you gonna make him tell us? Harris is a pretty tough old bastard.”

  “Open that glove compartment,” Rex said.

  Dwight thumbed the latch and the metal lid fell open. Rex reached across the cab and removed a parcel wrapped in an oily rag. He unwrapped it to show Dwight a long-barreled six-shooter.

  “He may be tough, but he ain’t bulletproof.”

  “You’re gonna shoot him?”

  “I was thinking that I’d make him stand still while you made him talk. Think you can do that?”

  Dwight rolled his shoulders inside the sweatshirt. “Sure, Rex. I can hurt him all you want. But aren’t you worried this’ll come back on us? Harris knows a lot of people.”

  “Fuck ’em. When we get done with him, he won’t be in any shape to name names.”

  The back door swung open and Harris stepped outside. A single bulb hung on a rod above the back door, and the light reflected off his bald scalp.

  Dwight reached for his door handle, but Rex said, “Wait until he locks the place up. We don’t want him running back inside. Reach under your seat and find that tire iron.”

  The solid door had a couple of dead bolts, and it took a minute for Harris to secure them. As he turned away from the door, Rex said, “Now,” and they bailed out of the high-wheeled truck.

  Harris froze when he saw them. Rex stepped forward into the pool of light.

  “Hey,” he said. “We’re gonna have a little talk.”

  “Fuck you,” Harris said. “I’m off-duty. I don’t have to waste my own time on you shitheads.”

  Rex glanced over at Dwight and saw that his partner’s teeth were clenched. Dwight hated being called names.

  “We only need a minute of your precious time,” Rex said. “We want to talk about that bank.”

  “Get out of my way,” Harris said.

  Rex had been holding the revolver behind his hip. Now he showed it to the bartender.

  “You need to learn some manners,” he said. “Ain’t that right, Dwight?”

  “That’s right.” Dwight shifted the tire iron from one hand to the other.

  Harris sighed and his broad shoulders slumped.

  “Last chance,” he said. “Get in your truck and drive away, and we can pretend this never happened.”

  “We ain’t going anywhere. Not till you tell us what we want to know.”

  “I don’t know anything about that bank heist,” Harris said. “And if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t tell you two.”

  “Come on,” Rex said. “Save yourself a world of hurt.”

  Harris shoved his keys into the pocket of his jeans, freeing up his hands.

  “I don’t think you’ll shoot,” he said. “That would attract the cops. And if it’s a fistfight, I like my chances just fine.”

  He raised his big fists into a boxing pose.

  “All right,” Rex said. “You asked for it.”

  Dwight bounced forward, shoulders hunched, looking like a squat ape. Harris unleashed a haymaker that would’ve torn his head off, but Dwight ducked under the blow and swung the tire iron. It cracked against the bartender’s left kneecap, and his leg bent backward at the joint. He grabbed at the knee as he collapsed to the ground.

  “Now see there,” Rex said. “You’ve done forgot all about fightin’.”

  The downed man groaned, rolling from side to side as he gripped the damaged knee with both hands.

  Dwight stepped closer, ready to crack the other knee, but Harris kicked his feet out from under him with his good leg. Dwight smacked onto the pavement, flat on his back. The tire iron clanged on the asphalt.

  “Son of a bitch,” Rex said. He whacked the revolver against the top of Harris’s bald head. The front sight tore open his scalp, and blood spritzed from the gash before Harris covered it with his hand.

  Dwight clambered to his feet, his breath coming hard. He picked up the tire iron and swung it backhand, putting a lot into it. Harris’s right elbow loudly cracked and he howled in pain.

  Rex stepped forward and planted one of his cowboy boots squarely in the bartender’s chest, pinning him to the ground. He leaned forward and pointed the long pistol between his eyes.

  “You ready to talk yet?”

  Chapter 32

  Mick Wyman woke early Wednesday with murder on his mind. He’d dreamed about the bank guard and his tattooed girlfriend. In the dream, they worked at a tollbooth at a stone bridge across a roiling river, and Mick didn’t have the money for the toll. They were laughing at his predicament, and he was thinking about shooting them, when he woke up.

  Mick padded into his kitchen in his underwear, grumbling against the bright sunlight squeezing through the curtains. He got the coffeemaker started and switched on the portable TV that sat on the countertop. The morning news anchors were running their mouths, and the third story into the broadcast made Mick’s mood even worse.

  “A bartender has been found dead in the parking lot of a local saloon,” the blond anchorwoman said somberly, “and police say it looks like a homicide. The body was discovered this morning by schoolkids walking past Silvio’s Bar in southeast Albuquerque.”

  Mick winced at the mention of Silvio’s.

  “The bartender has been identified as fifty-six-year-old Sid Harris,” the anchorwoman said. “Police have not released the cause of death yet, but they don’t think robbery was the motive. We’ll have more on the city’s latest slaying tonight at six.”

  Mick ran a hand through his tangled hair, thinking about the bartender. Harris could’ve been killed for any number of reasons, but he had a bad feeling it was connected to the bank job.

  He got out one of his prepaid cell phones and dialed Bud’s house. When Bud answered, he said, “Call me back at this number,” and hung up.

  While he waited for Bud to make his way to a safe phone, Mick went to his bedroom and threw on jeans and a clean shirt. He was washing his face when the cell phone chirped. He swabbed the water off his face and answered the phone.

  “Have you seen the news this morning?”

  “I was just reading the paper when you called,” Bud said.

  “Anything in there about a killing at Silvio’s?”

  “No, I haven’t seen that.”

  “I just saw i
t on the TV news. It’s somebody I know.”

  A long pause.

  “The dead guy is the bartender who put me in touch with Johnny.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Yeah. Might be a coincidence, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  “Think they made him talk before they killed him?”

  “No way to know. I’ll try to find out more details.”

  “But that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “He was the only one who could name names. Always trustworthy in the past, but if somebody hurt him bad enough—”

  “You might want to relocate,” Bud said.

  “I’ll go to a motel. Soon as I know anything more, I’ll be in touch.”

  Mick pocketed the phone. He packed an overnight bag with his bathroom stuff, a change of clothes, and a folder full of bills and other papers that had his name on them. He put the big Colt and the bank guard’s revolver on top, and left the bag partly unzipped so he could get to the guns quickly.

  He carried the bag into the living room and left it by the door. Shame to waste that pot of coffee, so he poured half of it into an oversized travel mug. While he sipped the hot brew, he went from window to window, peeking past the curtains. He didn’t see anyone watching the place or any unfamiliar vehicles.

  Mick walked around the apartment one last time, making sure he hadn’t overlooked anything.

  It was a nice apartment, tidy, just the right size. He wondered if he’d ever see it again.

  Chapter 33

  Milton Abeyta had just arrived at his office at the Tewa Casino and Hotel when the matched pair of FBI agents showed up. The woman came through the door first, striding inside like she owned the place, her partner right behind her. They both wore black suits today, and Milton wondered whether they planned every day to be color-coordinated.

  He gestured them into his guest chairs, sat behind his desk and flipped his gray braids back over his shoulders. He opened his mouth to offer coffee, but the woman got right to business.

  “Did you talk to your employees yet?”