THREE
When Streeter first moved to LoDo in the mid-eighties, it felt like he was living in an Edward Hopper painting. But by now it had become little more than a gathering place for Yuppies and tourists. Overpriced, with parking that required time, money, and patience. Plenty of all three. Streeter lived on its fringes and he liked LoDo less all the time. As recently as six years ago, he’d been surrounded by sad, ancient warehouses, dangerous bars, and the funky old Union Station. Then along came Coors Stadium and the Colorado Rockies. Streeter seldom went there. It reminded him of a boutique shopping mall/food court that happened to have a ball field in the middle. In the early seventies, when he had played football at Western Michigan University, he and his friends used to go to baseball games in Chicago, Detroit, and Milwaukee: Wrigley Field, the old Comiskey Park, Tiger Stadium, and County Stadium. Those were real ballparks—rickety old structures where large Polish and German Americans smoked cigarettes openly, ate and drank too much, and settled their differences on the spot, usually with their fists.
Not that Streeter liked urban decay and violence. It’s just that he thought Coors Stadium and the surrounding bar scene was overdone, oversanitized, and oversaturated. He kept waiting for some of the watering holes to belly up. There must be fifty of the joints by now, with more planned. The whole place just tried too hard. Even though Streeter lived within about ten blocks of the heart of LoDo, he no longer felt any real connection to it.
Parking now in front of the renovated church where he and Frank worked and lived, Streeter still ached from his hangover. Never one for napping, he figured he’d catch a good workout in his basement weight room. If he had to show signs of age on his hairline, he figured he could at least keep his body toned. Streeter had worked out daily for years, to the point where his six-foot-two-inch frame was wrapped with almost two hundred twenty pounds of firm muscles. Following his workout, he’d take a hot shower, maybe have dinner with Frank, and go to bed early. No Johnnie Walker Red tonight, he thought as he headed to the front door. Well, certainly no more than a nightcap.
Streeter loved the church. Frank Dazzler had bought the place some twenty-five years earlier for a tiny fraction of what it was now worth. He fixed the building up and rented out space on the first floor to a women’s gym and self-defense school. His office and apartment took up the rest of that floor, and Streeter lived upstairs, in a spacious loft apartment that had been his home for more than twelve years. It housed his vast book collection as well as his baby-grand piano. He’d gotten the thing a couple of years earlier, as collateral on a bond, and he’d been struggling to master it ever since. His books, his loft, his piano, his weights. Having his stuff around him seemed more important the older he got.
Even though his life wasn’t feeling like a picnic these days, he did have his place and he did have Frank Dazzler, who meant more to him than his own family, dysfunctional and long-gone as they were. He and Frank had first met years ago, when the bondsman came to the country-and-western bar where Streeter was working as a part-time bouncer. With his size and strength, and the controlled demeanor of a veteran cop, he was a sought-after doorman. He also worked days as an accountant, his haphazard career path the result of dropping out of college halfway through and then letting circumstances make his choices for him over the next ten years. At any rate, Frank was looking for a bail jumper that night and his search took him to the joint Streeter was working. He instantly saw potential in the big, thoughtful man. Within days, Streeter was working for Frank, and he moved into the loft shortly after that.
Now, opening the huge wooden front door directly beneath a broken neon “Jesus Saves” sign, Streeter turned around to see his partner walking toward him on the sidewalk. A few years earlier, in his mid-sixties, Frank had suddenly converted to exercise. He created his own form of race-walking/jogging that he stuck to religiously.
“Hey, Street.” Frank lifted one hand in a wave as he got close. His face perked up. “How’d your verdict go down today?”
Streeter held the door open. “Not guilty on all counts. You know how often that happens?”
“As a general rule, approximately never,” Frank said as he reached the door. He was wearing baggy gray sweatpants, black-and-white running shoes, and a sweatshirt that at one point had undoubtedly been white. “Congratulations. I know you worked like a maniac for that kid.” Frank studied him. “What’s wrong? You don’t seem too happy about it. Come to think of it, you don’t look too hot, either. Sort of like Keith Richards on a bad hair day.”
