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  “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”

  HENRY DAVID THOREAU

  Reel to Real

  The Video Store Murders

  Joyce Nance

  a novel based on a true story

  Copyright © 2014 Joyce Nance

  All rights reserved

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  OTHER BOOKS BY JOYCE NANCE

  Escaping the Arroyo

  Crime Doesn't Pay: Even for Cats

  Sharp as Stars

  table of contents

  chapter 1

  chapter 2

  chapter 3

  chapter 4

  chapter 5

  chapter 6

  chapter 7

  chapter 8

  chapter 9

  chapter 10

  chapter 11

  chapter 12

  chapter 13

  chapter 14

  chapter 15

  chapter 16

  chapter 17

  chapter 18

  chapter 19

  chapter 20

  chapter 21

  chapter 22

  chapter 23

  chapter 24

  chapter 25

  chapter 26

  epilogue

  about the author

  Preface

  This book is a novel based on a true story. The majority of the information was obtained from Shane Harrison's District Court trial. Esther Beckley was also interviewed at length. As in all crimes, there are many versions of how events transpired. This book represents my opinion of what happened.

  Some very minor parts of the book are completely fictional.

  The actual names of the principals of this story are used. Sub-characters are, for the most part, identified by either first names only or pseudonyms.

  Chapter 1

  “There are two kinds of light--the glow that illuminates, and the glare that obscures.”

  JAMES THURBER

  1990

  Truth or Consequences, New Mexico

  “This sucks,” Slick said out of the side of his mouth. “I fucking hate this fucking waiting shit. My feet are numb and I’m freezing my nuts off.” His breath hung in the night air as he paused to consider. “But we gotta do it. We gotta wait, leastways 'til this last one’s gone. Can’t do it with customers there.”

  Then, by way of explanation to Bryan, the man standing next to him, he added, “Employees are safer. They’re trained to comply. They’re not supposed to fight back. But customers … they can be crazy. They don’t know they’re supposed to just lay there and take it.”

  Slick lifted his upper lip, smiling at his own joke.

  No reaction from Bryan.

  Slick scrutinized his accomplice, a spindly man of twenty with greasy blond hair and a smudge of a mustache, crouching next to him behind the dumpster. “You’re ready, right?”

  No answer.

  “Right?”

  Slick kicked Bryan’s boot and saw an eyebrow twitch. He took that as a yes. Bryan didn’t talk much, and Slick appreciated that. He also appreciated that Bryan did as he was told.

  Both men were dressed completely in black, Glocks stuck in the front of their pants, Hollywood-style.

  “This job should be a piece of cake,” Slick said, resigned to making idle chatter with himself. “That last one I did was so fucking easy it wasn’t funny. So easy,” he said these last two words slowly for emphasis, “and this one … shit … it should be even easier.”

  He paused and rubbed his chin. “When I did that one up in Montana, all I did was go into that stupid restaurant where I had worked, all hooded up and shit. They didn’t even know who I was. At all. Stupid fuckers. Ha! All’s I had to do was snatch the old man from behind, tie him up, and then grab the cash from the safe. And bam … I got outta there so fucking fast I didn’t have time to think. I had over three grand in my pocket.” Slick held up three fingers. “Made a bunch of money and I got those bastards back for firing me. They had no idea. It was fucking righteous.

  “This one’ll be righteous too, you’ll see.”

  Slick eyed Bryan and saw him quietly cough a loogie that ended up on the pavement near his boot. Without standing up, Bryan extended his right leg outward, stepping on the quivering mound of snot like a bug in a bathroom and then hunkered back down.

  Slick scrunched his face. “Like I told you before,” he continued. “I talked to that guy that used to work here and he hates these owners. Fucking hates them. He used to be a waiter for ’em, but he got shit-canned last week just because he came up a few dollars short. One time. I totally, totally understand why he hates ’em. Said they take in three, maybe four thousand every Friday night. I dig those kinds of numbers. Makes it worth it.”

  Slick nodded, agreeing with himself, and then popped to a standing position to recheck the situation inside. Seeing no change, he squatted back down.

  “Anyways, dude told me when they close up at night, there’s usually just the one guy to deal with.” He pointed at the dark haired man behind the register. Him, right there — the manager. But I’m not worried about his cooperation.” He paused for effect. “You know why?”

  He waited for an answer but didn’t get one. “’Cause Mr. Glock here makes people cooperate,” he said, tapping the gun handle for emphasis.

  “They’re sure the fuck taking their damn time.” Slick frowned and crept closer. He was now standing in the darkened shadows of the Los Arcos Steak and Lobster Restaurant's side window. Bryan right behind him.

  At the time, the Los Arcos Steakhouse was considered one of the few bright spots in Truth or Consequences (or “T or C,” as locals called it), New Mexico. Other than that, T or C’s main claim to fame was allowing itself to be named after a 1950s radio quiz show.

  “Once he’s by hisself, it should go quick,” Slick said knowingly. “I just wish Fatso would get the fuck outta there so we can do our thing.”

  He again turned to Bryan for some type of response, but Bryan stood motionless, inscrutable.

