BOOST
By Steve Brewer
Copyright 2004 by Steve Brewer
SMASHWORDS EDITION
As always, for Kelly
Chapter 1
The problem with boosting classic cars is they're so damned conspicuous. Steal a brand-new pickup truck or a run-of-the-mill Toyota and you can drive it for days before some cop might get lucky and nab you. But tool around a car-crazy town like Albuquerque in a hot 1965 Thunderbird with a gold metal-flake paint job, and people notice. And that's just asking for trouble.
Sam Hill knew he should take the stolen T-Bird directly to Mitch's Auto Salvage and collect his four grand. But he was thirsty, and what could it hurt to stop for a minute at a 7-Eleven, pick up a Big Gulp?
The Thunderbird drove smoothly, its eight-cylinder engine throbbing under the long hood. The wide-bodied car was heavy as a tank -- old-fashioned Detroit steel -- but it rode like a boat on calm waters, barely registering the potholes and patches that made the ramshackle commercial strip of North Fourth Street a hazardous obstacle course. Sam guessed the owner, a lawyer named Timothy Blankenship, had completely replaced the suspension system. Sam spun the steering wheel with one gloved hand, and the car floated up into the brightly lit convenience store parking lot.
He nosed the car into a slot by the door, cut the engine and climbed out. His reflection in the store's tall windows showed that he and the T-Bird made a pretty good match. He was dressed all in black, as usual, which complemented the car's black vinyl roof, and the gold paint set off his honey-blond hair. Sam's cheekbones jutted like the car's fenders, and his too-wide mouth mimicked the T-Bird's grille. A lean build, though he looked bulkier thanks to his black leather jacket, a heavy biker model made all the heavier by the stuff stashed in its pockets -- a ten-inch screwdriver, a ring of forty keys, a cell phone, a Mini-Mag flashlight and a set of lock picks in a suede pouch. Tools of the trade, weighing him down.
He hadn't needed most of the gear to steal the T-Bird -- a copy of the car's key had been provided by the client who commissioned the theft. Blankenship kept his prized auto in a old wooden garage behind his rambling North Valley house, a padlock on the door. Sam's screwdriver made quick work of the hasp, then he'd used it to pop the metal cover off the alarm system. He'd yanked the wires loose by the third "whoop." No one had come around, wondering about the noise. Alarms go off all the time. People consider them a nuisance, if they register the sound at all. Besides, it was early-winter dusk, the flaming New Mexico sunset fading in the west, and most neighbors hadn't even been home from work.
Sam stepped up onto the sidewalk in front of the store, his breath fogging in the chill November air. And a police car pulled into the lot, parked right next to the hot T-Bird.
Oh, shit. Sam hesitated. Should he go into the 7-Eleven, act like everything's fine? Had the cop seen him getting out of the car? If so, Sam couldn't just walk away without raising suspicions.
The cop got out of his Crown Vic patrol car and joined Sam on the sidewalk. He was a couple of inches taller than Sam's six feet, and bulging muscles stretched the shoulder seams of his dark uniform. Looked to be in his late twenties, maybe ten years younger than Sam. The cop flashed perfect white teeth.
"Nice car," he said. "What year?"
"It's a '65."
The cop stopped in front of the T-Bird's long hood. "Restore it yourself?"
"Nah, I don't know anything about cars. Paid a small fortune to have it done."
"They did a great job."
"Thanks." Sam needed to end this conversation, get his Big Gulp and get the hell out of there. Just his luck, the cop had to be a car nut.
A muted chirp started up, sounded like it was coming from the T-Bird. Sam had checked the car for an alarm, had found none. Had he overlooked something?
The cop pulled a cell phone off his utility belt and checked the readout. "Not mine," he said. "You got a phone in the car?"
Sam knew very well that his cell phone was in his jacket, but he patted his pockets like he was looking for one. The cop was right. That was a phone ringing.
"Sounds like it's coming from the trunk."
"Oh, yeah," Sam said. "I must've left it in my gym bag."
Gym bag. Where the heck had that come from? Sam hadn't been inside a gym since high school.
The chirping stopped after the fifth ring. The cop showed his bright smile again. "Too late."
"Probably not important. They'll call back."
They headed into the 7-Eleven, Sam hoping the relief hadn't shown on his face. Before they could get through the door, the ringing started again.
Shit, shit, shit. Sam shrugged. "Guess I'd better answer it."
He pulled the T-Bird's key from the pocket of his black jeans as he hurried to the rear of the golden car. Glanced back, saw the cop standing in the store doorway, watching. Two clerks in red tunics were behind the counter, eyeballing them. Sam hoped the key worked in the trunk. If it didn't, it would set them to wondering.
The flat trunk lid popped open. Sam lifted it, and his stomach flopped when he saw what was inside. A man was in there, curled up in a fetal position. A very dead man.
The corpse was skinny, wearing faded jeans and a blue shirt. His face was turned up toward the sky and he had a bullet hole between his heavy black eyebrows. The blood-encrusted hole pushed his brown eyes apart, making them bulge outward, like the guy was trying to peer into his own ears.
Sam caught himself before he yelped in surprise. Trying to keep the shock off his face, he glanced at the patrolman, who still stood watching. The raised lid blocked his view of the inside of the trunk, but Sam needed to close it in a hurry.
The phone chirped again and he spotted it, face up on the trunk liner next to the dead guy. He snatched up the phone, hit its answer button and held it up for the cop to see. Sam slammed the trunk, then put the phone to his ear and said, "Hello?" What else could he do?
"Tony?" said a man's voice. "That you?"
Sam kept his eyes on the cop, who gave him one last grin and went into the store. He thumbed off the phone, but kept it to his ear, nodding and moving his lips, as he went to the driver's side of the T-Bird. He couldn't see the cop inside the store, but that didn't mean he wasn't still watching from behind a rack of doughnuts. Sam made a show of looking at his wristwatch, then got behind the wheel and cranked the engine.
He backed the T-Bird away, keeping its rear license plate out of view from the store windows as long as possible. Then he whipped the car into the Fourth Street traffic and sped away.
