by Max Austin
“Shut the fuck up,” Antony shouted. “Get on your knees, right there next to your friend.”
“Come on, man.”
Antony cocked the pistol. “I mean right now.”
On reflex, Dylan held his hands up defensively, as if they could stop a .45-caliber slug. He dropped to his knees and put his trembling hands on his head.
“Oh, this is gonna be sweet,” Antony said as he aimed at Dylan’s face.
“Hey, boss.” Jasper’s voice sounded like the rumble of a bowling alley. “Sure you want to do that here?”
“You don’t need to do it at all,” Dylan said quickly. “This is all a misunder—”
“Shut up, man.” Antony came closer and pressed the muzzle of the gun against Dylan’s bruised forehead, which hurt. “I’ll pop a cap in you right now. You misunderstand that?”
Oscar moaned in fear, but Dylan didn’t look over at him. He was afraid to break the eye-lock with Antony, for the same reason you don’t turn away from a growling dog: It emboldens them.
Antony said, “I’m gonna teach you a lesson about going after another man’s woman.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“Shut up.”
“Ask Carmen! She’ll tell you I was just looking for help.”
“I heard that shit already,” Antony said. “But you dissed me in front of her, man. Made me look small.”
Dylan pressed his lips together to keep a wisecrack from escaping. Be a bad time for that. Antony’s finger curled on the trigger.
“Hey, boss,” Jasper said. “I hear something outside.”
Antony froze, the gun still pressed against Dylan’s forehead. “What is it?”
“Crunching. Like people coming up that gravel driveway.”
Chapter 53
Someone knocked on the door. Three sharp raps.
Antony jerked at the noise, nearly pulled the trigger.
Oscar covered his head with his hands.
Jasper scowled, his eyes disappearing into folds of flesh.
Dylan flinched away from the gun, looking over his shoulder, measuring the distance to the kitchen.
“Stay right where you are,” Antony said. “Or you’re a dead man.”
“You won’t shoot,” Dylan said. “Not with somebody at the door.”
“Try me.”
Dylan didn’t move.
Another rap on the door, making everybody jump.
“Jesus Christ,” Antony said. “Go see who it is before I lose my fuckin’ mind.”
The wooden door had no peephole, so Jasper stood close as he turned the knob, trying to block the view of the living room. But as soon as the door opened a crack, it was shoved hard from outside. The edge of the door banged against Jasper’s face, knocking him backward and sending him reeling around the room in a dancing-bear routine.
Four women pushed past him to get inside. They were dressed in frilly tops and skinny jeans and high heels. One wore a tight skirt and hoop earrings. Their black hair was lacquered into elaborate swoops and curves, and their lipstick was uniformly crimson. Carmen’s busty sister was in the lead.
“What the hell,” Antony said. “What are you doing here, Rosa?”
“Carmen said I might find you here. Looks like we got here just in time, too.”
“This is none of your business, bitch. Now get out.”
The one with the huge hoop earrings screeched, “Ooh, what he said!”
The women stepped closer, glaring and unafraid. Antony felt himself losing control of the situation.
“I said get out! I’ll shoot every one of you bitches!”
“Oh, bullshit, little man,” Rosa said, her hands on her hips, her head rocking on her neck. “You’re all talk. Think you can scare people by calling them names.”
Hoop Earrings laughed again, but she was the only one.
“You think we’re scared of that gun?” Rosa said.
Antony pointed it at her. “You’d better be.”
Dylan James shifted, looking over his shoulder again, and Antony put the gun back on him.
Jasper stood to Antony’s left, still rubbing his forehead where he got whammed by the door. He didn’t seem inclined to take the initiative. Antony sighed, thinking: It’s always up to me.
“If you don’t walk out that door right now,” he said to the women, “I’m gonna shoot this motherfucker in the head.”
Rosa arched an eyebrow. “Him? What do we care about him? Go ahead and shoot.”
Dylan said, “Hey, wait a min—”
“Shut up! Both of you. I’ve got the gun. That means I’m in charge here.”
