Duke City Desperado

by Max Austin

  “Antony, please. Don’t let this ruin our night out.”

  “Too late for that. You should’ve thought of that before you invited your boyfriend over.”

  “I didn’t invite him. He just showed up here, out of the blue. Said he was in trouble.”

  Antony cocked an eyebrow at her. The one with the three vertical lines shaved into it. She’d asked, but he wouldn’t tell her what the notches stood for. He had other mysteries on his compact body—scars and tattoos and a round pucker on his stomach that he claimed was a bullet hole, but which she suspected was a cigarette burn. She’d have liked a better look, but he always insisted on having the lights out when they were in bed.

  “Trouble.” Antony spat into the grass. “Probably just a story he cooked up to get into your pants.”

  Carmen sighed.

  “It wasn’t like that. I had the chain on the door.”

  Footfalls came from the side of the duplex. Jasper emerged from the shadows, puffing like a locomotive, one broad hand pressed against his chest. Sweat sparkled on his dark face.

  “You get him?” Antony asked.

  “Naw, man. He jumped over a fence.”

  “Damn it! You were right behind him!”

  “Do I look like I can jump over fences? I got a vertical leap of three inches.”

  Scowling, Antony said, “You need to lay off the chicken and waffles.”

  “You need to bite my ass.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Sorry. I meant, bite my ass, sir.”

  Jasper’s broad face split into a smile that made his eyes narrow to slits. The diamond set into his front tooth glittered.

  Antony turned to Carmen and said, “You see what I put up with?”

  “You can’t get good help anymore,” she said.

  Jasper’s laugh rumbled like an earthquake, but Antony still looked annoyed.

  “Get in the car,” he said to Jasper. “We’ll drive around, see if we can find him.”

  Carmen said, “What about our date?”

  “I’m in no mood for dinner now.”

  “But I got all dressed up!”

  “Let’s go, Jasper.”

  Chapter 11

  Dylan James was pretty sure he’d left the fat black man behind, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He sprinted across somebody’s backyard, then vaulted a concrete-block fence, landing in a flower bed. As he ran across a sodden lawn, a porch light came on and somebody shouted, “Hey!”

  He kept running, his breath coming in ragged pants. The next fence was chain-link and he boosted himself over it into another backyard.

  “Hey, you!”

  He glanced back to see an old man in a plaid bathrobe standing under the porch light, shaking his bony fist at the trespasser. Dylan waved at him, then trotted away, crossing the next yard, angling toward the street.

  A growl came from the shadow of a tall pine in the corner of the yard.

  Dylan took off running. He was afraid to look back, afraid he’d miss a step, but he chanced a glance as the dog began barking wildly. It was a dark pit-bull mix, essentially a bear trap attached to sixty pounds of muscle, and mean.

  “Aaaaaaah!” Dylan screamed as he sprinted alongside the house, the dog right on his heels.

  “Rawr-rawr-rawr!”

  The dog yelped as it was yanked off its feet. A twenty-foot-long chain quivered tautly between the dog’s collar and the trunk of the pine.

  Dylan stopped to catch his breath. The dog jumped to its feet and charged again, barking.

  Twang! The thick chain yanked the dog backward like a lasso around its neck. The dog’s eyes bulged as it strained against the chain, strangling but still furiously snapping its teeth.

  “Slow learner,” Dylan said.

  Porch lights came on as the dog barked some more. Dylan hurried along the sidewalk, head down, hiding whenever headlights approached. He walked westward, toward the student ghetto that sprawls south of the University of New Mexico. His friend Oscar Pacheco lived on the western edge of the neighborhood, next to Fairview Cemetery. Oscar could provide food and shelter, maybe some weed to help Dylan relax.

  Another set of headlights, coming slow.

  He stepped behind an elm that towered near the sidewalk and pressed against its rough bark. He couldn’t be positive from the taillights, but he was pretty sure the passing vehicle was the black Escalade, prowling in search of him.

