Duke City Desperado

by Max Austin

  Dylan’s heart sank. He’d expected Doc to roll over, no surprise there, but not quite so quickly.

  “You’re a big boy,” she said. “You know how this works. Whoever tells the best story gets the best deal. Doc’s got a head start, but we don’t completely believe his version. We’d like to hear yours.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Okay. If that’s the way you want to play it. But Doc is trying to pin the robbery on you.”

  “What?”

  “He says the holdup was your idea. That you forced him at gunpoint to rob that bank.”

  “That’s total horseshit.”

  “Hey, we think so, too,” she said. “But it’s all we’ve got until we hear your version.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  “Better think it over, Dylan. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

  “Too late for that.”

  He disconnected the call, then pried the phone apart and removed its battery and SIM card. He dropped the pieces into different flower beds as he hurried along the sidewalk. Doc had told him once that the feds could triangulate your location from your mobile phone, even if the phone’s turned off. He wasn’t sure he totally believed it, but he was absolutely certain he didn’t want to take any more calls from FBI Agent Pam Willis.

  The street sloped uphill, but Dylan broke into a lope, his old-school Converse Chuck Taylor high-tops slapping against the sidewalk. He soon was puffing and blowing, but he’d put more distance between himself and that phone.

  Most of the homes along this stretch of Morningside were large and well-lit, with security iron on the windows and alarm-company warning signs in the lawns. The sort of houses a young burglar learns to avoid.

  Carmen’s place was on the next block, the first in a row of identical stucco duplexes. Lights glowed warmly in her windows.

  Looked like sanctuary.

  Chapter 7

  Rosa Valdez took her high-heeled pump off the accelerator and let the wide-bodied Chevrolet slow as she passed the sidewalk jogger. He looked familiar in the streetlight glow, but it was hard to be certain because of his loose clothes and the hood that shadowed his face.

  She couldn’t swear to it, but it might be that guy Carmen used to date, that white boy with the police record and the limited future. Dylan. Her sister had been smart to listen to her and dump that pendejo a few months earlier. Now here he was, jogging toward Carmen’s duplex.

  Rosa checked her rearview, but still couldn’t tell for sure if it was the same gringo. They all looked alike to her.

  She smiled at her reflection in the mirror, her red lips parting perfectly over her even white teeth. Rosa had touched up her makeup after work and she still looked fine, even after running all over town, taking care of Carmen.

  Her sister had called in a panic, begging Rosa to come help with her unruly hair. So like Carmen. Wait until the last minute, then expect Rosa to swoop in and fix everything.

  She sighed. It had always been this way. It would always be so.

  Since they were girls, Rosa had watched over her younger sister, solved her problems, protected her. Anybody messed with Carmen, they had to deal with Rosa, the big sister who liked to fight. Carmen went through school untouched.

  She wondered sometimes if she’d taken it too far. Because of Rosa’s protection, Carmen never had to get tough when she was growing up. Now she seemed soft and bookish, vulnerable, especially when it came to men.

  Rosa checked the rearview mirror again, but couldn’t see the shadowy jogger. She thought about turning back, driving past Carmen’s place, but she talked herself out of it. Probably not even the same guy. He probably wasn’t going to Carmen’s. He probably lived around here.

  No law against going for a jog, even if it seemed a crazy concept to Rosa. She spent all day on her feet, working the production line at Bonita Foods. She should go out at night and run around, get all sweaty?

  “I don’ think so,” she said aloud. “Not as long as I got this Chevy.”

  She steered the old car onto Lead Avenue, laughing as she rocketed downhill.

  Chapter 8

  Doc Burnett felt queasy as the van lurched along the potholed streets, taking him to jail. His crank buzz was fading, leaving fatigue and remorse and hunger in its wake. He hadn’t slept in days. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, and he could look forward to only jail grub for the foreseeable future.

  He’d hoped for a relatively cushy federal cell, but the FBI twins sent him to the Bernalillo County Metro Detention Center, a famously overcrowded pen isolated in the desert fifteen miles west of Albuquerque.

