by Mark Reps
Jimmie Joe turned to Ángel.
“Did you get your beauty rest, muchacha? I don’t think it worked. You are just as ugly as you were yesterday.”
Ángel pressed his thumbs against his eyeballs. The previous night came back to him, the drinking, the partying, even stumbling into the fancy bed pretending he was kissing his darling Juanita.
“Coffee with a double shot of tequila, amigo? It’ll kick those nasty demons out of your head.”
“Sure, Jimmie Joe.”
The big man pointed with his chin to a coffeepot on the counter. Ángel grabbed a cup and pulled a chair to the kitchen table. A recent copy of the Eastern Arizona Courier was spread out on the table. On the paper were the five handguns Jimmie Joe had heisted on his recent venture into Safford. Next to the guns were cleaning push rods, brass bore brushes, solvents, lubricants and patches. Some of the weapons were broken down into parts for cleaning. Others had already been meticulously taken care of. The big man worked slowly, using the contents of the Otis Elite gun cleaning kit to make certain each of the weapons was perfectly clean and in superior working order.
Ángel sipped his liquored up coffee. Even with missing fingers, the big man deftly manipulated the guns. Ángel’s eyes fell on the scar tissue around the missing finger stubs. The grotesquely misshapen hand was a perfect match for the ugly face. Ángel thought back to the story he had heard in prison of how Jimmie Joe lost his fingers and gained his nickname, Diablo Blanco. Only at this moment, for some strange reason, Ángel wondered whether it was true. Had Jimmie Joe Walker chopped three of his own fingers off with a single swing of an ax? Had he taken the three fingers and cooked and eaten them as some people said? Had he done such a thing to destroy his fingerprints? Only a crazy man or the devil himself would do such a thing. When other men would ask him why he would do such a thing, he would only let out a diabolical laugh and brag that the devil had taken possession of his soul.
“The big day is about to arrive. Are you ready to become a rich man, Ángel?”
Ángel looked at his surroundings. He liked what he saw. He was ready to have the big money that would change his life. He lusted after the cash that would allow him and Juanita to raise a family on the beach in Mexico. He thought about the rush of the surf lapping against the beach. The time had come. Now Jimmie Joe would tell him what the plan was and when it would happen. Ángel looked at his partner who was staring down the open chambers of a .38 caliber pistol.
“One million dollars each. That’s what you promised. Right?” asked Ángel.
“Maybe even more,” replied Jimmie Joe. “A million dollars is big money, the kind of cash that could take care of a man for the rest of his life.”
Holding the gun in his right hand the big man spread out newspaper with the clawlike stub on his left hand and pointed at two stories he had circled repeatedly with a red pen.
“Read this story.”
Ángel picked up a .38 that was covering the article and set it off to the side.
MORENCI COPPER MINING DAYS BEGIN ON SATURDAY
The 53RD annual Copper Days Festival is set to begin on Saturday, October 25. This year the event marks the longest continuously running local event in southern Arizona. The Festival kicks off with the Annual Copper Days Parade featuring ten area marching bands, over eighty floats, and a half dozen beauty queens including the World’s Best Rodeo Gal, Bobbie Jo Crenshaw, from right here in Safford. Starting Saturday afternoon and continuing on into Sunday, the Rodeo and Roping Events expect to draw over five thousand people. Cash prizes in excess of $150,000 will be awarded.
Jimmie Joe had underlined the $150,000 twice.
“One hundred fifty thousand dollars in prize money and five thousand people paying five bucks a head to get in the door and that’s just for starters. Ángel, my partner, read this one.”
Ángel’s eyes darted to the second circled article.
PROFIT SHARING ANNOUNCED
The Morenci Copper Mine today announced annual bonuses for all hourly employees will set a record this year. Over $2,500 will be given to each employee in conjunction with Copper Mining Days. The Credit Union will be open both Saturday and Sunday so union members can cash their checks.
