He glanced at his host. Damned Cheese Man hopping around the table like the carpet was on fire. Not playing. Just studying everyone without looking directly at their cards. Freddy knew that Alphonse Lucci had never liked him, particularly since the D.had started in on him a few months earlier about buying his pizza joint. The relationship between the two had gone from bad to horrible after that. But Alphonse let him keep playing out of habit, seeing as how Freddy had been pretty much of a regular there for almost fifteen years. Even during the time when Freddy’s father went away. That and because the D. normally lost big. But tonight was different. Alphonse seemed ready to blow a gasket. Freddy the D. liked that, because he simply hated the old man. Little schmuck Lucci in his maroon velvet smoking jacket, his tiny head poking up from the oversized garment like he was a scared turtle. Glasses thick as ashtrays, and the frames so big it looked like his head couldn’t support them. But tonight even Freddy the D. didn’t mind him all that much. He was winning big.
The other players chewed their cigars and grumbled, not giving one good rip how Freddy Disanto and the Cheese Man were getting along. All they knew was that most of their money was drifting toward Freddy’s end of the table, and that had never happened before. They were certain that he was too stupid to cheat, so they chalked it up to blind luck. If they could keep him playing long enough, they knew that he’d piss it away eventually. That the money would start rolling back their way sooner or later. Hell, it was only a little after ten. By midnight things should be back the way they were supposed to be.
Only one of the Ramirez Boys was actually named Ramirez. That would be Manny. The other two “boys” were Neal Ringo and Albert Hepp. But the three of them had been inseparable since they’d first met in the fourth grade—up in Cheyenne, twenty years earlier—and Manny had always been the leader. He was the only one who possessed what might be called brains and judgment. Neal and Albert were more or less extensions of Manny. Like his arms. They did whatever he said with a minimum amount of lip. Neither of them ever came up with an independent idea. In fact, by the time they’d made it to high school, Manny had earned the nickname Top Cat. After the old cartoon character cat that had a crew of numb nuts to carry out his every harebrained scheme. Only Manny’s schemes were more vicious and profitable than stupid. Not that they were ever what you’d call complex. To these three the equation was simple: you had a gun, you had access to money. The Ramirez Boys always had plenty of guns, and this plan was about as basic as you could get.
“It’s all set up, Manny,” Mitch Bosco had told him over the phone on Saturday. “All laid out for you. You know the location and the take’ll just be sitting there to be scooped up. Wear some masks and scare the crap out of them. Guys this old, that shouldn’t be tough. They’ll be playing cards and I know for a fact they won’t be armed. No one’s ever had the balls to try and take this game out. Not until now.”
Manny listened on the other end, liking the job pretty well. It would kill two birds with one stone. First, it would even the score with Bosco. Mitch had bailed Manny’s butt out of a jam a few months earlier, when he helped him unload some hot merchandise to a buyer in New Mexico. And, second, there was money to be made.
“What’s our end in all this?” Manny had asked. “And how much we have to turn over to you when we’re done, huh?”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Mitch had answered. “For you, anyhow. Your end is whatever’s in the pot. You don’t owe me a thing.”
Manny frowned and briefly glanced at the receiver in his hand. “Why’s that?”
“Because I’ve got my own reasons for this thing happening and you don’t have to know nothing about that. Just promise me one thing. If you ever get in a spot where someone asks you who turned you on to this game, tell them it was some old Italian dude from Denver. He was just a voice on the phone and that’s all you know.” He paused. “In fact, that’s all that crew of yours should hear. You and me are the only ones need to know about this. You promise me that and we’re even. Not to mention you’re ahead a few grand.”
That didn’t sound any more than reasonable to Manny. Still. “So you set this up and all you want out of it is nothing? No money?”
“I get out of it what I get out of it and that’s all you gotta know.”
“Okay. I’m there.” A few minutes of work for maybe ten grand in small bills. All of it belonging to a few old West Denver wops. Might be worth the ninety-minute drive down to the city.
Now, as he moved the pickup truck smoothly down I-25 with the Denver skyline coming into view to the south, Manny was again going through the details with Neal and Albert.
“There’s an alley right behind the store or whatever it is,” Manny was saying. He shot a glance to his right. Neal looked jumpy from the coke he’d been packing up his nose all night. But that was okay. That idiot cowboy always worked better with half a gram in his bloodstream. Be all right just so nobody inside made any quick moves. Albert, well, he was another story. The fat man leaned against the passenger’s door, holding a forty of Mickey’s Malt Liquor in a brown paper bag. His eyes were almost shut; his face was flat as a shovel. About as expressive, too. Albert looked ready for jack shit. “Our contact man said the door back there is always left open so them humps can come and go as they please,” Manny continued. “This game’s been played there every Monday night for the past hunnert years or so, and they don’t worry about security.”
“Big mistake,” Albert said, suddenly looking happy as only the seriously stupid can.
