Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  By now, he didn’t particularly give a damn if Lise knew he’d bullshitted her. Rudy was savvy enough to know that once a story like this gets out there, well hell, it’s like unringing a bell to try and downplay it. The truth was more or less irrelevant when it came to matters of public opinion. And with both newspapers legitimizing Abbott’s story in their pale follow-ups that morning, the impact was all the more profound. Richie and Grover would be forever linked as drug-dealing pimps and pornographers to all of Denver. No denials or clarifications would change that. Mission accomplished, so fuck you very much, Lise Abbott.

  “Set you up? That’s the thanks I get, is it?” Rudy took a sip of coffee. He hadn’t gotten to bed much before three and his temples were pounding. “This is probably the biggest story of your career, honey, and here you are calling me in the middle of the night to split hairs about accuracy. Jesus Christ, you act like we’re talking about the Pentagon Papers. Let me ask you something. How’s your boss treating you today? Since the story broke.”

  “That’s not the point.” She paused. “Actually, he’s been in a good mood.”

  “ ’Course he is, honey. You had the scoop of the month. You think your boss really gives two shits whether Grover and Richie are in business together?”

  “Like I said, you’re missing the point.” Her voice was softening. “The point is that this story’s unraveling like a Kmart sale sweater. I’ve gotten calls from the state, the FBI, everybody. They’re furious and it looks like you fed me a lot of garbage. This could be the end of my career.”

  “No, no, sweetheart. You’re the one missing the point here. First off, if they fired every TV reporter who unloaded a line of horseshit on the air, there’d be no one left working in front of the camera. The real point is that you made a big splash and your boss is happy. Hell, all the denials will just give the story more wheels. Milk it for a few days and then move on. You’re a star, honey. Enjoy it and no thanks are necessary.”

  “I suppose…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Damned straight, you suppose. One more thing, sweetheart.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t be calling me ever again.” He hung up and thought how he was glad he never gave her his real name. To Lise, Rudy was just a voice at an unlisted phone number and the guy who had some documents delivered to her office.

  Tina had called Streeter shortly before ten that morning. She wanted to meet him for lunch. She’d buy if she could pick the spot, so they met at a crowded Arby’s Roast Beef in far West Denver, almost out of town. They each ordered just a coffee. Cups in hand, they took a booth near the streaked front window. It was going to be a warm day, maybe into the low eighties. The sun was so intense, they kept their shades on as they talked.

  “Have you been to see Richie yet?” Streeter asked.

  Tina shook her head. “That could be dangerous. We’ve been on the phone, though. Have you talked to him?”

  “No. Marty keeps me posted. I gather he’s getting better. Might be released in a week or so. Of course, now the police are all over him to find out what happened and to shed some light on that story about him and Grover. He’ll probably be in front of a grand jury Frank just heard about as soon as he’s better. Marty said he’s stonewalling them so far. Saying he doesn’t know half the story and that he’s forgotten the other half.” He paused. “They don’t know about you, and my hunch is Richie’ll go to the gas chamber before he’ll tell them anything like that.”

  She nodded. “I’ve never doubted his loyalty to me.”

  Streeter leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Why are you still in town?”

  “Mr. Streeter, to you I may be just another slut working for Rudy.” Her voice was firm but not bitchy. “But I’m not. I’m still here because this is where Richard is. And I’ll stay until he’s all better physically and out of Grover’s crosshairs. I’ll stay even beyond that if this is where he and I decide to live.”

  “I never saw you as a slut for anyone, Tina,” he responded. “Look, I talked to my lawyer. He thinks I should be down spilling my guts to the cops right now. I put him off for a day until I could talk to you, but tomorrow he and I are going to lay it all out for the DA. This is too serious to let slide. My suggestion is that you come with me. If you, me, and Richie all give up the truth, Grover’s in a hole for good. The only way to get out of his crosshairs is to get him behind bars. Plus, it’ll take all the heat off of Richie’s family. His uncle and aunt don’t deserve the grief they’re getting.”