  What was Antony’s problem? Sure, Dylan had tweaked him a little. He couldn’t help himself. The gangsta wannabe was such a bantam rooster, clucking and strutting. But it had been just a little ribbing. Shouldn’t have been enough to spark an all-night manhunt.

  Given the chance, he felt sure he could have flattened little Antony, but that guy Jasper was a nightmare come to life. Would’ve been painful if he’d caught Dylan, maybe even fatal. But at least it would’ve put an end to all this chasing around in the dark.

  He paused to get his bearings. He was on Garfield, near Carlisle. He trudged on, keeping to the shadows. His legs ached from the unaccustomed running and leaping. His stomach growled. The temperature was dropping, and it was still a couple of miles to Oscar’s place.

  He couldn’t believe how merciless Carmen had been. She could’ve slipped him something to eat before shooing him off into the night. He thought back over the dinners and gifts he’d purchased during their four-month romance. At the least, she owed him a sandwich.

  Hell, dating Carmen was one reason he was in this predicament. He spent so much on her, he ran out of money when his rent came due. His landlord kicked him out, which eventually led to Dylan’s sleeping on Doc’s couch at night and pulling burglaries during the day. Next thing you know, Doc’s driving into a bank with a headful of crank and Dylan is on the run.

  Headlights washed over him from behind. The vehicle was right on top of him before he’d had a chance to hide. As it stopped under a streetlight, he saw it was the polar opposite of an Escalade. A little Toyota Prius, a metal ladybug powered by electricity. No wonder he hadn’t heard it coming.

  The passenger-side window hummed down. He bent to peer into the car. The warm air that rolled out the open window felt good on his face.

  A spooky Goth girl was driving, both hands on the wheel, her face glowing in the light from the dashboard. She was thin and pale, with spiky black hair and thick black mascara and black lipstick. She wore a tank top and a black leather skirt over tattered fishnets and scuffed combat boots. Her skinny arms were covered with tattoos of spiderwebs.

  “Hey,” she said flatly. “Need a ride?”

  Chapter 12

  Carmen called Dylan’s cell, but the call went straight to voice mail. She hung up without leaving a message.

  He’d said he was on his way to Oscar Pacheco’s place. Maybe she should try to find Oscar’s number. Oscar, a stoner who lived in a garage apartment by the cemetery, was one of the few friends she’d met while she and Dylan were dating. He’d seemed nice enough. Should she give him a heads-up, tell him Antony and Jasper were searching for Dylan?

  What if Antony somehow found out she’d tried to warn them? Wouldn’t he make her pay?

  Pacing back and forth in her high heels, Carmen felt increasingly anxious. Dylan or no Dylan, Antony would eventually end up back here. And he’d likely still be mad, ready to lash out.

  Feeling panicky, she hit the speed dial for the one person she consulted about every problem, her big sister Rosa. Five years older than Carmen, Rosa belonged to the South Valley, cruising with her tattooed chola friends, looking for trouble. The family moved to the Northeast Heights when Carmen was in middle school, so she’d grown up in the white-bread suburbs. The sisters still lived in different worlds—Carmen studying psychology at UNM while Rosa bagged tortillas at Bonita Foods—but they talked on the phone at least twice a day.

  “I thought you had a date,” Rosa said when she came on the phone.

  They’d stopped bothering with “hello” long ago. Sometimes, it felt as if
Carmen’s life was one long conversation with Rosa.

  “I did have a date. But Antony got all mad about something, and now I’m afraid.”

  A silence, then Rosa said, “Is he there now?”

  “No. Antony and his sidekick went out looking for Dylan James. Remember Dylan?”

  “Sure. Another screwed-up white boy with no future. Your specialty.”

  Carmen let that go.

  “I thought I saw him on your street as I was leaving your place,” Rosa said. “So he was going to see you.”

  “He was in some kind of trouble—”

  “Big surprise,” Rosa said.

  “—and he wanted a place to hide out.”

  “You said no.”

  “Of course I said no. He started trying to sweet-talk his way in—”

  “Ai, Carmen!”