“That’s damned straight, Bubba,” Manny said to the steering wheel. “We’re in and out in three minutes. Tops. I do the talking, you hold’em down.” He paused and looked to his right again. “And you, Albert. You cover the back door. Nobody comes in while we’re there. You can handle that, huh?”
Albert nodded once, his eyes now showing only the tiniest flicker of comprehension.
Freddy the D. was leaning hard on his huge elbows, which were planted on the table and locked into a V. Both of his hands were holding his just-dealt cards tight and close to his face. When the three men burst in through the back door, Freddy barely noticed them, even though he was facing their direction. He was just sort of aware of motion across the room. It was Art, sitting to Freddy’s left, who first noticed the men. Art, who was maybe the oldest man there and who played cards with an oxygen tank pumping air into his nostrils as he chewed an unlit cigar. His head jerked back and the stogie dropped into his lap. That’s what Freddy the D. noticed first. Then he looked to where old Art’s eyes were riveted. Freddy frowned and automatically started to move his six-foot-three-inch frame up and out of his chair.
“Sit the fuck down!” Manny yelled at him while walking toward the table, his chrome nine-mil held in both hands, Dirty Harry style.
Freddy the D. was no genius, but he could see right off that the nine pointed at his head beat his pair of kings by a mile. So he dropped his cards as he lowered himself back into his chair. Silently, he wondered if he could get to the tiny .22 he had taped to his left ankle without the jerk in the cheap Nixon mask noticing. He quickly realized that the answer was no. Not with the guy focusing right on him like that.
Manny could feel his face sweating wildly under the plastic mask. His read was that the big dark guy he’d just yelled at was the only one who could give him any trouble. The rest of the players looked harmless, like a batch of shriveled apples sitting around waiting to be swept away. So Manny kept his gun on the big man while Neal, wearing an identical Nixon mask, paced behind him with his sawed-off shotgun sweeping the table. Somewhere in back of Neal, Albert was leaning against the doorframe. Albert had gone with a hockey goalie’s face mask for the evening, and he was casually dividing his attention between the card table and the outside world in the alley.
“Everyone, just stay calm and you might make it out of here alive!” Manny yelled. He noticed one of the old guys, a small pale man in a shiny red bathrobe, was standing off to the left of the
table. “Get over there, you little goof,” he screamed at him while jerking the gun in the direction of the card players.
“Wha’ the hell?” one of the old men asked loudly from the table. “Who are you people?”
Manny glanced at the man, the one sitting next to the young guy and sporting tubes running out of his nose into a tank.
“We’re the people robbing you, huh?” Manny responded. “You just worry about us shooting you up.” He paused and waved his gun at the wall across from the door. “Everybody! Empty your pockets on the table and then go over there and lie on the floor. Facedown. That way my man here”—he gestured to Neal—“won’t have to shoot you up. You do what I say, huh?”
When nobody budged and the old men just kept looking at each other frowning, Manny aimed his nine at the wall behind the big man and fired a round. The gun seemed to explode in the small room, and the plywood wall smoldered where the bullet hit it. Got the old guys’ attention real good, too. In unison they all sort of hopped in their chairs and then leaned forward, reaching for their pockets. As they did, Neal pulled a soiled pillowcase from his back pocket and moved over to the table. The card players emptied their pockets. So did Al Lucci. The only one who didn’t respond was Freddy the D. He just sat there glaring at Manny, too pissed to do anything. Holding his nine in one hand now, Manny walked to the table and stood right behind the D. Then he popped Freddy on the top of the head with the bottom of the gun grip. It was only a few inches above Freddy’s skull when it came down, but it hit him with remarkable force. That caused Freddy’s head to fly toward the table. A thick tear broke out in the corner of one eye.
“I’m talking to you, too, asshole!” Manny screamed. “The next shot goes into your head, you don’t do what I say.”
Freddy the D. felt like he was hit with a hammer, which clearly took most of the fight out of him. He struggled not to cry anymore and instead just stood up and emptied his pockets. He glanced around the table and saw seven small assorted piles of keys on gold chains, handkerchiefs, combs, wads of cash, and wallets. He made his own little stack in front of him and then moved around the chair to where the other men were struggling to lie on the floor. It looked like a yoga class at an old folks’ home. The D. moved a couple feet from the others and then dropped himself to the floor. The thought of all the money he was losing made him want to cry more than the bang on the head had.
“That’s good,” Manny said, his voice lower than before. “We don’t want no dead old wops here.” He turned to watch Neal scooping up everything valuable from the table. Even the quick glance told Manny that Mitch Bosco’s estimate of ten thousand dollars was pretty accurate. Had to be at least that going into the filthy pillowcase. Behind Neal, he could see Albert watching, too, and yawning like the whole thing was boring him half to death. Then Manny looked back at the old men, who by now were all on the floor with their heads close to the wall.
“Facedown!” His voice rose. “All of you!”
