Duke City Hit (9 page)

Ryan whistled. “You planning on starting a war?”

“I thought we might want some variety.”

He lifted one of the trash bags, its cargo of cans clanking, and handed it to Ryan.

“I'll load these guns. You go set up some targets over there on that wall of dirt.”

Squinting against the bright sunshine, Ryan carried the bag over to the wall. Up close, its surface was pitted and rocky, with lots of little shelves where he could balance targets. The ground at his feet was littered with broken glass and punctured cans.

Vic stood by the open trunk, handling the weapons. He'd stripped off his suit coat and was in short sleeves, despite the morning chill. His arms were long and lean, and Ryan wondered if Vic had ever been buff. Had he lifted weights, the way Ryan did? Had muscles been fashionable when Vic was young?

Ryan did the math. Vic was fifty-eight now, so he would've finished high school in the mid-seventies. Had he been a hippie? A jock? Vic said he liked to dance. Had he been a disco guy? Ryan could see that. Vic in a white suit like John Travolta, making his moves on the dance floor. The thought made him smile.

“You making a career of setting up targets?” Vic called to him.

“Getting them just right for you.”

Ryan had placed twenty-two cans at various heights. Still some cans in the sack, but he tossed it aside and strode back toward Vic, counting off the paces.

“That's about fifty feet,” he said when he reached the car.

“Perfect.”

Vic had one of the .22s in his hand. He stepped away from the Cadillac, limbered up, then took a shooter's stance, both hands in front of him.

“Here we go.”

Vic took aim and fired, one shot after another, with barely a pause between them. Sounded like firecrackers. The first shot puffed dirt, but the next nine each knocked a can off its perch.

As the
slap-slap
of the shots echoed away, Ryan said, “Not bad. Let me try.”

He pulled the big Colt from inside his jacket and racked one into the chamber. He aimed with a two-handed grip and boomed seven-for-seven before the magazine was empty. He looked over to see Vic with his fingers in his ears.

“Very good,” he shouted. “Every one of those cans is completely dead.”

While they reloaded, Vic said, “Where did you learn to shoot?”

“From my mom. She made me take gun safety courses, and she always kept the guns locked up. I had to ask permission.”

“That's how it should be.”

“I'm sure she appreciates your approval.” He pointed skyward. “I figure she's listening.”

“You believe in life after death?”

“I don't know. But she's inside my head, you know? Even if she doesn't exist anywhere else. She's still alive in here.”

“That's a good thing. Shows she did a good job raising you, all by herself.”

“Believe me, she was enough parents for anybody.”

“Cracked the whip, huh? Kept you in line?”

“Like the song says, ‘Mama Tried.' ”

“I know that song. The guy who's singing about his mama? He's doing life without parole.”

Vic took up his shooter's stance again and sent four cans to meet their maker. Then he missed twice. Then two more hits. That used up the targets, so Ryan went to set up some more cans.

When he got back, Vic said, “It's your turn.”

Ryan used the Colt again, its booming report echoing across the desert. Seven-for-seven.

“You're clearly a better shot than me.”

Ryan smiled.

“At this distance,” Vic added. “Of course, when I'm working on a job, it's usually more a matter of three or four feet from the target.”

“Yeah? You like to get in close?”

“Not too close, though. You've got to consider blowback. You get covered in gunpowder and blood and DNA, you might as well go turn yourself in to the cops.”

Ryan nodded, filing that away.

“I never took any shooting classes,” Vic said. “Just practiced until I was comfortable pulling the trigger, no matter what I was aiming at.”

“You mean people?”

“Please. Just men. I don't kill women and children. There are guys who do that sort of thing, for the right amount of money, but I'm not one of them. I can afford to be choosy.”

Vic used the other .22. Picked off five cans in a row.

“Does the killing ever bother you?” Ryan asked when the noise echoed away. “Do you ever feel guilty?”

“Not really. It's my craft. I do it to the best of my ability.”

“No worries about heaven and hell?”

“I don't believe in that nonsense. Besides, the client who pays for the hit, he's the guilty one. I'm just an extension of his will.”

“A tool? Like the gun or the bullet?”

