Duke City Split (7 page)

He held up three fingers.

“Oh, my God.”

“We’re all set, Linda. Or, we will be, once everything cools down. We’ll have to be extra careful for a while, and make sure nothing points back at us. But then we can put this life behind us. I can be the guy I pretend to be, a schlub who stays home with the kids, the one who’s always talking about being his own boss.”

She set her glass on the counter and embraced him, her hands massaging the tight muscles in his back.

“I hope you’re right, Bud. I don’t ever want to lose you.”

“Relax,” he said. “Everything’s fine. I’m not going anywhere.”

She tilted her head to whisper into his ear.

“That kid? He’s okay?”

“He did fine. Not crazy about hiding the money, but we persuaded him that was the way it had to be.”

“Are you sure you can trust him?”

“He’s got nothing to gain by rolling over on us.” Bud cast another glance down the hallway. “He’ll be okay.”

She hugged him tighter. “God, I hope you’re right.”

Diego Ramirez was halfway home before it hit him. He was punching buttons on his car stereo, searching for music to soothe his jangled nerves, when he remembered where he’d seen that tattoo.

His hand trembling, he switched off the radio.

Could it be? In a city of more than half a million people, he had crossed paths with the bank robber before? But he was sure about that tattoo. And those blue eyes.

By the time he reached his rented house on the dusty West Side, he’d convinced himself it was the same man. He hurried inside, in a rush to tell Dolores about it, but she cut him off before he could get past “Hello.”

“So,” she said flatly, “you are still alive. I didn’t know. I saw your bank on the news, heard about the robbery, and I had to assume that you were dead.”

He rolled his eyes. Dolores was on the sofa, wearing her blue bathrobe, her feet curled up under her ample ass, holding her hand out to inspect her sparkly fingernails. The air smelled of acetone. A manicurist, Dolores spent all day doing other women’s nails, but she still devoted nearly every evening to her own. To Diego, the scent of nail polish was as familiar as perfume.

“You coulda called me,” she said. “Coulda let me know if you were okay or no.”

“I should’ve called,
chiquita
. But I’ve been so busy all day, talking to the cops and the FBI—”

“They wouldn’t give you one minute to call?”

“I’m
sorry
, but you’ll forgive me when you hear what I know.”

She cocked a black eyebrow at him. Dolores’s brows were heavy and thick, as if she’d built them up through repeated exercise. Diego spent much of his free time trying to keep her happy, trying to keep those skeptical eyebrows at bay.

“I know one of the robbers,” he said. “I recognized him.”

That got both her eyebrows shooting skyward. Diego grinned, tickled that he’d been able to surprise her for once. Dolores always made such a big show of knowing everything about him, knowing what he was thinking, what he wanted.

He explained about seeing the tattoo on the masked man’s wrist, that quick
glimpse when his sleeve was pushed up.

“I kept thinking, all day long, I’d seen that tat somewhere before. But I couldn’t remember. Then, I’m on my way home just now, and I’m flipping through the radio—”

Her brow creased at the mention of his car stereo. She’d bitched endlessly about the six hundred bucks he’d spent on the stereo system, but Diego had a way now to finally shut her up.

“—and I remembered the guy who sold me the stereo. Young gringo. Blond hair, blue eyes, big mouth. Pushing the more expensive stereo systems the whole time. He had the very same tattoo inside his wrist.”

Dolores made a face. “Probably lots of people have the same tattoo. That don’t prove nothing.”

“No, I’m telling you, it was the same guy. I’m sure of it.”

He stepped around the coffee table and sat beside her on the ratty couch. He wanted to be within kissing range when she finally put it all together.

“Did you tell the cops about this tattoo?” she asked.

“No, I told no one. And everyone else was too scared to look.”

Dolores gave him a level look, holding his gaze with hers. Diego felt the tingly beginnings of an erection.

“But you weren’t afraid.”

“Shit, no, I was scared to death. The motherfuckers put a gun right here.”

He touched that spot on his neck, where he could still feel the cold steel of the gun barrel.

“So,” she said, “what do we do with this information? About the tattoo?”

Diego smiled at her.

