by Max Austin
“So, Joe. What did you and Tino get up to on the reservation?”
Blink, blink. Doc waited while the big man processed the question.
“Breaking into houses.” Joe cut his eyes to the side and his lips stretched into what passed for a smile on his sandstone face. “Doing things.”
Doc was pretty sure he didn’t want to know more.
“How do you two even know each other? Tino’s not from the rez.”
Another pause. Doc could hear the seconds ticking loudly inside his own head.
“Jail,” Joe said finally. “In Gallup.”
“Ah,” Doc said. “That explains it. You meet all kinds in jail. Strange bedfellows, all that shit.”
Joe smiled again. Something about the look on his face gave Doc the willies.
“I’m in for bank robbery myself,” Doc said. “Had a little bad luck today. Bad timing. Cops showed up before I could make my getaway.”
Joe stared at him mutely. Doc got the feeling Joe didn’t track half of what was being said, but he gave it one last shot.
“You wouldn’t have any pills on you, would you, Joe? Over-the-counter? Anything?”
Joe didn’t answer. He started to unroll the mattress on the top bunk.
“I’ll take the bottom one, if you don’t mind,” Doc said. “I’ve got a bad back. Don’t need to be climbing up and down all night.”
Joe gave him that dreamy-eyed look again. What the hell was wrong with him? Then he hauled his bulky body up onto the top bunk and lay on his side, facing the wall.
“At least I wasn’t stuck with some blabbermouth,” Doc said. “I’ve had enough goddamned chitchat for one day.”
He smoothed the thin, lumpy mattress and settled on the lower bunk, lying on his back, arms folded under his head. The bunk felt exactly as comfortable as it looked.
The underside of the upper bunk was decorated with hundreds of names and dates and obscenities, scratched into its smooth cement surface by previous inmates. A nice reminder of how many sharp implements are floating around a typical correctional facility.
Doc read the graffiti for a while, but was soon bored by the repetition. Not a poet in the bunch.
Joe was snoring before lights out, but Doc lay awake a long time, hunger and drug cravings eating at him, and listened to the night noises of the jail.
Chapter 15
Pam Willis scanned the dark street before getting out of her FBI-issued Ford Crown Vic. She was tired and hungry after a long day filled with paperwork and bullshit, but Pam never let down her guard.
The familiar apartment building was one of the modern ones downtown, an infill project to help Albuquerque recover from the obliterations of urban renewal. The tiled lobby was empty, and the elevator dinged as soon as she pushed the button. Within seconds, she was letting herself into the third-floor apartment.
Living room to the right, kitchen and dining area to the left. All furnished with futons and folding chairs more suited to a dorm room. Ready to be packed up at a moment’s notice, should that next posting arrive. Pam understood the decorating philosophy. Her own apartment was furnished the same way.
“Hey, partner.”
Hector came out of the bedroom, wearing only a towel and a smile, both bright white against his smooth brown skin. Pam tried not to stare at the round dimple high on his chest, the scar he got in the shoot-out with the bank robber, the bullet that almost claimed his life.
“Sorry I’m so late,” she said. “I was almost done with that report when the computer locked up.”
“Ouch.”
“I got it, finally, but it took twice as long as it should’ve.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He crossed the room to her and gathered her in his warm arms. “I used the time for personal hygiene. Rarely has a man been so clean.”
“You smell good.”
“I probably taste pretty wonderful, too.”
He waggled his eyebrows at her. She leaned in close and gave him a little nip on the shoulder.
“Not there,” he said.
“I know what you want,” she said, prying herself loose and turning away. “Let me have a second. I need to kick off my shoes and put away my gun.”
“A glass of chardonnay awaits you in the fridge,” he said.
“Bless you.”
As she went to the kitchen, she said over her shoulder, “You want to close those curtains? We’re violating regulations here.”
“What if I drop this towel in front of the windows?”
“You could go to jail.”
