Duke City Hit (2 page)

Penny Randall liked to brag about her short commute. She lived directly across Sixth Street from her bail bond office, nineteen paces from her front door to her desk. No crosswalk, but Penny found that traffic slowed for a woman in tall heels and a short skirt.

She still had great legs. Might be going soft elsewhere now that she was past forty, but her legs held up. They provided a nice distraction when she did business. Most of her clientele spent so much time behind bars, a glimpse of shapely leg remained a treat. While they sneaked glances, she put together the paperwork to empty their bank accounts.

Her flirty manner carried through on local billboards advertising
LUCKY PENNY BAIL BONDS
. Each ad included a giant portrait, her airbrushed face framed by her feathery, copper-brown hair, her eyes as green as money. Her crooked smile, the bane of her self-conscious youth, gave her a savvy, saucy look men liked. She seemed a woman with whom a man could do business, maybe go get a beer afterward, have a few laughs. She'd inherited the bail bond business from her dad, Art Randall, who'd named it for her when she was born. But she was the one who'd given it a personality over the past sixteen years.

An only child born long after her parents had given up on ever having a baby, Penny had been raised in the family business, trotting back and forth across busy Sixth Street her whole life.

At one time, her father had owned three square blocks here on the north side of downtown Albuquerque. He'd sold off parcels over the years, but kept the 1920s bungalow directly across the street from his office. The other houses on the block had been converted to offices, mostly competing bail bond companies feeding off the courthouses that towered over Lomas Boulevard to the south. But the Randall house remained a home, its shady front porch Penny's playground. Even when she was in college and wanted some independence from her overprotective dad, she lived in a garage apartment behind the bungalow rather than someplace closer to the University of New Mexico.

The one-bedroom apartment belonged to Vic Walters now. His name wasn't on a lease, but he'd lived there nearly twenty years, and she couldn't imagine any other tenant. A lot of creeps pass through bail bond offices, and some carry grudges. Penny felt safer whenever Vic was home.

In a way, she had inherited Vic along with the family business. Growing up, she'd thought he was just another bounty hunter, tracking down skips. A courtly man, but steely at the core. Only after her father's death did she learn about the two men's profitable sideline.

She checked the clock. Vic should be getting back from Phoenix anytime now. He'd left her a message the night before, letting her know the hit had been accomplished. As always, the message said simply: “Collect the money.”

This morning, she found an account of the death on the website of
The Arizona Republic
. Just a paragraph, saying Harry Marino was found dead at home, an apparent drowning victim. Penny thought that was a nice touch. The client liked it, too, so much that he offered a bonus when she talked to him on the phone.

She wondered what Vic did with all the money he earned. He had no expensive habits, as far as she knew, his one indulgence being eating out, usually in cheap diners where Penny would be afraid to order a glass of water.

While her inherited home was modest, Penny lived large in other ways. Restaurants, designer clothes, massages, fine wines, casinos. Twice a year, she treated herself to weeklong ocean cruises.

She did what she could to hide her income from the contract kills, including stashing some in Caribbean banks. If their sideline ever did get exposed, Penny could flee to the islands. She wondered what Vic would do, where he'd go. She felt sure he had a contingency plan.

Before she could get too tangled up thinking about Vic, the man himself arrived outside her window, unfolding from a Yellow Cab, lanky and loose-jointed, his silvery hair combed straight back. He bent to the taxi's window to settle his fare and said something that made the fat cabbie laugh.

Vic was smiling as he turned away from the cab. He wore dark glasses and his standard uniform: charcoal-gray suit and a black golf shirt buttoned to the neck. She'd never seen him wear a necktie, and he almost never wore jeans and T-shirts like a normal person.

“Man found his style and stuck with it,” she said aloud. “Something to be said for consistency.”

Two of Penny's bounty hunters, Shep Akers and Marty Gomez, were leaving the office and paused on the sunny sidewalk to greet Vic. Shep was a hulking man with a pale shaved head and his partner was a squat toad in baggy pants and a shiny blue jacket. Next to them, Vic was Fred Astaire.

After the men shook hands all around, Vic went inside. A few seconds later, he came into Penny's inner office and shut the door behind him.

“Nice flight?”

“Not bad.” He sat across from her and removed his shades. “Did you know there are people who make their living selling mud?”

“You mean, like, gossip?”

“Actual mud. They squirt it down into oil wells.”

“Fascinating.”

“The guy next to me on the plane wouldn't shut up about it.”

“The perils of public transporta
tion.”

“I get tired of traveling to Phoenix. Why are so many of our transactions over there?”

She smiled. “People in Arizona are dying to kill each other. Must be all that heat.”

“I'm glad to be home. I could use a shower and some fresh clothes.”

“Don't get too comfortable,” Penny said. “I've got another job for you right away.”

“It's too soon. I can't face another flight.”

“That's the beauty of this one. It's right up the road in Santa Fe. You might not even have to spend the night.”

“My own bed would be nice.”

“I've seen your bed. It's lumpy and old.”

“So am I. The lumps fit my body. That's important at my age.”

Penny laughed. “You always talk like you're ancient. You're in your fifties. The prime of life.”

“It's not gonna get any better than this? How disappoint
ing.”

“You got it better than Harry Marino.”

“He had a nice life while it lasted. Lots of money, big house, swimming pool.”

“I was going to ask about that. Drowning? That's a new twist.”

Vic shrugged. “He was in the pool when I got there.”

“I talked to the client this morning. He's very happy.”