  Inside the well-lit steakhouse, the two would-be robbers could see a balding, morbidly obese farmer in overalls schmoozing with a shorter, muscular guy in a dark-blue button-down shirt. The muscular guy had a name tag identifying him as the manager, but Slick already knew that. He made it his business to acquaint himself with his victims in advance. He had cased the place several times, checked out the closing routines, even had dinner there — all so he could time everything down to the last second. Eliminate surprises.

  That’s why it pissed him off so much that things were not proceeding as planned. He would make it work; he knew that, but he might have to improvise a bit, which was always risky. He knew the plan was a good one because he had used many of the same concepts to commit his successful Montana robbery. In that one, he had had only a toy gun, but this time he was doing it right. He had the real thing.

  As he waited, Slick studied his reflection in the plate-glass window. He was tall, with short dark hair and blue eyes that were maybe set a little too close together, but the gun in the pants — now that was fucking awesome! He thought it made him look more manly, more in command.

  He turned back to Bryan. “Do you remember what we’re supposed to do after we get the money?

  Bryan sucked his cheeks.

  “Right. Well, here’s the rundown again, so you know. After he’s tied up and we leave, we’re gonna go do
wn underneath the interstate, change our clothes, bury the money and sit there and wait. We’re gonna wait all night long,” Slick was talking fast, as if he had said it a hundred times already, which he probably had. “And I don’t care if you don’t really want to wait there or not. We’re gonna. Then tomorrow, when everything’s calmed down, we’ll go about our regular business and just act normal. Then, when no one’s looking ... boom! We dig up the fucking money and nobody ever even knows that it was us that did it. Ha.”

  Slick turned his head. He saw movement inside the restaurant. The customer picked up his keys from the counter, shook the manager’s hand, and strolled out the front door.

  “Finally,” Slick said in disgust. “Now, we still gotta wait for that little shit to finish his count.” His heart pounded. “We’re almost there … almost there. He’ll be walking into our arms any minute now.”

  The parking lot where they waited was empty. Slick motioned for Bryan to put on his ski mask and he did likewise, simultaneously edging toward the service entry door. Both men looked from left to right as they peered into the darkness, searching for unwanted observers.

  After one last look, Slick winked and then whispered, “He’s coming.”

  Almost as soon as the words left his mouth the manager emerged from the restaurant, his head down against the cold. He didn’t get very far before the robbers rushed him, blocking his path.

  Blindsided, the manager blinked disbelievingly at the two masked men standing before him, guns drawn.

  “What’s going on?” he said blankly.

  “Hands in the air, Captain,” Slick commanded. “And don’t even think about doing anything brave.”

  The manager froze and half-heartedly raised his arms. The intruders marched him backwards, back inside the restaurant. When he finally came to a stop, a gun barrel was leveled inches from his chin.

  “What do you want?” the manager asked, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

  “Cooperation,” Slick said, all business. “Do as I say.”

  “I’ll give you guys whatever you want.” He looked from hooded man to hooded man. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do. i tell you. Where’s the money? Where’s the safe?”

  “In the middle.”

  “Middle what?”

  “Middle office.”

  “Let’s go get it then. Let’s open it.”

  “Okay,” the manager said, trudging down a darkened hall and side-stepping into an open door.

  Slick pushed the gun into the back of the manager’s head. “Do the combination. Don’t try nothing.” The manager’s fingers fumbled and shook, as he tried to spin the numbers to their programmed positions. “Get it open, dude,” Slick said, patience waning.

  The manager was having trouble with the safe. Slick’s eyes narrowed and his breath quickened, watching things go wrong. He knew that the longer he stayed inside the restaurant the greater the odds were of someone stumbling across a robbery in progress. He needed to speed things along.

  He leaned in toward the manager’s face.

  “You have sixty seconds to open this thing up or I’m going to blow your fucking head off,” he said, panic creeping into his measured voice. The manager twirled faster, assuring the gunman that the safe would open at any moment.

  After several more tries, he finally succeeded and collapsed backward in relief.

  Slick blew out a breath, but fearing a trap, he demanded that the manager pull it together. “Stay calm, dude,” Slick said, “And get the fucking money out.”

  The manager lifted several bulging cloth bags and pushed them out onto the floor. Slick motioned for Bryan to stuff everything into the black duffel bag they had brought along. Briskly he moved the smaller bags to the larger one and zipped up.

  While the currency was being transferred, Slick mentally reviewed his “to do” list. So far, so good. He proceeded to the “getaway” portion of his plan and scooted a straight-backed chair toward the manager. “Sit down,” he ordered, and pulled a wad of zip ties from his pocket. “Lace your fingers behind your back.”

  “You don’t need to do this, man,” the manager pleaded. “You got what you wanted. You got your money. I’ll give you a head start. Go ahead and get out. I won’t tell anyone.”

  “That’s right, you won’t tell anyone. Not for a while, anyways,” Slick said. Then he zip-tied the manager’s wrists.

  “Ow,” the manager said. “These ties are too tight, man. They’re cutting into my wrists. Can you give me a break and loosen them up?”

