by Max Austin
“I’ve got to round up some money and a car.”
“The bank repossessed my car,” Oscar said, “but I’ve got ten bucks I can let you have.”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate the gesture. But it’s gonna take more than that to get me on the road. I’ve got to think long-term. A new identity. A place to live where nobody knows me.”
“You gonna hit that joint or just wave it around, talking?”
“Sorry.”
Dylan took a healthy hit and handed it over.
“Anyway,” he squeaked through the smoke, “I’ll get out of here by noon at the latest.”
“No rush, dude.”
“You’re, like, harboring a fugitive.”
Oscar shrugged. “Nobody knows you’re here.”
He used the remote to flick on the big TV. Fiery explosions filled the screen. The audio, mercifully, was still muted. Oscar aimed the remote and punched buttons until a local news show appeared. The young anchorwoman had dark hair and a china-doll complexion. She was very pregnant, so it looked as if her heavy makeup had been painted on a white balloon.
“Look at her, man,” Oscar said. “She’s about to pop.”
Dylan didn’t reply, too buzzed to make words, his imagination working in overdrive. He could practically see the pretty anchorwoman in labor, all sweaty and red-faced and screaming. He tried to steer away from the image, but that just made it worse.
“Look,” Oscar said, “it’s Doc.”
Sure enough, Doc Burnett’s face filled the screen. His arched eyebrows and clenched snarl made him look diabolical.
Oscar hit a button and the anchorwoman’s voice jumped from the jumbo speakers.
“—in custody was identified as Wilmer Wayne Burnett of Albuquerque.”
“ ‘Wilmer’?” Oscar said. “No wonder he goes by Doc.”
Through his drugged haze, it occurred to Dylan that he’d known Doc’s real name for some time now. When did they have that conversation?
“Albuquerque police and the FBI held a news conference a few minutes ago,” the anchorwoman said, “and released more information about the other suspect in the bank robbery attempt.”
A black-and-white mug shot of Dylan filled the screen. The photo was a couple of years old, and his brown hair had been longer then, but it was clearly, shockingly him.
“He was identified as twenty-four-year-old Dylan James, also of Albuquerque.”
Dylan groaned.
The screen cut to the news conference. At the podium stood a jowly man in a black uniform with lots of gold trim. He had a wide, sunburned face and his comb-over struggled to reach across his head. A caption identified him as “APD Chief Harmon Schlitz.” Two of his uniformed henchmen stood behind him, arms folded, scowls in place.
“Shots were fired by officers in pursuit of Dylan James last night,” the chief said, “but he managed to elude the search we launched on the ground and in the air.”
Chief Schlitz pointed to his left and the camera pulled back to show a poster of the black-and-white photo of Dylan, propped on an easel. Schlitz stood beside the big photo and jabbed at it with a stubby forefinger, making Dylan flinch.
“We consider this young man to be armed and dangerous,” he said. “If you see him on the streets, do not approach him. Call 911 immediately.”
“Man,” Oscar said. “They make you sound like Billy the Kid.”
The police chief looked right into the camera.
“A ten-thousand-dollar reward is available to whoever turns him in,” he said. “That’s how determined we are to take this criminal off the street.”
The anchorwoman returned, saying, “In other news, we have a new baby rhino at the Rio Grande Zoo—”
Oscar muted the TV.
“Dude,” he said. “Ten thousand dollars? They want you bad.”
Dylan didn’t answer. He was busy thinking of all the people who’d happily hand him over for that much money. It was a long list.
Chapter 30
Carmen Valdez watched as her sister pulled on baby-blue running shoes. They were clunky and thick-soled, but Rosa claimed they were perfect for standing for hours on the production line. Her spike heels went into a drawstring bag.
“You always carry an extra pair of shoes?”
“At least two pairs,” Rosa said. “Sometimes three, four. The backseat of my car looks like the shoe department at Macy’s.”
Carmen laughed. First time all morning.