  Doc wore plastic shower shoes and an orange jumpsuit that had “MDC Inmate” stenciled on the back in black. His own clothes and personal possessions had been gobbled up by the corrections system. He wondered if he’d ever see them again.

  Two other orange-clad inmates shared the back of the van, which had metal bars over the windows and a mesh cage separating the passengers from the driver. A uniformed guard in the shotgun seat kept looking over his shoulder, making sure the handcuffed inmates behaved themselves.

  On the bench across from Doc sat a sinewy Mexican kid with elaborate black tattoos of Spanish words in shaded Gothic script. The tats covered his muscular arms and ran up his neck to his jawbone. Next to him was a sleepy-looking bear of a man with lank black hair. Doc thought he might be an Indian. He didn’t like the sidelong glance the big man kept giving him.

  “Hey,” the tattooed kid said, keeping his voice low. “Wha’ choor name?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  The kid smiled, flashing a silver tooth in the front. “They call me Tino. Wha’ about choo?”

  “Doc.”

  “Doc? Like a doc-tor?”

  “They call me that because I have a propensity toward pharmaceuticals.”

  The other two looked at each other blankly, then back at Doc.

  “Drugs,” Doc clarified.

  “Ah, las drogas.” The kid nodded approvingly. “Wha’ hoppen to choor face?”

  “Huh?”

  “Choor face. Iz all broos.”

  Doc didn’t want to tell him about the impulsive holdup attempt. That story would get around the jail soon enough. He could almost hear the sneering already.

  “Car wreck.”

  “Ah.” Tino tipped his head to one side, studying Doc’s face. “Choo look like de panda bear.”

  The big man snorted. Tino laughed.

  “Thanks,” Doc said. “That’s the look I was going for.”

  More hilarity. The big man’s laugh barely made any sound. More of a wheeze. Doc began to wonder whether he was a mute.

  “Who’s your talkative friend?”

  “Cho,” Tino said. “Mi compadre. Me and him got in a li’l trouble togedder on the Big Rez.”

  “Ah.” The feds had jurisdiction over crime on the Navajo Reservation, so the nature of the “trouble” could be most anything.

  “Cho don’ say much,” Tino said, “but he’s a freak. Right, Cho?”

  The big Indian smiled without showing any teeth. Happy to be called a freak. Doc wondered what misbehavior this mismatched pair had worked up together, but he knew better than to ask for details of their crimes. Some shit, once it’s in your brain, gets stuck there forever.

  “You guys been to MDC before?” Doc asked.

  “Si. Iz not bad. You?”

  “No, it’s been a long time since—”

  “Quiet back there,” said the guard.

  Doc fell silent, staring at his knee, which bounced frantically of its own accord. He told himself to sit still, but his leg wouldn’t listen. His nerves were raw.

  Maybe he could turn up some crank once he landed in general population at the jail. Just a few pills to tide him over. But he had nothing to trade for illicit drugs, and you don’t want to owe people on the inside. Too many unpleasant ways of exacting payment.

  He clear
ly was no good at bargaining. Look at the way he’d been bulldozed by those FBI agents. A little embarrassment, a little shame, and he’d coughed up Dylan’s name like it was a hairball. He should’ve waited for a lawyer, but the amphetamine in his bloodstream had made it all but impossible to keep his mouth shut.

  And what did he get in return for ratting out his young friend? A ride to jail, then straight into gen pop with two thousand dangerous guys like these morons.

  “Stupid,” Doc muttered. “So stupid.”

  The Mexican kid immediately bristled, saying, “Wha’ choo call me?”

  “No, no,” Doc said. “I was talking to myself.”

  “Choo better be, man.”

  Doc held up his cuffed hands, trying to placate. “No disrespect intended. I was thinking about my own situation, not yours.”

  Tino blinked. Doc wasn’t sure how much of the English had gotten through. He searched his brain. How do you apologize in Spanish? Oh, yeah.

  “Lo siento.”

