Reel to Real
Authors: Joyce Nance
Tags: #Mystery, #(v5), #Young Adult, #Murder, #Thriller, #Crime, #Suspense, #Teen
“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”
H
ENRY
D
AVID
T
HOREAU
Reel to Real
The Video Store Murders
Joyce Nance
a novel based on a true story
Copyright © 2014 Joyce Nance
All rights reserved
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EDITING
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Margaret L. Briggs
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OTHER BOOKS BY JOYCE NANCE
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table of contents
Preface
This book is a novel based on a true story. The majority of the information was obtained from Shane Harrison's District Court trial. Esther Beckley was also interviewed at length. As in all crimes, there are many versions of how events transpired. This book represents my opinion of what happened.
Some very minor parts of the book are completely fictional.
The actual names of the principals of this story are used. Sub-characters are, for the most part, identified by either first names only or pseudonyms.
“There are two kinds of light--the glow that illuminates, and the glare that obscures.”
J
AMES
T
HURBER
1990
Truth or Consequences, New Mexico
“This sucks,” Slick said out of the side of his mouth. “I fucking hate this fucking waiting shit. My feet are numb and I’m freezing my nuts off.” His breath hung in the night air as he paused to consider. “But we gotta do it. We gotta wait, leastways 'til this last one’s gone. Can’t do it with customers there.”
Then, by way of explanation to Bryan, the man standing next to him, he added, “Employees are safer. They’re trained to comply. They’re not supposed to fight back. But customers … they can be crazy. They don’t know they’re supposed to just lay there and take it.”
Slick lifted his upper lip, smiling at his own joke.
No reaction from Bryan.
Slick scrutinized his accomplice, a spindly man of twenty with greasy blond hair and a smudge of a mustache, crouching next to him behind the dumpster. “You’re ready, right?”
No answer.
“Right?”
Slick kicked Bryan’s boot and saw an eyebrow twitch. He took that as a yes. Bryan didn’t talk much, and Slick appreciated that. He also appreciated that Bryan did as he was told.
Both men were dressed completely in black, Glocks stuck in the front of their pants, Hollywood-style.
“This job should be a piece of cake,” Slick said, resigned to making idle chatter with himself. “That last one I did was so fucking easy it wasn’t funny. So easy,” he said these last two words slowly for emphasis, “and this one … shit … it should be even easier.”
He paused and rubbed his chin. “When I did that one up in Montana, all I did was go into that stupid restaurant where I had worked, all hooded up and shit. They didn’t even know who I was. At all. Stupid fuckers. Ha! All’s I had to do was snatch the old man from behind, tie him up, and then grab the cash from the safe. And bam … I got outta there so fucking fast I didn’t have time to think. I had over three grand in my pocket.” Slick held up three fingers. “Made a bunch of money
and
I got those bastards back for firing me. They had no idea. It was fucking righteous.
“This one’ll be righteous too, you’ll see.”
Slick eyed Bryan and saw him quietly cough a loogie that ended up on the pavement near his boot. Without standing up, Bryan extended his right leg outward, stepping on the quivering mound of snot like a bug in a bathroom and then hunkered back down.
Slick scrunched his face. “Like I told you before,” he continued. “I talked to that guy that used to work here and he hates these owners. Fucking hates them. He used to be a waiter for ’em, but he got shit-canned last week just because he came up a few dollars short. One time. I totally, totally understand why he hates ’em. Said they take in three, maybe four thousand every Friday night. I dig those kinds of numbers. Makes it worth it.”
Slick nodded, agreeing with himself, and then popped to a standing position to recheck the situation inside. Seeing no change, he squatted back down.
“Anyways, dude told me when they close up at night, there’s usually just the one guy to deal with.” He pointed at the dark haired man behind the register. Him, right there — the manager. But I’m not worried about his cooperation.” He paused for effect. “You know why?”
He waited for an answer but didn’t get one. “’Cause Mr. Glock here makes people cooperate,” he said, tapping the gun handle for emphasis.
“They’re sure the fuck taking their damn time.” Slick frowned and crept closer. He was now standing in the darkened shadows of the Los Arcos Steak and Lobster Restaurant's side window. Bryan right behind him.
At the time, the Los Arcos Steakhouse was considered one of the few bright spots in Truth or Consequences (or “T or C,” as locals called it), New Mexico. Other than that, T or C’s main claim to fame was allowing itself to be named after a 1950s radio quiz show.
“Once he’s by hisself, it should go quick,” Slick said knowingly. “I just wish Fatso would get the fuck outta there so we can do our thing.”
He again turned to Bryan for some type of response, but Bryan stood motionless, inscrutable.
Inside the well-lit steakhouse, the two would-be robbers could see a balding, morbidly obese farmer in overalls schmoozing with a shorter, muscular guy in a dark-blue button-down shirt. The muscular guy had a name tag identifying him as the manager, but Slick already knew that. He made it his business to acquaint himself with his victims in advance. He had cased the place several times, checked out the closing routines, even had dinner there — all so he could time everything down to the last second. Eliminate surprises.