Chapter 2
Sam wiped his forehead with a gloved hand as he steered the Thunderbird into the parking lot of U-Stor-It-Now. Sweat kept dripping into his eyes from his mop of blond hair, and it wasn't hot inside the car. Nerves.
He took a deep breath, blew it out loudly. Calm down, boy. Nobody knows there's a corpse in the trunk. You've made it to the storage unit. You're safe. For now.
He stopped the car outside Unit Twenty-three, headlights shining on the mustard-colored overhead door. U-Stor-It-Now consisted of three blocks of garage-style storage units arranged around a narrow parking lot. Plain gray concrete-block bunkers gouged with one ugly yellow door after another. An equally charming office fronted the lot at San Mateo Boulevard, but the windows were empty. Sam had met the manager, a grizzled old drunk who kept a portable TV going on the counter. This time of evening, you could drive a bulldozer into the lot, and the bleary manager wouldn't even stagger over to a window to check out the noise.
The manager's lack of curiosity was one reason Sam kept the unit rented here, registered to "Justin Case," phony address, fake phone number. No way to trace it to Sam, and no one cared who really used it, as long as the monthly twenty-dollar rent was paid on time. He kept several units rented in different locations around the city, always paying in cash. Just in case.
The night air chilled the sweat on his face as he got out of the T-Bird. He left the engine running, pulled the key ring from his pocket and stood in the headlight beams as he sorted through his many keys. He found the one for the Yale padlock that kept the garage secured, bent over to unlock it, then rolled the door up. The headlights shone into the unit, illuminating a few cardboard boxes stacked in the far corners. The boxes were full of household items -- dishes, books, records -- junk Sam bought at yard sales and stored here so it would look right if anyone ever searched the place. Still plenty of room for a stolen car.
He drove the T-Bird into the storage unit, then got out and looked around the parking lot before closing the garage door. No light inside the storage unit; no electricity at all. The sudden darkness -- and the knowledge of what was in the trunk -- made him feel claustrophobic.
He flicked on his flashlight and squeezed between the roll-up door and the trunk of the T-Bird. Unlocked the trunk and lifted the lid. A light came on inside.
The corpse was just how he left it, looking deflated and bony. Sam felt a wave of nausea roll through him, and he huffed the stale air to steady himself. Poor bastard shot right between the eyes. Looked like a large-bore bullet. The back of the corpse's head was against the trunk liner, but Sam guessed a good portion of the skull was missing. Blood stiffened the man's oily black hair.
Sam's throat closed and he coughed against another jolt of nausea. He wanted to close the trunk, lock the car up in the storage unit, and walk away. But he couldn't just leave it here. Not for long. The smell of decay would alert someone eventually, and questions would follow. And cops.
He leaned into the trunk and went through the dead man's pockets. Wallet, comb, pocketknife, keys. Sam left everything but the wallet, which he took with him as he sidled around the car.
He used his flashlight to examine the wallet's contents. Two twenties, a Mobil credit card, a driver's license in the name of Antonio Armas, age twenty-eight, an address in Albuquerque's South Valley. No doubt this was "Tony," the guy who'd gotten the call on the cell phone.
"Tony can't come to the phone right now," Sam muttered as he put everything back in the billfold.
He squeezed through to the trunk, put the wallet back in the hip pocket of the dead man's jeans. Armas' shirt cuffs were unbuttoned and Sam pushed up the sleeves, found old track marks on the inside of his skinny arms. The veins were knotty and bulging, but he didn't find any fresh needle marks. Maybe Tony Armas was a reformed junkie. Or maybe he'd run out of good veins in his arms, had switched to his legs or between his toes.
The blue shirt also was unbuttoned in front, halfway down Armas' chest. Sam grasped one edge of the shirt, pulled it open. Something shiny caught the light and he pulled the shirt open further. A tiny microphone was attached to Armas' pale chest with flesh-colored tape. A wire ran from the microphone to his waist, then disappeared behind his back.
Sam's breath caught in his throat. Tony was wired for sound. But he couldn't be a cop, not with those track marks on his arms. Which meant he was an informant, trying to get close to somebody, probably a drug dealer.
"Shit," Sam said aloud. He slammed the trunk, then used the flashlight to make his way back around to the driver's side of the T-Bird.
What the hell was a wired-up dead man doing in the trunk of this car? Was the owner, Blankenship, some kind of dealer? That didn't fit. Blankenship was a lawyer. And the timing was too coincidental. Someone wanted Sam to steal the car while the corpse was in there. Make disposal of the body Sam's problem. Maybe even dropped a dime to the cops, telling them to watch for a fancy gold Thunderbird if they wanted to find their dead informant.
Smelled like a set-up, through and through. But who the hell would set Sam up? He had no enemies, at least none who'd go to this much trouble to nail him. Somebody had a problem with Sam, they'd come see him, right? Give him a roughing up or try to make him dead. That's the way of the Wild West. Face to face, man to man. This situation was like a very bad version of the practical jokes Sam loved to pull on others. A client sending him out to steal a particular car, providing the key in advance, aware the corpse was in there.
Sam didn't know who'd requested the car. The order had come through Robin Mitchell, as usual. Sam and Robin had the same set-up he'd used with her father for years -- somebody ordered a special car, Mitch tracked one down through Motor Vehicle Department records, gave Sam the address and other particulars. Sam delivered the car and took his cut of the money. Mitch (and since Mitch's death a year earlier from a heart attack, Robin) dealt with the clients, making the delivery and collecting the money. Sam had always wanted it this way. Less exposure for him.
Boosting collectible cars was more profitable than picking up random wheels around town. The buyer was already in place. The amount of time Sam was in possession of the hot car was minimal. And it was a hell of a lot more challenging. Somebody goes to a lot of trouble to lovingly restore some old car, they tend to keep it secure. Alarms, locks, the works. And most car nuts don't drive their prizes that often, so the chances of finding the car parked somewhere, easy to steal, were slim. The challenge kept it interesting for Sam, though the thought always tickled his mind that somebody might use him to get at a rival in the competitive world of cruisers and car shows.
But he'd never considered the idea that someone might use the arrangement to get to him. Auto theft had its risks, but they didn't include a wired corpse stashed in a trunk.
One thing was certain: Sam couldn't move the T-Bird. The car was too noticeable to drive around town while he sorted out what to do about the late Antonio Armas.