The bounty hunter cleared his throat. “I’m a little under the weather from last night. I went out for a few hoists with some of the boys and I must have overdone it.”
Frank frowned. “A case of the old whips and jangles today, huh?” The frown deepened. “You know, you’ve been overdoing it pretty often lately.” He walked into the church foyer, with Streeter following. They went down the hallway to the right, toward Frank’s office. “Must be something bugging you if you’re drinking like that,” he mentioned when they got there.
Streeter didn’t respond. Frank walked behind his large wooden desk and flopped down on his overstuffed swivel chair. His partner moved toward the desk and leaned against the back of the chair, his hands resting on the top of it. He remained silent.
“Don’t know, huh?” Frank bent over and untied his running shoes, letting out a hiccup of a grunt as he did. When he straightened back up, he could see that Streeter had sat down. “My hunch is it has something to do with that Connie Nolan lady. The guitar teacher. You two been broken up for a couple of months now, and I thought that was pretty much behind you. But who knows? Maybe it’s bothering you more than you realize.”
Streeter looked off to the side. Connie taught at the music school where he used to take piano lessons. He’d met her while working a tough PI case six months earlier. They had started dating, and everything was going well until he discovered she was still sleeping with an old boyfriend. An ex-fiancé, actually, who turned out to be more of a fiancé than an ex. The discovery came two weeks after Streeter and she had agreed to have an exclusive relationship. Now, as he turned back to Frank, he shook his head.
“It’s probably not really Connie, Frank. More like a hundred Connies. She was just another one that didn’t work out.” He shrugged and let out a quick grin. “I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it. I mean this whole woman thing.”
“Oh, I think we both know it’s almost always worth it.” Frank leaned into his desk and looked closely at the other man.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Streeter said. “But for whatever reason, I haven’t been sleeping all that well lately.” He adjusted himself in his seat. “You know, Frank, it’s not like I’m getting any younger, either. My pants seem to be shrinking in the vicinity of my waist, my hair’s starting to show some serious lack of interest in staying on my head, and there’s times I’d like to iron my face. All my living and promise seems to be in the past. I feel like I’ve got a great future behind me.”
Frank broke into a broad grin and sat back. “Yeah, there’s always that aging deal. Tell the truth, I was thinking about getting you a walker for Christmas.” He shook his head but kept smiling. “Come on, Street. You’re—what?—forty-five and change. From where I’m sitting, you got the best years of your life ahead of you.” Then he leaned in again. “But if I was you, I’d give it a rest with the ladies for a while. That’s never been your strong suit. Four failed marriages and how many engagements that misfired? Then that revolving door with all the rest of them, who usually were the type to give ‘high-maintenance’ a new meaning. I never did understand your selection process. Put your mind on something else for a while.” He winked. “And lighten up. Hitting the bottle isn’t going to take care of business for you. It’s not like you don’t have a life on your own.”
Streeter considered that and nodded. “You’re probably right about that.”
“Damned straight I’m right, partner. Take a
look at most of those bozos you work with. Like that Lucci kid. I see the mess guys like him make out of their lives and, from where I’m sitting, you and me are doing pretty good. Just count your blessings and chill out. That famous intensity of yours might help when you’re out on a job, but it must be a royal pain in the ass in your social life.”
“It can be.” He studied Frank and said nothing for a moment. “Keep putting me on the right track, okay? I hate being a whiner, and that’s just how I’ve been feeling this past couple of months.”
“I noticed.” Frank nodded. “It’s time to move on. You need a good hot case to shift your mind off of you and on to something else. This woman thing, it’ll work itself out when you’re ready for it. Listen, I’m gonna go take a shower. Got a date tonight with you-know-who.” He stood up, nodded again, and left the room.