Ángel set his coffee cup down. His hand began to tremble. Now it all made sense. Hiding out in the middle of nowhere for the last few weeks, driving the back roads, Jimmie Joe’s gun theft, scouting out the town of Morenci. If Ángel had known they were going to rob a credit union with guns, he would have run off with Juanita. If he had seen his grandfather, he would have been too ashamed to do such a thing. He now understood why Jimmie Joe had insisted he stay away from Juanita and his grandfather.
“There are over one thousand five hundred employees at that mine up there. Figure it out,” said Jimmie Joe.
Ángel couldn’t do the math in his head.
“I don’t know. How much is that?”
“Almost four million in bonus money alone. Even if half of those men pick up their checks on Saturday, there will be close to two million bucks, plus the prize money of a hundred fifty thousand, the gate admission of twenty five grand and there’s always the popcorn and peanut money. The way I got it figured the absolute worst we could do is a cool million each. What do you think about that?”
Ángel’s trembling fingers began to shake. He held one hand down with the other. They could never pull off such a big job. It was crazy to even think about the two of them doing it. The local police and the sheriff’s department would be keeping an eye on things along with the armed security that would surely be guarding the money. The town would be packed with visitors.
“It’s an awful lot of money. I don’t see how we can do it. I’ve been in that building. It’s like a fort,” said Ángel. “We could get shot by the guards before we ever see the money. It’s a crazy idea.”
“Here, have a cigarette and quit worrying. I’ve got the whole job all planned out, from soup to nuts.”
Ángel took a cigarette from the open pack. He inhaled deeply. The tobacco had a soothing effect. He began to think more clearly.
The big man silently cleaned the gun barrel of the .38, sliding with cautious precision the clean white patch through the shaft of the weapon with a push rod. Ángel nervously smoked one cigarette after another. He put the idea of getting shot as far out of his mind as possible. With over four million dollars in cash at the credit union, the guards would certainly be heavily armed. He did not want to die before he held Juanita in his arms. But he did want to be rich.
“When?” asked Ángel.
“Tomorrow,” said Jimmie Joe. “Saturday night...round midnight.”
Ángel had celebrated Copper Days in the past by drinking late into the night. If this year was like every other, the partying would rise to fever pitch by eleven p.m. The bars stayed open until two or three and the street dance kept going until the police shut it down.
“But Jimmie Joe, the streets are going to be packed with people. Someone will see us. Shouldn’t we pick a better time?”
Jimmie Joe grabbed the smallest of the guns, the .22. He had already cleaned it. He knew it was the perfect gun to be used up close and personal. It was the perfect gun for an assassination. Jimmie Joe was thinking one of the guards might wander upon them and a quick shot to the head would kill him. It was unlikely Ángel would actually shoot to kill, but if his life was in danger, it was best to be prepared. Handing it to Ángel he simply said, “Here, just in case you need to shoot someone.”
Ángel held the .22 in his hands. “I’m not going to shoot anyone.”
“Not even to protect your partner?” asked Jimmie Joe with a malicious grin.
Ángel stared blankly at Jimmie Joe. “Well, I won’t kill anybody.”
The big man pointed the empty .38 at Ángel and slowly squeezed the trigger over and over again.
“Bang...bang...bang...bang...bang and fucking bang! You will if I tell you to, muchacha. Amigo, you are nothing short of a fucking idiot. A crowd
is perfect, you dumb asshole. We can use them to our advantage,” said Jimmie Joe. “The more people out on the streets the merrier.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Ángel.
A ray of sunlight sneaked through the open window. It glinted off the freshly polished gun barrel. A zinging ray of sparkling light darted past the corner of Ángel’s eye and landed on a statue of Jesus. Ángel was certain it was a sign from God.
“Do you think for one freaking minute some security guard is going to fire willy-nilly into a crowd? They would have to be nuts. Besides, the way I have it figured we will be in and out in less than twenty minutes. No one will be the wiser until they re-open the credit union the next morning.”
