Duke City Hit (5 page)

Vic couldn't believe this kid. Cocky as hell. Unafraid. Anybody else—crook or cop—got on the wrong end of Vic's pistol, and he'd be shitting himself. Not this kid. He smiles and talks and talks and smiles, so confident in the alleged genetic relationship that he's sure Vic won't put a bullet in his melon.

“You went to Phoenix and drowned some guy to get my
attention
?”

“It didn't start out that way—”

“No, that's right. First you bugged Penny's office.”

“Did I mention where I worked in Tucson?” Ryan said. “RadioShack. Six years. Started right out of high school. I've always had a way with electronic gizmos.”

“You hack her computer, too?”

“Didn't even try. I just wanted to hear what you two talked about in the office. After what happened at the Phoenix airport, it looked like Mom had been right about you. The newspaper clippings, all that, it clicked into place.”

“And you figured it involved Penny, too?”

Ryan shrugged. “The office seemed the most likely place to hear something important.”

“And then you heard something.”

“Yeah, the whole deal about Harry Marino. Between what you two said, and what I found on the Internet, I was able to track him down. I caught an earlier flight over to Phoenix. Must've beat you there by only an hour or two.”

“Then you left him there for me to find.”

“I thought it would make you wonder.”

“How did you get him to hold still for it?”

“I squatted down, waved him over. He doesn't know me, but he's curious. So he paddles over. I grabbed him by the ears.”

“And held him under.”

“I took off my jacket first. I didn't want to get the leather wet.”

“God forbid something happen to your biker jacket.”

Ryan smiled.

“Were you still around when I got there?” Vic asked. “Were you out there in the desert, watching me sneak up on an empty house?”

“No, I was gone. I was going to call you after you got back to Albuquerque and set up a meeting. But right away Penny started talking about this job in Santa Fe. I think you were rushing things. You never saw me when I followed you to the guy's house.”

“But
why
? Why not just approach me?”

“I wanted to watch you work.”

“You what?”

“I had a rifle in my trunk,” Ryan said. “I used the scope to watch you go up to the house. I would've stayed out of it, but that dog looked like trouble. Once he was out of the way, you made quick work of the guy.”

“You
wanted
to watch me pop that guy? You get off on it? You some kind of freak?”

“No, no. I look at it as on-the-job training.”

“For what job?”

“Same as you,” Ryan said. “I want to get into the family business.”

“Oh, for shit's sake.”

“No, really.” The kid leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I've sort of always felt it, you know? Homicidal tendencies. I'd get pissed at some bully and I wouldn't just mope. I'd picture the guy with an ax in his head—”

“That's not what I do,” Vic said. “It's not an emotional thing with me. It's business.”

“Of course. I respect that. Got to be cool to do what you do. I'm just saying I always kinda knew I'd kill somebody someday. That I'd be good at it. I thought, if I showed you what I could do, maybe you'd consider teaching me, giving me a crack at the family business.”

“Stop staying that. It's not a family business. I don't have any family.”

Ryan looked crushed.

Vic sighed. “I don't mean to hurt your feelings. But you're asking me to choke down a lot here. First, I've got a son that Lisa never told me about. He's creeping around the edges of my life. And he wants to go around murdering people.”

“Like you said. It's business.”

“It's still death,” Vic said. “It's never pretty. I would've thought you'd learned that, watching your mother die.”

“It's not the same thing and you know it. She was a fucking saint. She
suffered
.”

“I'm sorry. I really am. It's a terrible thing, watching a loved one die.”

“How would you know? I thought you didn't have any loved ones.”

“I used to, right? Everybody has parents. It's always a shock when they pass away. I remember the day my mother died, and I realized, what the fuck, I'm an orphan. I was eighteen years old, practically on my own already, but that's how I thought of myself. As an orphan. Alone in the world.”

Ryan nodded.

“So you were in the same place,” Vic said. “Bereaved. Alone. And here are these clippings, possibly leading you to a long-lost dad. Maybe something sorta snapped inside you. Made you do things you wouldn't normally do.”

“Like Harry Marino?”

“Exactly. Maybe you didn't know what you were doing.”

Ryan smiled. “Ask Harry if I knew what I was doing.”

“I didn't say you weren't effective. I was talking about your motivations.”

“You think I was showing off?”

“Weren't you?”

They stared at each other for a long time.

“Let's get out of here,” Vic said finally. “Nobody's getting any sleep tonight. We'll go get some waffles.”

“Waffles?”

“You want me to teach you things? Here's lesson number one: Most every situation can be improved by the immediate application of waffles with real butter and maple syrup.”

“Sounds messy.”

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Vic said.

“Is that lesson number two? 'Cause I gotta tell you, I've heard that one before.”

“How much am I charging you for this advice?”

“Not a thing.”

“Then it's worth every penny.”

Ryan smiled. “Maybe I'll pay for the waffles.”

“Now you're talking.”

Ryan hesitated only a second as he got into Vic's big car. The hit man
said
they were going for predawn waffles. But Vic still hadn't returned his .45, and there was something ominous about the black Cadillac.