He fished his cell phone out of his pocket and hit the speed-dial. It rang three times as Sam whispered tightly, "Come on, come on."
"Hello?"
"Billy?"
"Hey, Sam. What's going on? I was just sitting around, watching a video. You ever see that war movie, 'The Thin Red Line?' Got Nick Nolte and Sean Penn--"
"Billy? Not now. I've got a problem."
Billy Suggs' voice came back hushed. "What's up?"
"I need a ride. I'm at that storage place on San Mateo. You remember which one I mean?"
"Sure."
"Pull up in front of my unit. I'm inside. I'll be listening for you."
"I'm on my way."
Sam stowed the phone in his pocket. He wasn't crazy about hiding in the storage unit while Billy drove halfway across town, but he didn't want to wait outside either.
He crept to the overhead door and stood listening. Nothing but silence outside.
A phone chirped. In the car. Sam got the door open and leaned inside to snatch Armas' phone off the passenger seat.
"Hello?"
"Tony?"
Sam hesitated. How could he hope to sound like Tony, when he'd never heard the dead man speak? Monosyllables.
"Yeah. Who's this?"
"You know who this is." The phone sounded crackly, its battery nearly dead. "You haven't been answering your phone. Where are you?"
Sam said nothing, his mind whirring. Was the man on the other end of the line a cop? A narc? A dealer?
"Tony?"
"Yeah?"
A long pause. Shit, Sam thought, he's onto me. Guess I don't sound like Tony.
"Who the hell is this?"
Sam punched a button to turn off the phone. He stuffed it in a jacket pocket, thinking he might need it later. No way for the cops to trace it as long as he left it off. Then he went back to listening by the door.
"Hurry, Billy," he whispered. "I need to get out of here."
Chapter 3
Billy Suggs downshifted his Mustang as a traffic signal changed to yellow up ahead. Sam sounded like he had an emergency on his hands, but Billy knew the rules: Obey the traffic laws, don't attract attention. He wouldn't reach Sam any faster if some cop pulled him over for blowing through a red light.
Billy drummed on the steering wheel with his bony fingers while waiting for the green, beating out the rhythm of a song from the war movie's soundtrack. He caught himself doing it and forced his hands to stop. Billy was a high-strung guy, always in motion. Knees bouncing or hands drumming or toes tapping, playing along to the music in his head. Sam had tried to teach him to sit still. Keep your muscles relaxed, he'd said, so they're rested if you need to move in a hurry.
Sam regularly spouted such fatherly advice, some of which didn't make much sense to Billy. Wouldn't your muscles be more ready if they were already tensed? But he listened to Sam, tried to do whatever the older man told him. Sam had survived by his wits for two decades, living off stolen cars. If Billy wanted to follow his example -- and he wanted nothing more -- he'd take Sam's advice.
Take the Mustang, for example. When he first started working with Sam, he'd kept the navy-blue car buffed to a glossy shine. The car had fat tires and chrome rims and an exhaust system so loud it could blow windows out of nearby buildings. Sam ordered him to change all that. A stock muffler. Basic rims. No vanity plates or after-market crap like spoilers or fender skirts or painted flames, stuff you saw on cars all over Albuquerque.
"That's like putting a sign on your car," Sam had said.
"What kind of sign?"
"One that says, 'Hey, Mr. Policeman, please pull me over.' You want to beef up a car, do it under the hood. But leave the outside alone. Look like a citizen."
Good advice, Billy knew. And he'd taken it, even if it meant driving around in plain vanilla all the time, which was tough for a guy freshly twenty-one years old, a guy who loved cars and who absolutely knew a hot ride was a babe magnet. Most of the work Billy did for Sam consisted of driving -- taking Sam someplace to boost a car, picking him up after he'd made a delivery. Sam wanted inconspicuous, that's what he'd get.
The light changed and the Mustang surged forward. Not much farther now. He'd memorized the locations of Sam's haunts months ago, after Sam drove him around Albuquerque, showing him the places he used in his work and giving him copies of the keys. Sam shared such information with no one else. His trust made Billy feel privileged.
Signing on as Sam's apprentice was, to Billy's way of thinking, the best event in an otherwise shitty life. An orphan, Billy had floated from one crappy foster home to another his whole life, and he never had any kind of father figure until he met Sam two years earlier.
Billy had been broke then, a dropout, no job, no future at all. The only thing he knew, the only thing he really loved, was cars. He'd started boosting them, no idea what he was doing, just trying to make a buck, when he made the big mistake that led him to Sam.
Billy tried to steal a car off the lot behind Mitch's Auto Salvage. Middle of the night, no security guard, no snarling dogs, he'd taken his time, trying to get the starter of a primo '69 Camaro to turn over, when this big old bastard appeared beside the window, a cigar clenched tightly in his teeth and a shotgun in his hands.
Buford "Mitch" Mitchell, though Billy hadn't known it at the time. All he knew was this red-faced man was ready to splatter his brains all over the dashboard. Mitch ordered Billy out of the car and marched him into the garage, where a guy with blond hair and black clothes was waiting beside a desk covered with playing cards.
The two men discussed Billy's predicament like he hadn't been right there, hearing the whole thing. Mitch was ready to shoot Billy where he stood. But the other guy -- Sam, of course -- smiled and said it took balls to sneak into Mitch's lot to try to boost a ride, when everyone in Albuquerque (except Billy!) knew Mitch was more foul-tempered than a badger.
At Sam's suggestion, they ordered Billy back out to the yard and watched him hot-wire the Camaro. His hands had been so shaky and sweaty, it was a wonder he managed it. But Sam apparently liked what he saw and offered Billy a job as his "assistant."
Ever since that night, Billy worked for Sam. His cut wasn't much and the work was spotty, but the job left him with lots of free time to watch movies and tune up the Mustang and learn from Sam. Getting caught that night was definitely the best thing that ever happened to Billy Suggs, and he'd do most anything to keep from letting Sam down.
The storage place was set back from the street, out of range of the streetlights, and Billy was almost past before he saw it back there in the dark. He wheeled the Mustang into the parking lot, let it crawl forward until it was even with Unit Twenty-three, then killed the headlights. He was tempted to gun the engine a little, make sure Sam could hear him out here, but that kind of showboating made Sam frown. He'd said wait, so Billy would wait.