That’s why it pissed him off so much that things were not proceeding as planned. He
would
make it work; he knew that, but he might have to improvise a bit, which was always risky. He knew the plan was a good one because he had used many of the same concepts to commit his successful Montana robbery. In that one, he had had only a toy gun, but this time he was doing it right. He had the real thing.
As he waited, Slick studied his reflection in the plate-glass window. He was tall, with short dark hair and blue eyes that were maybe set a little too close together, but the gun in the pants — now that was fucking awesome! He thought it made him look more manly, more in command.
He turned back to Bryan. “Do you remember what we’re supposed to do after we get the money?
Bryan sucked his cheeks.
“Right. Well, here’s the rundown again, so you know. After he’s tied up and we leave, we’re gonna go down underneath the interstate, change our clothes, bury the money and sit there and wait. We’re gonna wait all night long,” Slick was talking fast, as if he had said it a hundred times already, which he probably had. “And I don’t care if you don’t really want to wait there or not. We’re gonna. Then tomorrow, when everything’s calmed down, we’ll go about our regular business and just act normal. Then, when no one’s looking ... boom! We dig up the fucking money and nobody ever even knows that it was us that did it. Ha.”
Slick turned his head. He saw movement inside the restaurant. The customer picked up his keys from the counter, shook the manager’s hand, and strolled out the front door.
“Finally,” Slick said in disgust. “Now, we still gotta wait for that little shit to finish his count.” His heart pounded. “We’re almost there … almost there. He’ll be walking into our arms any minute now.”
The parking lot where they waited was empty. Slick motioned for Bryan to put on his ski mask and he did likewise, simultaneously edging toward the service entry door. Both men looked from left to right as they peered into the darkness, searching for unwanted observers.
After one last look, Slick winked and then whispered, “He’s coming.”
Almost as soon as the words left his mouth the manager emerged from the restaurant, his head down against the cold. He didn’t get very far before the robbers rushed him, blocking his path.
Blindsided, the manager blinked disbelievingly at the two masked men standing before him, guns drawn.
“What’s going on?” he said blankly.
“Hands in the air, Captain,” Slick commanded. “And don’t even think about doing anything brave.”
The manager froze and half-heartedly raised his arms. The intruders marched him backwards, back inside the restaurant. When he finally came to a stop, a gun barrel was leveled inches from his chin.
“What do you want?” the manager asked, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
“Cooperation,” Slick said, all business. “Do as I say.”
“I’ll give you guys whatever you want.” He looked from hooded man to hooded man. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.
i
tell
you
. Where’s the money? Where’s the safe?”
“In the middle.”
“Middle what?”
“Middle office.”
“Let’s go get it then. Let’s open it.”
“Okay,” the manager said, trudging down a darkened hall and side-stepping into an open door.
Slick pushed the gun into the back of the manager’s head. “Do the combination. Don’t try nothing.” The manager’s fingers fumbled and shook, as he tried to spin the numbers to their programmed positions. “Get it open, dude,” Slick said, patience waning.
The manager was having trouble with the safe. Slick’s eyes narrowed and his breath quickened, watching things go wrong. He knew that the longer he stayed inside the restaurant the greater the odds were of someone stumbling across a robbery in progress. He needed to speed things along.
He leaned in toward the manager’s face.
“You have sixty seconds to open this thing up or I’m going to blow your fucking head off,” he said, panic creeping into his measured voice. The manager twirled faster, assuring the gunman that the safe would open at any moment.
After several more tries, he finally succeeded and collapsed backward in relief.
Slick blew out a breath, but fearing a trap, he demanded that the manager pull it together. “Stay calm, dude,” Slick said, “And get the fucking money out.”
The manager lifted several bulging cloth bags and pushed them out onto the floor. Slick motioned for Bryan to stuff everything into the black duffel bag they had brought along. Briskly he moved the smaller bags to the larger one and zipped up.
While the currency was being transferred, Slick mentally reviewed his “to do” list. So far, so good. He proceeded to the “getaway” portion of his plan and scooted a straight-backed chair toward the manager. “Sit down,” he ordered, and pulled a wad of zip ties from his pocket. “Lace your fingers behind your back.”
“You don’t need to do this, man,” the manager pleaded. “You got what you wanted. You got your money. I’ll give you a head start. Go ahead and get out. I won’t tell anyone.”
“That’s right, you won’t tell anyone. Not for a while, anyways,” Slick said. Then he zip-tied the manager’s wrists.
“Ow,” the manager said. “These ties are too tight, man. They’re cutting into my wrists. Can you give me a break and loosen them up?”
Slick looked at the man’s wrists. His skin had turned deep red from the ties. He was, in fact, bleeding. Slick shook his head and cut the ties with his knife, putting on a new set, somewhat looser than before.
“Thanks, man,” the manager said.
“Okay, manager, you’re done talking,” Slick said sternly, and stuffed a cloth napkin in his mouth. “It’s gonna be a long time before anyone hears from you again, and by the time they do, we’ll be in another fucking country.”
