Duke City Desperado

by Max Austin

  An engine roared behind him. Dylan looked over his shoulder just in time to see the black Escalade skidding into the alley.

  “Shit!”

  He sprinted to the end of the block, then cut to the right, dodging trees that stood naked in sidewalk planters. Only half a block to the next street. He forgot about breathing or pain or any other distraction, and put all his concentration into the rhythmic slapping of his soles against the sidewalk.

  He was almost to the corner when a car hummed up beside him. A blue Prius. Where the hell had that come from? The car braked sharply, stopping at an angle twenty feet in front of him. The passenger door flung open.

  Dylan hit the door going full tilt. He caromed into the passenger seat, and was still trying to shut his door as the little car zipped away.

  Katrina was behind the wheel, hands at ten and two, her black-rimmed eyes focused on the road.

  Dylan turned in the bucket seat to look behind them. The Escalade bounced out of the alley and turned in their direction.

  “Here they come!”

  Katrina goosed the car.

  “Turn somewhere,” he gasped. “Get out of sight.”

  The Escalade suddenly slowed to a crawl, and Dylan realized they were prowling again, hunting him. They hadn’t seen him get into the Prius. He ducked low in his seat as Katrina took a left.

  She pushed the car, zigzagging through the leafy neighborhood. After the first corner, Dylan lost sight of the Escalade, but he felt sure they were back there somewhere. Police sirens still howled, but they seemed farther away now, focused on Central, where the shooting had occurred.

  Still trying to catch his breath, he sat up and looked over at Katrina. Faded cutoffs today with her ragged fishnets, but otherwise she was all in black except for her earrings, which were dangling white skulls. And Halloween was still a week away.

  “Thanks for the ride,” he said between gasps.

  “Sure.” Laconic as ever, as if car chases were part of her daily routine.

  “Good timing,” he said.

  “Dumb luck.”

  Katrina got lucky again at the traffic light at Monte Vista and zipped across the broad intersection. Speed humps striped the blocks next to an elementary school, but she barely slowed for them, the Prius going airborne each time.

  Between two of these leaping crashes, Dylan said, “Were you out looking for serial killers?”

  “Nah. Killers mostly work at night. I was looking for you. I saw on the TV news that you’re a big-deal bank robber.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I was driving around Nob Hill when I heard shots. I figured you’d be someplace nearby.”

  “Those guys in the Escalade were trying to kill me.” He took a deep breath and blew it out. “You saved my ass, showing up when you did.”

  “Thought you might need a hand.”

  “I really appreciate your help.”

  “You seem to need a lot of help,” she said. “For a dangerous fugitive.”

  “Give me time. I’m new at it.”

  Chapter 37

  Doc Burnett was taken to a holding cell so deep within the bowels of the federal courts building, he couldn’t even tell which floor he was on, which was disorienting as hell. The windowless cell was twenty feet to a side, with bars in front and smooth gray walls and floor and ceiling. No bunks, just a low bench that ran along two walls. Two other inmates were waiting there, young tattooed guys, one in street clothes, the other in inmate orange, whispering together in Spanish. Doc sat off by himself and they ignored him.

  The bench was cold concrete, so it wasn’t possible to get very comfortable. Doc stared at the floor and tried to ignore the need for speed coursing through his veins. If he could just get his hands on a little pharmaceutical crank, he’d be fine. Get that boost in the old bloodstream, that zip in his step. Some temporary relief, while he kicked the habit.

  Unless he caught some kind of lucky break, he faced a long sentence, which meant shedding his bad habits. Behind bars, they were too expensive. Once he got the amphetamine out of his system, he’d be fine. But a little something now to bridge him over sure would be sweet.

  In need of a distraction, he decided to get presentable for court. The holding cell had a tiny metal sink next to the open toilet. Above the sink, a square panel of shiny metal was securely set into the wall. Not a mirror exactly, but it served the purpose.

  In the wavy reflection, Doc saw that bruises framed his sunken eyes like parentheses. The skin around his cheekbones looked puffy and tight. His swollen, purpled nose reminded him of a thumb that had been hit by a hammer. His greasy hair stood up all over in a perfect imitation of a rooster’s tail feathers. He needed a shave.

  He splashed water on his head and scrubbed gently at his tender face with his cuffed hands. No towel, naturally, but he torqued his neck around and dried his face on the short sleeves of his orange jumpsuit. He smoothed down his unruly hair as best he could in handcuffs, then returned to his place on the concrete bench.

  The other two inmates had stopped talking as they watched his every move. But once he sat, they resumed their whispered conversation.

  A minute later, a uniformed guard with a shiny bald head came to the door and called Doc’s full name. When Doc stood, the guard said, “Time for court, Wilmer.”

  “Call me Doc.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  That was incarceration for you. One indignity after another.

  The guard led him out, Doc shuffling along the corridors in his plastic shower shoes. They rode in an elevator, just the two of them, never exchanging a word. Down another corridor, then into an oak-paneled courtroom that looked just like the one on that TV show Judge Judy.

  Jeff Moorcock waited at the defendant’s table in his oversized suit. The sight of the tenderfoot attorney made Doc groan.