  “Fock you, man.”

  The guard in the shotgun seat banged his nightstick against the cage. “I said quiet back there.”

  The kid gave Doc the macho glare, the jailhouse challenge.

  Doc shut his mouth and looked away, staring out the van’s barred rear window. They were climbing Nine Mile Hill at the western edge of Albuquerque. From here, the city seemed a giant platter of lights, an offering placed at the foot of the hulking Sandia Mountains.

  He soaked in the view. Might be the last one he’d see for a while.

  Chapter 9

  Still hooded like a monk, Dylan stepped onto Carmen’s well-lit stoop. He wiped his damp hand on his jeans, as if he were about to shake her hand rather than ring her doorbell.

  Her heels clacked across the floor inside, then the peephole went dark. Dylan pushed back the hood so she could see his face.

  Locks clicked and snapped. The door opened two inches, still latched on a security chain, and Carmen peered through the gap. She wore heels and a short blue dress with a wide black belt. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face, which sported a full complement of night-on-the-town makeup. She looked great, except for the frown.

  “What do you want?”

  “Hi. I was in the neighborhood.”

  He stopped, closed his eyes.

  “I can’t believe I just said that.”

  She said nothing.

  “I need to get off the streets. I was on my way to Oscar’s. Remember him? Over by the cemetery? But your place was closer.”

  He smiled at her, but all he got in return was an arched eyebrow.

  “Can I come in?”

  “No, you can’t come in. You shouldn’t be here at all.”

  “Come on, Carmen. Just for a minute? I need to talk to you.”

  “So talk.”

  “Out here?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “I feel a little, um, conspicuous.”

  “You are a little conspicuous. What are you doing here?”

  “Can you at least turn out the porch light?”

  Her black eyes narrowed. “You hiding from someone?”

  “It’s a long story. Can’t I come in?”

  She shook her head, which made her curly hair dance. He got a whiff of musky perfume.

  “Damn, you look great,” he said. “Are you going out or something?”

  “Any minute now. That’s why you need to get out of here.”

  “I expected a little more hospitality. I mean, you said you wanted to remain friends. So, here I am, your friend. A friend in need.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Is there any other kind?”

  “I’m in trouble, Carmen. I just need a place to stay for a little while, out of sight. Make a few calls—”

  “What kind of trouble? Trouble with the law?”

  He winced.

  “That’s what I thought,” she said. “No way I’m getting involved with that.”

  “Come on, sweetheart. You know me—”

  “No, no, no. You can pack up that snake oil and move on down the road. My boyfriend, my new boyfriend, is picking me up any minute now. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if he finds you at my door.”

  “Then let me inside. I can use your place while you’re out with him.”

  “Forget about it, Dylan. You’re not coming in. You’d better get out of here. Antony really is gonna be here any second. When you rang the bell, I thought it was him.”

  “Antony? That’s his name? Antony what?”

  “Antony Rocca. You don’t know him. He’s from New York.”

  “Ah, a big shot from the big city.”

  “I’m warning you, Dylan. He’s not like you. He’s more street, you know? He sees you talking to me, he might shoot you.”

  “He’d shoot a perfect stranger? I could be the pizza guy.”

  “Pizza. Just as we’re going out to eat.”

  “Whatever. You see what I mean, right? I’m just standing here. A perfect stranger. He’s got no reason to shoot me.”

  “Antony doesn’t always need a reason. He hurts people, Dylan. I’ve seen him do it.”

  “That’s the guy you’re seeing now? A violent thug with a name like a mobster. Much better catch than I ever was.”

  “I’m not trying to catch anything,” she said. “I’m just trying to live my life and have a good time. Antony’s got money and he’s not afraid to spend it. He takes me to casinos, to concerts, to steak houses. Where did you ever take me, besides to bed?”

  He tried his most winning smile. “Those were good times, too.”

  Her cheeks flushed, but she said nothing.

  “Did you tell Antony about those times, how much fun we had together? Did you tell him that Dylan James was the one who got away?”

  “You need to go,” she said.

