Reel to Real (12 page)

“Wanna beer?” Shane asked pleasantly.

“Yeah, I guess I could. I drug tested already this morning.”

He brought her a cold Bud Lite and sat down next to her.

Looking thoughtful he said, “That Mac thing went pretty smooth, huh?

“I guess so.”

“We got in, got out, made some all right cash.”

Esther nodded.

Tapping an extended ash from his cigarette into the ashtray, Shane continued, “I know this is kind of new work to you, but I think you might be a natural. You did good. The whole thing went better than I thought it would.” Esther raised her eyebrows and listened. “Nobody got hurt, we didn’t get caught. Nothing bad at
all
happened. It went just like it was supposed to.” Shane turned to face her. “I think we work pretty fucking bitching together. Am I right?”

“Ri-ight.”

“So whataya say ’bout doin’ another one? A quick one; a bigger payoff one. One we can make so-ooo much more money on, to where we’d be fucking set for a while.”

Esther took a big swallow of beer and did not answer.

“I really need you on this, Esther,” he pressed. “Everything came together on the last one, right?  I really don’t think I could do it without you.” He rubbed his hands together. “And, here’s the best part,  the very best part. We’ll be able to get a bunch more money for John, so you guys can get back together.”

Shane had spoken the magic words and he knew it. Esther looked up at him, eyes wide. “Tell me what I’d have to do, and I’ll think about it.”

Smiling his widest, brightest, shit-eating smile, Shane explained the details of their next armed robbery.

***

Anyone who cared to listen closely could hear the wheezing of the customers’ lungs as they huffed their way through Walmart. The Muzak, the vastness, the dead look. It was a world unto itself, one you could easily get lost in, or at least not get noticed.

Shane and Esther were not noticed.

They purchased another replica 9mm BB gun. Shane said it would be better if they each had their own. He explained that there would be more employees this time, so more guns were needed for control. He reminded her more than once that the reason for using BB guns was simple: people cooperated but no one got hurt. Esther agreed with this idea.

9 PM

Lauren, the Hollywood Video night manager, looked out of the glass entry doors and saw a small black sports car in the darkened parking lot. Her heart raced. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but the car disturbed her. She stared at it, waiting to see who got out.

No one got out.

Should I call the cops?
she asked herself.
Not yet, not yet.
Let’s see what happens. I can lock the door quickly if I have to, and there’s always the panic button. No one will like it if I over-react.

Inside the vehicle, she saw movement. She was pretty sure there were two people in there. One or both might be women. Both occupants appeared to have long hair.

Lauren edged along the glass to get a closer look at the vehicle. She wasn’t positive, but she thought she saw a glint of light bounce off the face of the person sitting in the passenger side. She thought that person might be wearing glasses.

Just as she was about to call another employee over to take a look, the black car sped away.

Wednesday, February 28, 1996

Staff Sergeant Adam Romero had been actively serving in the U.S. Air Force for over ten years, working in munitions most of that time. In July of 1994, he moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico, his new post.

Adam was a gun enthusiast and owned quite a few types of firearms. Every now and then, if he saw a gun that interested him, he bought it. When he was stationed in Texas he bought a TEC-9, a 9mm handgun with a bad reputation. It was essentially a low-priced, semi-automatic version of a military submachine gun. Two TEC-9s were used in a notorious 1993 mass murder in San Francisco, California, that killed eight people and injured six others. Not too far in the future, in 1999, a TEC-9 would play a key role in the Columbine High School massacre.

The TEC-9 came with a pistol grip, a barrel shroud and the ability to hold large-capacity magazines. It was the gun of choice for many self-styled gangsters. Adam bought it for target shooting, but he hadn’t even done much of that, only taking it out to the range a couple of times. It turned out; it wasn’t a very accurate weapon.

This gun had become a giant pain in the derriere for Adam. After Texas, he was stationed in California, where he registered the gun as required. The TEC-9 was on the assault weapons banned list in that state.

A few years later, even after he moved to New Mexico, Adam still continued to receive phone calls from California about the gun. He decided it was more trouble than it was worth and placed a classified ad in the Albuquerque Journal to sell it. The ad was scheduled to run for one week.