“I'll bring you back here when we're done.” Vic looked around the dark neighborhood. “I assume you've got a motorcycle around here somewhere?”

“A car. I locked it up. It'll be okay.”

Ryan settled into the passenger seat. Leather upholstery, soft as a sofa.

“Hey,” Vic said as he got behind the wheel, “do you have a photo of your mom?”

“Sure. Lots of 'em.”

“Show me.”

“I don't have them
on
me. You think I carry a picture of my mom in my wallet?”

Vic shrugged.

“You still don't believe me, do you? You think I'm lying about being Lisa Mobley's son.”

“No, I—”

“You want photo ID?”

“I can see what
you
look like. I was interested in her. How she looked as she got older, I mean. Never mind.”

“I've got several photos back at my room—”

“Forget it.”

They drove in silence. The streets were empty. Lights were coming on in some of the houses as working stiffs got up to greet the day.

Ryan hadn't meant to piss him off, but Vic kept acting as if he were being tricked. Kept looking over his shoulder, as if trying to catch a
Candid
Camera
crew sneaking up on them.

They stopped at a red light and sat there, though nothing was coming in any direction.

“Ten years ago,” Vic said, “I capped a guy at this intersection. I think about it every time I drive through here.”

“Really?”

“Right over there by the bus stop. Guy took the bus home from work, so he was waiting there five nights a week.”

The light changed and the Cadillac purred away from the intersection.

“He had to ride the bus because they'd taken away his driver's license,” Vic said. “He was DUI, ran over a little girl. He copped a plea and got off light. A year in the county lockup, counting time served, then a few years' probation.”

“He killed a kid and that's all he got?”

“The system sucks, doesn't it? The girl's father thought so, too. He took out a second mortgage to scrape together the money to hire me.”

“Sounds like one you would've done for free.”

“I never work for free,” Vic said. “But let's say I didn't mind pulling the trigger. The guy was a punk, and a year behind bars had done nothing to improve him. He was trash that needed taking out.”

“Right on the street. Out in the open.”

“I pulled up to the curb in front of him. He's sitting alone on the bench, sipping from a brownbag forty. I powered down the window and leaned across. I say, ‘Excuse me. I think I'm lost.' He gets up and comes over, hitching up his baggy pants. He says, ‘Where you tryin' to go?' I used a silencer, so there was only the flash from the barrel.”

“Then you just drove away.”

“Went and had a late dinner, as I recall. Pork chops at this place over in Nob Hill.”

“Pork chops.” Ryan shook his head. “You still had an appetite?”

“Some scumbag gets his ticket punched. That means I shouldn't eat?”

“No, I—”

“I did a public service, getting rid of a drunk like that. He sure as hell didn't run over any more children.”

“Sure, I see that. I'm just amazed you could eat right away.”

“Wait until you see how I put away waffles.”

He wheeled the Cadillac into a parking lot jammed with pickup trucks and vans though it still was an hour until sunrise. The flat-roofed diner was painted white with red and green trim. Light spilled from its steamed-over windows. A hubcap-sized sign above the front door said, “Josefina's Cafe.”

“This looks like a Mexican place,” Ryan said. “They've got waffles?”

“Best in town.”

Ryan looked around as they got out of the car. The freeway bridged the street a block to the north, and traffic hummed there, even at this hour. In the other direction, downtown office buildings loomed. He realized they were only three or four blocks from Lucky Penny Bail Bonds.

“So this is your regular place?”

“I got lots of regulars. For waffles, this is the place.”

“I would've just gone to IHOP.”

Vic frowned. “Don't give your money to those chains. Look for local places like this. That's where you find the good stuff.”

A bell jingled as they went through the door into a wall of warm air and murmured conversation and clinking cutlery. A middle-aged brunette in a sunny yellow uniform met them at the door.

“Hello, Vic.” She gave him a big smile. “You're up early.”

Vic winked at her. “I heard the early bird gets the waffles.”

“You've come to the right place.”

She plucked a couple of menus off a stack next to the cash register and led them into the dining area, which was populated by men in baseball caps and boots, blue-collar guys sucking down calories and coffee, bracing for another long day on the job. Tinsel and strings of lights drooped from the ceiling, the diner's nod to the approaching yule season.

Ducking past the tinsel, Vic said, “Darla, could you put us in that booth in the back? We need some privacy.”

She smiled over her shoulder. “Top-secret business?”

“I'm going to give this young man a stern talking-to,” Vic said. “See if I can get him to shape up.”

Darla set the menus on the table of the last booth, then turned to look Ryan up and down. “He's in pretty good shape already.”

Ryan felt his cheeks warm. They were talking about him while he was standing right there, the way people do with children.

Vic handed the menus back to her. “We both want waffles with my usual sides. And lots of coffee.”

“You got it, darling.”

She breezed away. Ryan sat across from Vic, both hunched over the table as if they were about to play chess with the condiments clumped in the center. Vic faced the noisy room. Ryan had a nice view of a paneled wall.

“They know you here.”

“Oh, yeah,” Vic said. “Waitresses know me all over town. I don't cook, so I'm always in places like this.”

