Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  In front, Frank looked around, his nose wrinkled in disgust. “So which one of you two had the napalm for breakfast?” he asked as he rolled his window down. He glanced at the mime, whose face was scrunched up elaborately, and then into his rearview mirror. “Shooting us is one thing, Weeks, but there’s no need for torture.”

  “Quit whining,” Weeks answered. By now, he’d had enough of the drive himself. “Pull over there behind that empty shed.” He pointed his free hand to a rusting tool barn in an open field at the end of a driveway. “That’ll give us privacy.”

  Frank obeyed. When he stopped, the Mark IV was hidden from view from the road by the shed and there was nothing but expansive, open fields on the other three sides. He cut the engine and waited for more instructions.

  Otis looked around, pleased with his progress. “Pop the trunk, and then both you two get out.” When all three were standing next to the car, Weeks waved the nine to indicate they should stand back a few feet. They obliged, and he went to the trunk. He studied the cardboard box. Bending over, he grabbed three pairs of handcuffs and the masking tape from it. He put the tape on top of the car and then nodded to the inside. “Get in the back seat,” he ordered. “Both of you.” As they did, Otis shivered from another speed rush and belched.

  In the back of the Mark IV, his captives waited. Weeks got into the front on the passenger side and knelt, facing the back seat. He tossed the cuffs back. “Each of you cuff one wrist to the door handle, and then cuff yourselves together with the last pair. Now!” He moved the gun between them.

  They did as he instructed, and when they were done, Frank spoke. “I hope you got the keys handy.”

  “Don’t worry about that. The way I’m going to rig up this car, you guys ain’t going anywhere for a while.” Then he took the cell phone from the floor and set it on the seat top. He tucked his nine back into his waist and got out. He went to the trunk again and in a couple of minutes returned to the front seat. After placing the masking tape, the fishing line, and the hand grenade on the driver’s seat, Otis closed that door. Only the front passenger door remained open.

  Finally realizing what was happening, the mime broke his silence with a loud “Hey!” From behind the driver’s seat, he spoke. “You’re actually going to kill us? I didn’t do nothing.” He sat up, looking back and forth between his wrists and those of the man next to him, his eyes wide in terror. His voice was high and screechy.

  The other two men studied him. Otis grinned. “He can talk! How ’bout that? You finally figured it out, huh, Whitey?”

  “Calm down, pal,” Frank told the mime. “He’s not gonna kill no one.” Then he turned to the man in the front seat. “What now?”

  “We wait for your partner to call. Then I’ll invite him out here to chat. I’ll set up the car with a surprise. Don’t worry, none of you’ll feel a thing.” He got out and went to the trunk again. When he returned, he had the gas can with him, and he set it on the floor under the steering wheel. Seeing that, the mime made a gurgling sound and again fell silent. “This is a trick your friend Swallow taught me,” Weeks continued. “Lucky thing I found the grenade over at Carol’s place.”

  “But I didn’t do nothing,” the mime interjected, speaking to Otis.

  Weeks stared at him. “You know, I liked you better when you didn’t talk. You got a voice on you makes me wish I was deaf. Put a lid on it and I won’t have to kick the shit out of you.”

  Frank turned back to the mime and shrugged. “Sorry about all this. Looks like you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. What’s your name?”

  The man in black stared at him, his mouth wide open. Then he turned away, retreating back into silence.

  “That’s better,” came from the front. “Guy’s a gamer to the end.” Otis pulled a couple of feet of fishing line from the spool and tied an end to the driver’s door handle. Then he unraveled about four more feet and broke it off. He tied the other end to the pull ring on the side of the grenade. “I’ll have it set so’s when Streeter opens the door to get you, he’ll pull the pin out. Ba-boom. Gas and all. Like I said, no one’ll feel a thing.”

  “What makes you think he’ll come running out here? Nothing in it for him.”

  Weeks faced Frank again. “Because he’s such a true-blue guy. He’ll want to save you. Look at all he went through for Irwin.” He nodded. “Oh yeah, I can read the papers, too. And he’s still trying to avenge her, which is why he’s after me. Streeter’ll come running because I got something he wants. You.”

