Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  It wasn’t until shortly before midnight that Dexter finally got Rudy on the phone at home. By then, he was too drunk to make any sense. Hell, Dexter thought as he hung up, the idiot probably won’t even remember that I called. He decided to drive over to Rudy’s early in the morning and see if he could wrestle something out of him. Then he had another beer himself and went to bed. He figured he’d hear what Rudy had in mind, have the man tell him what Grover was up to, and then see if there was any wiggle room in all that for him to make a play. A lot of money and drugs on the table. Might be a way to get some of it moving his way. Dexter wanted to stay loyal to the man, but he always liked to keep his options open.

  Frank was waiting in his office when Streeter got back to the church that night. He was sitting at his desk reading a Louis L’Amour novel and nursing a Johnnie Walker Red when his partner walked in. Without a word, he held up his glass and raised his eyebrows, his way of asking if the bounty hunter cared to join him. Streeter nodded and Frank turned around to his credenza and grabbed a glass. He dropped in a few ice cubes from the bucket and then poured a couple of ounces. They sat drinking for a while, with Streeter filling his partner in on the plan for the next day.

  “Sounds like you got all the bases covered,” Frank said when he’d finished. “But there still might be one problem. Richie drew a lot of attention with that stunt down in Mexico. Doesn’t he have some explaining to do to the State Department and the local cops? Not to mention that the media’s gonna have a field day bugging him about it.”

  “We talked a little about that just before I left.” Streeter took a sip from his drink. “He and Tina came up with some elaborate story about how Richie was going down there on vacation and he got robbed. Hence the blood on his car. Then it took him forever to get back to civilization because they banged up his head and he wasn’t thinking too clearly. Finally he hitched his way back to the States. It sounds ridiculous to me, but that’s none of my concern. Plus, as far as anyone knows, he didn’t break the law, so no one should be very worried about details.”

  “You don’t seem too thrilled. I’d think you would be,” Frank said. “Not much for you to do but hand over some keys and you’re out of it.”

  “That’s true. It’s just that Marty was acting so strange tonight. So pissed off and disagreeable. You should have seen him. He acted like he wanted to kill someone. Namely, his nephew. It was ugly, plus he’d switch over and be a nice guy without a moment’s notice. I wonder what’s really going on with that guy.”

  Frank leaned forward, his voice getting serious. “Look, Marty comes off like your best pal when he’s pitching waterbeds on TV, but he can be a son of a bitch. You don’t become a multimillionaire like that without being able to turn the screws on people or without taking care of yourself first and foremost. He’s moody and he’s got a temper. The only thing that saves him from being a total bastard a lot of the time is Marlene. On his own he’s capable of damned near anything.”

  “I thought you two were such good old buddies.”

  Frank shook his head. “We got a lot of history together, but we were never that close. You don’t see me socializing with him, do you?”

  “I guess not.” Streeter sipped his Scotch. “That Tina Gillis is something. A knockout and she’s got nerve, too. My hunch is this whole thing was her doing and only Richie screwing up the night of the robbery kept them from pulling it off. He seems harmless, but I can’t see why she’d be with him.” He looked up at Frank. “Of course, I can’t understand what women think and do around men most of the time. You see it every day: gorgeous women who have it all together and they’re with some joker who basically doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.”

  “I hear you, Street,” Frank responded. “There doesn’t seem to be any end to that blind spot women have for certain men.” He smiled. “But maybe that old blind spot has a reason behind it. Like it appeals to a woman when a man’s dead certain what he wants and what he’s doing with her. Take this Richie character. Could be Tina likes him because he wants her so much. Appears to me that you could use a little of that certainty yourself when dealing with the better gender. Decide what you’re really after and then just go get it for a change.”

  “Yeah?” Streeter pondered that. “Could be. Anyhow, it seems that the guitar teacher I mentioned might have a blind spot for me. I talked to her Thursday and we’re having our big date tomorrow night.” He flashed a grin. “Maybe there is a God after all.”

  Frank nodded and tipped his glass toward the bounty hunter. “Could be you’ll find out tomorrow.”