  “We’ve been thinking about that, too,” she said, her voice gentler. “When are you going?”

  “First thing in the morning.”

  “Count me in.”

  Streeter smiled and took a sip of his coffee. “Good. Bring those files, too. I’ll bring the locker keys. Denver Vice is going to think it’s Christmas in April. Tell you what. Come over to my place with me now. We’ll call Richie and let him know what we’re doing. You can spend the night there for safety. We’ll fix you up with your own room. Do you have the files with you?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. Maybe Marty can go with us. It would be nice to have him there to speak for Richie.”

  “Are we going to tell the police about how Richie and I stole from Grover?”

  “We’ll probably have to. My attorney told me that if we cut a deal with the DA, they might not care about the robbery. It’s not like Sid’ll file charges.”

  “Let’s go call Richie.”

  Tina followed Streeter back to the church. He had her park in the garage. There was a chance that Grover had someone watching the place, although there were no strange cars nearby. The bounty hunter also made sure they weren’t being followed. Once inside, they went to Frank’s empty office and called the hospital.

  “How are you, baby?” she asked when she got through to Richie. Then she smiled. “That’s good.” A slight wrinkle of her brow. “Oh he’s there, is he? I wish I could stop by.” She looked at Streeter and mouthed “Martin” silently. “Listen, Richard. I’m at Mr. Streeter’s right now. I’m going to stay here tonight with him and his partner and then we’re going down to talk to the police in the morning. Yes, like we discussed before.”

  Tina turned to Streeter. “He’s telling Martin and Marlene. They’re both there.” Suddenly she frowned. “They’re arguing.” She paused. “Hello, Martin. Yes, you heard right. Mr. Streeter and I are going to talk to the Denver DA and police in the morning. Yes, it’s the best way to handle this.” She listened for a moment, her forehead still creased with concern. Then she looked over at Streeter across the desk and held out the phone for him. “He’d like to speak with you.”

  Streeter took the receiver. “Marty?”

  “Yes, it’s me, son.” Marty sounded hoarse and tired. “What’s all this district attorney nonsense. I never said you could do that.”

  “Probably because I never asked if I could.” The irritation was clear in his voice. “I’m old enough to make up my own mind and, besides, I’m the one out on a limb with the law, not you. We’re just letting you know what we’re doing and asking you to join us and speak for Richie.”

  “But that’ll just put the boy in even deeper water. We tell the police about that robbery and it’s goodbye nephew. He’ll go away for sure.”

  “Not according to my lawyer. The cops want Grover Royals and if that means turning their backs on that other business, they’ll do it in a heartbeat.”

  Marty didn’t speak for a long moment. Then he let out a loud exhalation. “If you think it’s for the best. Do me one favor first? I’ll be over at my downtown store tonight about seven. Stop by with Tina and we’ll go over everything before we talk to the police.”

  “Okay.”

  “And have her bring Grover’s files, too. You and me’ll want to look at them before we go running off at the mouth tomorrow.”

  “Fine. Seven tonight, downtown.”

  Dexter Calley was sick of waiting for the boss man t
o call. The last time they’d talked to each other was Sunday afternoon. The old man had gotten ahold of him, all pissed off about the screwed-up exchange at the old warehouse on South Santa Fe. He wanted Dexter to know that he might be needing his services in the next day or so. Promised a load of cash for some heavy work, too. And then nothing. Dexter had kept cool for two solid days. He hadn’t gotten in touch with Rudy, although he was tempted. But then, that afternoon, he started phoning the man to find out what was what. A load of cash sounded like a pretty good idea right about now. Who cared what the work was?