“We’ll see about that,” Rosa said.
“Jasper, throw these bitches out that door.”
Rosa shot Jasper a look icy enough to freeze him in place. Then she said calmly, “Girls.”
The women started taking off their shoes, leaning on each other for support as they stepped down off their three-inch heels.
“What the hell?” Antony said.
The barefoot women picked up their shoes. Antony got it then. Each woman was armed with a shoe in each hand, the stiletto heels like pickaxes.
“Hey—”
They swarmed him, three attacking at once, swinging the sharp heels with both hands, a frenzy of footwear.
“Ow! Hey!” Antony shouted as the heels pocked his arms and shoulders and head. “Stop it!”
Dylan lunged up from the floor and crashed into Antony, going for the gun. Antony’s arm was knocked upward, and a bullet boomed into the ceiling.
Everyone froze for a second at the surprising sound of the gunshot. Plaster dust drifted down from the ceiling, mingling with bitter gunsmoke. Then Antony smacked Dylan on the head with the pistol and sent him tumbling away toward the kitchen.
Rosa shrieked in Spanish and the women resumed their attack, flailing at Antony with their shoes. It was like being attacked by woodpeckers. As he tried to cover up with his arms, one heel hit him on the wrist and his gun hand went numb.
“Jasper!” Antony yelled. “Help!”
But Jasper had problems of his own. Hoop Earrings had peeled off from the pack and set upon him, vigorously whacking away with both high heels. Jasper was too busy protecting his face to come to Antony’s aid.
Rosa grabbed the gun and twisted it niftily out of Antony’s deadened hand. Holding it like a hammer, she cracked him over the skull with it.
He grabbed his head. Good Christ, the pain. And now Rosa had the gun.
She swung it at him again, but he ducked in time. If he could just get past her, get to the door, he could make a break for it before he was poked full of holes.
He lowered his shoulder and charged at Rosa, but she sidestepped him like a matador and he crashed into one of the other women. She shrieked, but kept going at him with her shoe as they tumbled to the floor.
Antony wrapped his arms around his head, covering up, curling into a ball on the floor as the women chopped at him.
Boom!
The front door flung open and bounced off the wall.
Two figures in matching black suits—a man and a woman—burst through the door, pointing black Glocks around the room as if trying to decide who to shoot first.
“Freeze!” they shouted in unison. “FBI!”
Chapter 54
Agent Pam Willis had walked into some strange tableaux during her decade with the Bureau, but this one was the topper.
Four women, dressed like hookers, were doing battle with the pair from the Escalade. The black man had fallen onto a lumpy brown sofa, and one of the women stood over him, her short skirt hiked up and a spike heel in her upraised hand like a tomahawk. He seemed to have given up on fighting, his fat arms wrapped around his head for protection. The other women surrounded the sawed-off Mets fan, who writhed on the floor, his face peppered with red welts. Oscar Pacheco knelt nearby, holding his long black hair off his bloodied face. A coffee table had been overturned, dumping an ashtray and other trash all over
the floor. Gunsmoke hung in the air, nearly covering the bittersweet scent of scorched marijuana.
Of most immediate concern was the buxom woman in the center of this melee. Her black hair was mussed and her red lipstick was smeared and she puffed from exertion. Her silky pink blouse was ripped open, exposing a cantilevered black bra. She had a black patent-leather pump in one hand and a nickel-plated .45 in the other.
Hector went left, his gun aimed at her. Pam kept the woman in her sights, too, saying, “Put that gun on the floor. Right now.”
The woman looked at the pistol as if she’d forgotten she was holding it. She bent her knees as much as her tight jeans would allow and let the heavy gun thud to the floor.
“Kick it over here.”
She pushed the .45 with her bare foot and it slid across the dusty hardwood floor.
“Now, ladies,” Hector said. “Drop those shoes.”
A chorus of clunks as the footwear hit the floor. Their hands free, the women began straightening their clothes and touching their hairdos. The men groaned and checked for blood and rubbed at their wounds.