  NINETEEN

  Rudy’s hangover was about an eight and a half on a scale of one to ten, with ten being dead and almost buried. He squinted at his watch and saw that it was time. Forty-five minutes before Streeter was to meet Grover. Time to set part one of his plan into motion. No way he’d let Grover have what was waiting in those lockers. Rudy would rather see the money burned and the ludes dumped into the Cherry Creek Reservoir than to have Royals get his hands on them. Plus, Rudy wanted the files back to cover his own ass. To hell with Dexter Calley. Stupid Indian never returned his calls.

  On to phase one all by himself. Phase two, he’d think up later.

  Streeter had gone to the bus station that morning right after he’d finished his daily weight workout in his basement gym. He’d gotten to the station shortly before nine, still in his sweats. Then he put Marty’s cash into locker B-38 and opened the other two lockers. Glancing inside each, he wanted to make sure that Richie and Tina were leveling with him. Sure enough, both contained papers held with rubber bands he assumed to be the files, two accordion folders stuffed with Grover’s cash, and a couple of huge red Igloo coolers. The inspection completed, Streeter walked around the station for a few minutes checking out the exits and the layout in general. He also watched to see if Grover had sent someone to follow him. Frank Dazzler sat in the Buick on the southeast corner, watching as well.

  When they got back to the church, Frank went to his office and Streeter headed upstairs for a shower. A few minutes after ten, he came back downstairs and checked addresses for a bail jumper that he’d look for that afternoon. It was about half an hour before he was to leave for the station when the desk phone rang. Frank grabbed it.

  “Bail Bonds,” he said, still looking at the papers in front of him. “He’s here.” He glanced over at Streeter and extended the receiver to him across the desk.

  Streeter took it and frowned. “Yeah?” His voice sounded annoyed.

  “Jesus,” Rudy said. “Some way to talk to a guy who’s calling to do you a favor.”

  Streeter’s frown deepened. He didn’t recognize the voice but it had a certain street flatness to it. “Who is this?” he asked, even less patient.

  “This is a guy that knows exactly what the hell’s going on down there on South Santa Fe. I also know about your business with Mr. Royals over at the bus station in a little while. I know about the whole fucking deal, Mr. Streeter, and I know that Grover’s gonna screw you over and kill Tina and Richie this morning. Does that sound like someone you might have a couple of minutes to talk to?”

  “Yes, it does. Do I know you?” He held up his hand, palm facing Frank to get his attention. The bondsman stared at him.

  “No. But I know all the other players in this deal.” He paused. “Royals is gonna be at the station at eleven, all right. And while you guys are busy breaking the law, a couple of his playmates will be moving on those two out at Marty’s place. They’re out there right now keeping an eye on things. See, Royals might talk a good game about just wanting to get his stuff back, but what he really wants is to crush those two. His main thing is that he’s really, really pissed that Richie and Tina stole from him. All he thinks about is payback.”

  “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

  “Why would I bullshit you? Look, Streeter, you do what you gotta do here. But if I’m right, Grover gets everything he wants and those two are
dead.”

  Streeter worked the fingertips of his right hand over his forehead, thinking. “Give me some assurance that this is on the level.”

  “Assurance!” Rudy hollered. The sharp noise stirred his hangover, so he toned down his voice. “To hell with assurance. You know, you’re not as bright as everyone says. How would I know about this in the first place? ’Less your head’s completely up your ass, I’d get down Santa Fe and check it out. You leave now, you might have time to stop all the fun.” He hung up.

  Streeter stood up and stared ahead. Frank leaned forward. “The hell was that all about?” he asked.

  “That was about Richie and Tina getting killed today.” He looked at his partner. “Or it might be just a lot of horseshit.”

  “Who was it?”

  “He wouldn’t give his name but he sounded like one of Grover’s boys. You know, trying to pass stupid off as tough. He said that when I’m meeting Grover, two of his guys’ll be killing Richie and Tina. They’re watching the warehouse right now.”

  “That’s nuts. Killing them might expose himself and his business.”

  Streeter shook his head. “If Royals gets mad enough, he’ll let that anger take over his common sense. Which explains why he was so agreeable last night. He was setting us up. He must have had someone follow Marty or me down there.” He studied Frank for a second and then picked up the phone. He called the warehouse number and let it ring about a dozen times. No one answered. Then he called Marty’s main number and was told that Mr. Moats would be out of the office until about three.