“Nah, I’d probably get off.”
She groaned. Hector snickered as he went over to the windows and closed the drapes.
Pam sipped her chardonnay, then set the glass on an end table. She put her Glock and holster in the usual drawer, peeled off her jacket, and sat on the edge of the futon to untie her clunky black shoes. Most boring striptease on record, but Hector seemed to enjoy the show.
“What are you smiling at?”
He came closer. The towel had slipped a little, so it hung crooked on his narrow hips.
“Just happy to have you all to myself,” he said. “It’s tough being so close to you all day without touching you or kissing you or bending you over your desk.”
“Charming.”
“I understand about professional boundaries,” he said. “I’m just saying it’s hard.”
She smiled up at him. “I can see that.”
Then she pulled off his towel.
Chapter 16
Antony Rocca hated Albuquerque. The town was one big suburb, its arteries clogged with the same franchise businesses as the rest of America—Pep Boys and Burger King and Pizza Hut and Jiffy Lube—their ever-glowing signs the only splashes of color in a dusty landscape where the prevailing hue was beige.
It all looked alike to him. He’d lived here seven months, but he always felt lost. The city supposedly was laid out on a grid, but two interstate highways and a curving river and a set of railroad tracks ran through it, so you spent all your time looking for a bridge. Plus, there were a few rogue boulevards like Lomas and Indian School that seemed to have been scrawled onto the grid while city planners were looking the other way.
First week Antony was in Albuquerque, fresh from New York City (where the streets made sense to him), he got hopelessly turned around while exploring the windy neighborhoods of the West Mesa. Rather than admit he got lost, he stabbed the car’s tire, then called the rental company and told them he had a flat, so they’d send a tow truck to take him back to his hotel.
After that episode, he hired a limo to drive him around Albuquerque while he shopped for a condo. The driver was a good-natured giant named Jasper Johnson. They’d hit it off, and Antony hired Jasper away from A-1 Luxury Limo to become his full-time driver and protector.
Jasper grew up here and played football at Albuquerque High. He knew his way around town. Antony was looking at local nightclubs and restaurants where he could invest his ever-growing fortune, and Jasper knew which people were good businessmen and which ones to steer clear of. Already, he’d kept Antony out of a couple of ventures that could’ve cost a lot of money and grief.
Kept him out of other trouble, too. When Antony’s temper flared, Jasper got calmer and calmer, his deep voice lower and lower, until he practically hypnotized Antony into behaving himself. It was infuriating, and he was doing it again now.
“Come on, boss. Carmen didn’t even let that dude in the house. It’s not her fault if some dude shows up and rings the bell. Why you lettin’ it get under your skin?”
“He insulted me! Right in front of her.”
“Not like it was some big public thing. Nobody else was around. I was right there in the car and I didn’t hear nothing.”
“That’s not the point! There are boundaries, man. He crossed a bunch of ’em.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Carmen’s mine. I’m not gonna let some old boyfriend come sniffing around.”
“You own her, huh?”
“Bet your ass I do.”
Jasper chortled, which sounded like thunder.
“You best not let Carmen hear you say that. Women don’t like to be owned. They want to believe it’s a partnership.”
“Fuck that,” Antony said. “I’m in charge. Any woman who sticks with me better fuckin’ keep that in mind.”
“You gon’ be a lonely old man.”
He reached over and punched Jasper’s broad arm, which made the big man rumble with laughter.
Antony was riding up front, better to scout the sidewalks for any sign of Dylan James. Jasper drove in an ever-widening pattern in the neighborhood around Carmen’s duplex, but so far they hadn’t turned him up.
“I think he slipped through our fingers,” Antony said bitterly. “If only you hadn’t let him get away over those fences—”
“Hey, boss. I drive the car. I keep the peace. You want me to pound the shit outta somebody, I’m good for that. But if you want running and jumping, you hired the wrong man.”
“I see that.”
“You want Michael Jordan.”