“Dylan James,” Pam said. “Is he here?”
All eyes shifted toward the kitchen.
“Shit,” Hector said. He hurried in there, but came right out again. “Window’s open. He’s gone.”
“Goddamn it.”
Pam didn’t usually curse in front of perps, but this was an extreme situation. Dylan James had evaded them again. If they didn’t catch that kid soon, she and Hector would never see another promotion. She itched to go chasing after him, but they couldn’t very well leave these people here to kill each other.
She sighed.
“All right, everybody,” she said. “On your knees, hands on top of your heads.”
The expected groaning and bitching erupted, but they did as they were told, all seven lining up in front of Pam and Hector.
“Now,” Pam said, “which one of you wants to tell me what the hell is going on here?”
They all started talking at once. Pam put her hand to her forehead while Hector shushed them. These people were giving her a headache.
When they were finally quiet, Pam said, “Oscar. I’m asking you, and only you—”
She swept a warning finger around the room at the rest of them.
“—where is Dylan James?”
Oscar squinted up at her. His glasses were destroyed and one eye was swelling shut.
“Dude,” he said. “Dylan’s gone.”
Chapter 55
Dylan James ran north for a few blocks. Streetlights lit each intersection, but the sidewalks were mostly dark in between. He didn’t bother sticking to the shadows. He just ran.
Finally, he had to pause at Coal Avenue for oncoming headlights. He stood bent over, his hands on his knees, panting for breath. As soon as the cars passed, Dylan crossed the street, walking now. He looked over his shoulder, but no one was following him. So far.
He knew he didn’t have much time. He’d been halfway out the kitchen window when he heard those FBI agents burst in, yelling. Patrol cars soon would scour the area in search of the infamous Dylan James.
He needed to make his way to UNM. The university had its own police force, so APD mostly stayed off the campus. Fewer patrols there and plenty of shadowy spots on the landscaped adobe campus where he could hide until Katrina got home from class.
Bright lights and traffic up ahead on Central Avenue, but where he walked it was still residential, mostly apartments and old houses rented to students. Stereos thudded inside the homes and television light danced in the windows. Incense wafted on the breeze.
The last long block of Harvard Drive was lined with coffeehouses and poster shops and sandwich joints catering to the university crowd. This time of evening on a Friday, the sidewalks would be swarming with people. Dylan needed to navigate that sea of light without being spotted. Then he could disappear onto the dark campus.
A car came up Harvard behind him. He stepped behind the trunk of an elm that grew near the sidewalk and waited for the headlights to pass. His heart pounded in his chest, but it was just an old Ford sedan, limping toward the light.
Dylan kept his head down as he hurried along the sidewalk. Fallen leaves crunched underfoot.
Aromas tantalized as he went past El Patio, but he didn’t dare linger. He had hardly any money left anyway. Dinner would have to wait until he hooked up with Katrina. Maybe she’d spot him a burger.
Hell, if this scheme with her stepfather’s house worked out, he’d come into a wad of money later tonight. Maybe he could buy Katrina a late dinner before he zoomed out of town.
He’d miss Albuquerque. He’d lived here his whole life. He enjoyed the spicy food and the sunny climate and the shape-shifting shadows on the mountains. But his time here was over. He’d need a new place, a whole new identity.
“Hey, man!” A street beggar weaved out of a dark alley. Dylan had been so caught up in his thoughts, he hadn’t seen the filthy old man coming. “Can you spare any change?”
“Sorry.” Dylan kept his head down and didn’t break stride. “Can’t help you.”
“Hey, man.” The beggar stepped into Dylan’s path. He was whiskery and unwashed and he smelled of fresh booze and stale urine. “Come on. Help a fella out. I haven’t eaten in days.”
“I got no money, okay?”
Again, Dylan tried to step around the man, but the panhandler wouldn’t be denied.
“Come on. A quarter. A dime.”
Dylan stopped in a pool of light under a streetlamp. He dug in the pocket of his baggy jeans and came up with a dime and a penny.