“Good. A happy client is a client I don't have to shoot in the head later.”

She laughed as she unlocked her center desk drawer. She removed a manila envelope and slid it across the desk to Vic.

“The Santa Fe job,” she said. “Target's a music producer named Marc Troy.”

“That his real name?”

“What do you think?”

Vic snorted.

He flipped through the photos and printed pages inside the folder while she summed it up: “Mr. Troy stiffed some investors back east, to the tune of millions. They want him to disappear. Immediately.”

“All right,” he said. “I might as well get it over with.”

“You need a gun? Anything?”

“I've got a rig at my place. I can use it on this job, then lose it in the desert on the way back.”

“Sounds good. Tonight?”

Vic sighed. “Let me drive up there and look around. I'll let you know.”

“You're a workhorse,” she said as he wearily got to his feet.

“You know what they do with old workhorses, don't you?” he said. “They turn 'em into glue.”

Vic slumped behind the steering wheel as his Cadillac ate up the miles. He was beat, and the smooth ride of the big black car was a little too comfortable. He struggled to stay awake as the dusty landscape rolled past.

Like a lot of Albuquerqu
eans, Vic rarely went to Santa Fe. The City Different catered to tourists and shoppers, and he was neither. He got all the sightseeing he wanted traveling for work, and he hardly ever went shopping. He bought his clothes from the same tailor, year after year. Once in a while, a new Cadillac.

The vista got more dramatic as Interstate 25 climbed La Bajada, the eroded brim of a red-rock mesa. The Cadillac hummed past trucks struggling with the steep grade. Once he topped the rise, Vic could see the capital city kneeling at the feet of the snow-shouldered Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

It still surprised him that so many houses had sprung up along the highway. He remembered when the Downs at Santa Fe racetrack stood off by itself, miles outside of town. Now it was surrounded by subdivisions.

All the houses were adobe or stucco in the trademark Santa Fe style—flat-roofed mud huts with enclosed patios and jutting vigas. People from other parts of the country found this pueblo look exotic, but Vic had grown up in New Mexico. To him, they were just houses.

The first home he could remember looked exactly like these. Adobe walls, tile floors, arched doorways. Nice place. Lived there until he was seven. After his parents split up, he and his mom lived in apartments, each more run-down than the one before. A steady slide, matched by his mother's health, as she calmly drank her way into an early grave.

Barely old enough to legally live on his own, Vic struggled through a variety of dead-end jobs before he found his way to the bail bond business. He took to the work right away, becoming an excellent manhunter.

He wondered how many hours he'd logged in cars and airplanes since. So much travel, so much time sitting in cars, watching. The actual hit always amped Vic's pulse rate, but the rest of the time his job could be boring.

He exited the freeway at Cerrillos Road, though it was the slowest way into town. Vic liked Cerrillos, with its blue-collar businesses aimed at locals, not tourists—m
uffler shops and tire stores and cheap diners. It felt real to him. Felt like Albuquerque.

When he reached the big intersection where Cerrillos and St. Francis Drive and the railroad tracks come together, he turned onto St. Francis, headed north. Supermarkets, gas stations and fast-food joints lined the busy boulevard. Traffic was thick and slow.

He finally broke free of the pack as he left the city limits. The rolling hills north of town were crowned by million-dollar homes. Squat evergreens polka-dotted the tan slopes.

The famous Santa Fe Opera stood just ahead on the left, its soaring shade structures giving it the look of a sailing ship. Vic had never been to the opera, but he'd heard plenty about it over the years. The newspapers were regularly full of photos of opera-goers in their tuxedos and cowboy boots, having elaborate dinner parties in the parking lot.

Vic liked the idea of the tailgate parties, but he wasn't interested in fat people singing in foreign languages. He got enough of that from the Mexican radio stations in Albuquerque. Vic understood enough Spanish to pick out every sixth word in those bouncy songs, just enough to give him a headache trying to sort out the lyrics.

Following Penny's directions, he turned onto a dirt road called Calle de Luz and followed it up into the hills, gravel popping in the wheel wells.

“House worth ten million bucks,” he muttered, “but you don't pave the fucking road. I'm gonna have to wash my car.”

He went about a mile before he spotted the turnoff for Marc Troy's mansion. He slowed, double-checking the address. The sand-colored house was shaped like a horseshoe, embracing a central courtyard. The paved driveway was bracketed by matching stucco posts, but the black iron gates stood open. Vic wondered if Troy closed them at night.

He drove past, climbing another hill. When he reached the crest, he wheeled the Cadillac around so he was facing the other way. From this vantage point, he had a good view of the entire property.

Vic got a pair of compact binoculars from the glove compartment and took a more thorough look. Wire fence around the perimeter of the yard, which was sparsely landscaped with yuccas and junipers and bunches of winter-dry chamisa. Security bars over the windows. Probably lights and motion sensors around the house. Hmm. He might have to find a way to get Marc Troy to come outside.

Vic flipped through the folder, looking for the photograph of the record producer. Standard publicity shot, three inches by five, with Troy showing off lots of expensive teeth. He was about fifty, with lush blond hair that swept back from a tanned forehead. Sunbursts of wrinkles around his eyes. An outdoorsman. Probably played a lot of golf.

No sign of him or anyone else on the property now. Vic put the Cadillac in gear and let it creep down the hill. Once Troy's place was behind him, he sped up, headed back toward town. He turned onto St. Francis, looking for a coffee shop where he could kill time until nightfall.