Thursday, February 29, 1996

Raina had had enough. First, the lying, then the revelation that he had been in prison. Then it turned out that most of Shane’s friends were ex-cons. He even tried to get her involved in his credit card scam. As each day passed she felt more and more uncomfortable.

Then one day, Shane brought home a shotgun. As far as Raina was concerned, he had crossed the line with that move. She abhorred guns and he knew it. It had been a couple of days since he brought it into the apartment, and it wasn’t feeling any righter. Shane was out of control, and he was scaring her. This was not the happy, peaceful life she wanted. She decided to have a talk with him.

She worked hard to keep her voice even. “What do you need a shotgun for?” she asked.

“I’m going to use it to make some money,” Shane said without hesitating.

“Money?” Raina shook her head in disgust.

“It’s not what you think.”

“Yeah, what is it?”

“I”m gonna be a bodyguard.”

She tilted her head. “With a shotgun? That doesn’t sound true.”

“I’m gonna be Mary Jane’s bodyguard.”

Raina mouthed the word, “What?”

“I was offered a job to help this guy drive 18-wheelers up from Mexico. Trucks full of weed, you know — marijuana. So the pot gets to Albuquerque for people to smoke. It’s a service.”

He paused, to read her face.

She frowned, but he continued anyway. “The guy told me he needs protection when he drives. You know, from other guys and cops and shit. So I’m gonna be his protection. I’m gonna ride shotgun with a shotgun.” He looked again for a reaction to his small joke but her face hadn’t changed. “Basically, I’m gonna be his sniper.”

She glared at him.

He put his hands up. “Hey, don’t get mad at me. How do you think that shit gets here?”

Raina crossed her arms.

“I’m gonna help the potheads,” he said. “
And,
I’m gonna make a butt-load of money.”

Raina looked him in the eye. “I can’t stay here anymore, Shane. You don’t make any sense to me. I’d rather live in my van than have anything to do with you. I gotta go. Have a great life.”

Raina walked out the door.

Friday, March 1, 1996 5 PM

Jason kissed the pit bull puppy on the head before placing him at Shane’s feet. “Be a good boy, Buddy,” he said. “Daddy’ll be back in a couple of days.”

“Don’t worry man,” Shane said. “He’s in good hands. I’ll watch him like he’s my own.” He gave Buddy a playful tug on the ear.

Shane had agreed to puppy-sit while Jason went to Juarez, Mexico, for the weekend. Jason had asked Shane to join him on his trip but Shane declined. He said he was tied up.

6 PM

With Buddy resting comfortably in his lap, Shane made a phone call. A man with a slight southern accent answered.

Shane cleared his throat. “I’m callin’ about the TEC-9 handgun advertised in the paper. Is it still for sale?”

“Yes sir, it is,” the man replied.

“Could I come over and see it tonight?”

“You want to see the gun tonight? Hmm, I don’t know about that. I won’t be done with dinner ’til after 8:30.”

“Well, I pretty much need to buy it today,” Shane said, his voice cracking. “Could I come over after you’re done with your dinner?”

“You
need
to buy it today? Why’s that?”

“My brother’s in the Army and I’m buying it for him. He’s shipping out tomorrow night and I wanted to get it to him before he left.”

The man wanted to know where the brother was stationed and Shane said Fort Carson, Colorado. Shane told him his brother was in the Special Forces and had been looking for this type of gun for a while. The man said it seemed a little weird to need to buy a gun so fast.

“Oh yeah, I know what you mean, it does sound kinda weird,” Shane agreed, voice steadier. “It’s just that when I saw your ad in the paper, I called my brother right away and told him about it. He really wanted me to get it for him before he shipped out to Florida. If it makes you feel any better, I’m gonna bring my mother down with me when I meet you. She’ll vouch for my brother and me both.”

The man told Shane to hold on a minute while he consulted with his wife.

“I guess that sounds okay,” he said when he returned. “How ’bout I meet you down at the Dunkin' Donuts on Gibson at around 9:30? Does that work okay for you?

Shane put the puppy down and stood up. “I’ll be there,” he said.

“By the way, my name’s Adam Romero and I drive a four-by-four, extended-cab pickup truck. It’s red.”