“Here you go. Sorry it’s not more.”
The raggedy man looked at the coins in his grimy hand, then back up at Dylan, disappointment on his face.
“You got a cigarette?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Health nut.”
The beggar stuffed the coins in his pocket, then tugged at the lapels of his filthy coat and inflated himself with lost dignity. He shuffled into the dark alley to lie in wait once more.
Walking faster, Dylan glanced back to make sure the beggar wasn’t following, but he was alone on the sidewalk. He passed a Chinese restaurant that’s fed UNM students for generations. Dylan sometimes ate there with Doc, who liked restaurants where the food was plain and cheap and plentiful. Doc, of course, refused to eat with chopsticks. He’d fork down twice as much food as Dylan while Dylan fiddled with his chopsticks, Doc talking the whole time.
He wondered how Doc was doing in custody. Had he negotiated for special food or treatment while awaiting trial? Was that what he traded for Dylan’s name?
“First to squeal gets the best deal,” Doc always said. Dylan knew he should be mad at him, but he couldn’t say he hadn’t been warned.
Students and hipsters crowded the tables of the sidewalk cafes near Central, but he hurried past and no one seemed to recognize him.
All four lanes were at a standstill with evening traffic, vehicles waiting for traffic lights in both directions. Dylan weaved between bumpers to reach the other side of the broad boulevard.
On the far side, Yale Park provided a wedge of still-green lawn along the sidewalk, a shady entry to the campus. Its darkness felt welcoming.
Chapter 56
Doc Burnett woke from a morphine haze to find himself propped up in a hospital bed. He wore a sleeveless gown printed with little ponies. The sheet was turned back in a perfectly straight fold with his bare arms resting outside. Both forearms bore white bandages stained with brown blood. An IV drip ran to a needle taped into place inside his left elbow. Another plastic tube delivered oxygen to his nostrils.
His right wrist was handcuffed to a steel rail that ran alongside the bed. As if Doc were in any shape to make an escape.
The blinds over the room’s one window were tilted nearly closed, but he could see it was night outside. The room was painted a soothing blue, but the ceiling was white and the glare of the fluores
cent light fixture hurt his eyes. Better to keep them closed.
He lay there a long time, taking inventory, moving his free hand gently over his chest and stomach, finding the stitched-up wounds. He lost count after seven. At the moment, he couldn’t seem to remember what came after seven.
The door creaked. Doc opened his eyes as a tall, round-faced woman entered. Her shiny black hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a crisp white lab coat over black clothes, and a necklace of turquoise nuggets set in silver.
“Mr. Burnett?” she said. “Are you awake yet?”
“Woozy.” Doc’s throat was dry and his voice came out croaky.
“Are you in any pain?”
Doc coughed. “I’m sure I am, but I can’t tell.”
“My name is Dr. Atcitty. I’m the surgeon who stitched you up.”
“I ’preciate that.”
She flashed a smile that was brilliantly white against her dark skin. “Just doing my job.”
Doc waggled his hand to make the handcuffs jingle. “Whose job is this?”
“There’s a police officer outside in the hall. If there’s a fire or other emergency, he’ll unlock those cuffs.”
“Bathroom?”
“We can take care of that right here with a bedpan.”
“Never mind.”
She chuckled. She seemed to be enjoying her work a little too much, in Doc’s opinion.
“We had some trouble putting you under for the surgery,” she said. “You were flying high when you got here.”
“Can’t trust jailhouse pharmaceuticals.”
She dazzled him with another smile.
“You a Navajo?”
She arched a dark eyebrow. “Yes, I am. Why do you ask?”
“You know a big Navajo guy named Joe?”
She laughed. “I know about a hundred guys named Joe.”
“Never mind.”
She clasped his wrist between her fingertips. As she looked at her watch, Doc said, “How many times did that little shit shank me?”
“Thirteen,” she said. “Lucky for you, he’d ground that toothbrush down pretty short. Most of the damage is only skin-deep.”