Duke City Split

by Max Austin

  “I’ve never been so scared in my life,” she said. “I looked right down the barrel of that shotgun.”

  “A shotgun?”

  “A short one, what do you call it, a sawed-off. One of the robbers kept it pointed at us the whole time, while the other two cleaned out the vault.”

  “Big haul?” Hector asked.

  “The biggest. We’d just taken delivery of the weekend receipts from Tewa Casino. I’d only begun to count it, but it looked as huge as it usually is on Mondays.”

  The FBI agents swapped a look.

  “How huge?” Pam asked.

  The manager leaned closer and said, “Along with the other cash in the vault, I’d guess they got away with nearly three million dollars.”

  Hector’s dark eyes widened. Pam knew what he was thinking: That was way bigger than the average bank stickup, which netted five thousand bucks. This case was a career-maker.

  “How would they have known that much was in the vault?”

  “I don’t know,” the manager said. “Unless they followed the truck from the casino or something. It left just a minute or two before the robbers showed up. They went right to the vault, didn’t even bother with the teller windows.”

  Hector clasped her elbow and gently led the women farther away from the other employees.

  “Did anyone here in the bank seem to recognize them?”

  “What? No. Of course not.”

  “I thought, maybe a leak, someone who told these guys the money was there.”

  Jean Hutchins looked over her shoulder at her employees.

  “They’re trustworthy,” she said. “They’ve all been with the bank a long time.”

  “Including the guard?”

  “Diego? Oh, yes. He’s worked for First State for years. He seemed just as surprised as the rest of us.”

  “I notice his holster is empty,” Pam said.

  “They took his gun. Then they forced all of us to lie down on the floor.”

  “And he didn’t resist?”

  “Diego? No. He did what he was told, just like the rest of us. But listen, you don’t have to worry about him. He’s old Albuquerque, you know? His family’s been here for generations.”

  Hector smiled. “Mine, too. Pam’s bounced all around the country, working in different cities. But I’ve always been a hometown boy.”

  “Then you know what I mean.”

  Pam sighed. She’d heard the “hometown boy” bit before.

  “Were the robbers wearing masks?” Pam asked.

  “That was the strange part,” the manager said. “Only one wore a mask. And he was the last one to come into the bank.”

  “What about the other two?” Pam asked.

  “They wore sunglasses and ball caps. They seemed to be older, both with gray mustaches.”

  “White guys?”

  “They looked dark, like maybe they were Hispanic or Indian or something.”

  “Maybe just tanned?”

  “Maybe. It could’ve even been makeup, now that I think about it. I remember thinking they both had smooth skin to be so old and gray-haired. Do bank robbers ever use cosmetics?”

  “It’s been known to happen,” Hector said. “Maybe the mustaches were fake, too.”

  She shrugged. “It all happened so fast. You can probably get a better look on our security video.”

  “They did a number on your cameras,” Pam said.

  “Yes, but not immediately. There should be something on the video before the paint blacks it out.”

  “Okay, we’ll check that out,” Pam said. “Our technicians are on their way. If there’s anything there, they can make the most of it.”

  They peppered Jean Hutchins with more questions. Pam kept coming back to the masked man.

  “He didn’t come in until the other two had everything secured?”

  The manager nodded.

  “And he wasn’t carrying a gun?”

  “Not that I saw. Maybe he had one in his pocket or something. But I got the impression he was only here to help carry the money.”

  “Sounds like a couple of pros,” Hector said. “Picked up an apprentice.”

  “Could be,” Pam said. “Let’s see what the others say.”

  They interviewed the tellers but got nothing more than what Hutchins had told them. One of the tellers leaked tears the whole time. Pam could just imagine the dithering woman on the witness stand. Worthless.

  They saved the guard for last. Sat him down across the bank from the others, Pam and Hector in chairs facing him.

  Diego Ramirez had macho coming off him in waves, and Pam let Hector take the lead. In response to Hector’s questions, the guard told them he’d worked for the bank for six years but this was his first robbery.

  “You’ve been lucky,” Hector said.

  “I like to think it’s because I scare off the robbers,” Ramirez said. “But that sure as shit didn’t work today.”

  “How did they get the drop on you?”

  “The one with the shotgun under his coat walked right past me. He looked suspicious, in that long coat, but before I could say anything, his partner stepped through the door behind him and jabbed a pistol in my neck.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, as if the gun had left a chilly spot there.

  “He took my gun and ordered me to the floor. While he was doing that, the other guy brought out the shotgun and told everyone else to get on the floor, too.”

  “Must’ve been a frightening moment,” Pam said.

  The guard raised his chin, the machismo kicking in again.

  “I knew they only wanted the money. As long as everyone did what they were told, it would turn out fine. And it did.”

  Pam couldn’t help herself. “Except for the money taken from the vault.”

  Ramirez shrugged. “No loss of life. That’s what they always tell us. That’s what comes first.”

  The FBI agents nodded. Hector asked the guard to describe the robbers, and he rattled off a description similar to what everyone else had said. When he got to the robber with the mask, he hesitated a second.

  “Something else come to mind?” Pam prodded.

  A sly look went across the guard’s face, but then he said, “Blue eyes. The man in the mask had blue eyes.”

  “You’re sure?” No one else had mentioned that.