  “Don’t count on it. He’s not stupid.”

  “Probably not. But he’s got a blind spot for loyalty.”

  They sat there for about twenty minutes. Otis chattered away on mindless topics, his teeth grinding incessantly from the amphetamines. The effects of the alcohol and hash were by now completely overtaken by the speed. Suddenly, the cell phone rang. Everyone stared at it as it rang again. Weeks picked it up and pulled out the small antenna. “Good of you to call,” he said into it, winking at Frank as he spoke.

  “What’s going on?” Streeter yelled. “I thought we were meeting tonight.”

  “Calm down, dipshit. Change of plans. I’ve got your partner out here and we were hoping you’d join us.”

  “Where are you?”

  Weeks gave him directions. “Do hurry,” he said when he finished. “Someone would like to see you right quick.” With that he shoved the phone in front of Frank’s mouth. “Say howdy.”

  “Stay put, Street!” Dazzler yelled. “It’s a trap!”

  Otis pulled the phone back with his right hand and reached over the seat with his left hand clenched in a fist. He smashed Frank in the side of his face, as the mime watched in silent terror. Putting the receiver back to his mouth, Weeks said, “Don’t let that stop you, Streeter. We’ll be waiting.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Don’t do anything stupid.” Then he hung up.

  “I told you he’d come.” Otis pushed the antenna in and let the phone drop to the seat. “I better get busy here so we’re all set up for him.” He took the masking tape and pulled off a piece for Frank’s mouth. Then he stuck it across the seat top. “I can wait for that, Frank.” He turned to the other passenger. “Guess I’ll have to tape you up, too. But that can wait until I’m outside. Streeter won’t be here for a while.”

  The mime threw his head back a bit. “Bite me,” was all he said.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Streeter hung up and went to the loft to get his .38. Then he made a quick call to Terry Nathan for backup. Terry’s secretary said he had gone to Boulder to see a client and wouldn’t be back for about two hours. The bounty hunter knew he couldn’t wait that long, so he headed down to the Buick and left for Brighton Boulevard. As he drove, he wondered how the prison guard had ever located the church. How he even found out who Streeter and Frank were. Sort that out later. Rolling three stop signs and two lights, he still took over fifteen minutes to get to Riverside Cemetery. As he turned west, he thought of Frank. He hit the accelerator and flew around a UPS panel truck. Playing Mission Impossible, as Linda put it, was about to get his best friend killed. He couldn’t let that happen.

  “I better finish up here and get moving,” Otis said as he got on his knees in the driver’s seat and faced the open passenger door. “Don’t want to be around when he gets here.” He held the grenade, tied to the fishing line, in his left hand as he propped himself up with his right on the seat next to him. “Tape this to the door here, so when Streeter opens it the pin comes out, and the car blows.”

  Frank studied him. “What if Street comes through one of the back doors?”

  “They’ll be locked, with the windows rolled up. The only way he can get in is through a front door. Either one’ll set her off. I’ve got enough fishing line to let me slide on outta the car, yet I’ll keep it tight, so when the door opens the pin gets pulled. By the time he figures out what he did, it’ll be too late. He’ll only have a few seconds to react.”
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br />   “What if he sees the line and doesn’t bite?”

  “That’s an excellent question, Frank.” Otis was now on all fours, his knees on the console between the front seats, his hands on the passenger side. He shuddered silently from the speed before answering. “First of all, this line’s damned near invisible. I figure he’ll be in such a hurry to get you out, he won’t see it. But even if he does, I’ll be waiting in the shed over there. If he don’t go for it, I’ll shoot him and take care of you two myself. I appreciate your concern, Frank, but I got her covered.”