  “Marty’s not in and no one’s at the warehouse.” Streeter put down the receiver. “They must be outside. Look, Frank, I can’t take a chance that this guy was lying. I’m heading over there. Go to the bus station with a cell phone and these.” He pulled three keys from his pants pocket and dropped them on the desk. “Watch for Grover. When he gets there, keep an eye on him. I’ll be at the warehouse by eleven. If it’s a wild-goose chase, I’ll call and let you know and you give the keys to Grover. If it’s a setup, either I won’t call because I’m busy or I’ll call and let you know what happened. No matter what, watch Grover. My hunch is he won’t hang around long if I don’t show.”

  Streeter went around to the side of the desk and started fishing through the credenza. He found Frank’s Baer .45 automatic and then he headed for the door.

  Sid Wahl and Dub McCullough sat in the old Subaru, drinking and belching, and watching the front door of Marty’s warehouse. All that while doing an occasional bump from the bindle of cocaine Sid had brought. The coke kept them on a reasonably even keel, although Sid noticed he was having more difficulty focusing on the building and Dub was slurring his words. They’d been there for over three hours. Sid was so tired of Dub’s idiotic biker ramblings that he was half ready to shoot the son of bitch, toss the body into the tall prairie-grass field next to them, and go deal with Richie on his own. But he might need the crazy Mick at crunch time, so he just concentrated on the warehouse. The rented minivan hadn’t moved since they’d gotten there. At about nine, Richie had come out and put a small suitcase into the back before returning to the building. Sid figured it held Grover’s files.

  So the two men sat in the Subaru getting wasted. Occasionally, Sid would actually listen to what Dub was saying. Big mistake. The jerk was always off on some dopey riff about how he got this tattoo or that body part pierced. Faggy hipster voodoo doll with a dumb name, Sid thought. Spiky green hair cut at all different angles. Metal sticking into his face and every inch of the exposed arms sticking out of his T-shirt covered with tattoos. Smelled like old gym socks, too.

  “I’m plannin’ to get me nipples pierced next,” Dub was saying. He had a habit of saying “me” instead of “my” to sound more Irish. Like that fooled anyone. In his entire twenty-three years, he had never been east of Kansas City.

  Sid glanced at his wristwatch and saw it was five to eleven. Close enough. He looked over at Dub, who was working on his fourth sixteen-ounce can of Guinness and a Camel nonfilter. “Let’s saddle up and do it.” Sid drained his own stout. “My bet is that what we’re looking for is in the van.” Then he shifted himself in his seat to face Dub. He reached over and grabbed his left shoulder, squeezing hard. “Remember. The guy is all mine. I really owe that prick and he’s going to take a little time to die. You can do whatever you want with the broad.”

  “You only tole me that about fifty times.” Dub looked at the hand on his shoulder and jerked himself free. “You can kill both of them if you want. Grova pays me the same no matter who does what.”

  Sid started the engine and drove out of the gravel driveway past three huge Dumpsters. He moved the car slowly across the street and parked roughly behind the van. When they got out Sid felt the earth spinning under him. Damn, he was more toasted than he’d thought. Then he looked over to the other side of the car and realized he wasn’t nearly as bad off as McCullough. The crazy Irishman had opened his car door and fallen facefirst onto the asphalt. “Sheet!” he screamed and got up brushing hard at one leg of his blue jeans.

  Sid walked around to him. “You gonna be able to handle this?” He hiccuped the question out.

  “Don’t worry about me, Jazzbo.” Dub’s face was red with rage. “Just make sure you don’t fuck up again. I don’t want to end up in no trunk with puke all over me shirt.”

  Sid cursed silently. Then they both walked toward the front door. When they got next to the building, Sid jiggled the handle. It was locked, so he tapped at it softly with the silencer end of his nine-millimeter handgun. He waited a moment and then tapped again. From inside, Richie and Tina didn’t know what to make of the intrusion. They had been out in the warehouse looking around and they’d just gotten back inside. Marty was supposed to swing by at noon for lunch, so they assumed he was knocking. When Richie opened the door, he was pulled out by his shirtfront into the harsh sunlight. It took him a few seconds to recognize Sid Wahl.

