Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  “Actually, Streeter, there shouldn’t be any need for violence,” Marty interjected, moving farther off to the side to allow Dexter to get directly in front of the bounty hunter. “I just wanted him to come along to make a point.”

  “What point is that?”

  “That I’m a serious man,” Marty said. “That I have a very serious side to me.”

  Streeter lifted his cast arm slightly so the microphone would be closer to the two men in front of him. “So I gathered. Like that side of you that set up those parties at the 11048 Club in Conifer? The ones in the pictures? And I really like the side of you that arranged to have your own nephew killed by Grover’s guys.”

  Marty nodded slightly but said nothing. Not good enough, Streeter thought. “I take it that was you who had Rudy Fontana killed the other night, too.”

  “We’re not here to discuss your theories about that,” Marty responded. “Just what will it cost me to make sure that I’ve heard the last of all this nonsense from you? Forever. That means you and Frank. I assume you’ve spoken to him.”

  “I didn’t tell him a thing. This is just between you and me.”

  “And Miss Gillis? Have you told her about MoCo and the rest?”

  Streeter shook his head. “Like I just said, this is strictly between you and me. By the way, how are you going to keep Grover’s businesses going without coming out in the open?”

  Marty ignored the question. “How much do you want, Streeter?”

  “Fifty thousand. Hell, you probably took ten times that off of Rudy when you killed him.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’m prepared to give you twenty. That’s a one-time payment. If you try to open the negotiations again down the road, son, you’ll be dealing directly with Dexter here and there won’t be any money involved. Take it or leave it.”

  Streeter realized that Marty was too smart to admit to anything. He felt ridiculous now, standing in the stairwell, getting nothing on tape and having a gun pointed at him. No Carey and no confessions. He just wanted to leave. “You’ve got a deal.”

  “I’ll have the money delivered to the church later today. This should—”

  His sentence was interrupted by the loud clang of a door slamming shut above them. All three men looked up simultaneously. Then they heard what sounded like footsteps coming down the stairwell. Dexter winced and turned quickly to Marty. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” He pulled his pistol toward his waist but still kept it pointed at Streeter. Marty held up his left hand for silence and listened closely.

  As Carey negotiated the stairs, he looked down and saw part of Streeter below him. He stopped and strained to see if he could make out anything else. Then he noticed what appeared to be the right half of a man standing in front of Streeter, along with the lower portion of a third man, including his arm and hand. Seeing what appeared to be a pistol in the hand, Carey instinctively reached back and grabbed his service revolver.

  “Streeter!” he yelled. “That you, Streeter?” He started down the stairs two steps at a time.

  “Shit!” Calley rolled his eyes and stepped toward Streeter, his gun hand coming up again to where it was just inches from his face. “Shut up.”

  It took Carey only about half a minute to make the final turn on the half-floor landing and get a good view of what was going on below him. Directly in front of him and eight steps down stood Streeter, cast on arm, with a big Indian-looking guy holding a gun on him at close range. A step or so behind the Indian and off to his right stood Marty Moats. Carey had never seen him in person, but he thought Marty looked bigger than on television.

  “Hold it right there!” Carey yelled. He squatted down slightly, his knees bending a tad, and held his revolver with both hands in the firing position. He was aiming at the Indian’s head. “Denver police! Drop it!”

  Everyone froze, with the three men on the landing staring up at Carey, who, in turn, had his eyes riveted on Dexter’s head. No one spoke. Suddenly the door to the visitors’ lounge swung open and a smiling Eddy Spangler strolled out onto the landing. The door clanked shut behind him with the noise echoing throughout the stark stairwell.

  “Hey, Uncle Marty,” he said cheerfully. “How are ya?” But he dropped his smile when he noticed the big muscle man who had followed Moats into the stairwell standing with the bounty hunter. That Streeter prick who had come to his office way back. The muscle man was holding a gun and Eddy felt like he was about to cry. If that wasn’t confusing enough, he heard a voice from above and off to his right.