  It was now almost six on Tuesday evening and Dexter was getting anxious. Maybe he should just go over to Marty’s store and confront the man personally. Moats’s secretary had told him only half an hour ago that the man would be there tonight. Head down there and ask Marty face-to-face why he’s jerking him around. Not returning the calls. See how the old fart likes that. Dexter toked on the tight little joint and looked around his apartment. Yes sir. That’s just what he’d do. Finish the pot, eat the last of the pizza, and then head on to Marty Moats’s big downtown store and find out why the old man was ignoring him. If he wanted to be treated like that, hell, he could have stayed working for Grover.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Most of the time, Marty’s downtown store was like the man himself; rambling, big, loud, and busy. But at night it quieted to almost another world. As Streeter and Tina walked down the west end of the 16th Street Mall, the evening wind kicked up. It was clear and the sun was setting in a barrage of orange light off the mountains in front of them. The store, a two-story former sporting-goods shop, had just closed when they arrived a little after seven. Two salespeople were locking up and one, a woman, let them in and told them to go back to the loading docks, where Marty’s office was.

  “He’s expecting you,” she told Streeter. “Take the rear-exit door over there.” She pointed toward the back corner. “Then head down a long hallway. Marty has an office off to the left at the end. We’ll be leaving in a minute and locking the front door. You can go out through the loading dock when you’re finished.”

  They walked to the rear of the huge store and Streeter opened the back door for Tina. The wide hallway leading to the loading docks was well lighted but church-silent. When they got to the time clock and a large rack of time cards on the back wall, they took a quick jog to the left. There were large doors with a sign above them indicating that the loading docks were straight ahead. After passing through them, they could see the darkened docks straight ahead and light from a windowless room off to their right.

  “Marty,” Streeter yelled out just above his normal speaking voice. They kept walking toward the lighted room, although no one answered. “Marty,” he repeated, louder.

  About five feet from the door, they heard an “I’m here,” coming from inside. Marty sounded different. But they kept walking toward the light. When they got to the door, they turned into the office. It took their eyes a few seconds to adjust to the glaring brightness. The office itself was about fifteen feet square, a cinder-block cubicle you’d more likely expect to find in a punch-press factory. There were three rows of fluorescent overhead lights, one large desk, and several black metal file cabinets. On the floor, slumped against the desk, lay Marty Moats. Pale and unconscious, with dried blood on a lump on his forehead. Streeter could see that he was breathing. That was the last thing he viewed clearly for a while.

  For just a second, he saw Grover Royals’s angry face coming at him. Then he caught a flash as Grover’s giant right fist smashed into his jaw. Streeter could feel the blood rushing to his face and everything went white for a few seconds. The base of his skull crackled in pain as his head shot back. Behind him, he thought he could hear Tina scream. He almost went down, but managed to steady himself by grabbing the corner of a file cabinet with both hands. He blinked furiously to focus better, but before he could clear his vision, Grover came across with another hard right, a hook that connected with his left temple. Streeter’s head twisted off to the left and everything went white again. This time, he dropped to the floor, almost unconscious.

  Tina stood behind Grover watching the punches. Her eyes shot furiously around the room. On the desk just to her left lay several lengths of metal pipe, each about two feet long and more than an inch and half around. They looked like part of a furniture assembly, as there was a large rectangular cardboard box leaning against the desk, with a long steel crowbar leaning on it. When Streeter dropped to the floor, Grover, who had his back to her, reached for the desk with his left hand. He picked up a pipe and transferred it to his right hand. She couldn’t see the smile on his face as he watched Streeter moan and struggle to his knees in front of him. He raised the pipe to shoulder level and then brought it quickly across from the side and down. Streeter looked up and had just enough time to lift his arms to protect his head. The pipe struck his left forearm, inches from his wrist, and dug deeply into the skin, breaking the bone. A searing pain shot up his arm, through his shoulder, and into his left ear. Then the arm dropped uselessly to his side. When he looked up again, Grover was pulling the pipe back for another swipe.