Sure enough, the garage door rolled up and there stood Sam, his blond hair glinting in the moonlight, his craggy face in shadow. He was dressed all in black, nearly invisible against the deeper black of the unit's interior. There was a car in there, but Billy couldn't tell much about it.
Sam crooked a finger at Billy, who popped open his car door.
"Leave it running," Sam said, his voice low. "This'll only take a minute."
Billy joined Sam outside the garage and watched as Sam let a flashlight dance over the parked car. He recognized it immediately as a 1965 Thunderbird, the type with the wide taillights that go all the way across the back. Turn on the blinker and the lights illuminated sequentially from inside to out: 1-2-3-4. 1-2-3-4.
"Gold flake, huh?" Billy said. "Cool. Just like Matt Helm."
"What?"
"Matt Helm. Spy movies starring Dean Martin? Drove one of these. Dino always in the curved back seat with a couple of big-chested women--"
"Not now, Billy."
Billy clammed up. Sam looked around the parking lot, and he did the same, though he could see at a glance that nobody was around. Except for the surf-like whoosh of cars on San Mateo, the night was silent and empty.
"Want to show you something," Sam said. "Just so you'll know what we're up against."
A hundred questions danced through Billy's mind, but he said nothing. Another lesson he slowly was learning from Sam: Talk only when you've got something to say.
He grinned as Sam unlocked the trunk of the T-Bird. No telling what Sam might have in there. He was a prankster, always pulling jokes on people. Like Bruno, that three-hundred-pound biker at Mitch's, the one who was scared shitless of snakes. That time Sam draped the rubber snake over his bike's exhaust pipe, old Bruno had danced around, squealing like a schoolgirl. Billy thought he'd bust a gut laughing. Still a wonder Bruno hadn't taken a wrench to Sam's head, he was so mad. But Sam just grinned at him, acted innocent, and pretty soon even Bruno was laughing his ass off.
So, Billy's thinking about practical jokes, and Sam motions him over to the trunk and lifts the lid and there's a dead guy in there, dried blood all over him, and Billy almost starts laughing before he realizes, Jesus humping Christ, the guy really is dead. Before he could shout or run or something, Sam shut the lid and grabbed Billy by the arm.
"Sorry," he said. "Should've warned you. Pretty ugly, huh?"
"Fuck me, Sam. That guy, he's--"
"Shot in the face. And somebody set me up to find him."
Before Billy could think of a reply, Sam was rolling down the overhead door and putting a padlock through the loop down at the ground.
"The guy was in the trunk when you boosted the car?"
"What did you think? That I shot him?"
"No, Sam, nothing like that. But--"
"His cell phone was in there with him. It kept ringing, so I had to open the trunk. Good thing I did, too. Though it would've been better if it happened when there wasn't a cop around."
"Cop?"
"I'll tell you about it in the car."
Billy's heart pounded in his chest and he felt light-headed. The hell was he getting into? Boosting cars was one thing, but murder, shit, that was something else.
"You okay?" Sam asked.
"Just surprised. A dead guy--"
"Imagine how I felt. Let's go. We need to get far away from here."
"Damned straight."
They were miles away, on their way to Billy's place near the University of New Mexico, by the time Sam finished telling him about finding the body, the cop at the 7-Eleven, that the dead guy was wearing a wire.
Billy's head swam with all this new information. He caught himself tapping the steering wheel.
"So who do you think put him in there?" he asked.
"Don't know. The boost came from Robin, and the client supplied the key. I need to talk to her, find out who placed the order. I'm guessing that'll be our guy."
"But why would he do that?"
"Maybe he wanted me to find it," Sam said. "Or, maybe he had cops waiting for me somewhere, all ready to search the car."
"What you gonna do with that T-Bird?"
"I don't know yet. We can't leave it there long. Guy's already been dead a day or two. Somebody'll notice the smell."
"We should take that car out to the West Mesa and torch it," Billy said. "Out in the middle of the desert. Nobody'll find it there and, if they do, all the evidence will be burned up."
"I thought of that," Sam said, "but I want to poke around first, find out exactly what's going on. I don't want to drive that car anywhere until I'm sure it's safe."
The whole thing gave Billy the jitters, but he tried not to let on. If Sam thought it was okay to leave the body locked in the storage unit for another day or two, he probably knew best.
"What happens now?" Billy asked.
"Soon as we get to your place, I'll call Robin, see what she knows."
"Think she's still at the shop?"
"She's always at the shop."
"Call her on your cell."
"Somebody might be listening in. Let's just go to your place and call from there."
"Whatever you say, Sam."
Billy quick-shifted the Mustang into third, let the engine unwind a little before remembering to stay at the speed limit. Stick to the rules, Sam always said, and that applied now more than ever.
Chapter 4
Robin Mitchell stood in the open doorway of a work bay at her auto salvage shop, her hands on her hips, watching the police sort through carburetors and wheel rims and exhaust pipes. A fat uniformed cop dropped a bumper and it clanged loudly against the concrete floor.
"You chip that chrome," Robin said tightly, "and the city will be getting a bill from me."
The fat cop blushed, but his boss, Lieutenant Vic Stanton, gave Robin a look that said "shut up." She glared at him.
Stanton, that jerk, had given Robin's dad trouble for years. Always showing up unannounced, searching the place, knowing he'd find evidence of stolen vehicles. And, of course, he never found a thing. Mitch kept his chop shops well-hidden, and he regularly gave up on a location and moved everything somewhere else, though it made his people bitch and moan. Here at the whitewashed garage just inside the city limits on South Broadway, everything was kept on the up-and-up.
Robin, who'd hung around the garage since she was in diapers, knew how careful her father had been, and she'd followed suit in the year since his death. Every junker, every part, every Vehicle Identification Number, was legal and above-board. Her records were up-to-date, and it would take a top-notch hacker to find anything illegal in her carefully camouflaged computer files.