  “Could you at least give me a ride over to Oscar’s place? It would only take a few minutes. You could be back before—”

  An engine rumbled behind him. Dylan looked over his shoulder to find a bulky Cadillac Escalade pulling to a stop at the curb, rap music thumping behind its blacked-out windows.

  “Uh-oh.”

  Carmen said, “Oh, shit,” and slammed the door.

  Chapter 10

  Carmen Valdez fumbled with the door chain, trying to hurry. She needed to get outside, head Antony off. He was the jealous type, and his fuse was short.

  By the time she got the door open, Dylan was walking toward the Escalade.

  “Dylan!” she whispered. “Don’t!”

  He acted like he hadn’t heard. He was halfway to the big car when the back door opened and Antony climbed out. As usual, he wore his New York Mets jacket, slick blue satin with white trim, and a matching ball cap with flat brim. His perfectly white Nikes probably cost more than Dylan’s entire baggy wardrobe.

  But next to him, Dylan looked broad, imposing. Antony stood only an inch or two over five feet, and he weighed maybe a hundred and thirty pounds. Carmen didn’t mind that her boyfriend was no bigger than her, but he had a real complex about his size.

  Dylan turned back to her, a big grin on his face. She shook her head to warn him, but it was too late.

  “This is the new boyfriend?”

  “Hey,” Antony sputtered, “you got something to say, say it to me.”

  Dylan turned his grin on Antony. “It would be over your head.”

  “Is that right?” Antony’s face darkened. “Then how ’bout we skip the talking part and I just punch you in the mouth?”

  “Can you reach my mouth?”

  Antony took a step closer. “You’re about to find out.”

  “I can’t hear you. You’re talking into my chest.”

  Antony huffed and puffed. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Last year’s model,” Dylan said. “Just stopped by to say hello.”

  Antony looked at Carmen, confusion all over his face. “The fuck is this guy talkin’ about?”

  “He was just leaving,
” she said.

  “I can see that, but who is he? What’s he doing, hanging around here?”

  “I’m her old boyfriend. She dumped me right before she met you.”

  “Is that right, Carmen?”

  Her voice was stuck in her throat. She nodded.

  Antony turned back to Dylan. “So tell me, what are you doing here tonight?”

  “I needed a favor. But she wouldn’t even unchain the door for me. Kept telling me I’d better leave before you arrive. She made you sound like the big bad wolf.”

  Dylan glanced back at Carmen, that familiar mischievous grin on his face.

  “He looks more like a Chihuahua to me.”

  Antony closed the gap between himself and Dylan, snarling up into his face. “What did you say, motherfucker?”

  When Dylan didn’t answer, Antony said, “What’s the matter? Not so funny now?”

  “I don’t know, man. Still pretty damned funny.”

  Antony shoved him, hard enough to make Dylan stumble backward a few steps into the tiny patch of green lawn.

  “Antony,” Carmen called. “Please don’t. He’s not worth it.”

  “The fucker thinks he’s funny.”

  “Forget him,” she said. “Let’s just go to dinner.”

  Antony still glared at Dylan. “You know who’s got a great sense of humor? My driver. He loves a joke.”

  “You have a driver? Which one of you works the pedals?”

  “That tears it,” Antony said. “Jasper!”

  The driver’s door of the Escalade opened and Jasper Johnson climbed out. He was a huge man, close to three hundred pounds. His skin was black as oil and cornrows striped his bowling-ball head. He came barreling around the front of the Escalade, his hands already clenched into fists. Mid-October, but Jasper wore short sleeves and baggy shorts, and Timberland boots on his big feet.

  One look at Jasper, and Dylan took off running. He disappeared into the narrow side yard, headed for the back of the duplex. Jasper, surprisingly spry, was right on his heels.

  Carmen turned to Antony. “This isn’t necessary.”

  “It’s not?”

  “He means nothing to me. And he’s harmless.”

  “He’s got a big mouth. Maybe Jasper will stick his fist in it a few times, see how it fits.”