  “No, no, I kept the chain on the door. But Antony drove up while Dylan was still here. They had words. Dylan could’ve just left, but he had to tease Antony about his height.”

  “He doesn’t have any height,” Rosa said.

  Carmen sighed, summoning patience. “Antony went crazy. I’m afraid of what might happen when he comes back here.”

  “Keep the door locked.”

  “That would make him madder.”

  “So?”

  “He’ll tell Jasper to kick down the door. Then where will I be?”

  “Up to your panties in trouble.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Call the cops.”

  “Oh, Rosa, I don’t want to do that. It’ll be fine once he calms down. I just don’t want to be alone with him right now.”

  “So you want me to drop everything and come back over there and protect you from your own boyfriend.”

  Carmen bit her lip, fighting back tears. “Would you mind?”

  A long pause.

  Then Rosa said, “You got any beer?”

  Chapter 13

  The frank way the Goth girl looked him up and down gave Dylan the heebie-jeebies. He leaned away from her as he buckled up, but he couldn’t go far inside a Prius.

  “Where you headed?” She spoke with her black lips tight, like a ventriloquist.

  “Just down to UNM. Anywhere around there.”

  “Exactly where I was going.” She put the car in gear and they glided away. “Are you a student at UNM?”

  “No, I have some friends who live nearby. You?”

  “I’m officially a junior,” she said listlessly, “but I don’t fit in there.”

  Dylan thinking: You don’t fit anywhere, except maybe a Tim Burton movie. But he said, “How come?”

  She shot him a pained “oh, please” look.

  “My wicked stepfather pays my room and board,” she said. “I go to class just enough to stay enrolled. The rest of my time is my own.”

  “You have a wicked stepfather?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Not me. All my family moved away. Closest relation I’ve got is my friend Doc. He’s twenty years older than me and loves to dish out advice.”

  “A father figure,” she said.

  “More like the sketchy uncle who teaches you how to smoke cigarettes.”

  “Somebody’s got to set a bad example.”

  They fell silent. Trees whizzed past the windows, skeletal in the headlight glow. The electric car was so quiet, he found it unnerving.

  “Thanks for the ride. I’m Dylan, by the way.”

  “Of course you are.”

  He didn’t know what that meant, but he said, “You got a name?”

  “Katrina. Like the hurricane.”

  “Um. You live around here?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I meant do you live on campus or what?”

  “What do you care?”

  “I was just making—”

  “Are you going to start stalking me? Looking in my windows?”

  “God, no. I would never.”

  She sighed. Speeded up a little.

  “What?” he said. “You want someone to look in your windows?”

  Another sigh. Like he was a big disappointment to her.

  “You cruise around all night, giving rides to strangers, looking for perverts? Is that how you get off?”

  “I keep hoping one of them will be a serial killer,” she said. “The movies are full of serial killers, but just try to find one in real life.”

  He shifted in the seat so that he was facing her. “You want to find a serial killer?”

  She nodded.

  “You want to die?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Not me,” he said. “I want to live to be ninety. Then get shot by a jealous husband.”

  “They’ll call it the Viagra Killing.”

  Dylan snorted.

  “You’ll be famous.” She whipped the Prius around a corner, headed north toward campus.

  “Too late to do me any good. I’ll be ninety. And shot.”

  “Yeah, but what a way to go out,” she said. “That’s the great thing about finding a serial killer. You get to be famous, dead or alive. If he kills you, it’s over; you don’t have to face getting old and being lonely and shit. If you survive your encounter with the serial killer, then you get to go on TV and write a book about your horrible experience and get rich.”

  “Back up a second,” he said. “What about the horrible part, when you’re actually in the clutches of the serial killer?”

  “What about it?”

  “He might carve you up. Torture you.”

  She stared grimly through the windshield. “I don’t mind pain.”

  “What if it went on for days and days?”

  “Everything ends eventually. I’d win either way.”