The lieutenant didn't have a search warrant, but Robin was so confident, she'd told him to go ahead, knock himself out. He'd already made two circuits of the fenced two-acre lot out back, checking every car, shining a flashlight in the windows and ordering Robin to open trunks and hoods. And he hadn't found a thing.
She could see desperation rising in Stanton's watery blue eyes. Against his red-veined skin, the eyes were like two lakes on a road map.
Robin put Stanton in his fifties, probably an alcoholic, undoubtedly divorced a time or two. Enough years in to retire, but nothing to live for but being a cop, throwing his weight around the Auto Theft Division. He kept the jacket of his tan suit buttoned, trying to hide his pot belly as he ordered his men around. The khaki suit and his steel-gray flattop made her think of drill sergeants.
"You about done here, Lieutenant?"
"I'll tell you when we're done," he said. "You just stand over there and keep your trap shut."
"Don't you guys have anything better to do than to harass an honest businesswoman? Shouldn't you be home, watching Monday Night Football?"
The fat cop, back there behind Stanton, rolled his eyes. Robin guessed that was exactly where he'd rather be.
"If you'd tell me what you're looking for, maybe I could help," she said, faking a smile. "I know where everything's kept."
"I'll bet you do," Stanton said gruffly.
"But, of course," she said, keeping her voice sweet, "since you didn't bring a warrant, I've got no information to go on."
The fat cop snickered, and Stanton shot him a look. Tubby got busy again, lifting stuff and looking under it. The police were wrecking the place without causing any actual damage, moving stuff around, getting parts out of sequence. It would take her crew days to put everything back together.
The garage's four work bays were lined with shelves and pegboards holding parts sorted and inventoried and ready for shipment. Attached to one side was Robin's office, just big enough for a couple of desks, some file cabinets and an old sofa. Using state-of-the-art computers, she kept track of dozens of cars and hundreds of parts, with more moving in and out every day.
The other plainclothes officer, a well-dressed young man who'd identified himself as Sergeant Rey Delgado, came through the back door, brushing at the sleeves of his blue blazer. Delgado and two other cops had gone through the salvage yard again, covering the same ground she'd covered with the lieutenant. He caught Stanton's attention and shook his head. Delgado's dark eyes swept over to Robin, but he glanced away when he found her watching him. His cheeks colored, and Robin guessed he would've stared longer if she hadn't caught him looking.
She tossed her long black hair back over her shoulders, and took two steps toward Stanton.
"You're finished?"
"Guess so," Stanton grumbled. "Should've known we wouldn't find anything. Otherwise, you wouldn't have let us search the place."
"I've got nothing to hide."
"Not here. But I'm guessing this isn't your only location. Your old man always kept cars scattered all over town, parked in people's back yards, hidden in garages."
She batted her eyes at him. "I don't know what you mean."
Stanton's face flushed. "The hell you don't. Your old man fenced hot cars and ran chop shops for years in this town, and I'd bet you're doing the same."
Robin tilted her head back, pointed her chin at Stanton.
"You got something on me, bring charges," she said. "You don't, then you'd better watch what you say. That sounds like slander to me."
Stanton's face got even redder. Beyond him, she could see Delgado tucking his chin. Looked like he was trying not to laugh.
"I'll say whatever I damned well please," Stanton said. "Screw around with me, and you'll be downtown so quick, you won't know what hit you."
"On what charge? Or doesn't APD believe in due process anymore?"
"I'll give you due process. Keep giving me lip, and I'll make you and your car thieves my full-time job."
"I thought auto theft was your full-time job."
Stanton got in her face, his face glowing red. His breath smelled of peppermint and stale beer.
"You're just like your old man. Always with the lip. Always think you can get away with any goddamned thing you want."
"I'm just running a business," she said. "One that you've disrupted for no apparent reason."
"You want a reason? We got a tip. Came from the DEA."
That surprised her. "You're looking for drugs?"
"Never mind what we're hunting. But let me ask you something: What do you hear these days from your old friend Sam Hill?"
Robin kept her face impassive. "Sam who?"
Stanton clenched his jaw and turned away from her. "Let's get the hell out of here."
He marched out to where the patrol cars were parked. The other cops trailed behind him, looking deflated.
The handsome cop, Delgado, paused as he passed Robin, and said, "Sorry about the mess."
She looked at him sharply, but saw he meant it, and grinned at him.
"Cost of doing business," she said. "I'll get it cleaned up."
He gave her a shy smile, then followed his boss out into the night.
Robin stood in the doorway, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans to protect them from the cold, until the last cop car had disappeared from sight on South Broadway. Then she went into the office and dialed Sam's number.
"Hey, I was just going to call you," he said, "But not on my cell phone. You at the shop?"
"Yeah. The cops were just here."
"Don't say anything else. Get to a pay phone. Call me at Billy's."
She hung up. Took a deep breath and blew it out. Stanton had asked about Sam by name, which was a bad sign.
What had Sam gotten into now? Stanton had said the tip came from the Drug Enforcement Administration. But that couldn't have anything to do with Sam. He wouldn't get involved with drug trafficking, not ever. Only thing he seemed to care about was cars.
Robin sometimes wished she understood Sam better. She often wondered what was going through his mind. Something about the way his mouth turned up at the corners, perpetually on the verge of an impish smile. He always seemed to be thinking of some joke.
This time, she thought, the joke may be on him.
Chapter 5
Sam looked around Billy's tiny living room. Orange shag carpet, a gut-sprung sofa against one wall, a thrift-store lamp on a milk crate doing duty as an end table. The apartment was south of UNM, in an area known as the Student Ghetto, and Billy had embraced the college decorating scheme, though he'd never finished high school.
There were some differences from the typical student apartment. The wide-screen TV, one of Billy's first purchases when he started making dough from Sam. The posters on the wall, which featured Ferraris and a '66 Corvette rather than ballplayers or bands. The shelves full of videos instead of textbooks.
Billy was a Hollywood hound, crazy for movies, his only other passion besides cars. Sam didn't get it. He rarely went to the movies and hardly ever turned on his TV at home. He preferred books, or blues music on his state-of-the-art Sony stereo. Or, best yet, getting outdoors somewhere, hiking the crest of the Sandia Mountains or prowling the desert in search of Indian ruins. What's the point of living the thief's life, avoiding offices and regular jobs, if you're cooped up indoors all the time?