“I can’t wear heels to work,” Rosa said. “Standing in one place all day? My feet would kill me!”
Laughing again, Carmen felt some of the tension lift from her shoulders. She straightened her spine under her silk robe. Pink, of course, their favorite color since they were little girls.
“You going to be okay?” Carmen asked. “Working all day after being up all night?”
“I had a catnap on the sofa,” Rosa said. “I’ll be fine.”
“You could call in sick, stay home with me. I don’t have any classes today. We could do something together.”
“Sorry, chica, but I can’t afford to miss work.”
Carmen realized she was wringing her hands at the thought of her sister’s departure. She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her robe. Took a deep breath and blew it out.
Rosa stepped closer and took Carmen in her arms and gently hugged her.
“You’ll be all right,” she said into her ear. “He won’t come around bothering you today.”
“Yes, he will,” Carmen said. “You don’t know him like I do. He’ll come back here and he’ll be even madder than before.”
Rosa leaned back and narrowed her eyes. “And what will you do?”
“I’ll keep the door locked,” Carmen recited. “I’ll pretend nobody’s home until he goes away.”
“That’s right.”
“He might get loud. He could disturb the neighbors.”
“Forget the neighbors,” Rosa said. “You just stay in here and wait him out. If he refuses to go away, call the cops.”
Carmen nodded. Rosa gave her another hug and patted her back.
“You’re skin and bones,” she said. “You should eat something.”
“I will.”
“After work, I’ll stop by and make sure you’re okay.”
“You can just call.”
“No, I’ll come by. Check you out with my own eyes.”
“What’s the matter?” Carmen tried to smile, but it didn’t take. “Afraid I’ll turn up dead?”
“Stop talking like that. Antony’s not going to hurt you. If he acts like an asshole again, call me. Me and my girls will come over here and fuck him up.”
Carmen laughed, but Rosa looked dead serious.
Chapter 31
Oscar Pacheco could tell Dylan had been shaken by seeing his own face on the TV news. Dylan limped around the room, agitated and muttering to himself about dragnets and eyewitnesses. He left a few minutes later, headed for Central Avenue in search of a breakfast burrito, Oscar’s last ten bucks in his pocket.
For his own breakfast, Oscar made a peanut butter-and-banana sandwich and carried it into the living room. No room for the paper plate on the low coffee table, which was cluttered with game controllers and cables and bongs and ashtrays and beer bottles and bags of Cheetos. He set the plate on the sofa, then returned to the kitchen for more coffee and a big glass of milk.
Hummingbirds flitted outside the kitchen window, drawn by the red feeders set out by his hippie landlords. A breeze tinkled through a dozen wind chimes suspended from a rusty old clothesline in the yard. Musical laundry.
Once he was settled in front of the TV, Oscar switched to a different local channel, hoping to learn more about the manhunt for Dylan James.
Ten thousand dollars? Man, that was a lot of money for somebody who’d only attempted to rob a bank. What did the government give for successful bank robbers? A million? Wouldn’t they lose money on the deal?
Chuckling, Oscar choked on t
he wad of gooey sandwich he was chewing. He drank some milk to wash it down, then wiped his mouth. He’d forgotten to bring a napkin from the kitchen, so he ran his hands through his long hair.
On the 54-inch TV screen, a logo appeared next to the anchorman’s head. It said, “Crime Watch.” Sure enough, Doc and Dylan were the top crime story. Oscar stopped chewing to listen. Didn’t want to miss a word.
The report was almost word for word the same as on the other channel. They showed the mug shot of Doc (he still looked like the devil) and the one of Dylan from a few years earlier. Dylan squinted one eye in the photo. Oscar supposed he’d been trying to look tough, but it made him look like Popeye.
Laugh, choke, drink milk. Oscar thinking: Damn, I’m killing myself here.
They even showed the same press conference footage as the other TV station, the police chief warning the public that Dylan was armed and dangerous and offering the ten-thousand-dollar reward.