  Sid had grabbed Richie’s shirt with his left hand and now he came across hard with the butt of his nine on his nose. It broke instantly and sent a spray of blood straight onto Sid’s right shoulder. He was drawing his gun back for another swipe when the brown Buick rolled into the lot, its horn honking. As he wheeled in, Streeter could see Richie going to his knees with Sid beating his face. They were standing in front of the door with an armed punker about ten feet off to the left. Streeter gunned his Buick and headed toward the man with the green hair. At first, Dub couldn’t believe that the big car was even coming toward him, much less moving that fast. By the time he got oriented, the Buick’s bumper was within two feet of him. He let out a loud curse and then backpedaled three steps until he was up against the building. Still the Buick came. Streeter hit the brakes and stopped within inches of Dub’s knees. Then he eased ahead until his bumper pinned the screaming man against the wall.

  “Motha focka’!” Dub yelled in pain and shock. He aimed his nine-mil at the driver. Streeter saw what was coming, so he shoved the car into park and threw himself across the front seat. Once down, he grabbed Frank’s Baer. Dub squeezed off two rounds, the bullets moving through the windshield and into the front seat. Seeing that there was no one to shoot at, he stopped firing and started cursing again.

  Streeter pulled the action back on the Baer to make sure there was one in the chamber. His breath felt like it was sucked out of him at what he saw. The gun was empty. In the excitement he and Frank had both forgotten that the bondsman never kept his guns loaded. They made him nervous. Above Dub’s screaming, Streeter heard Richie yelling. Evidently, Sid didn’t interrupt the beating to help his partner. Richie’s face was bleeding from several cuts, along with his crushed nose. By now he was on his knees. Suddenly, the door to the warehouse opened and Tina, purse in hand, blew out into the lot. She took three quick steps and glanced around. Dub was off to her right, pinned by the Buick. Immediately in front of her she could see Richie being beaten. Dub saw the redhead come out. Since he couldn’t get
the guy in the Buick, he leveled his nine at the woman and fired. For his part, Sid knew that the interrogation Grover had asked for was not going to happen. Still, he intended to kill Richie and Tina, so he opened fire on the woman, just a few feet before him, as well.

  Tina dropped to one knee and was about to lean forward to help Richie. Her sudden movement saved her life and ended Dub McCullough’s. Both men fired. Dub’s slug whistled over her head and a few feet past Sid, whose shot flew over Tina and hit Dub in the Adam’s apple. His dead body slammed back against the wall and then slid down in front of the Buick.

  In the crossfire, Richie and Tina scrambled toward each other, then toward the minivan. Sid stared in disbelief at what he’d done, but regrouped and aimed his gun at Richie.

  “Hold it, asshole!” he yelled. Richie stopped but Tina kept running. Half drunk and completely stoned, Sid aimed at Richie’s profile and squeezed off a round. But he was so low that the bullet went into Richie’s thigh, dropping him to the ground again.

  Sid took a step toward him. Beyond the Buick, he could see the van back up and smash into his Subaru. Undaunted, Tina pulled forward, spun the wheel hard to her right, and floored it. This time she barely swiped the station wagon. She spun the van around hard and then crammed it into forward. Sid squeezed off a round in her general direction, hitting nothing. The rented van flew out of the lot and took off toward South Santa Fe Drive, leaving Sid a couple of feet from the passenger’s door of the Buick. He stood over Richie, who was squirming facedown on the asphalt. Sid then tried to salvage one thing from what had turned into a very bad morning. The nine-millimeter shook in his hand.

  Streeter could only guess at what was happening. He decided to stay low and come out the passenger’s door. Maybe with his empty Baer he could finesse the punker. He grabbed the handle and pushed out as hard as he could. The door swung open, with the handle whacking Sid in the small of his back and pushing him forward. He turned around to see where the interruption had come from. Streeter leaped from the car, dropping his Baer as he did. He dove at the little man, running his shoulder into Sid’s gut, and dropping him fast. That caused Sid to squeeze off the round that he’d intended for Richie. With his gun arm bent, the nine was at waist level when it went off. The shot ripped into Sid’s own stomach. He was unconscious before his body had settled to a stop on the asphalt.