  After Doc was seated at the defense table, the guard removed the cuffs. Rubbing at his chafed wrists, Doc turned to Moorcock. “Kindergarten let out early?”

  The kid ignored that, saying in a tight whisper, “Keep your mouth shut unless I tell you to address the court. Stand when you’re called upon. Call the judge ‘Your Honor.’ ”

  “I know how it works. This ain’t my first rodeo.”

  “Just keep quiet and let me do my job. Please.”

  Doc grunted and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Put your hands in your lap,” Moorcock said. “You’re in a defensive posture.”

  “I’m the defendant. I’m supposed to feel defensive.”

  “Don’t show it. It makes people assume you’re guilty.”

  “You can read minds now?”

  “It’s been proven in psychological studies—”

  “They teach psychology in law school?”

  “Hands in your lap. Please.”

  Doc put his hands in his lap. Laced his fingers together and squeezed. Not as satisfying as wrapping them around Moorcock’s scrawny neck, but it kept him occupied for the moment.

  They all rose as the federal magistrate entered. She was a squat Hispanic woman with gray-dusted hair. She peered over her half-glasses at the courtroom and seemed displeased by what she saw.

  Once she got her black robe collected and took her seat, the rest of them were allowed to sit, too. Doc looked around the courtroom. Besides the usual court reporter and bailiff, there were two marshals in uniform sitting near the door. Waiting to testify or to haul somebody back to jail. One disheveled young guy in the front row had a notebook on his corduroyed knee, and Doc assumed he was a reporter for the morning newspaper, there to make him infamous. The dozen others in the gallery were men and women in suits, sitting in twos and threes. He figured them for lawyers, waiting for their clients’ turns at bat. Every single one of them looked smarter and more experienced than Jeff Moorcock.

  Doc sighed.

  “Face front,” Moorcock hissed at him.

  The magistrate shuffled through papers in the case file, then looked up at
the legal teams. Her gaze settled on Doc and seemed to rest there a long time. Gave him the creeps, but he managed not to make a face.

  She told the prosecutor to go ahead. He was a grizzled veteran in a rumpled gray suit and a patterned tie that made Doc think of gravy stains.

  The prosecutor stood with his hands in his pockets, notes on the table in front of him. He took his time outlining the case against Doc. The fingerprints, the eyewitnesses, the arrest at the scene of the crime. Even the stone-faced judge seemed impressed by the amount of evidence, but the prosecutor put the cherry on top by noting that the entire incident had been captured in full-color security video.

  When it was Moorcock’s turn to speak, he told the court that his client disputed all the evidence, including the video, and would like to enter a plea of innocent.

  The judge’s head snapped up from her paperwork. “Really? You’re not working something out with the government?”

  “My client maintains his innocence, Your Honor. And there are questions about his mental capacity at the time of the incident.”

  The judge looked over her glasses at Doc. He thought about trying to look crazy, but the parenthetical facial bruises and exclamation-marks hairdo probably did the trick. No sense in overdoing it.

  “What about now?” the judge said. “Does he understand the charges against him?”

  “I think so, Your Honor.”

  “You think so.”

  “I’m no psychiatrist,” Moorcock said. “My client apparently has a long history of drug abuse and perhaps diminished capacity, but he does seem responsive to questions and such.”

  The judge looked at Doc again.

  “Mr. Burnett? Are you having any trouble following these proceedings?”

  Doc stood and said, “They seem pretty straightforward to me, Your Honor.”

  “You understand that these are serious charges against you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And you want to plead innocent to all charges?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I didn’t do it. Also, it wasn’t my fault.”

  Somebody snorted, stifling laughter, and she shot the audience a sharp look.

  “Be seated, Mr. Burnett.”

  The magistrate summoned the lawyers to her bench, and they whispered among themselves. Doc figured they were talking bail, not that it mattered much. He was too strapped to get out on bond. His entire net worth was maybe five hundred dollars. He mused that whoever said “Crime doesn’t pay” must’ve been talking about him.

  Finally, they broke the huddle and the lawyers returned to their spots. The judge announced she was remanding Doc to custody to await trial on the charges. She set bail at one million dollars.

  “That seems excessive, Your Honor,” Moorcock said. “The defendant has no assets and he’s a longtime resident of Albuquerque. He should not be considered a flight risk.”

  “Flight’s not what concerns me,” the judge said. “It sounds to me like Mr. Burnett is a serious drug addict who presents a danger to himself and others. It would be safer for everyone if he remained in custody.”

  She banged her gavel, and that was that.

  The bald guard came over and snapped the cuffs back on his wrists. He immediately began to lead him away, so Doc had to twist his head around to complain over his shoulder to Moorcock.

  “Why didn’t you object there at the end? She made me sound like a dangerous criminal.”

  “You are a dangerous criminal. But I’ll file an appeal of the bond. Maybe I can get her to reconsider. I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks,” Doc said as the guard yanked his arm. “You know where to find me.”

  Chapter 38

  Dylan James had expected an old-fashioned dorm with nosy hall monitors, but Katrina’s place on the northeast corner of the University of New Mexico campus was more like an apartment building, nicer and newer than any he had ever called home.