Billy hovered in the kitchen doorway, twitchy as a hamster. When Sam first met the youngster, he'd worried Billy Suggs was too nervous to be a car thief or to even work with one. But Billy, for all his physical symptoms, was cool on the inside, and that was good enough for Sam.
"You want a beer or something?"
"Got some in the fridge?"
Billy's smile winked on and off. "Of course."
"That's right. You're legal now, aren't you? Twenty-one years old. Can buy beer without getting some wino to front it for you."
Billy gave him a look. "You want a beer or not?"
"Sure."
His host scooted into the kitchen. Sam settled into the ratty armchair and tipped his head back. His shoulders cramped from tension and he stretched his arms over his head and twisted his neck around, trying to relieve the pressure. Finding a stiff can tie a man up in knots.
Billy came back into the living room, carrying two dark bottles of Dos Equis. Sam's favorite brand. The kid was learning.
Sam downed half the bottle and smacked his lips. "Thanks, partner. Just what I needed."
Billy perched on the edge of the grungy sofa, leaning forward, holding his bottle between his bony knees. His pointy chin was slightly off center, always made Sam think of a check mark. Billy was short and slight, looked like a skeleton with pale skin stretched tight over the bones. Sam could see his ribs where his shirt hung open. It made him think of the skinny frame of the dead junkie, Antonio Armas.
"So," Billy said as he ran a hand through his lank brown hair, "we just sit here now, wait for Robin to call back?"
"Don't know what else we'd do. Until I talk to her, I don't--"
The black telephone beside Sam's chair rang, and he snatched up the receiver.
"Sam?"
"Hi there. You at a pay phone?"
"Yeah, outside a burger joint. We need to make this quick. I'm freezing."
"I've got a little problem," he said.
"Does it have something to do with Lieutenant Stanton of the APD?"
"That who came to see you?"
"He and his boys ransacked the garage, looking for something. It'll take me days to put everything back where it belongs."
"Jesus. That explains a lot."
"What are you talking about?"
"That order you placed? The Thunderbird?"
"Yeah?"
"Had a little something extra in the trunk."
"Like what?"
"A dead guy."
A long pause. A corpse in a hot car was a new wrinkle.
"So that's what they were looking for," Robin said finally. "Stanton said the DEA had tipped them off to something, but he wouldn't say what."
"That fits. The dead guy's a junkie. And he's wired. I'm guessing he's a snitch."
Sam felt heat rise within him. It was just as he feared. Somebody planted the corpse in the car, then called the cops so they'd be waiting for him when he got to Robin's shop. If he hadn't stopped for a soda and found the body himself, he'd be in jail right now.
"Stanton asked me if I'd heard from you lately."
"And what did you say?"
"'Sam who?'"
Sam smiled. Nobody, not even Stanton, could bulldoze Robin Mitchell. Sam had known her since she was in junior high and she'd always been a pistol. He'd watched her grow up, and he'd never worried whether Robin would make it in the world. In her case, it was the world that had better watch out.
"Good answer," he said. "The way things are going tonight, you might not want to admit knowing me for a long time to come."
Another pause. Sam heard a horn honk in the background.
"So what do we do now?" she said. "And make it quick. I'm freezing to death here."
"I need to know one thing," he said. "Who ordered the Thunderbird?"
"You never ask about the client."
"I've never found a corpse before."
"Bad news, Sam. I don't know who ordered the car. It was brokered."
"By whom?"
"Ernesto Morelos."
"That fat bastard. He didn't say who ordered it?"
"No, but he was very clear about one thing."
"What's that?"
"He wanted you to boost the car. Asked for you by name. Said it was your specialty. I should've known something was fishy."
"Not your fault. Seemed like a good boost. No reason to question it. I'm just lucky I found the stiff before the cops found me."
"You think Ernesto set you up?"
"He helped. I'll have to go have a talk with him."
"Lot of gangbangers hang around Ernesto's place."
"When I go see him, I'll be ready."
"What are you going to do now?"
He looked around the living room. Billy watched him so closely, it was as if he were studying Sam for a science project. Sam gave him a grin.
"Nothing more I can do tonight," he said. "I'll get Billy to drive me home."
"Think that's safe?"
"Probably. Don't worry about it. Go get warm."
"Watch your ass, Sam."
Sam hung up, thinking, I'd rather watch yours, Robin.
Chapter 6
Tuesday morning, before Sam even had his first cup of coffee, he was outside his North Valley condo, filling his hummingbird feeders with sugar-water.
The Pueblo-style compound was beautifully landscaped, and the residents paid a hefty fee each month to keep the mowers and trimmers working. Velvety Russian olive trees and purple-leaf plums and squat evergreen shrubs circled the pools of lawn that were kept sopping green nine months out of the year. It was a regular little Eden surrounded by the one-story adobe dwellings. And it fooled the hummers into thinking they were set for the winter.
Of course, he mused as he topped off the second feeder, if it weren't for me, the birds still would fly off to warmer climes. I've upset the balance, so now it's my responsibility to keep them fed.
An impatient bird whirred past his head, making him duck. One of these days, he thought, one of those little bastards will zoom right into my face, poke my eye with a long, sharp beak. That'll teach me to mess around with Mother Nature.
He pulled his flannel bathrobe tighter around his chest and padded back indoors to get warm. Inside, he paused before the living room's picture window, stamping his bare feet to get the feeling back in them, and watched a rust-colored rufous and a greenish broadtail buzzing around the feeders, dipping their nips into the plastic blooms.
Sam needed to feel like he was sustaining some life in the world right now. Better than his thoughts through the night, which had been all about death.
The aroma of coffee pulled him away from the window. He went to the kitchen and poured himself a cup, added two sugars. His own version of sugar-water, plus some caffeine to kick his sleepy brain into gear.
The kitchen was separated from the living room by a breakfast bar, and Sam sat on a stool there, facing the living room, where long shelves down one wall held a small TV and his stereo and his hundreds of records and books. The furniture was low and fat, and a brightly zig-zagged Mexican rug covered part of the red-brick floor. A hallway veered off behind the kitchen to the bathroom and single bedroom. The place was small but comfortable, tidy and sunlit.