  Dylan absorbed that for a second, then said, “You’re a lot of fun to be around. A real ray of sunshine.”

  “And you,” she said, “are no help.”

  “Help for what?”

  “For solving my problem.” She pulled the Prius over to the curb.

  Dylan started to ask what precisely her problem was, but he caught himself. What the hell did he care? She’d saved him a mile of walking, but this conversation had gone way too weird way too fast.

  He climbed out, then leaned in to say, “Thanks again for the ride,” but she didn’t even look at him. A muscle twitched in her cheek.

  Soon as the door shut, the Prius hummed away. Dylan watched until it was out of sight, wondering whether Katrina was going home or cruising more in search of death.

  He pulled his hood up around his face and walked toward the strip of stores and cafes that face the university along Central Avenue. He was starving, and he couldn’t wait any longer. He’d brave the bright lights long enough to get a burger or a burrito, then slip into the shadows to eat it.

  Like a coyote.

  Chapter 14

  Doc Burnett shuffled through the chain-link sally port in his plastic shower shoes. The other two handcuffed inmates from the van walked along with him, single file, trailed by a khaki-coated guard. Security lights on poles lit up the jail entrance as bright as day.

  Tino kept shooting glares over his shoulder at Doc, stewing for a fight. Little guys like him need to prove something right away once they’re inside, to establish themselves in the pecking order. Doc kept an eye on him, but he was more worried about the lumbering Indian behind him, who insisted on standing too close.

  As they entered the building, a steel door clanged, making Doc jump. That was the thing he hated most about incarceration. All the damned noise. It grated on his nervous system, which was already rubbed raw by drugs.

  “You want to stop breathing down my neck?” he snapped at the big Indian.

  The guard, twirling his baton behind them, said in a well-worn monotone, “No talking while walking.”

  Doc expected to be herded into a dayroom full of orange jumpsuits, and he dreaded the reaction his black eyes would receive. He hated to be the object of ridicule, firs
t rattle out of the box.

  The guard marched them into an empty corridor with a slippery tile floor. Cells lined the right-hand side, inmates lolling on their bunks. Instead of barred doors, the cells had solid sliding doors with thick plastic windows and slots for receiving meal trays. The doors were painted off-white, like the walls, and were perforated with a sprinkle of holes so guards and inmates could talk through closed doors. Most of the doors stood open.

  “This pod,” the guard droned, “is where we keep federal prisoners. Federal regulations require no more than two inmates to a cell. We’re overpopulated. We’re tripling in some pods and putting guys on cots in dayrooms. But the feds have their rules.”

  Grumbling from the cells. One sleepy-sounding inmate shouted, “Shut up!” The guard ignored it.

  They came to an empty cell. Thin mattresses were rolled up on the concrete shelves that passed for bunks. A lidless steel toilet and tiny sink jutted from the back wall. The entire cell was the size of a walk-in closet.

  “You two.” The guard pointed to Doc and the big Indian. “In there.”

  Doc didn’t like that, but he supposed it was better than being stuck in a cell with the decorated Mexican. Somebody with as many tattoos as Tino must be crazy. Hell, that much time under the needle could make you crazy. Doc didn’t like the idea of fighting somebody who enjoyed pain. How would you know when you’re done?

  After he stepped into the cell, he turned to the guard and asked, “What time is supper?”

  “Half hour ago. You missed it.”

  “Aw, man. I haven’t eaten in days.”

  “You should’ve planned better.”

  “Couldn’t I get a sandwich or something?”

  “Sure,” the guard said as he led Tino away. “Call room service.”

  Doc turned from the open door to size up his cellmate. The man filled half the space. He just stood there in his orange coveralls, staring at Doc.

  “Your name’s Cho?”

  The answer came so slowly, Doc began to wonder if the man was an amnesiac.

  “Joe.”

  “Oh! Joe.”

  The big man nodded.

  Doc didn’t know whether “Joe” was his first name or last. Lots of Navajos, he knew, had Joe as a surname. The Indian didn’t seem inclined to volunteer more.