It was early in the day to drink heavily, even for Ángel, but his boozing reflex sent his hand reaching for the bottle. Tomorrow might be the last day of his life. His head throbbed. His heart ached for Juanita. He thought of his grandfather. A rush of fear sent the little hairs on his arms straight up. His father had died in a car accident outside of Morenci. His grandfather had mangled his foot while working at the Copper Mine in Morenci. The town had cursed the men of his family. Would the bad luck streak run like a dagger through his heart as well? He grabbed the half-empty bottle of tequila.
“A shot of courage for my little brother?” asked Jimmie Joe.
Ángel started to pour more liquor into his coffee but stopped short and downed a slug straight from the bottle. The first swallow of the day burned like fire. A second swig cut the scum from his teeth. Once again confidence and ease began to ripple through his veins.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“What’s the plan, Jimmie Joe? How are we going to get in? How are we going to get out?”
Jimmie Joe wiped his hands on a clean kitchen towel and tossed it carelessly into a corner.
“I thought you’d never ask. Take a seat in the living room. I’ll show you.”
The Diablo Blanco disappeared into a bedroom. He returned with a notebook, the kind Ángel had used in school. He laid it out on the coffee table and opened it. The first page was a detailed sketch of the top of the credit union building. The next page was a map of the ventilation shaft leading to the vault that held the safe, a safe that for the last five years had a broken lock. Above the vault was a small grate with a notation indicating it was twenty inches by sixteen inches. Page three had the floor plan of the inside of the credit union. Large black X’s marked the spots where armed guards would be posted.
“Where did you get all of this information?” asked Ángel. “No one except people who work inside that building knows about this stuff.”
“Let’s just say I had some inside dope,” replied Jimmie Joe. “I got a little birdie to sing for me.”
The Diablo Blanco’s sinister howl made Ángel cringe. People who knew the inside secrets of a bank didn’t give out that sort of information unless someone had a gun pointed at them. And some people, like his grandfather, the proud Felipe Madrigal, would take a bullet in the head before giving up such information. Ángel’s heart stopped.
The Diablo Blanco had gone to his grandfather’s house to let him know his Ángel was okay. Ángel’s heart sank even further as he remembered one lonesome night in the jail cell when he was thinking about his family. He had talked to Jimmie Joe about his grandfather. He had confided everything about his grandfather’s truck driving days for the mines, his foot injury and how the mining company gave him a job as a security guard at the credit union in Morenci.
“My grandfather would never betray the mining company. He would never do that. He loved his job at the mines. He would never give you all this information.”
“Take it easy. He didn’t do it for me, my little muchacha. He did it for you,” said Jimmie Joe. “He just wanted to make sure your life was going--somewhere. Let me put it another way. He was looking out for your future...as well as his own.”
The Diablo Blanco’s remark confused Ángel. The scheming laughter didn’t. Unless Jimmie Joe had threatened his grandfather he would never have given him any information. Ángel was afraid to ask the details. He shuddered at the thought of what Jimmie Joe might have done to Felipe. Another shot of tequila flowed down his gullet.
“Don’t worry about your grandfather. He’s a righteous dude. He did his job. It’s time you started thinking like a rich man.”
Jimmie Joe opened a street map of Morenci and laid it next to the floor plan of the credit union.
“It’s a simple plan, one even you can follow, my little muchacha,” chided Jimmie Joe.
Ángel’s heart beat faster with every word. He would drive the big truck into town and park in the alley behind the credit union building. Jimmie Joe would hop out and scout the alley while Ángel waited in the truck with the guns. When he was certain it was clear, Jimmie Joe would return to the truck, put on the flak jacket and slip the four handguns into the pair of double holsters he would be wearing.
“You can carry your .22 in your pants along with your knives. You though I didn’t know about that shiv you carry in your boot? And that little pouch in the back of your pants? You think you could hide that from Jimmie Joe’s eyes?”
Ángel knew now that nothing could be hidden from the White Devil. He had eyes in the back of his head.