Sam yawned. He'd tossed and turned all night, worrying over his situation, and he was no closer to an answer. Who would want to set him up? And why would they kill some junkie to make it happen?
He had no answers beyond Ernesto Morelos, who'd brokered the theft of the Thunderbird. Morelos had to know the boost was part of a trick to nail Sam.
So, today's first order of business was to go brace Morelos. It wasn't a chore Sam wanted to tackle alone. Robin had been right when she said Morelos' salvage yard swarmed with gangbangers. Sam had once met Morelos' nephew, a hard case called Chuco, who had all the trappings of the Fourteenth Street gang -- the 'do rag, the baggy carpenter jeans, the tattoos on his neck, the hard glitter in his eyes. Kid couldn't be much more than twenty, but he already looked like someone who'd pulled hard time in a penitentiary. Sam knew for sure Chuco hung out at his uncle's shop. And where you find one modern-day gangster, you're sure to find others.
Ernesto Morelos might've been a Fourteenth Streeter himself back in the day when gangs were all about fistfights and low-riders, rather than crack and turf and guns. Now, Ernesto must be close to sixty, fat and bald and worn out. Small wonder he kept young toughs around to protect his business.
Sam had dealt with Ernesto as little as possible over the years, though their paths crossed from time to time. Mitch had always considered Ernesto a small-timer, dealing junkers to Old Mexico when the real money was in chop-shop parts.
Take a car like an Oldsmobile Cutlass. Popular and easy to steal. General Motors made few changes to the car over its production life, which meant many of the parts were interchangeable. Guy needs an alternator for, say, a '95 Cutlass, he doesn't care if the refurbished one he buys came from a '94, as long as it fits. Mitch's boys would strip every useable part off a boosted Cutlass, from the engine block to the hubcaps. Clean them up, catalog them, resell them for half the price of new factory parts.
"See," Mitch liked to say around his ever-present cigar, "we're good citizens. We're recycling."
One of Morelos' boys boosts the same car, Ernesto wouldn't chop it up. Too much work. Instead, he'd dummy up a fresh paper trail to show that he bought it used from out of state. Then that car, along with two or three others, would be chained together into a wagon train of hot steel and towed to the Mexican border. Sell the whole car for twice what it was worth to some campesino who didn't know any better.
Visit border towns, and you see old American cars all over the place. On the outskirts of those towns, you'll find hundreds of rusting hulks, abandoned when they went to shit and their owners couldn't find or afford parts for them.
Ernesto wasn't much more than a junkman. He merely dealt his junk across an international border. Sam had seen those caravans on back roads in New Mexico, traveling way over the speed limit, too much weight behind each tow rig to stop if some farmer pulled out in front of them in his pickup. Every year, four or five people got croaked in such accidents. Sam imagined that Ernesto Morelos was too busy raking in money to give a shit about things like life and death.
Sitting at the counter, thinking about Morelos, Sam worked up a pretty good rage. He'd go see Ernesto all right, and he wouldn't be gentle with his questions. He'd take his pal Way-Way with him. One look at Way-Way, and the gangbangers would go find somebody else to fight.
Sam glanced at the clock on the wall. Too early to call Way-Way, who worked as a bouncer at The Tropics nightclub downtown. Wake him before noon, and Way-Way would never stop bitching. Still, Sam should get a shower and get into his clothes. Be ready when the time comes.
His doorbell rang. The hell could that be?
He adjusted his robe as he went to the door. Looked through the peephole, saw a sleek-haired guy in a blue suit and a tan overcoat. He didn't recognize him, but he opened the door and said, "Yeah?"
"Sam Hill?"
Uh-oh. The voice of authority.
"Who are you?"
"Sergeant Rey Delgado. APD Auto Theft Division."
The cop pulled a thin wallet from his inside pocket and flipped it open to show his gold badge. Sam glanced past him, saw another plainclothes man standing on the lawn beyond.
"One of my neighbors lose a car?"
"No, sir. We'd like to talk with you. Downtown. You might want to get dressed first."
Sam got a sinking feeling inside his chest. "Am I under arrest?"
"Just a friendly talk. We think you could help in one of our investigations."
Delgado didn't look particularly friendly. The Auto Theft Division meant Lieutenant Vic Stanton, and there was nothing whatsoever friendly about him.
Stanton had tried to catch Sam for years. This wasn't the first time he'd been summoned to headquarters for a "talk." But Stanton never managed to make a charge stick, which probably kept him awake nights.
"This isn't a good time for me," Sam said. "Why don't we make an appointment for me come down and see you?"
Delgado shook his head slightly. "Now would be best for us."
"Okay. Want me to drive myself down there?"
"You can ride with us. We'll bring you back when we're done."
Sam doubted that very much. More likely, they'd throw him in a cage until he could get hold of his attorney.
"Just let me get dressed," he said. "Wait here."
He closed the door on the sergeant and headed for his bathroom, pausing in the kitchen long enough to drain his coffee cup. Going to be a long morning, and the coffee at the cop shop sucked.
Chapter 7
Sam didn't need to fret about the coffee at police headquarters. He wasn't offered any. Delgado took him directly upstairs, put him in a puke-beige interrogation room and left him there.
The room was furnished with a gray metal table and three matching steel chairs. Sam plunked onto one of the slatted chairs and tried to get comfortable. It was like sitting on a steam grate.
He knew they'd let him cool a while. Give him time to worry. He sat facing a large mirror set into the wall. Delgado and Stanton probably stood behind it, watching, waiting for Sam to start sweating. He resisted the urge to make faces at the men behind the mirror, and the stronger urge to moon them.
After fifteen minutes, Delgado entered the room, carrying a black tape recorder. Lieutenant Stanton came in right behind him, and shut the door.
"Mornin', scumbag," Stanton said. "Sergeant Delgado says he got you out of bed."
"I was up, but I was still working on my first cup of coffee."
"Sergeant Delgado said you made him wait outside while you took a shower and got dressed. Officer tells you you're going downtown, and you take a shower?"
"A quick one. Didn't know when I'd get another chance."
"You don't like the showers in the lockup?"
"I'm big on privacy."
