Duke City Split (11 page)

“It’s a problem,” Bud said, though he was barely listening.

“Cash is heavy,” Mick said. “Cash is bulky. Cash has a history. It’s a pain in the ass. And yet every shithead you encounter wants to take it away from you.”

“Like our bank guard,” Bud said.

“Maybe this kid Johnny, too. All we’ve got is his word that the guard threatened him. For all we know, they’re in this together and have been from the start.”

Bud didn’t answer. They’d covered that point a couple of times now. He didn’t
think the kid was smart enough or bold enough to set them up, but Mick couldn’t let it go. Mick had even talked about killing Johnny and keeping his share, but Bud didn’t like that idea. They’d managed a whole career of bank robberies without killing anyone. He hated to start now, just when he had the finish line in sight.

“So here we are,” Mick said, “stashing the cash again. Four bags that might as well be labeled ‘evidence.’ ”

“What else are we going to steal?” Impatience crept into Bud’s voice. “What else is as portable as cash? What else spends as well?”

“True. But it would be a helluva lot easier if we could move money around with computers. That’s what smart guys do. A few clicks, and their money is in the Caymans, safe and sound.”

“That works for corporations and executives and other kinds of crooks, but it’s no good for bank robbers.”

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.”

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.”

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.

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.