Stuart Woods - Santa Fe Edge

Vittorio found a parking place, and they found a table on the front porch and ordered a drink. As they were looking at the menu a man walked past their table, a newspaper under his arm and a bag of food in his other hand. He got into the station wagon, backed out and drove away.

“You know who that is?” Vittorio asked.

“Never saw him before,” Cupie replied, sipping his drink.

“That’s the guy who’s staying in Barbara’s house.”

“You think he’s driving her car?”

“That’s my guess,” Vittorio replied. “If she went to San Francisco or L.A. she wouldn’t drive, would she? She’d fly.”

“Yep,” Cupie replied. “We need that guy’s name.”

“The car won’t be registered to him. How will we get that?”

Cupie thought about it. “We could hit him over the head and take a look at his wallet.”

“There’s gotta be a lazier way,” Vittorio said. He got up, walked into the market and over to the checkout counter, where a young girl was sitting at the register, looking bored. “Excuse me,” Vittorio said to her. “That guy who just walked out: Do you know his name? He looked familiar.”

“The tall guy?” she asked.

“Yeah, with the western shirt.”

She looked down at an electronic credit card reader and pushed a couple of buttons. “Barton Cross, it says here,” she said.

“Nah, he’s not who I thought he was. Thanks.” Vittorio returned to the table. “His name is Barton Cross,” he said to Cupie.

“Mean anything to you?”

“He said he worked at a movie studio and he was doing some work here. That would probably be on James Long’s movie, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, probably. I think that’s the only production in town at the moment.”

“What’s that studio in L.A. that Long works out of?”

“Centurion,” Cupie replied.

Vittorio got out his cell phone and dialed information, and they connected him.

“Centurion Studios,” an operator said.

“Mr. Barton Cross, please.”

“Just a moment.” There was a click followed by ringing.

“Long Productions,” a man’s voice said.

“May I speak with Barton Cross,” Vittorio asked.

“Bart is on vacation,” the man replied. “Can I take a message?”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“End of the month, I think.”

“I’ll call back then.” Vittorio hung up. “Bart Cross is on vacation for a couple of weeks.”

“Not working in Santa Fe?”

“Nope. On vacation.”

“I like him for a hit man,” Cupie said.

“So do I,” Vittorio replied.

Barbara dialed the throwaway cell phone she had given Bart Cross and got no answer. “Damn him!” she said aloud. “I told him to keep that phone handy!”

Her own throwaway suddenly rang. “Yes?”

“It’s me,” he said. “I was in the shower and didn’t get there in time.”

“All right,” she said. “Are you making progress?”

“I had a good look at the property today,” he replied. “I know you want me to use a knife, but I think the better plan is to use a rifle from up the road. There’s a good view of the front of the house, and I can get a clean shot when he leaves for work.”

“I want you to use the knife,” she said. “I want him to have time to think about why he’s dying before he does. That won’t work with a rifle; you’ll just put his lights out. I want her to find him bleeding, too, before you do her. You can shoot her if you want to, after she’s seen him.”

“You’re one angry lady,” Bart said.

“Yes, and you don’t want me angry at you. Are you doing the things I told you?”

“Yeah, I’m using only this phone, not my own.”

“What about credit cards?”

There was a brief silence. “Well…”

“You used your own credit card?”

“Just once, at the Tesuque Market.”

“Don’t you know that can let the police place you in Santa Fe?”

“It won’t happen again, and there’ll be no reason for them to look at me.”

“I want you to take the station wagon back to Albuquerque tomorrow, put it in the same spot in the parking lot, then steal a car.”

“That’s a bad idea,” Bart said. “I’d have to use a credit card. They won’t let you pay cash up front.”

“Don’t you have any false ID?”

“I have one, but it’s not a driver’s license.”

“Then after you leave the wagon in the parking lot, buy a used car and abandon it in the parking lot when you’re done. It’ll be there for weeks, maybe months, before anyone notices it.”

“You paying for a new car?”

“No, that’s part of your expenses. You wouldn’t have to do this if you hadn’t so stupidly used your credit card. I’m just trying to keep you from getting arrested.”

“All right, I’ll do it your way,” he said.

“Take the car back to Albuquerque first thing in the morning.”

“All right.”

“Call me tomorrow and tell me what you’ve done.”

“I was going to kill him tomorrow morning.”

“You’re not ready until you fix the car problem,” she said, then hung up.

BART WOKE UP LATER than he had planned: It was after nine. He got himself together, got out the car and headed for Albuquerque.

As he got onto I-25 he remembered that he hadn’t closed the garage door. He thought about going back and doing it, but he would be gone for only a few hours, so what the hell?

He drove to Albuquerque International and returned the station wagon to the parking lot, left the ticket under the sun visor and got a cab into town. “Is there a street with a lot of car dealerships?” he asked the driver.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Take me there.”

The driver dropped him off in front of a Toyota dealer, and Bart strolled around the used lot. He was looking for something old, anonymous, but with fairly low mileage. Instead, he stopped in front of a shiny pickup truck.

A salesman approached. “Nice one, isn’t it?”

“Not bad,” Bart said, checking the mileage.

“Driven by a woman who had a landscaping business, so it never carried anything heavier than a bag of fertilizer and a few plants. It’s not like it was used for construction.”

The key was in the ignition, and Bart started the truck. “Let’s go for a ride.” He returned after driving it three or four miles. It was perfect. “Can you ship it to L.A.?” he asked.

“Sure. Probably cost you five hundred.”

“What are you asking?”

“Ten thousand; that’s a wholesale price.”

“I’ll give you seventy-five hundred, cash.”

The man got out his cell phone. “Let me call my boss.” He got out of the truck and made the call while Bart walked around the vehicle, looking for flaws. There weren’t any, and it had new tires on it.

The salesman closed his phone. “Eight thousand is as low as he’ll go,” he said to Bart.

Bart thought about it; he had about fourteen thousand on him. “Deal,” he said.

“Let’s go into the office.”

“I’ll bring it back end of the month, and you can ship it,” he said.

“No problem. I’ll make the arrangements today, and if you pay now, all you’ll need to do is phone me and I’ll pick up the truck at the airport. You’ll be flying out, I guess.”

“That’s right,” Bart said. “You can keep a key.”

VITTORIO SLOWED AS HE neared Barbara’s little guesthouse. “The garage door is open,” he said, “and there’s no car inside.”

“Why don’t we see if we can get into the house through there?” Cupie offered.

They pulled into the driveway and got out. Vittorio led the way into the garage. “Inside door,” he said, pointing. He tried it, but it was locked.