Streeter sank back in his chair. Frank had been dating the owner of the women’s gym in the church for the past several years. Although the topic of marriage never came up between them, they had a solid bond that they both enjoyed. They were good together, and that thought made Streeter smile. He stood and went up to his loft. When he got there, he stared at the cherrywood piano and decided to tackle a little more Chopin before hitting the weights. His hangover was just about gone. Talking to Frank usually left him in a better mood. He went to his refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water and then sat down at the keyboard. Glancing at the piano, he noticed a stack of mail he’d been ignoring. Being involved in a trial usually threw his normal routine off, and there was at least a week’s worth. He started leafing through the stack but stopped when he saw a postcard featuring a panoramic view of the Chicago Loop, on the shores of Lake Michigan. Turning the card over, he saw cramped but neat writing on the back. He set the rest of the stack down next to him on the bench and read the card.
“Streeter—It’s a voice from your past. Ronnie Taggert. I hope you haven’t forgotten me. I’ll be back in Denver by Friday the 16th. I’d like to get together with you and discuss a business proposition. I’ll call you then. Yours, Ronnie. P.S. I hope you lost that miserable Moffatt broad by now.”
His mouth creased in a confused half-smile. Ronnie Taggert had been involved in a case he had worked on three years earlier. At the time, she was a paralegal for the most corrupt lawyer Streeter had ever met. The lawyer didn’t survive the proceedings, but Ronnie did, even if it meant she had to leave the state. Ronnie Taggert always was a survivor, regardless of what she had to do. And talk about a sexy profile. Not to mention an attitude. Ronnie was smolderingly attractive, but in a casual way that most women could never approach, no matter how hard they tried. Ronnie had turned out to be good people, helping Streeter sort out one very weird mess of a case, although she gave off a definite troubled and distant vibe.
He also flashed on “that miserable Moffatt broad” and frowned. Story Moffatt was one of the main characters in the case. When it was over, she and Streeter had a brief fling, but he hadn’t seen her in over two years now. Which was fine with him.
“Business proposition?” he asked softly, out loud to the empty room. His eyebrows shot up and he tossed the card back on top of the piano. He realized that the 16th was the day after tomorrow. Then he turned his attention back to Chopin.
FOUR
Alphonse Lucci’s office was decorated in a style that the original Frank Sinatra–Dean Martin Rat Pack would have loved. At least Alphonse liked to think so. Located behind his catering kitchens, it had a single small window covered by towel-thick burgundy drapes. The furniture was low, dark Mediterranean with lamps heavy enough to stop a moving mid-sized car. The shag carpeting was the color of dried blood, and the paneled walls boasted autographed photos of aging or dead crooners like Bobby Darin and Vic Damone.
“So what makes you think this guy can help us?” Sheri Lucci asked as she adjusted herself in a chair in front of her father’s desk, toying with the Virginia Slim. She hadn’t gotten back to sleep after the fire that morning, and she was in no mood to waste time.
“I told you. He did a bang-up job on Nicky’s case.” Alphonse was sitting up ramrod straight at his desk. “Not to mention, he’s big enough to put a little fear into that schmuck Disanto and yet he won’t lose his cool and get carried away. At least that’s according to Knight, anyhow. We had us a long talk this morning about Mr. Streeter. Knight says he’s the best skip tracer around and he’s relentless when he takes on a project.” The old man nodded. “Besides, who else am I gonna send over there to talk to Disanto. Maria? Nicky? One of my delivery guys?” He paused. “You?” He waved his hand in disgust and turned away for a moment. “Arson is pretty serious stuff. What if they’d torched our place instead of the Mexican’s and you were asleep?”
Sheri put the cigarette back into the pack. Slowly she smoothed out the front of her red skirt. “So you’re hiring this musclehead to toss Freddy around?”
The Cheese Man shook his head impatiently. “No, no, no. Just to have him go visit the dipshit and reason with him. I called Streeter before and he said he’d be here at three. Stick around. It’s just a few minutes until then. Who knows? Maybe he’ll have some ideas a his own.”
“What does he look like?” Sheri sat up slightly.