“Most people don't have the nerve to pull the trigger themselves. So they hire a surrogate. If they're lucky, they get a professional. Someone who stands behind his work.”

“You guarantee results?”

“Results are all that matter. Nobody cares how difficult the job is. They only care whether the target is dead.”

“Do you bring them proof?”

“I never meet with the clients. I don't know exactly what Penny tells them, other than we get half the payment up front.”

“And the other half when the target turns up dead.”

“It's an age-old system,” Vic said. “You don't mess with tradition.”

He stepped over to the trunk and dropped the .22 into the gym bag.

“What do you think? Enough shooting for today?”

“Sure.”

“Okay,” Vic said. “I'll put this stuff away. You go pick up those cans.”

“Couldn't we just leave 'em?”

“Of course not.”

“Look around, Vic. We're in the middle of nowhere. There's trash all over the place.”

“I don't care. We take away what we brought. I'm a killer, not a goddamned litterbug.”

Penny Randall was relieved when Vic showed up at the office. She had things to tell him, seeds to plant, and she needed to do it in person.

“Good morning.” She stood as he came in. She was wearing three-inch heels, so they were nearly eye to eye. “Want some coffee?”

“Ryan's waiting in the car. But I wanted to stop by and see if you'd heard anything else from Phoenix.”

“I was about to call you.” She tugged at the jacket of her bright red suit. “I just got off the phone with them.”

Vic winced.

“Did you really think it would just go away?”

“I guess I knew better,” he said. “But I've got a lot on my mind right now. The kid and all.”

“I know. This is not a good time.”

“It's never a good time to deal with these cartel guys. They're animals. Cutting people's heads off. Wiping out whole Mexican towns in their turf wars.”

“We avoid them,” she said. “I understand that. But it's like I told you. They tricked me. The guy who hired us checked out. Harry Marino seemed a perfectly reasonable target.”

“But he had a secret life.”

“Secret to me anyway,” Penny said. “This whole thing has been a big surprise.”

“Lot of that going around lately.”

He smiled at her, that wicked smile, and it bolstered her. Gave her the courage to tell him the rest.

“The real client behind the scenes was an Albuquerque trafficker named Joaquin Zamora. Ever heard of him?”

“Why would I have heard of some drug dealer?”

“He's made headlines a few times. Very rich. Big mansion in the North Valley that you can't even see from the street because it's surrounded by a ten-foot-tall hedge of pyracantha.”

“That spiky stuff?”

“Also known as ‘firethorn.' ”

“Guy doesn't need a fence.”

“Right. His neighbors hate it, but he paid them off to shut them up. That made the paper. Once in a while, Zamora shows up on the society page with his beautiful wife, acting respectable.”

“He deals drugs,” Vic said. “He's rich. He's got a beautiful wife. I'm liking this guy less by the minute.”

“Zamora's only going to get richer, now that Harry Marino's out of the way. He's trying to take over Harry's territory.”

“And that makes Harry's friends unhappy.”

“They want Zamora put down.”

“Or what?”

“Or bad things happen to you, to me, to everyone we know.”

Vic looked at her sharply. “They don't know about Ryan.”

“No, of course not. As far as they know,
you
drowned Harry Marino.”

“I'd rather have it on me. I might see 'em coming.”

“What about me?”

“Get a couple of the boys to hang around the office. Shep and Marty are in town, right? They can look after you during the day. I'll keep an eye on your house at night.”

“Couldn't you just take care of Zamora?” she said. “That would make it all go away.”

“Until Zamora's people find out who's responsible. Then
they'll
come around, wanting something. You start dancing to their tune and there's no end to it.”

“So what do we do?”

“Let's sit tight. If Harry's friends send someone, I'll make him disappear. Maybe they'll get the message.”

“What if they send a whole bunch of men?”

“I've got a whole bunch of bullets.”

“You could get Ryan to watch your back,” she said. “He's hanging around anyway.”

“No, I don't want him involved. Though I gotta tell you, the kid can shoot. I took him out in the boonies this morning and we popped off a few cans. He never missed.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him.