  Slick looked at the man’s wrists. His skin had turned deep red from the ties. He was, in fact, bleeding. Slick shook his head and cut the ties with his knife, putting on a new set, somewhat looser than before.

  “Thanks, man,” the manager said.

  “Okay, manager, you’re done talking,” Slick said sternly, and stuffed a cloth napkin in his mouth. “It’s gonna be a long time before anyone hears from you again, and by the time they do, we’ll be in another fucking country.”

  Slick laughed a loud, high pitched laugh and then, duffle bag in hand, walked out the same way he had come in. Bryan hot on his heels.

  Dallas, Texas

  After partying all night and getting wasted to the point of blacking out, which happened all the time, Spice cracked her eyes open at noon. She felt like crap, and her tongue tasted like it. But, so? That’s the way she rolled. She gulped down some warm beer and lit a cigarette to freshen up.

  Her scrawny, hairy husband flopped over and faced her, his eyes a pair of lifeless holes. “We’re out,” he said flatly. “Go get more.”

  When he said “more,” he meant crack. For the two of them, a day without crack was like a day without air. They just had to have it.

  For nearly twenty years now Spice had been addicted to one drug or another, and even though the passion was one-sided, she loved them all. Her climb through the drug spectrum was typical: first marijuana, then pills, then meth. Then she eventually worked her way up to cocaine, and then ultimately, to crack.

  It turned out that crack cocaine was the crème de la crème of dope. The pleasure she felt was stratospheric, plus she didn’t have to destroy her already annihilated veins by shooting up; she could smoke it in a pipe like everybody else. She understood that there were downsides to drugs, like poverty, poor health, and the imminent possibility of assault or arrest, but again ... so? None of that held a candle to the rush that flowed through her body when she lit up. The feeling was like the best sex ever — only better.

  With two ten's in her front pocket and a hangover the size of Houston, she straddled her red, one-speed bicycle and pedaled the three short blocks over to her drug dealer’s dilapidated one story house. She glided to a stop, perspiration dotting her pale, focused face. Trying to keep a low profile, she hid her bike behind one of the side yard bushes and rapped on the back door.

  Chuckie, a barrel-bellied and altogether large black man, peered through a peep-hole and asked, “Who dere?”

  “It’s me,” she said softly, “Spice.”

  Recognizing the skinny white chick with the mop of brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses as a regular, he unlocked a complicated set of locks and let her in.

  It was even hotter in the kitchen than it was outside. Only a single overhead fan circulated in a vain effort to lessen the swelter. Two African American males in sweat-drenched wife beater t-shirts sat at the kitchen table, hard at work on a melon-sized piece of crack. One diligently chipped off chunks of product with a razor blade while the other weighed, bagged and stacked the chips in bundles by size. The bagger, a wiry guy with a gold-capped tooth, looked up as Spice entered.

  “Yo,” he said, and then turned his attention back to packaging the crack.

  “I need a twenty rock,” she said. Her arms twitched as they hung at her side.

  “Drop your bank on the table,” Goldtooth said as he took a swig from a nearby bottle of malt liquor.

 
Familiar with the routine, Spice smoothed out her two ten dollar bills and placed them side-by- side, where instructed. Normally, one of the workers put the money directly into a locked metal box kept in the freezer. But this time, Chuckie’s large, sweaty hand shot out and grabbed the cash. “Dat’s mine,” he asserted. No one argued. Spice cocked her head in curiosity at the change in procedure, but said nothing.

  Goldtooth rifled through the stack of plastic bags and selected a tiny one. “Is dis what you’re lookin’ for?” he asked.

  Spice nodded. She grabbed the bag and turned to leave, but Chuckie’s large body blocked her path.

  “Ha, ha, Chuckie,” she tried to joke. “Quit screwing with me. I need to get this shit back to my husband or he’s gonna pop a blood vessel. And then he’ll probably pop me for making him wait so long.” She tried stepping around Chuckie, but he stepped where she stepped.

  “What’s going on?” she said.

  Chuckie’s big hands reached out and grabbed her small shoulders. “Shug, I wan' chu come in here wit’ me ri’ now.”

  Spice shook her head and tried to pull away, but Chuckie’s meaty fingers dug deeper. Chills traveled the length of her spine as he pushed her from the brightness of the kitchen to the smoky, dark living room.

  “Chuckie, why you doing this?”

  Her eyes adjusted as she took in the scene. Cigarette butts, beer bottles and discarded fast food containers were scattered on the floor like crack house tumbleweeds, but it was the stack of weapons in the center of the room that got her attention. Guns of varying sizes, shapes and calibers were spread out like a criminal buffet on the scarred wooden coffee table. She shook her head. Not good, she thought. Across the room, two skinny black guys she had never seen before sat on the couch and watched as they shared a glass pipe. Also not good.

  In full view of the men on the couch, Chuckie, pushed Spice farther into the room.

  There was a grim downturn of his mouth. “Sit here,” he said and pointed to a tattered floral foot stool.

  She had no choice, she sat. Chuckie walked over to the coffee table and picked out a Smith and Wesson .45. Then he pulled back the slide and touched the barrel to Spice’s head. Her eyes widened and she held her breath.