Ten thousand dollars. Hard to get his head around that number. Oscar could do a lot with ten thousand dollars. Get himself a car to replace the one that was repossessed. Some new threads. Buy a kilo of weed and split it up and sell off half. Be like getting a year’s supply for free.
Of course, he’d never really turn Dylan in, not even for such a grand sum. They were friends. They went back years. But he wondered if the authorities handed out partial rewards. Say he called and told them he had seen Dylan? He couldn’t tell them where Dylan was now, but maybe they’d pony up some cash for information on where he spent the night. The cops probably would be happy to confirm he still was in Albuquerque. But happy enough to slip Oscar some dough?
He dug through the debris on the coffee table until he located his cell phone. It felt heavy in his hand. He dialed 911.
The call was answered immediately by a woman who said, “911 Operator. What is your emergency?”
“I, um, have some information for the police.” Oscar already regretted the call. No way this could turn out well. “About Dylan James.”
“Who?”
“The bank robber?”
“Hold on.”
Oscar held the phone away from his ear, looking at the smudged screen. He was reaching for the “off” button when a man’s voice spilled out of the phone.
“FBI.”
“Oh, shit!” Oscar said.
He disconnected and tossed the phone back onto the cluttered table. His hands were shaking as he started twisting up a fresh joint.
Chapter 32
Dylan kept the gray hood over his head as he ducked inside the poster-covered front door of the Frontier, a red-and-white barn of a restaurant that takes up half a block across Central from UNM. The embrace of warm air felt wonderful after his chilly morning walk.
The restaurant was noisy and crowded, as usual, and no one gave him a second look. He appeared to be just another student in a hoodie, the most common of sights. He could see four others from where he stood in line. He wondered if any of them were stoned out of their minds, too.
The line moved quickly, and he soon faced a brisk counterman in a white paper hat. Unprepared, Dylan stumbled through his order. He didn’t want to spend his entire ten bucks, so he requested a breakfast burrito and a small orange juice. Protein and carbs and vitamin C to power him through what promised to be another trying day. The counterman gave him four bucks and eleven cents in change.
By the time Dylan worked his way through the crowd to get some napkins and a fork, they were calling his number at the pickup counter. He kept his head down as he carried the plastic tray to a corner booth that would allow him to keep his back to the wall.
The walls in the Frontier are covered with framed art, mostly Old West kitsch, in keeping with the ranch-house motif. Dylan sat beneath a particularly garish portrait of John Wayne in cowboy hat and crooked kerchief, red mesas in the background.
He was so hungry his hands shook as he peeled the foil from the steaming egg-and-sausage burrito. He took a big bite and closed his eyes, chewing, taking a second to savor the flavor.
When he opened his eyes, a stranger was slipping into the booth across from him. A clean-shaven man with short dark hair and arched eyebrows. He wasn’t much older than Dylan, but he was bigger all over, a difference emphasized by the motorcycle jacket he wore. Dylan had a lifelong lust for such a black leather jacket, but so far he hadn’t been able to afford one.
“Hey, this is my table.”
“Take it easy.”
Stoned as he was, Dylan knew he needed to stand his ground. “Who do you think you are?”
The stranger leaned closer so Dylan could hear him over the Frontier’s hubbub. “My name’s Ryan, not that it matters. For the next minute or so, I’m your best friend.”
Dylan gawked at the intruder, temporarily forgetting the limp burrito in his hands. “What do you mean?”
“There’s a woman around the corner behind me,” Ryan said. “You can’t see her from where you’re sitting. But she saw you. She told her friend she recognized you from the TV news.”
“Oh, shit.”
“She’s on the phone with the cops right now.”
“Double shit.”
“It’s okay,” Ryan said coolly. “But you need to wrap up your breakfast and go. Right now.”
Dylan closed the foil around the burrito and tucked it into the front pocket of his hoodie. He downed the orange juice in a single swallow that made his throat burn and his eyes water.
“What should I do?” he rasped.
Ryan smiled. “I’d suggest you get the hell out of here. Use that door over there. If she tries to follow you, I’ll get in her way.”