“At the other end of the alley is a fire escape,” continued Jimmie Joe. “It goes up to the top of the building. The roof slants toward the alley, away from the street. We can move along the top of the buildings without being seen. Once we’re up there we have to go across six buildings before we get to the credit union.”
Jimmie Joe flipped a page in his notebook to a detailed drawing of the roof of the credit union. Dead center was a large air conditioning unit. Next to it was an air exchange vent. It led directly to the vault.
“We could go in through the air vent…if we have to. But there is a better way,” said Jimmie Joe. The big man tapped the drawing with his deformed hand. “Next to the air vent is a trap door. “It leads to the top floor of the building. It’s old and weak. I plan on yanking it open with my hands.”
Jimmie Joe smiled and winked as he flexed his big, tattooed muscles for Ángel.
“Why do you think I spent so much time lifting weights in the slammer?”
Ángel nodded remembering him lifting big weights in the prison yard.
“But just in case it’s padlocked from the inside, we’ll take a crow bar with us. You can carry that. When we get inside--”Jimmie Joe’s voice became calmer the more excited he got. “--when we get inside, we go right down the stairs and, BINGO, we are directly over the top of the vault.”
“How do we get in?”
Jimmie Joe turned another page.
“Here.” His mutilated hand once again tapped the page. “In the crawl space between the vault and the ceiling is the air duct that leads into the vault. It’s sixteen by twenty inches, just like the one inside the vault. We can cut it open with metal shears. My little friend, you are going to crawl through the duct, kick off the grate and get the money.”
Ángel would put the money into two laundry bags and push them back up through the vent to Jimmie Joe. The escape route would be the reverse of the way in.
“Do you think I can get into a space that small?” asked Ángel.
“If you can’t, we’re doing this for nothing. I’ll bring a can of grease along, just in case.”
“If we aren’t going into the bank where the guards are, how come we need so much fire power?”
“Better safe than sorry, amigo. I’d just as soon creep in like a gato and sneak out like a thief in the night. But you never know who or what might screw up. That includes you.”
What was the Diablo Blanco thinking? That Ángel was going to double cross him? Why would he? They were partners in this deal. They would both be rich when it was over. There was more than enough money for both of them to live the rich man’s life until the day they died--a day he hoped wouldn’t come soon.
CHAPTER THIRTY
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br /> With Deputy Steele at his side Sheriff Hanks replayed the tape recording for the umpteenth time. This time, however, it was different. This time Zeb held in his hand the note Kate had found in Felipe Madrigal’s chair. When he was certain of his next step, they made the short walk to his prisoner’s cell. Felipe Madrigal, head in hands apparently lost in thought, did not hear them approach.
“Mr. Madrigal, I need to ask you a few questions,” said Sheriff Hanks.
Felipe kept his eyes averted, his lips remained sealed. Zeb handed Kate the note she had found in Felipe’s chair. She handed it to Felipe. The prisoner took the piece of paper in his hand without looking up.
“Have you ever seen this note before?” Sheriff Hanks’ voice was firm, direct.
The old man could not escape the question. His weary eyes, bloodshot from the fatigue that accompanies uneasy sleep in strange surroundings, slid the paper into focus. His aged hands clung tenuously to the note as though it might explode. He shook slightly. His voice was a stutter.
“I d-don’t know. Maybe.”
Sheriff Hanks gritted his teeth. It was as close as Felipe Madrigal had come to admitting anything other than making the phone calls. The sheriff knew this note was the key to getting him to talk. He chose his words cautiously.
“Deputy Steele found it at your house when she went to get your rosary and your Bible. Maybe it’s a sign from the Holy Mother. Maybe the Blessed Virgin wants you to talk to us?”
Deputy Steele nodded in agreement. Felipe returned the piece of paper.
“I would like to make confession,” mumbled Felipe.
“Of course,” said the sheriff.
“That would be good for you,” added Kate.
“I see a priest?”
Both Kate and Zeb were taken aback by the request for a priest.