  “I got a good look at him.”

  “Okay.” Hector jotted in his notebook. “That’s good. That helps.”

  “Anything else?” Pam said.

  “No, that’s it. Oh, except one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They kept my gun. The big guy who disarmed me, he stuck it in his pocket and took it with him.”

  “Makes sense,” Hector said. “He didn’t want you shooting at them as they were driving away.”

  “I was cuffed! I used my feet and got to the alarm, but there was no way I could shoot with my hands behind me.”

  The agents nodded.

  “So, when you catch these guys,” Ramirez said. “See if you can get that gun. I’d like it back.”

  Three million bucks gone, Pam thought, and this guy’s worried about his four hundred dollar pistol.

  Chapter 17

  Bud Knox normally never kept guns in the house because of the girls, but he brought home the little revolver he’d put in his coat pocket before the heist. He didn’t expect to need the gun, but having it nearby helped him settle down.

  He was practically bursting over the big haul. They hadn’t taken time to count the money, but the radio news had quoted bank officials as saying it was “more than two million dollars,” which meant it was closer to three. Banks always downplayed their losses. The FBI refused to reveal amounts at all. Nobody wanted to encourage bank robbery, as if the shitty economy weren’t encouragement enough.

  Bud called Linda as soon as he got home, but couldn’t give her details over the phone. He’d stuck to their coded message, saying everything was fine “at school,�
� so she would know there was no need to worry.

  It took an hour to scrub off the makeup and mustache glue. By lunchtime he was back to his old self, eating a bowl of leftover soup he couldn’t even taste because he was so occupied with the TV news, the excited reporters in front of the bank, squad cars flashing in the background.

  In the afternoon, Bud kept the pistol in his pocket when he picked up his daughters from school. Once he got them home, he set the girls up with snacks and homework, then told them he needed to work in his office. His daughters believed he was a day trader, buying and selling stocks on his home computer while they were at school. Bud did dabble in the market, but just enough to keep familiar with it, ready with a quick answer whenever a neighbor asked for a stock tip.

  He kept his office door open so he could hear the girls chattering down the hall. Along with all the standard gear—desk, chair, computer, file cabinet—his office came with one extra: a safe he’d picked up at an estate sale. It was a massive steel cube, three feet tall, black with gold scrollwork on the door. He knelt and spun the tumblers until it opened. It was mostly empty inside, just a few important papers and twenty grand in cash he kept on hand for emergencies. He set the revolver on the top shelf and locked the steel door. His daughters knew better than to prowl through Daddy’s office, but he wouldn’t take a chance. Too many kids died every year in this country, playing with loaded guns.

  Bud sat at his desk and powered up the computer. Stock market charts flickered on the screen before him, but he didn’t see them. His eyes were unfocused, his brain busy with other math. What his share of the loot might turn out to be, and how to invest it to make it last for years, maybe even allow him to finally get out of crime, as he’d pledged to Linda time and again.

  He and Mick had enjoyed a hugely successful run. Thirty bank robberies all over the West, and they’d never been arrested. Oh, they’d had a couple of close calls. That time in L.A. when they’d driven out of the bank parking lot, right into a motorcade for some dignitary, motorcycle cops and Secret Service everywhere. Or that holdup in Tucson, where they’d been forced to flee on foot after their getaway car threw a rod. But they’d never been injured, and never had to suffer the indignity of being cuffed and stuffed into the back of some lucky cop’s patrol car.

  Bud always told Linda he didn’t believe in luck, but he knew that all the careful planning in the world didn’t guarantee success. They’d been lucky, and he knew it. They’d pushed that luck, doing this heist so close to home, and it worried him.

  Hearing a car pull up outside, he got up from his desk and went over to the window. Lifted the curtains aside so he could peek out at the driveway. Linda’s silver Volvo. Bud whewed in relief, then went to meet her at the front door.

  “You’re home early,” he said as he gave her a hug.

  “I couldn’t stand it anymore,” she whispered. “I had to get home and hear all about it.”

  “Mommy! Mommy!” The girls came galloping down the hall from their bedrooms. Bud took Linda’s briefcase and handbag so she could kneel and gather them up in her arms.

  “How are my girls today?”

  Bud stood there like a hat rack, holding her bags, while Linda got the quick reports about school and the latest playground gossip. Amy, the older girl, ten going on twenty, looked more like Linda every day, slender and poised, her sand-colored hair long and straight. Angela, three years younger, still had baby fat and blond ringlets and eyes as bright blue as a New Mexico sky. Watching the girls with their mother, Bud felt so much love, he sometimes feared his heart would burst.

  As soon as she could extricate herself, Linda shooed the girls back toward their rooms to finish their homework. She and Bud went to the kitchen, where Linda opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of white wine they’d uncorked the night before.

  “Want one?” she asked.

  “Sure. I nearly had a drink earlier, to take the edge off, but I decided to wait for you.”

  She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the girls hadn’t returned.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” she said, keeping her voice low. “I was so worried.”

  “I know, hon. But it all went fine. Nothing to worry about now.”

  They clinked glasses and took sips of the chardonnay. Then Linda leaned closer and said, “I heard about it on the radio. Is it true what they say? Millions?”

  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.”

  Chapter 18

  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.”

  Chapter 19

  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.