  “Hold it right there!”

  Eddy looked up toward the voice and saw the bottom half of a man holding yet another gun. The man squatted more and part of his face and shoulders came into view. It was a large white guy, pale as hell and sweating. He moved the gun quickly between Eddy and the big Indian. “Freeze! Everyone!”

  There was another pause. Dexter was the first one to react this time. He took three quick steps back in Eddy’s direction and spun around, grabbing the stunned newcomer by the back of his neck and pulling him in close. Then he shoved Eddy in front of him, between himself and the stairs where Carey was now moving slowly down. Dexter ended up with Eddy’s back against his own front, the small .38 tight against Eddy’s right ear.

  “Hold it or I’ll shoot him!” Dexter yelled at Carey.

  The detective stopped, now in plain view of everyone. Streeter had instinctively taken a step forward whereas Marty had moved over slightly to the side. Poor Eddy didn’t know what to make of it all. Marty was on his right. Streeter was in front of him, looking alert, and a fat cop was pointing a gun either at his head or at the head of the man behind him.

  “Wha…” came weakly from Eddy’s mouth and then he fell silent. His expression was beyond fear, sort of an exasperated resignation.

  “Looks like you’ve got a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, son,” Marty said, remarkably calm given the circumstances.

  “No shit,” Eddy said softly.

  “Drop the gun and no one has to get hurt,” Carey ordered from the stairs, although his voice sounded less sure than before.

  “You drop it or I’ll blow this fucker’s head off,” Dexter responded steady and low.

  “Let’s all of us just calm down,” Streeter said, taking another half step forward.

  Dexter noticed that. “Hold it right there! The next move I see, I start shooting.”

  A gurgling noise came from Eddy’s throat but he said nothing. He was so pale by now, he looked like he would pass out any second.

  No one moved and the stairwell was dead-still. Suddenly Dexter’s nose wrinkled up in disgust. He began sniffing wildly and pulled his head back several inches from Eddy. Streeter didn’t get it, although he did catch the faint whiff of what smelled like a backed-up toilet. Then Dexter glanced down at where the horrible odor seemed to be originating. There was a dark, wet spot on the seat of Eddy’s pants that dripped several inches down his right leg.

  “Jesus Christ!” Dexter yelled, looking at the back of Eddy’s head. “You did it right here?” With that he let go of his grip on the man’s neck. That release allowed Eddy, who by now had passed out from fright, to drop straight down to the floor like a sack of rocks.

  Dexter stared down at him in utter revulsion. In that moment, Carey took a couple of quick steps on the stairs and hollered, “Drop it now!”

  Dexter recovered from his shock and looked up at Carey. Without thinking, he squeezed off a round in the detective’s general direction. The slug caught Carey in the meat of his right thigh, causing him to stumble the remaining steps and land in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. Dexter again looked down at Eddy, so Streeter took the opportunity to step forward and reach over Spangler with a hard right cross to Dexter’s chin. His head shot back. Streeter’s fist broke the man’s jaw and badly dazed him. Without hesitating, Streeter reached out with his left arm, cast and all, and grabbed at Calley’s gun hand. Dexter shook his head to focu
s, but before he could, Streeter drove his right fist into the middle of his face, this time flattening his nose and sending a surge of blood out one side. Streeter kept coming, holding the gun hand down. Calley squeezed off another round, but it ricocheted harmlessly off the floor. The bounty hunter shoved him hard against the door behind him, bringing his knee up deep into Dexter’s crotch. That was the final blow. Dexter crumpled downward, curling up in pain as he did.

  The gun dropped from his hand as he hit the ground. Streeter quickly picked it up. Then he spun around and looked at Carey. “You okay?”

  Carey nodded, studying his leg. “Call for help.”

  Before he could do that, Streeter saw Marty turn around and move toward the stairs leading down to the second floor. Streeter followed him and caught him by the back of the neck before he got halfway down the flight. He was surprised at how thick it felt. If Marty had been fifteen or twenty years younger he would have been able to put up a hell of a fight. But he was seventy and he stopped the minute Streeter grabbed him.