“Okay, I got it.”
“Maybe Jackie Chan.”
“Enough. You’re giving me a headache.”
Antony watched the dark houses slip past the window, ratty cars parked in their sandy yards. Hardly any pedestrians at this hour of the night. The occasional bicyclist, light blinking on his helmet, which made Antony wish for a baseball bat.
God, he hated this town, especially at night. During the day, you had the mountains and the dramatic New Mexico sky to keep you distracted. But at night it was one big dark suburb, nothing to see, nothing much to do. He longed for the bright lights of Manhattan, the round-the-clock energy, a decent bagel.
Sometimes, Antony felt he was being paid to stay away from New York. He’d been in a few scrapes back there, made a few headlines. His old man had made it clear he preferred for Antony to while away his time here in the boring desert.
Antony still got a cut of his father’s Mob income while the old man was doing seven to ten in Marion. Every month, Antony’s checking account magically received a deposit of nine thousand dollars.
Even with the salary he paid Jasper, the money came in faster than Antony could spend it in a place like Albuquerque. He actually had a savings account here, something he’d never had back home. In New York, he spent more on tips than his whole lifestyle cost here.
He didn’t need to work, but too much idle time was trouble. Antony obsessed on slights and jealousies, and he often let his temper run rampant. He’d chased off a few women by coming on too possessive, too angry. He’d been trying to take it easier with Carmen Valdez, acting like a gentleman. But the mere thought of Carmen with that guy Dylan burned him up.
“Turn left up here,” he said abruptly.
“We already went that way.”
“I know. Circle back to Carmen’s. We’ll go talk to her. Maybe she can tell us where to find this guy.”
“You sure you don’t want to call it a night, boss? Situation might look different in the light of day.”
“Do it.”
Jasper sighed, but he did as he was told.
Chapter 17
Dylan James still was puzzling over the Goth girl and her apparent death wish when a sound caught his attention—the whir and clack of skateboards on pavement, coming up fast behind him.
He was cutting across a parking lot on the diagonal, saving a few steps on his way to Central Avenue. The lot served a two-story office building, closed and dark at this hour. A streetlight on the corner threw the creepy shadow of a leafless tree across the asphalt.
The skateboarders zoomed out of the darkness next to the office building, five of them, a ragtag bunch in Vans and jams and Mohawks, piercings glinting on their faces and ears.
They zipped past Dylan, so close he could feel their breeze as they carved loops around the parking lot, passing him again and again. It reminded him of the three-man weave he’d been taught in high school P.E., a sort of ballet with a basketball.
These kids looked like they ought to be in high school themselves, but five of them together made a formidable force, one with which Dylan did not intend to fuck.
“Hey,” a pimply, black-haired kid said as he kicked to a stop in front of him. He wore an ancient denim jacket covered with patches and graffiti. “We’re hungry. You got any money, man?”
Ah, a shakedown.
“Sorry, guys. I’m broke.”
Dylan tried to walk past him, but another skateboarder gave him a shove in the back.
“Hey.” He turned, but the kid was already out of reach.
Another thumped him on the shoulder as he zipped past on his board.
Dylan was getting pissed. “Look, you picked the wrong night to mess with me. I already—”
A skateboarder with a blond Mohawk rolled past, squawking like a chicken.
“Just leave me alone, okay?”
Chicken Boy stood the board on end and spun it around, and wound up facing Dylan with the skateboard in his hands. The underside of the board was painted with the face of a leering red devil.
“You crossed our parking lot. There’s a toll.”
“I don’t have any—”
Feet shifted behind him. Dylan whirled to find another kid swinging a skateboard at him like a baseball bat. It, too, had the painted devil face, which rushed toward Dylan as if trying to kiss him.
Wheels smacked against his forehead. Pavement slapped against his back, knocking the wind out of him.
He saw a black sky full of twinkly white stars. They winked out, one by one.
