Dead Street

“Yeah. Of course I do. Years ago, see, I hired a safe-cracker pal of mine to open this baby up. Found a lot of loot in there. Old, old loot, big oversized bills from way back when.”

“Most interesting.”

But the voice, which had a pronounced Middle Eastern accent, didn’t sound that interested.

And I was hearing more than conversation — somebody was digging down there. A couple of somebodies, probably the two jump-suited, bearded brutes, making use of the shovel and pickax I’d spotted on my previous trip here, tools that had been leaned against one carved-out dirt wall.

I risked moving down the first step. A good six steps could be mine before anybody spotted me, unless they looked up and in my direction. The stairs remained in the darkness, the central area of the cellar lighted by a couple of electric Coleman lanterns on either side on the dirt floor, like at a campsite.

So I risked another step. Like a damn ballet dancer, I placed my foot just right, and got no squeak or creak in return for my artistry.

By the time I got to the third step, I could hear a broom down there, sweeping away dirt.

If they’d turned around, they could have seen me — me and ... .45. But down there in the orange-ish glow of the Coleman lanterns, all of their backs were to me, except Bucky’s, and his attention, like theirs, was on the big old iron object that the digging and sweeping had uncovered in the dirt floor.

It was the face of a massive safe, maybe close to a hundred years old, with a combination dial and a big metal latch. The perfect place to hide a huge stash of cash. And the perfect place to hide, say, a four-foot atomic cube worth millions and packing mass destruction potential....

The four men meeting with Bucky had to be Saudis tied to the group that had bought and killed this old street, and who were vying to kill a lot more streets, maybe in this very town. The thought flashed through my mind that these bastards might be planning to turn this building itself into a bomb, to assemble their weapon right in this basement in this forgotten stretch of urban landscape in the middle of everything.

Only, they had that specially rigged van out there. And the two muscle men with work boots and gloves on. So they were here to load up the atomic cube and make for points unknown — say, Florida....

Bucky was on his hands and knees in the dirt, leaning over the massive safe, which had so many years ago been buried on its back in the basement of a gangster’s lair. He was down in the dirt in more ways than one, selling his soul and his country out to a bunch of slobs who weren’t satisfied with all that oil money, no. They had to take out the infidels, too. Hell, weren’t we their best customers? Hadn’t we paid for those black leather jackets with the matching pants these clowns were modeling?

Of course, we couldn’t offer them seventy virgins in heaven or Valhalla or wherever the hell they thought they were headed. Scrounging up seventy virgins in the big city at this stage was a stretch....

After the twisting and clicking of the combination dial, Bucky worked the latch and, standing with one foot on the dirt and another on the lower edge of the iron safe, yanked and the door yawned open with a creak worthy of a haunted house.

And all four of Bucky’s houseguests leaned forward, throwing shadows in the Coleman light, agape with anticipation: now they could see down in, behold what the old safe held.

So could I, from my perch on the third step.

Nothing.

The damn thing was empty!

Bucky’s head whirled, his eyes wide with shock and fear, and the shorter black-leather Saudi slapped him with a nine millimeter that sent the traitor tumbling down into the open safe.

And Bucky was on his back like a bug.

“What happened to the item we purchased, Mr. Mohler?” This was the other Saudi, the taller one. No emotion on the surface of the bass voice but something constricted it down low. “Where has our purchase gone?”

“I don’t know, I tell you! I don’t know! Somebody beat me to it — stole the damn thing from under us! You think I’d invite you guys here if—”

The gunshot sounded weird — like the voices, it didn’t as much echo as cause a minor tremor in the ancient rafters. Dust and grime drifted down like dirty snow. The big lead box Bucky was down in gave up a kind of metallic mini-echo, but that was mostly drowned out by Bucky screaming.

Getting shot in the knee will make a man do that.

Scream.

The smaller Saudi said calmly, “Who did you tell? You compromised this purchase, at the minimum. Who did you tell, Mr. Mohler?”

Well, I couldn’t have them killing the punk. Bucky still knew things I didn’t. And as much as I wouldn’t have minded seeing a guy who would sell out a city getting another kneecap or maybe his gonads shot off, I had to put a stop to this.