  Another huge speed rush shivered through Otis as he worked his way closer to the passenger door. That caused his hip to swing hard into the steering wheel, setting off the horn. A harsh blast of noise filled the car and startled Weeks. He shot straight up, causing an unfortunate series of events to occur. His head smacked into the ceiling, knocking him nearly unconscious. The quick motion also yanked hard at the line, pulling the ring pin from the grenade in his hand. Weeks then tumbled wildly down toward the passenger door. As he crashed into the floor, his left shoulder smashed into it with such force that he let out a scream of pain. But he held on to the grenade and ended up with it wedged between his shoulder and the floor well next to the door. Miraculously, it was wedged so tightly that the release bar stayed clamped shut in his hand, keeping it deactivated. In the commotion, the nine-mil fell off the seat and landed on the floor under Otis’s chest.

  When the horn went off, Frank and the mime lunged forward. They saw the tail end of the bizarre sequence. It was quiet for a minute before Otis screamed again. Then, “Jesus, damn, my shoulder hurts! I think I broke it!”

  Frank and the mime, still handcuffed, turned to look at each other. The mime’s mouth flew open in confusion, but he didn’t speak. Then they both turned back to Otis. About all they could see of him over the front seat was his wide, green plaid rear end sticking up, pointing at them. When he landed on his face and shoulder, his hips and butt followed, and his knees rested on the passenger seat.

  “If it’s broke, get up off of it.” Frank stated what seemed obvious.

  Otis, his head turned sharply to the right, responded through teeth clenched nearly shut by his weird position. “I can’t. The damned grenade’s right under it and the pin came out. If I move at all, it’ll go off. It’s right behind my head. I’m holding that bar thing on the side shut, but if I get up, it gets released.”

  “Great, Otis.” Frank thought for a moment. “Can’t you reach it with your right hand? It looks free from here. Maybe you could throw it way the hell out in the field by the time it blows?”

  Weeks considered that option. “I don’t think I can get to it fast enough,” came the jangled response. “My damned left shoulder’s busted, and by the time I move off the grenade and grab it with my good hand, it’ll be too late.”

  “It’s probably just dislocated, but don’t move. When Streeter gets here, he can pull the grenade out and toss it. Stay still.” He turned to the mime. “You got any brilliant ideas?” he asked the man cuffed to him.

  The mime glanced at him and shook his head emphatically. Then he turned again to face the plaid butt on the other side of the seat.

  “And you people wonder why everyone hates you so much,” Frank said loudly. Turning back to Otis, he asked, “What the hell are you on that has you shaking and grinding your teeth like that?”

  Through clenched jaws, “White Cross. Keeps me sharp. On top of things.”

  “Jesus. If this is sharp, I’d hate to see how you operate when you’re straight.”

  By the time Streeter got to the drive leading to the shed, his mouth was dry, his shirt laced with sweat. He slammed on the brakes, skidding past the drive. Then he shoved the Buick into reverse. When he got into position, he put it in low and blasted toward the shed. Once there, he parked near the small building and jumped out. With the .38 in both hands, he moved carefully along the side of the shed. Before he turned the corner, he listened closely. Nothing but distant road sounds. He came around to the back, the gun at shoulder level. About twenty feet in front of him, Frank’s white Mark IV sat with the open front door facing him. On the ground next to the car lay an orange hunting cap. Just inside, he could see the top of a head with thinning sandy hair. Otis, his butt in the air. One of Weeks’ arms dangled outside the car while the other appeared to be jammed up near the side of his head.

  From the back seat, Frank saw him spin around the corner. “Street!” he yelled as he leaned in that direction. “Get over here fast!”

  The bounty hunter walked to the Lincoln. “What the hell happened?” He nodded at the head on the floor. “Is he dead?”

  “No,” Frank returned. “But he sure screwed up.” By now, his partner was just outside the car door from where he sat. “He was rigging a trip wire to a hand grenade, but he’s so trashed on speed that he messed up. The grenade’s under his shoulder and the pin’s out. You gotta get it and toss it away from here.”

  Streeter glanced in at the mime on the other side of his partner and frowned.

  “Don’t even ask,” Frank said. “I’ll tell you about him later. Weeks has us cuffed back here so we can’t leave.”

  Setting his gun on the car roof, Streeter knelt down by Otis. “You awake?” he asked the head on the car floor.

  “Get this thing out of here,” Weeks answered. “My shoulder’s busted, and if I don’t get off it soon, I’m fucked. This grenade’s gonna slip any time now.”