“Good deal. I’m Mike Harmon and I drive a black sports car. I’ll be easy to spot. I’ve got long dark hair and my mom’ll be with me.”

7 PM

“Tell me again, why you have to have Jason’s black leather motorcycle jacket?” Esther questioned.

“I don’t wanna wear mine when we do the video thing,” Shane explained as he casually thumbed through the clothes in Jason’s closet. “I don’t want it connected with me.”

When he found what he was looking for, he pulled the jacket out and put it on. On impulse, he walked over to the full-length mirror in the bathroom and admired himself.

“Jason’s not going to miss it anyway,” Shane continued, changing to a sideways pose. “He’s out of town this weekend and I’m just gonna borrow it for a couple of hours and then give it right back. He’ll never even know it’s been gone.”

9:30 PM

Adam and his wife Beth Ann pulled into the Dunkin' Donuts parking lot a little early. Adam didn’t see anyone yet so he and his wife went into the doughnut shop and ordered coffee. Minutes later, a small black car rumbled into the parking lot. Adam spotted the long hair right away and figured this was the guy he had talked to earlier. He was quite the sight. Besides the hair, he had on a black biker jacket and was accompanied by an older, somewhat-plump woman. She was dressed a little strangely as well, wearing brown thigh-high street-walker-type boots.

Adam went outside alone and introduced himself.

The guy with the long hair extended his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “I’m Mike and this is my mom.”

Mike and his mother seemed friendly enough. They thanked Adam over and over for agreeing to meet with them.

Adam opened the passenger-side door of his truck and picked up a hard black camera case. “Here it is,” he said. “I keep my guns cleaned, oiled, and secure.” He unlocked the case with a key.

“Nice,” Mike said, looking inside, smiling.

“Yeah, it’s alright,” Adam said. He lifted the gun out of the case and as soon as he did, the woman became excited. She grabbed it and held it up to eye-level, studying it.

“How many bullets fit in the clip?” she asked.

“That one holds twenty,” Adam replied. “I have another one that holds thirty-two.” He got the sense by the awkward way she held the gun that she hadn’t been around firearms much, but for whatever reason, she seemed intrigued by the TEC-9.

Mike's eyebrows drew together and his jaw muscle tightened as he grabbed the pistol from her, examining it himself. “Is any ammo included?” he asked.

Adam hesitated. “No, but I can throw in a couple of ammo clips with the deal if you want ’em.”

“You can? That’s very cool. Hey, do you know what version this one is?”

“Huh?”

“What version is this gun?” Mike turned the gun over in his hands. “Is it the long one or the short one?”

“It’s the shorter model, if that’s what you mean.” Adam knew enough about this type of gun to know there were two different models of the TEC-9; one with a four-inch barrel and this one, which was a two-inch barrel. The TEC-9 also had the capacity to hold up to either a 50-round box magazine or a 72-round drum magazine. The number represented how many bullets could be fired without reloading.

Mike told Adam he was going out of town later that night or first thing in the morning and mentioned again that he wanted to purchase the gun for his brother. He explained that his brother had fired a TEC-9 at one point and liked it. His brother had been looking to buy a gun like this for some time.

Mike peered into the barrel. “Has this pistol ever jammed on you?”

“No,” Adam said, “it hasn’t, but I’ve only used it for target practice and only a couple of times. For the amount I’ve used it, I’ve never had any trouble, jamming or otherwise.”

“Have you ever tried using your long magazine?”

“Nope. I haven’t fooled around with it much. I’m sure it works fine though.”

“Yeah, it probably does. It looks like you took real good care of it.”

“My dad always said, ’Take care of your equipment and your equipment will take care of you.’”

Mike gave Adam a weak smile. “What’s your price, sir?” he asked.

Adam looked him in the eye. “Three hundred bucks.”

“Okay,” Mike said, no argument.

“You got that much with you?”

“Yeah, that’s not a problem.” Mike reached into his jacket’s inner pocket and pulled out a handful of tens and twenties. “It’s all there. Go ahead and count it,” Mike said and held the money out. In the exchange, Adam accidentally dropped the bills on the pavement and glanced around to see if anyone was watching him. It occurred to him that exchanging money in a parking lot might look like he was doing something illegal. Fortunately, no one was paying any attention.