Her father frowned. “The back end of a mule. What do you care? Let’s put our libido on hold for a while here, honey. Think you can handle that? I swear, if you’d a married a decent man instead a that oversexed greaseball you hooked up with way back when, maybe all our lives would be a lot better off.” Then his voice softened in concern. “You wouldn’t have to act like you’re on the make all the time, and maybe Nicky wouldn’t a turned out so screwed up, either.”
Sheri’s eyes narrowed. “Can we not go through all that again, Daddy? Please.”
Alphonse’s eyebrows shot up, he shrugged, and then sat back in his chair while pulling once on his red tie. He was wearing the same basic outfit he’d had on at the trial. Alphonse Lucci had about a dozen of the dark suits and an equal number of white shirts and red ties. Other than his pajamas, that was about all he ever seemed to wear.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “But listen, when Streeter gets here, tell him you’re not exactly sure who torched the place this morning—you just have a good idea. From what Knight tells me, Streeter’ll insist on us going to the cops with that. I don’t want them nosing around if I can handle it on my own. They’ll be all over us and it’ll end up with them leaning on me for my card games. Just tell Streeter it might a been Bosco and that we’re covering our asses in case Disanto sent him.”
Sheri nodded. They sat there in silence for a moment, the room smelling like baking dough and onions. She was about to say something when there was a knock on the door. Both Luccis turned in that direction; Alphonse spoke first. “It’s not locked. Come on in.”
Streeter recognized the Cheese Man’s voice through the door. He pushed it open and walked into the stuffy office. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised at the decor. Or the lighting, which was along the lines of Marlon Brando’s office in the opening wedding scenes of Godfather I. Alphonse stood up behind the large desk. At least, Streeter thought the little man was standing. In a low chair across the desk sat a woman he estimated to be about forty, fit-looking in a tight red skirt and a white cotton blouse. She had brown eyes nearly as dark as Al’s and brown hair. It was styled in a longish sixties bob cut with short bangs in front. When she saw him, she broke into a friendly smile. Streeter nodded at her and then looked back at Alphonse.
“Mr. Lucci.” He walked toward the desk.
“Hey, come on.” Alphonse took two quick steps to the side of his desk. “What I tell you yesterday? It’s Al.” He paused and frowned into his dense glasses. “Is there anything I can call you besides ‘Mr. Streeter’? I’d like to keep this informal here. All in the family.” He nodded toward Sheri.
Streeter glanced down at the woman, who was turned in his direction. Then he looked back at Al. “Just plain Streeter’s fine.”
The o
ld man considered that, his smile dropping. “Done.” Then he pointed at Sheri. “This is my daughter, Sheri Lucci. Nicky’s mother.”
Sheri nodded and extended her hand to be shaken, still smiling. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about you, Streeter. From Daddy and from Nicky.” She paused as they shook hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t make it to court yesterday, but I was up in Vail, swamped with business. Thanks so much for helping my son.”
Streeter nodded. Al pointed to a chair next to his daughter, and the bounty hunter sat down. Sheri studied Streeter. He was wearing an expensive-looking white Oxford shirt, the kind with those band collars that she liked. Even in the long sleeves she could see that his arms were thick and his chest strained slightly against the fabric as well. Her father was right. A guy with shoulders like this would give Freddy Disanto something to think about. Finally, she broke the silence. “Nicky’s no angel, but he would never go out with a gun and rob someone.”
“That was pretty clear from early on,” Streeter said. “But he’s not out of the woods yet. No offense, Sheri, but your son’s pretty troubled. Underneath it all he’s a good kid, but he’s dug a real hole for himself in a lot of ways.”
Sheri liked the way he leaned toward her as he spoke. A low, confidential voice and intense eyes. He seemed sincere, but not preachy.
Alphonse sat down and cleared his throat. It sounded like he had a cold. “Well, Nicky’s not why I wanted to talk to you, Streeter.” His voice was deeper now and it had a definite no-nonsense tone that caused both of them to look at him. “First off, can I have Sheri here get you anything? Coffee? Pop?”
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