“We go see the robber. Tell him we want some of the money he took.”

Her eyebrows did a power lift.

“Tell him I want my goddamn pistol back, too.”

At midnight, Mick Wyman still sat behind the wheel of the Charger, sipping from a pint of Jameson’s.

He was parked in an asphalt lot across the street from Felix’s Real Mexican Food. The Charger sat next to a shoe repair shop, hidden in the building’s shadow. He’d been there for hours.

A single security light stood over the parking lot behind Felix’s, illuminating the boarded-up restaurant with its hidden cache of millions. Mick didn’t expect anyone to show up at the hiding place, tampering with the locks, but he couldn’t bring himself to go home, either.

He trusted Bud, always, a hundred percent. But Mick didn’t trust that inexperienced kid. Johnny might be lying awake, thinking about that money, thinking how he could use a crowbar on those locks, grab the duffels, make a run for it. Hell, he wouldn’t blame the kid. He had similar thoughts himself; they were impossible to avoid. But if Johnny tried it, he would be here, waiting.

Mick tipped up the bottle again. The pint was nearly empty. More than he usually drank at night. Certainly more than he needed before driving home. But the cops couldn’t arrest him for drinking while
not
driving, right? Any law against having an open container in an
un
moving vehicle?

He polished off the whiskey and screwed the cap back in place.

How much time had he spent like this over the years? Sitting in a car, watching a building? Usually banks, but motels sometimes, stores. Watching for a sign that the cops were on to a plan, or that a partner was ready to betray him? Not Bud, of course. He trusted Bud. But on other jobs, ones Bud didn’t even know about. Mick always kept his ears open for action. That was why he hung around Silvio’s, which was a central exchange for discreet information, a matchmaking club for crooks.

He thought about what Bud had said, how this would be his last heist if they made a big score. He’d hate to lose his partner, but he couldn’t blame Bud. The man’s got a family, he thought. Kids. He has to put them first. And this take was big enough that he could afford to quit.

His own share would be enough to last him forever, too, if he parceled it out, lived frugally, maybe got Bud to help him make some investments. But Mick knew he wouldn’t stop knocking over banks. Robbery was in his blood, under his skin. He’d just find a way to do it without Bud.

He slipped out of the car, pushing the door gently closed. He’d long ago disconnected the bulb from the interior light, so the Charger remained dark. He walked around to the back of the shoe repair shop and dropped the empty bottle into a dumpster. He took a leak, aiming at the wall to keep from splattering his shoes.

The commercial area was quiet. Almost no traffic this late on a Monday. Stores all closed. Most people sound asleep.

He should have been home sleeping as well. Dreaming about that money, and what he’d do with it. But he climbed behind the wheel and shut the door, sitting in the dark, watching the boarded-up restaurant.

Johnny Muller awoke on Tuesday with a monster hangover. He went to the bathroom, standing woozily over the toilet while he pissed away about fifty dollars’ worth of booze.

Good God, he’d partied hard the night before. Couple of nightclubs, dancing with a dozen different girls, round after round of expensive booze. He’d put it all on his Visa card, figuring he’d get his share of the bank loot before the bills came due. Damned well better. That card was nearly maxed out.

He washed his face and checked his bloodshot eyes in the mirror. His head pounded and he felt queasy. How was he supposed to make it through the workday?

Calling in sick would be a bad move. Mick and Bud had cautioned him not to do anything out of the ordinary. It was important that he show up at work, on time, as always. Once he got his share in hand, though, he’d quit that stupid fucking job so fast, old man Herrera wouldn’t know what hit him. Let him find somebody else to push his fucking stereos. He would be too busy living large.

If the aftermath of the high life felt like this, however, he might have to scale it back a bit. Damn. He brushed his teeth, which helped a little, then went into his kitchen and started the coffee.

He’d slept fully dressed, too drunk to deal with the buttons, and his clothes were wrinkled now, sweaty and stale. As he peeled them off, he thought of the other clothes, the ones he’d used for the robbery, safely deposited in a Dumpster behind one of the nightclubs. No way for the cops to trace those clothes back to him, even if somebody found them.