  The four-story Casas del Rio student residence buildings were finished in different colors of stucco—tan and brown and purple and green—and arranged around a sloping concrete plaza. A few students wandered by, but they all had audio buds in their ears and their eyes fixed on their phones. Dylan didn’t have to worry about being spotted walking with Katrina. Nobody ever looked up.

  Inside, the ground-floor apartment had two bedrooms with a shared living area and a corner kitchenette. The carpeted living room was furnished with a cheap black sofa, a couple of folding chairs and an old black steamer trunk that served as a coffee table. A flat-screen TV stood in one corner and a laptop sat open on one of the chairs. Not that Dylan was thinking of stealing anything. The quick inventory was a professional habit.

  “Don’t you have a roommate?”

  “Yeah,” Katrina said. “A blonde named Christi, or as she likes to say, ‘Christ with an “i” on the end.’ ”

  “Little heart over the ‘i’ instead of a dot?”

  “Of course. She mostly stays with her boyfriend. I think she’s scared of me.”

  Dylan could understand that sentiment, but he didn’t say so. If Katrina was willing to hide him for a few hours, he was willing to overlook her macabre looks and strange ways.

  She started a pot of coffee brewing. The fresh-ground aroma quickly filled the living room. Dylan’s stomach growled. He sat on the sofa and pulled the hood back off his head. He rubbed his face with both hands, skritching across his two-day-old whiskers.

  “You look beat.”

  “I’m not used to all this running around,” he said.

  “You seemed pretty good at it when I saw you on the sidewalk.”

  “Those guys were right behind me.”

  “They really shot at you?”

  “Emptied a clip at me as I was running away.”

  “Guess that makes you faster than a speeding bullet.”

  “Just lucky.”

  She joined him on the black sofa, sitting so close that her fishnet knees touched his leg.

  “What was it like? Did you think you were going to die?”

  “I was too busy staying alive to think about it much.”

  Her raccoon eyes were shining and she looked to be biting back a smile. Way too fascinated for his tastes, but he supposed a recap was the least he could give her in return for sanctuary. The price of admission.

  “I’d been running already,” he said, “getting away from the Frontier after some lady recognized me and called the cops. My feet are blistered from yesterday and they were really killing me. So I sat at this bus stop to rest a minute and fix up my shoelaces. Right in front of those new apartments on Central, the ones across from the sushi place with the neon dragon?”

  She nodded eagerly.

  “I heard brakes screech and I looked up and there was the big black Escalade that chased me around last night.”

  “Had they been hunting you all this time?”

  “I don’t know. They just suddenly appeared. The Escalade started backing up and that guy Antony leaned out the passenger window with a shiny pistol and started blasting away.”

  Katrina stretched her arm along the sofa and rested her warm hand against the back of his neck. Dylan wasn’t sure what that meant, so he continued his story.

  “So, um, the bullets were flying all around,” he said. “They hit the bench and the sidewalk and the building, but none of them hit me.”

  “Amazing. How many shots?”

  “Seven? Eight? I was too busy running to count. But I can tell you this: Any bullets coming your way are too many.”

  “You were scared?”

  “Sure. My heart was pounding. Big adrenaline rush.”

  She stroked the back of his neck, which was distracting as hell, but he kept talking.

  “They circled the block and kept coming after me, chasing me through the neighborhood. They were right behind me as I ran out of that alley. If you hadn’t showed up when you did, I’d be dead now.”

  “How does that make you feel?”

  He look
ed over at her. “You writing a paper on this or something?”

  “Just interested. Let me ask you this: When he started shooting at you, at that first instant when you realized what was happening, were you tempted to sit there and let the bullets hit you?”

  “What?”

  “You know, just let it happen. Get it over with.”

  “Dying? On purpose?”

  “Don’t you sometimes wish you could just die and put an end to all your pain and suffering?”

  “Shit, no,” he said. “I want to live forever.”

  “No one lives forever.”

  “So far, so good.”

  “You’d always choose life? Even if you’re miserable?”

  “I’ve never been so miserable that I wanted to die.”

  “What if you get caught and put in prison for the rest of your life?”

  “For shit’s sake—”

  “What would you think then? Wouldn’t you rather die than live the rest of your days in a cage?”

  “I’d tough it out. Hope for a miracle.”

  “A miracle?”

  “Maybe an earthquake knocks down the prison walls. I don’t know. I just know alive is better than dead.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “My recent brushes with death have convinced me.”

  “Interesting.”

  She leaned closer, as if to whisper in his ear. He tensed, but managed not to jerk away as Katrina’s inky lips brushed against his ear. She kissed his cheek, then turned his head so their mouths could meet.

  Nice kiss, though it was the last thing Dylan expected from this weird Goth chick. Had the talk of flying bullets turned her on? How freaky was that?

  The kissing got more involved, complete with probing tongues and roving hands. One of her black-nailed hands crept under his shirt and slithered up his bruised chest.

  She leaned back and looked into his eyes. “You want that coffee now?”

  “Later.”

  He pulled her to him and they kissed some more. He tried to maneuver her around so they were lying together on the sofa, but she abruptly pushed him away.