  “Take it easy, son,” he said as they headed back up the stairs together. “Might be we can still work something out here.”

  Streeter ignored him. Once they returned to the landing where the others were, he opened the door to the lounge. The gunfire had drawn a crowd, including two perplexed-looking doctors in surgical scrubs.

  “There’s a man been shot out here,” Streeter told them. Then he paused and let a smile work across his mouth. “And there’s been an accident. Better bring a bedpan and some towels. Lots of towels.”

  As the doctors walked past them he let go of Marty’s neck. The old man turned to face him and Streeter shook his head. “You were going to kill your own nephew.”

  “I never cared much for the boy, myself.” Marty shrugged. “Richie was always Marlene’s favorite. You know how women are.”

  THIRTY

  When he was finally finished with the police that afternoon, Streeter tried several times to get hold of Connie. He didn’t get back to the church until almost five, when he called her and left a message. Then he went upstairs and washed himself before calling again later. Again, no answer. He tried once more after another half an hour. Still no Connie. The incident at the hospital was the lead story on the local TV news, although no one had any notion of how Marty figured in with Grover. The police would be sorting that one out for days, but for openers, Marty faced conspiracy to commit murder, obstructing justice, and assault on a police officer.

  Detective Robert Carey came off looking like a hero, although when Streeter left him at the hospital he wasn’t sure which hurt more, his hangover or his leg. Dexter Calley was facing attempted murder right out of the blocks for shooting Carey, with more to come later.

  As for Streeter, the story the media got from the police department made Carey sound more pivotal in the arrests. Streeter came off as a victim who got caught in the middle, with his old poker-playing buddy from the DPD pulling him out of a jam. It sounded as though Streeter just held Dexter Calley down until the authorities stepped in and made the arrests.

  At about nine, after an hour of wrestling with Chopin, he debated whether to call Connie again, but decided against it. Three messages, two with him leaving his number, were enough. He briefly wondered why she hadn’t called back, but he was so tired he just crawled into bed shortly before ten and dropped off immediately.

  Both papers the next morning contained several stories on Marty Moats and what had happened at the hospital. There was little new in terms of police developments, but they each carried large features on the downfall of the Waterbed King of Colorado, with long stories profiling Marty. Streeter felt bad for Marlene and he knew Richie was going through some serious pain over what his uncle had planned for him. But to Streeter, that was already yesterday’s news and he’d be glad when the media attention disappeared. When he finished his breakfast and the morning papers, he heard Frank yell up the stairs to the loft. There was a phone call for him on the office line, so he grabbed his coffee cup and headed downstairs. It was Tina Gillis.

  “How are you doing today, Streeter?” she asked. “I called Detective Carey before to thank him for his help and it seems you did more than you got credit for in the news.”

  “About all I did was punch a guy a couple of times.”

  “Carey said you saved his life.”

  “Maybe. Of course, if I hadn’t asked him to be there in the first place, it wouldn’t have been necessary.” He paused. “How are Richie and Marlene holding up?”

  “Richard’s okay but Marlene took it hard. Martin might be a shit, but he was her shit, and I gather that he treated her pretty well. This probably means the end of the Moats family’s waterbed business. Marlene’s too old to work at it and she has no interest in it, anyhow. And Richie doesn’t want to keep it going, either. The plan is that he’ll help her sell off everything, get a slice of the profits, and then we’re leaving Colorado.”

  “Really? Where to?”

  “Back to Florida. Richie liked it there, except for the trailer-park part. We’re going to do what we planned all along. My father owns a little business down there and we’re going to help him out with it.” She paused. “Near the water, but not the waterbeds. Tell me one thing. What did Eddy Spangler have to do with all that yesterday? It said in the papers that he was there, but they weren’t too clear on exactly what he did.”