“No, really,” he said. “Ryan is not to be told about this. He's young and brash. He'd almost certainly do something stupid. Leave it to me. I'll handle it.”

She nodded.

“Okay,” Vic said. “I gotta go. We're gonna get some breakfast.”

“You're always eating.”

Vic patted his stomach. “I need calories to burn. My motor runs hot, baby.”

“I'm sure it does, Vic. I'm sure it does.”

“Hey, I was thinking of taking Ryan and his girlfriend out to dinner tonight—”

“There's a girlfriend?”

“Tina Castillo. Sweet kid. You'll like her. Want to come? Make it a foursome?”

Penny shook her head. “Sorry, Vic, but I've got tons of work to do. I'll be right at this desk all day and half the night.”

“Oh, you poor thing. And on such a beautiful day, too.”

“That's right. Rub it in.”

He headed for the door.

“Hey, Vic?”

“Yeah?”

“Watch your ass.”

“I will do that. Now you can watch it as I go out the door.”

He did a little samba step, one-two-three, shaking his narrow hips, then vanished around the corner.

Ryan felt ignored. First Vic makes him wait in the car while he goes in to see Penny Randall, then he takes him to yet another diner where he knows everybody in the place. Vic shook hands and waved and winked and carried on, never bothering to introduce Ryan to anyone.

“Hey, Vic,” he said once they were seated. “How come nobody asks about me? You walk around here like the mayor of Albuquerque, shooting the shit with everybody, and nobody even looks my way.”

“They see you with me and they assume it's business,” Vic said. “Like maybe I just bailed you out of jail and we're getting you something to eat after your ordeal inside.”

Ryan looked around the diner. Nobody met his gaze.

“They think I'm a jailbird?”

“That would be my guess.” Vic studied the menu, as if he couldn't recite it from memory. “Who knows what people think? Who gives a shit? As long as they stay out of my face, they're entitled to their opinions.”

Ryan couldn't resist gigging him a little.

“So all that stuff you were saying before, about good manners, doesn't apply to introducing people?”

Vic gave him a look, then leaned in so he could whisper.

“You're new in town. Nobody knows you. Maybe you want to keep it that way.”

“Why?”

“You talk about getting into my line of work. You'd better learn to cover your tracks. It's getting harder all the time. Airports and stores and shopping centers have cameras everywhere. Every time you use a credit card, you leave a computerized paper trail.”

“Wait a minute,” Ryan said. “Everywhere
you
go, people act like you're a goodwill ambassador. And you're worried about a paper trail?”

“You'll notice I always pay with cash. But I wasn't talking about me—I was talking about you. I grew up here. I went to Albuquerque High with some of these people. I've got a place in the community.”

“But it's not really—”

“People
think
they know me. That's one reason I have to be extra careful, doing business locally, if you get what I mean.”

Ryan nodded.

“You're starting fresh. You can decide who and what you want to be. And it doesn't necessarily have to mean being yourself.”

“No, I could go around with you and have everyone assume I'm a felon.”

Vic went on as if he'd said nothing. “I know this guy who does a lot of work for Penny. He can give you a completely new ID. Driver's license, birth certificate, passport, credit cards, you name it.”

“Why do I need—”

Vic held up his hands to stop Ryan before he could get started.

“If you're lucky, you'll never need it. But it's a good thing to have on standby. Something goes wrong, you have to get out of the country, you've got everything you need.”

Ryan saw the waitress heading their way. He kept his voice low as he said, “Must be expensive.”

“It's like insurance. A necessary evil. But don't worry about the cost. I'll take care of it.”

“Aw, you don't have to—”

“You won't let me buy you a suit. Let me do this for you instead.”

Ryan started to argue, but the waitress arrived and he had to stop talking while Vic played courtly with her. He could see it was pointless anyway. Vic was set on this.

“Okay,” Ryan said once she moved away. “What do I have to do?”

“Enjoy your breakfast. When we're done, we'll go see the guy and he'll take your picture. Couple of days, he'll have the whole kit ready for you.”

“He does this for a living?”

“Mostly. He's an oddball, but you'll like him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You've got the same taste in shoes.”