Dylan studied him a few seconds.
“Why are you helping me?”
“Let’s say I’m in a related line of work,” Ryan said. “If I were in a jam, I’d want somebody to give me a heads-up.”
“You’re sure she was talking about me?”
“I knew who she meant,” Ryan said. “I recognized you from TV, too.”
“Okay, I’m gone. Thanks, man.”
Dylan bounced out of the booth and made a beeline for the nearest glass door. Head down, hood up. As he went out the door, he broke to the right, running, dodging pedestrians crowded around the sidewalk bus stop. Through the Frontier’s tall windows he glimpsed a curly-haired woman watching him, phone to her ear. Ryan leaned against a post nearby, ready to interfere if she followed. Dylan couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Ryan winked at him.
Dylan ran on, thinking: What guts. The temptation must’ve been strong to stay out of it, let the scenario unfold on its own, but this guy Ryan jumped right in, helping a fellow felon. He told himself to remember that example in the future, assuming he had a future.
His sneakers slapped the concrete sidewalk as he sprinted toward the Sandias, the sun in his eyes. His blistered feet felt like they were on fire. He turned a corner and zigzagged through a narrow parking lot full of cars. A potholed alley sliced through the middle of the block, mostly to give back-door delivery access to the shops and cafes that lined the side streets across from the university. Dylan ran east along the alley until he’d put three blocks between himself and the Frontier.
He slowed to a walk, puffing for breath. He glanced back over his shoulder a couple of times, but no police car came prowling the alley in search of him.
He paused long enough to take the burrito out of his pocket and unwrap it and take a bite. Still warm. Then he started walking again, chewing, hoping he’d at least get to finish his breakfast before the cops took him down.
Chapter 33
Still in short-sleeve orange coveralls, plastic shoes and handcuffs, Doc Burnett shuffled into a windowless interview room in the federal courthouse. The guard closed the door behind him.
The room was furnished with a table, four folding chairs and four blank white walls. Perched on one of the chairs, black briefcase on his lap, was a child of fourteen wearing his father’s gray suit.
“Mr. Bu
rnett,” the kid said, “please take a seat. I’m your attorney, Jeff Moorcock.”
“Say what?”
“You indicated in your intake paperwork that you couldn’t afford an attorney. I’ve been appointed by the court to represent you.”
“You’re a lawyer?”
The kid cocked his head to the side, as if trying to get a better look at Doc. He had fuzzy brown hair in a Kennedy cut and substantial ears that were sunburned on the tops. His freckled cheeks looked as if they’d never seen a razor.
“That’s right. I work in the federal Public Defen—”
“You’re not old enough to be a lawyer.”
The boy’s face flushed bright red. He straightened in his chair, as if trying to look taller.
“I assure you, Mr. Burnett, I’m an experienced attorney.”
“How old are you, Opie?”
“Jeff. And I don’t see how my age is relevant. If you want a different attorney, you can file a request with the court. All we’re doing today is hearing the charges against you. Maybe entering a plea. I assure you, I can handle that.”
“But you can’t give a straight answer to a straight question.”
The kid sighed. “I’m twenty-six.”
“Which means you’ve been out of law school, what, twenty minutes?”
“It’s a simple hearing, Mr. Burnett.”
“Call me Doc.”
Another sigh. “All right.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Jeff.”
“Jeff what?”
“Moorcock.”
Doc chuckled. “You look like less cock to me, boy.”
“Really? We’re going to waste time on my name? Don’t you think I’ve heard ’em all by now?”
“ ’Course you have,” Doc said. “My apologies. Run along home to your mama and tell her I said I’m sorry.”
Moorcock stared at him for a full minute. He seemed to be reconsidering his choice of careers. Doc often got that reaction from lawyers. Then Moorcock opened his briefcase. He produced a fat manila folder and let it thud onto the desk. Even from across the table, Doc could see his name and inmate number on the folder’s tab.