Chapter 18
Doc Burnett jolted awake. He’d only been asleep a short time, but he didn’t know where he was at first, just that someone loomed over him, in his personal space. Then it all came rushing back—the drive-through bank, the air bag, the FBI interrogation, the isolated desert jail.
His cellmate, Joe, stood next to the bunks. Doc could make out the big man clearly in the light from the corridor. The light they never turned off, no matter how much you complained.
Joe was naked. His body was almost entirely hairless, and his amber skin glowed in the reflected light, fat jiggling as Joe busily stroked his cock, which was fully erect and way too goddamned close to Doc’s face.
“Hey!” Doc whispered as he scooted back to the wall. “The hell you doing, Joe?”
Joe grunted and leaned closer, still flogging the big dick, dangerously close now.
Nowhere for Doc to go. Instead, he reached toward Joe’s crotch. The Indian went stiff all over, panting, holding very still as Doc got closer.
“This what you want, Joe? A little helping hand?”
Joe didn’t answer, but his breathing went ragged with anticipation.
Doc cupped the big man’s tight, hot balls in his hand. Joe groaned with pleasure.
“You stupid motherfucker,” Doc snarled.
He squeezed the testicles with all his might and twisted, as if Joe’s scrotum were a stubborn doorknob.
Most men would’ve screamed in pain, but Joe moaned like a foghorn. He let go of his dwindling cock and grabbed at Doc’s arm.
Doc viciously yanked Joe’s scrotum toward him. Joe had no choice but to follow. His face banged off the concrete rim of the upper bunk.
The naked man went limp all over, but Doc wasn’t taking any chances. He yanked again, and Joe’s forehead cracked against the bunk. His head snapped back, and he followed it right on over, bouncing off the opposite wall on his way to the concrete floor.
Soon as Joe fell into a heap, Doc scrambled out of his bunk and went to the door, yelling, “Guard! Guard!”
He stood wiping his hand on his jumpsuit while the khaki-uniformed guard trotted down the corridor toward him, baton in hand.
As the door slid open, the guard said, “What is it?”
“Look at this guy,” Doc said. “He’s unconscious.”
The
guard squinted suspiciously at the naked man on the floor. “What happened to him?”
“I don’t know,” Doc said. “I think he had some kinda seizure.”
Chapter 19
Dylan James came to consciousness gradually, registering individual pains as the signals reached his brain. The thunderous throb in his forehead. Sharp grit under his cheek. The blaze of a scraped knee. The aches along his abdomen where the little fuckers kicked him while he was down and out.
He rolled over onto his back and blinked his eyes open. He was alone in the parking lot. The stars were back in the sky where they belonged.
Teeth clenched against the pain, he moved just enough to feel his pockets. Empty. Now he knew where the skateboarders had gone. Off to spend his thirty-seven dollars and sixty-five cents on fast food.
“Hope you choke on it,” he rasped.
He coughed and tried to clear his throat. Coughing hurt his bruised ribs. He reached up under his shirt and gingerly pressed his cold hands against his rib cage, feeling for telltale bulges. He didn’t think any of his ribs were broken, but every deep breath would be painful for the next few days.
He groaned as he elbowed his way to a sitting position. Coughed a couple of times, holding his ribs like a phlegmy old man, then used both hands to gently explore his face. No blood, but he found a hot, tender lump on his forehead, right in the center.
“Great,” he rasped. “I’m a fuckin’ unicorn.”
He knew he was lucky he was wearing the hoodie. The thick fabric had kept him from getting too scraped up. The elbows and chest of the pullover were streaked with black from rolling around on the pavement, but better filth than blood.
He painfully got to his feet, shaking his clothes into place and brushing at his baggy jeans.
Feeling dizzy, he stood still for a minute, finding his equilibrium. He wondered if he had a concussion.
No sign of the skateboarders or anybody else. Dylan considered that a lucky break. If some witness had called the cops to report the mugging, he’d be under arrest by now.
