Page 10 of Duke
“Yeah, probably not.” He slapped his knees. “Time to move.”
“Are we going somewhere in particular?”
“Indirectly, yes.”
“Care to elaborate?”
Duke hesitated, eyeing me as I stood up and brushed the grass of my butt. “Well, not really, no. I’m not sure you’ll like it.”
“I’m not going to faint on you, Duke.”
“Okay, well here it goes, then. My plan is to steal a car from a gangbanger, haul ass to my stash spot in downtown Denver, and then figure out some way of getting in contact with Harris. Those assholes back there took my phone and I couldn’t find it anywhere in that piece of shit house. There wasn’t a car in the driveway or in the garage either, so I’m guessing there was at least one more person in that cell, which in turn means at some point our absence is going to be reported, assuming the camera hasn’t already done that. Which means Cain is going to have his guys looking for us. I know Cain has deep pockets and a lot of resources, so the faster I can get in touch with my guys, the faster I can get you somewhere safe. The longer we’re out here alone and out of contact, the more likely it is Cain will find us.”
I processed what he’d said. “When you say Cain has a lot of resources, what does that mean?”
Duke set off at a brisk walk rather a jog, so I paused and slipped on my sandals to give my feet a rest.
“You ask a lot of questions, Fancy.” Duke shot me a glance as I caught up to him. “Someone like Cain has only one way he can get his product across state and international lines, and that is if he has contacts that can facilitate the process. Airspace is monitored, borders are monitored, cargo ships, planes, trains, tractor trailer haulers…all that shit is kept track of. So if he wants to get fifty kilos of coke from South America to Europe, or a load of guns from Europe to the States, he has to grease palms, has to own somebody who’ll turn a blind eye to a shipment in exchange for a stack of cash.
“He also has to own well placed cops here and there, because people are going to notice a sudden influx of drugs or guns or whatever, right? Those kinds of contacts, they can do other favors, for the right price. A dirty cop can find someone pretty easily. A cop asks a few questions, puts out an APB, or gets a buddy in tech to do a facial recognition search and then, bam, Cain’s target is acquired, and he can send his boys to fetch. And those are just the small-time local cops. If he happens to know someone higher up, there’re more possibilities in terms of favors Cain can get done. None of which is good for you and me at the moment, since he’s going to be pulling in favors to get eyes on us.”
“And why are you going to hijack a car from a gangbanger?”
“Less likely it’ll be reported, for one, and I won’t feel as bad, for another. I don’t like stealing rides from innocent middle class folks. Some little punk slinging dimebags? I just don’t feel as bad. Maybe that makes me an asshole, but…fuck it, right?”
“Oh.” I made it a few more steps before a thought occurred to me. “But isn’t it more likely that a gangbanger will put up a fight?”
“Yeah, but that’s half the fun. And besides, if one lonely little thug from the hood can get the best of me, then it’s time I retire.”
“Retire?” I ask, baffled. “You can’t be more than thirty at the most.”
“Twenty-eight,” he answers. “And in my line of business, you only get old by staying good. You get sloppy, you get iced.”
“Iced,” I repeated. “You’re seriously a commando straight out of Central Casting.”
“Not sure if that’s supposed to be an insult or not.”
“Me either, actually,” I said, and I wasn’t quite able to hold back a grin.
“Well, at least we agree on that.”
We walked a bit longer, turning down this street and another, seemingly at random, until I was thoroughly lost.
We’d been walking for another half hour at least when we stopped at an intersection, Duke glancing around as if deciding which way to go.
A low-slung car pulled up to the intersection, long as a battleship and old as the houses around us, with tinted windows and spinning rims and thudding bass notes hitting in the trunk. The driver’s window slid down slowly, revealing a young black guy wearing a Broncos hat with a flat brim, a long, thick blunt dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“Yo,” he said, over the bass. “Ya’ll must be lost, rollin’ up in this hood.”
Duke swaggered over, confident, easy, hands clasped casually behind his back to hide the gun in his right fist. “Got that right,” Duke said. “And I think you can help.”
The guy in the car just laughed. “Yeah, right. Step off my shit, man.”
Duke was a few feet away now, and his hands came around from behind his back. The next several seconds occurred in a blur too fast for me to follow. All I know is, one moment Duke was two or three feet away, hands behind his back, and then he was pressed up against the car, fist through the open window, the other guy’s shirt in his fist, pistol against his temple.
“This ain’t personal, kid,” Duke said. “I just need your ride.”
“A’ight, a’ight,” the black guy said. “Ease off, man.”