Stanton let a smile ooze onto his face. "We'll just have to see about that, won't we?"
Sam straightened in the uncomfortable chair while Delgado fiddled with the knobs on the tape recorder.
"You want to tell me what this is about?" Sam asked.
"All in good time." Stanton perched on the remaining chair, and lifted his chin at Delgado to show he was ready to start. As preliminaries go, Sam thought, that wasn't bad. A little casual verbal abuse. Better than getting slapped around.
Stanton looked back over his shoulder at the mirror, then scooted his chair over a few inches to his left. Ah, Sam thought, video camera working behind the glass. Before he had a chance to wonder about it, Delgado said for the benefit of the tape recorder, "Interrogation with Sam Hill. Tuesday, November twelfth, 9:27 a.m. Present are Sergeant Rey Delgado and Lieutenant Vic Stanton."
Delgado watched the reels of the cassette tape, making sure everything was working, then he raised his head and focused on Sam.
"Your name is Sam Hill, no middle initial?"
"That's right."
The corners of Delgado's mouth turned up. "What kind of person names his kid Sam Hill?"
"My old man had a sense of humor. Runs in the family. His name was Bunker Hill."
"Or, 'Bunco,' as we all called him," Stanton said. "Small-time grifter, worked the short con. He was an optimist -- always wore a slouch hat and a raincoat, out here in the desert. You an optimist, Sam?"
"I'm an opportunist."
"Nice. That's some way to live. Preying on others, just like your old man. How long has he been dead now?"
"Couple of years."
"Died up at the pen in Santa Fe, didn't he?"
"That's right. A stroke."
"And your mom was a lush, as I recall. You were just a kid when she drank herself to death."
Sam stared at him, said nothing.
"It's like I told you before, Rey," Stanton said. "Crime runs in families, just like alcoholism. It's genetic, like the color of your hair or the shape of your face."
Stanton sat back and pressed his thin lips together, ready to let the sergeant take over again, now that he'd needled Sam about his parentage. Delgado got a few more of the preliminaries out of the way -- Sam's address, his Social Security number, his date of birth thirty-seven years ago. Then he asked, "What do you do for a living, Mr. Hill?"
"I'm an investor."
That made Stanton snort. Delgado ignored him.
"What kind of investments?"
"Stocks, bonds, mutual funds, stuff like that. I work at home."
"A day trader?"
"Not exactly. I don't like to work that hard. I just manage my money."
Delgado paused, then said, "Must've taken quite a stake to get started. Where did that money come from?"
"An inheritance. From my father."
"Now that's bullshit," Stanton exclaimed. "Old Bunco never had two dimes to rub together his whole life."
Sam raised a shoulder and let it drop. Said nothing.
"You ever been arrested, Mr. Hill?" Delgado asked. "Ever done time?"
"Not since I was a juvie. Twenty years ago."
"That's right. I saw in your file that you pulled a year at the boys' school at Springer. Auto theft, right?"
"Joy-riding," Sam said. "A youthful mistake."
"Mm-hm. But nothing since?"
"Not even a speeding ticket."
Delgado sat back in his chair, let the smile dance around his lips. "Guess that makes you a good citizen, doesn't it, Mr. Hill?"
"If you say so."
"As a good citizen, it's probably in your best interest to cooperate with police investigations."
"Depends."
"But you've got nothing to hide, right?"
"Everybody's got something to hide. Even you, Sergeant."
Delgado's cheeks colored slightly, but he didn't take the bait. "Where were you last night, Mr. Hill?"
"Home."
"That's funny. We sent a couple of officers by your house. They rang the bell. Nobody answered."
"I didn't hear it. Did they see my car out front?"
"As a matter of fact, they did. But that doesn't mean much in your case, does it?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"You drive lots of different cars, right?"
"Just the one. Five-year-old Chevy Caprice, legally registered in my name."
"You weren't driving a different vehicle last night?"
"Nope. Like I said, I was at home. Maybe they knocked while I was in the shower."
"We called a couple of times. You didn't answer the phone."
"It was a long shower."
Stanton muttered, "Take more than a shower to get the dirt off you."
"What was that, Lieutenant?" Sam said. "You need to speak up if we're going to get you on the record."
"Screw you. You hear that all right?"
"Loud and clear."
Delgado shot Stanton a disapproving look, but said nothing to him. Instead, he asked Sam, "Ever hear of a man named Antonio Armas?"
"No."
"Sure about that? You might want to think about it before you answer."
"Never heard of him. Who is he?"
"An informant for the DEA. He's been missing for three days."
"Too bad. Must be dangerous, being a rat."
"We were told you knew where he was," Delgado said.
"Who told you that?"
Delgado smiled thinly.
"All right, you don't have to tell me," Sam said. "But whoever it is, they're full of shit. I don't know any DEA informants. And I for sure don't this Antonio Whoever."
"Armas."
"Don't know him."
Delgado and Stanton swapped a look, but Sam couldn’t tell where they were headed next.
"Why, do you suppose, would we get such a tip?" Delgado asked finally. "This information was very specific. Said Sam Hill was involved, that he knew where to find Armas."
"Maybe you got the wrong Sam Hill."
"How many could there be?"
Sam shrugged.
"What about a gold 1965 Thunderbird, belongs to a lawyer named Timothy Blankenship?"
"Don't know him either. Or his car."
"Blankenship reported the car stolen last night," Delgado said.
"Too bad. But not my problem."
Stanton leaned forward in his chair, his gray hair bristling, a flush rising in his face.
"Your problem is whatever I say it is, shitbird. We got good information here, and if you think you can dance around us, you're even more full of it than your old man was."
Sam felt the muscles in his jaw twitching. Stanton kept dragging his father into this, trying to get a rise out of him. Sam needed to tread carefully, not let the anger swell up inside. An outburst was just what Stanton wanted.
"I told you I know nothing about it," he said evenly.
"You know something," Stanton barked. "You just think you're smart. You're not, buddy. Just because I haven't locked you up before doesn't mean I don't know all about you. You're a car thief. Working with Mitchell all these years."
"Mitchell?"
"Buford Mitchell, aka 'Mitch,' of Mitch's Auto Salvage. You gonna tell me you've never heard of him either?"