“I would've figured you'd keep a low profile.”

“Look around. Does it get any lower profile than this? Of course, at lunchtime there's a line out the door. But the secret to this place is the breakfast. Wait and see.”

The waitress brought coffee in heavy white mugs and two short glasses of orange juice. As she set them on the table, Vic said, “How's your nephew doing, Darla? He staying out of trouble?”

She gave them the high beams again. “He got a job at that new supermarket downtown. Now he's shopping for an apartment of his own.”

“Excellent,” Vic said. “You and your sisters keep him in line now.”

“Oh, we will.”

As she bustled away, Vic said to Ryan, “Her nephew Esteban got popped on a trafficking charge. The little shit. I put Darla together with Penny and helped her bail him out. I've been getting extra bacon with my orders ever since.”

“So you're a bail bondsman to these people.”

“Not even that. I just work at Lucky Penny, pushing papers. You tell people you're a paperwork guy, they stop asking questions. It's too boring, too much like their own jobs.”

Vic picked up his orange juice and drank it down in one long swallow.

“Ah. That hits the spot. Vitamin C, kid. Very important.”

“So I've heard.”

“You don't want to be out on a job, trying to be quiet, and you're sniffling from a fucking cold.”

“Sure, I see that—”

“Not that you should be pulling these kinds of jobs.”

Vic made a show of looking past Ryan to make sure no one else could hear.

“People got romantic ideas about what I do for a living.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Too many movies and books making it look glamorous, making people think there are lots of us running around capping people. That's bullshit. It's a specialized field. Only a handful of guys in the whole country make their living this way.”

“But you always hear about people who hire—”

“You know
why
you hear about them? Because they've been arrested. That's how you get a big headline. Successful jobs? The target is found dead, no suspects, no clues.”

Vic leaned in, whispering. “Most guys who say they're contract killers? They're undercover cops. That's their job, to troll for people desperate enough to need a hit man. The client hands over the cash, they clap the cuffs on him.”

He stopped talking as Darla returned with their food—waffles and bacon and syrup—and arranged the plates on the table. It was enough to feed a family of four, but Vic seemed undaunted.

“You fellas need anything else?”

“More coffee when you get a chance, my dear.”

“You bet.”

As they poured syrup over the steaming waffles, Ryan said, “They can't all be cops.”

“The rest are psychos. They're into killing anyway, so why not get paid for it? But they're careless, these crazy guys. They pull one job, maybe two, before the cops nab 'em.”

They stuffed chunks of waffles into their mouths. Ryan moaned in appreciation.

“I told you,” Vic said. “Best waffles in town.”

He looked around again, then resumed, his voice nearly lost in the hubbub of the diner.

“Guys like me, who last over the long haul, we tend to stick to a certain region. I grew up here, so naturally this is my turf. I work New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, West Texas. Sometimes up to Utah, though business is sparse in Mormon country.”

Ryan was wolfing the waffles, and he paused long enough to say, “So you
choose
to stay in Albuquerque?”

“It's my home. Besides, it's a nice town. Just the right size. Easy to navigate. Lots of sunshine.”

“And nobody would think to look for a hit man in Albuquerque.”

“Of course not!” Vic displayed his well-practiced smile. “People hear the term ‘hit man' and they think of mobsters in pinstriped suits. New York, Chicago, Detroit. But most of these jobs are small-town affairs. Business partners doing each other in. Wives getting rid of husbands. Somebody's got to provide that service, or what have you got? Mayhem in our streets, that's what. People killing each other in loud, messy ways.”

They chewed that over for a while. Finally, Ryan said, “You guys have your turf, but there's room for one more, right? No shortage of business?”

Vic dabbed at his mouth with his napkin.

“Look, kid. You really don't want any part of this. It's not exciting. It's not glamorous. The pay's not even that good.”

“You seem to be doing all right.”

“I've been at this a long time. I've built up a reputation. I mean, not by name. Clients just know they can call Penny, arrange payment, and their problem disappears. Poof.”

“They pay well for that.”

“But there are expenses. Travel, cars, weapons. Even if you clear ten grand per job, how far will that take you?”

“I'd take ten grand,” Ryan said. “Anytime.”

“How much money do you need for a decent lifestyle? Fifty grand a year? You'd have to pull a job every other month, on average. That's a lot of bloodshed, and it would get the attention of the cops.”

“Sure, there are risks—”

“More than you know. For fifty grand a year? You could make more than that selling insurance door to door.”

“Insurance is crooked. Your job seems more honest. More direct, anyway.”

“If you're selling insurance,” Vic said, “there's little risk of somebody putting a bullet in your head. But every time I go out on a job, there's a chance I won't come back.”

Ryan took another big bite so he wouldn't have to reply.

“Granted,” Vic said, “I take as many precautions as possible. I'm careful. I pace myself. These jobs you witnessed, back to back like this, that's not my usual method.”

“Lucky me,” Ryan said. “Guess I've got good timing.”

“Or really bad timing. We don't know yet, do we? It remains, as they say, to be seen.”