  “Relax. I should just cut them loose in back and leave you here.” He looked around Weeks’ head. When he spotted the top of the grenade just behind his neck, he reached in and nearly touched it. Then he glanced off toward the front of the car.

  “Come on, man!” Otis could feel the speed still jerking through his system.

  “This is how we’ll do it,” Streeter finally said. “When I count three, you pull your head and shoulder back as much as you can. I’ll grab the grenade and throw it out front.” He looked at Frank. “Get down back there.” Then to Otis. “You understand, Weeks? The count of three.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just do it.”

  In the back seat, Frank and the mime extended their legs forward and lay on the seat as low as possible.

  “Here goes,” Streeter said. He leaned in so his face was about ten inches over Weeks’ head. “One! Two! Three!”

  Otis shifted, not much, but enough, so most of the grenade was visible and it rolled slightly forward, activated. Streeter quickly grabbed the thing. Then he jumped to his feet and threw it about thirty yards into the shrub grass in the open field. It rolled wildly for a couple of seconds before it blew. By that time, Streeter had dropped to the ground, facedown. The explosion shook the earth. Dirt, stones, and grass flew in all directions, and even the heavy Mark IV seemed to hop. It was so loud that all four men had an immediate ringing in their ears. But when the dust began to settle, they were all alive. Slowly, Streeter stood up, shaking dirt from his hair and working his jaw. He looked into the back seat. Both men were sitting up. Frank was gingerly moving his head around to get his neck limber.

  “Everyone all right back there?” Streeter asked, leaning in the rear window.

  “My head hurts, but I’ll live,” his partner answered. The mime kept opening and shutting his mouth dramatically, as if to get his ears to pop. He looked right at Streeter, nodded, but said nothing.

  The bounty hunter looked over the front hood of the Mark IV, which was covered with dust. Off in the distance, he heard the low wail of a siren approaching from the southeast, the way he’d just come. A harsh burning smell filled the air.

  Suddenly, right in front of him, Otis’s chubby, awkward form stumbled out of the car. He almost fell, but caught himself. When he spun to face Streeter, the shiny nine-mil was planted in his right hand. His left hand was nearly immobile by his side, since that shoulder still hurt. Streeter glanced at his own .38, which was on the car top, about four feet away.

  Weeks saw the look and hollered,
“Don’t try it, asshole! Lock your hands behind your head and move away! Slow and easy!” His voice was shaky but he held the gun still.

  Streeter did neither. “Weeks, don’t you ever give up? Listen to those sirens. The police’ll find this place in a few minutes. Grenade blasts tend to get people’s attention. Give it up!”

  Otis reached laboriously across his body with his left hand and grabbed the .38 from the hood. Without looking back, he then tossed it on the ground behind him. The nine was still trained on Streeter. Weeks held it at about chest level, his arm bent. But he didn’t seem to know what to do next.

  “You’re in enough trouble,” Streeter continued, still not moving away from the car. “Don’t add another murder on top of all the other charges.”

  “Another murder,” Otis repeated. “I got nothing to lose, man.” He nodded and pulled the trigger.

  Seconds before that, Frank had yanked hard with his left hand, forcing the mime close to him. That gave him a sliver of room to navigate in the back seat. In one quick motion, the bondsman shot his head out the window and rammed the top of it into Otis’s gun hand as he fired. That pushed the nine-millimeter off to the left and up as Weeks squeezed the trigger. The slug whistled past Streeter’s head.

  Otis was deeply dazed by the move. In the confusion, Streeter stepped forward and grabbed his right wrist just above the nine. He forced that hand down and held it there like a vise. Weeks screamed and shivered visibly one more time from the speed, a pained look in his eyes. He panicked and hugged off another round. This time the slug hit flesh: Otis’s right foot, almost directly in the middle. His mouth dropped open and his eyes rolled back behind his glasses. Then he dropped straight down into an unconscious pile of plaid and tan.

  Frank and Streeter stared at the man on the ground. From deep in the car, the mime bobbed his head to get a look, too.