  “Eddy was instrumental in ending the standoff.” He smiled at the thought. “Somehow he stumbled into the middle of everything and thanks to his quick action, we were able to break up the stalemate.”

  “Eddy? Quick action? Will wonders never cease?”

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly a voluntary action, but it moved the negotiations along.”

  “Whatever that means. Anyhow, thanks for everything. I’d hate to think of what might have happened if you hadn’t found out about Marty’s involvement in Grover’s business. Take care, Streeter. And if you ever get down to Naples, give us a call.”

  “I’ll do that. Goodbye, Tina.”

  Frank was watching him when he hung up. “I still can’t get over Marty,” he said sadly. “If he’d gotten you killed, he’d a had to answer to me.”

  “That’s very comforting, Frank.” Streeter was about to say something else when the phone rang. He picked up the receiver and immediately recognized Connie’s voice.

  “Well, well, Mr. Streeter. I got back from Vail this morning and what do I see in the papers? You punching the bad guys out. Just another day at the office?”

  “Not really. Finding the Ernie Lomelis of the world is more my usual speed.”

  She didn’t say anything at first and when she did talk again, her voice was more serious. “Are you all right? It sounds like that must have been pretty intense.”

  “Guns always make me nervous, but it was over in a second. I didn’t have time to get scared and no one shot at me, anyhow. In fact, I slept like a rock last night and I feel great today.”

  “I take it this was that case you were working on that wouldn’t end.”

  “That it was. But now it’s really, really all over.”

  Her voice perked up again. “Does that mean we finally get to have our dinner together? I have work for you. Mr. Lomeli still has to be served.”

  “Dinner and dessert if you’re going to throw Lomeli at me again,” he said.

  “Fair enough. Alfresco’s tonight at seven?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “And for your information, Streeter, I finally took down that old picture on my bathroom wall. The one with the guy who reminds you of someone.”

  He thought about that for a moment. “Good. And I’ll try to leave my ‘stay away’ sign at home.”

  “Now that I’d like to see. You’re more guarded than you probably realize.”

  “So I’ve been told. You live long enough, you get your share of scars. Believe me, this broken arm’s nothing compared to what I’ve felt from women.”

  “We a
ll have some scars, Mr. Streeter.” Her voice was upbeat but thoughtful. “That goes with the territory.”

  Streeter nodded, the phone propped under his ear, but said nothing.

  “I bet that you’re real good at the hearts-and-flowers side of a relationship, but when the heat starts to drop, you don’t know what to do. That’s when you panic. It’s part of your appeal. Women see you as a challenge, like they’ll be the one who finally changes all that.” She paused. “Am I right about any of this?”

  “You’re not completely wrong,” he answered.

  “You have this way of looking at a woman that says you really like her but you’re afraid of her at the same time. That’s what I felt from you that day at Alfalfa’s. It’s very compelling but very confusing.”

  “You got all of this just from our couple of meetings and from the look in my eyes?”

  Connie laughed lightly. “That, and I took Frank out for a couple of drinks Friday night. He told me all about you. That’s one very terrific partner you’ve got there. He cares a lot about you, too.”

  “You took Frank for drinks to find out about me?” He shot his partner a glance and then said back into the phone, “Aren’t you a clever little thing.”

  “That’s right. I like to know about the men I’ve slept with, Streeter.” She let out another short laugh. “Now I just have to figure out why I’m so interested. Maybe you can help me with that one at dinner. See you at seven.”

  When he hung up, Streeter again looked over at Frank, who was reading the Sunday paper across the desk from him. “You went out for drinks with Connie Nolan on Friday night?”

  Frank looked up, his eyes wide with a fake “who, me?” innocence. “So?”

  “And you told her about my ridiculous history with women?”

  “It may have come up. That’s a very persistent young lady. My hunch is if you two hit it off, she’ll be around for a while.”

  Streeter didn’t know what to think. “You feel okay about that? Talking behind my back? You gave her a hell of an advantage, you know.”