  Adjusting himself slightly on his knees, Streeter turned to his right and drew that arm back as far and fast as he could. Just as the standing man was about to unload with the pipe again, Streeter struck. With all the power he could muster, he shot his right fist into Grover’s groin. Royals groaned like all the air was let out of him and leaned forward, almost doubled over. His pain caused him to drop the pipe to the ground. Grover went down on one knee and was almost eye-to-eye with Streeter. But as his breath started to return, Grover reached to the small of his back as though looking for something. In front of him, Streeter had sat back on his butt, too groggy and in too much pain to attack further. Just then Grover smiled as though he’d found what he was looking for. The smile didn’t last long.

  Moving behind him, Tina had picked up the crowbar in both hands and brought it down squarely on the top of his skull. His eyes flared in pain and he fell forward on his face. That motion caused the back of his shirt to rise up, exposing the .38 pistol in his waistband he had reached for just seconds earlier. Streeter, whose arm throbbed wildly in pain, saw the gun and managed to grab it. Grover suddenly reared up to his knees and leaned back, staring at him. He winced in concentration and pushed himself to his feet. That’s when he looked down and saw that the other man now had his gun. Streeter had begun to aim it at Grover when another spasm of pain shot out from his wrist and up his arm. This one was so intense that he blacked out for several seconds. When he came to, he saw Royals moving toward the door leading to the hallway. Before Streeter could move, another jolt of pain in his forearm left him dizzy. By the time that one had passed, Grover was gone.

  Streeter managed to get to his feet. Tina was standing off to his left, still holding the crowbar. She was too upset to speak and he was in too much pain. Slowly, he moved out into the hallway. It was empty. He walked toward the loading dock and got there in time to hear the squeal of tires pulling out of the alley next to the building. When he turned around, he could see that Tina had followed him. He held up his left hand, with the pinkie finger twitching and the wrist twisted. “He broke my arm. Better get me to a hospital before I pass out.”

  Dexter Calley was sitting in his pickup truck on Market Street just around the corner from the waterbed store, watching Marty’s car and debating whether or not to talk to the man when he left for the night. His pot high was sliding and he thought of how Marty had warned him repeatedly against any meetings. “You and me get seen together in public, I’m screwed,” the old man had said over the phone. “That can never happen, son.”

  As he sat there thinking, he was surprised to see Grover’s red 1967 Mustang convertible move out of the back alley and onto Market. The alley entrance opened up right behind where Marty’s car sat. Dexter watched as Grover moved quickly into the street, only to have his engine die. The Mustang lunged forward once and stopped. What the
hell? From about thirty feet away, Dexter squinted into the nearly dark street. He thought he saw Grover shake his head. Is he drunk? What was he doing with Marty? Suddenly, Grover started the engine again and turned left, off toward Speer Boulevard. Dexter quickly started his engine and moved out to follow him. Something was wrong with the big man.

  It wasn’t easy, but Grover negotiated his Mustang into the traffic on Speer. Have to make it home, he kept telling himself as he rolled over the Valley Highway on the Speer viaduct. About every fifteen seconds he’d swipe at his eyes with his left hand as blood from a deep cut on the top of his head swept over his face. He could taste it in his mouth, see it in his eyes, and feel it all on his shirtfront. Blinking to concentrate, he tromped on the accelerator. Once over the bridge, he glanced at his rearview mirror. The pickup truck following him about two car lengths back looked familiar but he couldn’t quite place it. Damn, the driver looked familiar, too, he thought as he wiped once more at the blood.

  As he approached the first intersection on the other side of the bridge, he was looking into the rearview mirror more than he was looking out the windshield. He kept wiping the blood from his eyes and frowning at the mirror. What the hell was Dexter Calley doing following him? Grover shook his head in rage and pressed harder on the accelerator. Had to get home. Get away from Calley. By the time Grover got to the intersection, between the blood in his eyes and his fixation on Dexter, he didn’t even see the red light he was facing. Entering the intersection, Grover’s speedometer registered sixty. And climbing. He ran his hand over his face one more time. No way he saw the bus coming from the right. But later, when the police inspected the Mustang and pulled his crushed body off the steering wheel, the speedometer was stuck on sixty-eight. At that speed, Grover probably didn’t feel a thing when he rammed the bus.