Johnny put on fresh jeans and a crisp white shirt, buttoning the cuffs so the long sleeves covered the tattoo on his wrist. From the look of the sunshine pouring through the windows, it would be a nice day, too warm for long sleeves, but he had to keep the boss happy a little while longer.

The hot coffee was bitter, but it gave him the caffeine kick he needed. He stood leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping a second cup and remembering the night before.

One helluva celebration. Of course, he couldn’t tell anyone why he was
celebrating, couldn’t even let on that it was a special occasion. But he’d spent more freely than ever before, blowing through five hundred bucks in a few hours of fun. It certainly seemed worth it at the time.

He’d come home alone, though. He had known better than to let some bimbo spend the night. He was too drunk, too high on his own adrenaline. He might’ve blurted the wrong thing or talked in his sleep.

As it stood, he’d probably made too much of a spectacle of himself. Bud and Mick had specifically warned against making a show of spending money. But he hadn’t been able to help himself. He’d needed to unwind, needed to spend a little to reward himself for taking such a big risk. He’d tone it down tonight, maybe even stay home. Hell, the way he felt right now, another party was out of the question anyway. The thought of booze made him want to spew.

He had to leave for work. Couldn’t be late today, not the day after the big heist.

Maybe it would be nice and slow at the store. Just a trickle of customers to help the hours pass. Normally, slow days bugged him, made him worry about his commissions. But not today, not ever again.

Money was no longer a problem. What a fucking concept! He still felt like hell as he stumbled downstairs to his car, but he had a big smile on his face.

The security chief at Tewa Casino and Hotel kept the FBI agents waiting for ten minutes in the noisy casino, so Pam Willis was already pissed by the time she and Hector Aragon were led upstairs to his office.

Pam didn’t think much of casinos. To her, they siphoned money off the poor and stupid, people who lived on faith and hope rather than hard work and education. Pam had pulled herself up from humble beginnings, putting herself through college, graduating at the top of her class at the FBI academy. It irked her for somebody to get something for nothing, getting rich by pulling the arm on a slot machine or pushing a button over and over like a lab chimp. And it irked her to think of all the people wasting their grocery money on gambling.

She understood about the Native American connection, the casinos as a way for the nation to salve a guilty conscience. But it wasn’t right for the Indians to take advantage of idiots, either.

Pam frequently had to stuff these feelings. Casinos counted as part of Indian reservations, which meant they fell under federal jurisdiction, even when they were far from where the tribe traditionally lived. She and Hector regularly got called to investigate casino-related crime.

This time, the casino’s interests were peripheral at best. Yes, most of the money taken in the First State Bank heist had come from Tewa Casino, but the cash had been in the bank’s custody. The deposits were insured, and the tribe would get its money back eventually. This visit to the casino security chief was mostly a courtesy, which made it all the more annoying to be kept waiting.

She and Hector were shown into the wood-paneled office by a pretty secretary who was much too blond to be a member of any Native American tribe. Her boss, Milton Abeyta, was all Indian, though, complete with gray braids and a turquoise bolo tie. Pam guessed he was in his sixties, his copper-colored skin pulled tight over his bones. He rose to shake hands with the agents, but it didn’t make much of a change; Abeyta stood only about five-foot-five.

He had a big voice, though, deep and full, and he smiled big, displaying teeth too
white and even to be real as he offered them coffee.

“Thank you,” Pam said, “but we really don’t have time. We’ve got a meeting at the bank in a little while.”

Abeyta nodded, still smiling. “I’m sure you’re doing everything you can to get that money back.”

“We’re pursuing several leads,” Hector said.

“Any of them lead back here to the casino?” Abeyta asked. “We assume the robbers were waiting for our weekend deposit to be delivered.”

Pam nodded. “The armored truck had only been gone a minute or two when they showed up.”

The Indian plucked some half-glasses from the top of his mahogany desk and perched them on the end of his hawk-bill nose. He looked through them at papers on his desktop.

“The armored truck left here at 9:07
A
.
M
.,” he said. “It arrived at the bank eight minutes later, and departed within five minutes. The guards use a wheeled cart so it doesn’t take long to make their delivery.”