The eight men more or less complied. The whack on the head apparently had put the big guy in the right frame of mind, because he now had his face almost buried in the thick carpet. When he could see that Neal was finished, Manny started backpedaling toward the door. As they both reached where Albert stood, they were about eight feet from the round table, with the card players another few feet beyond that. Manny glanced at his watch. They’d been there less than three minutes. Excellent. He looked back once more at the men on the floor. But before he could say anything else, Albert spoke up.
“Let’s go, Manny,” he said in a voice that echoed loudly through the room.
Mother of God, Manny thought. The hell was that all about? He spun and glared at Albert through his plastic Nixon face. The fat man at the door just stood there, his mouth dropping open under his mask. Neal was looking at Albert as well. Manny tapped Neal on the shoulder with his free hand. Then Manny pointed to the wall above the card players and said softly, “Make some more noise but don’t go hitting no one.”
Neal Ringo took a couple of quick steps toward the men and raised his shotgun to a few inches above his waist, right hand on the trigger, left on the base of the barrel. Then he unloaded a blast into the plywood wall, about three feet over the prone men. It sounded as though a garbage truck had fallen off the roof. Manny was sure some of the old guys would never hear very well again, and he hoped it would confuse all of them enough so they’d forget his name. With that, the Ramirez Boys backed out of the room. Manny slammed the door behind them, and they were in the idling pickup truck within seconds after that.
Still lying there facedown even after the door shut, Freddy Disanto realized two things. One: that was Manny Ramirez and his crew who had just left the room. Two: he’d pissed in his pants when the shotgun went off.
NINE
“You were right about all of them having dirt under their nails.” Ronnie set a file folder on the desk and looked at Streeter and Frank. “Even your friend Sheri Lucci. Sheri with an ‘i.’ ”
“What do you mean, she’s dirty?” Frank asked.
“Not dirty, just some problems.” Ronnie shrugged. “Apparently she likes to drive fast, and fourteen years ago she was charged with assault and battery. Seems she took a pipe wrench to her ex-husband and banged him up a little. I gather from the files that they had a stormy marriage. The assault charge got reduced to a misdemeanor and she pleaded out. Six months’ probation.” She paused. “They were divorced for about two years before the incident occurred, so she must have a hard time letting go.”
Streeter could picture Sheri doing that. Her old man’s daughter through and through. He looked at Ronnie. “How about the rest of them?”
She pointed to the file. “It’s all in there. Mitch Bosco likes to drink. Lost his license eight years ago for DUI. Got it back a while ago. Obviously, a career criminal. He’s done county time for”—she glanced down at the notebook in her lap—“burglary, possession of stolen goods, two assaults, and more burglary. State time at Buena Vista for assault with a deadly weapon and—surprise, surprise—attempted arson.”
“That fits,” Frank said.
“Mr. Disanto,” Ronnie continued. “An interesting man. His driving record is clean, but he’s been charged with statutory rape, and attempting to intimidate a witness. Twice. Got probation every time. One count of extortion, too, but it was dismissed. He did do some federal time a few years back for receiving stolen goods.” Her eyebrows shot up. “I checked federal court, too. Seemed like a light sentence for what-all he was into at the time. Then there’s civil court. He’s been involved in a ton of suits over money, and with a former employee suing him about back wages. Most of it just went away. I gather either he has one terrific lawyer or he’s a very persuasive man.” She leaned closer to Streeter. “By the way, he’s forty-seven.”
“What about Alphonse?” Streeter ignored the age business.
“He’s a funny one, too.” Ronnie looked down at her pad. “He had his license suspended a few years ago on points. He’s got sort of a rap sheet, but it reads more like a teenager’s. Disorderly conduct: urination.” She looked up and shook her head. “Seems he’s got a weak bladder and he’s prone to relieving himself in the nearest alley or wherever’s convenient.” Then she focused on the pad again. “There’s some gambling arrests, too. Probation each time. And one count of theft by receiving in ’86.” She looked up at the two men. “Nothing in federal court, and just a lot of small stuff in civil court. All of it relating to his restaurants.”
“Sounds like your Alphonse Lucci’s not much of a player,” Frank said.
“Nice touch, hitting federal court,” Streeter told Ronnie. Then he turned to Frank. “None of them are very big time. I did a computer sweep of the state and it seems these guys never leave town. There was nothing outside of Denver except for Bosco. He’s been charged with theft by receiving in Adams County a while ago. Pleaded it way down. Also, I talked to the people investigating the Vail arson and they’ve got nothing. Stri
ctly professional. No witnesses, no motive. Might as well forget that one unless Sheri comes forward, which she’s not going to do.”
He glanced back at Ronnie. “Evidently, Bosco’s not a complete fool. I talked to an old friend of mine at Denver Crimes Against Persons. Detective Carey. He’s heard of Bosco, and Disanto’s name rang a bell, too. He’s going to do an NCIC on them to see if they have any problems out of state. But the bottom line is we’re dealing with two rotten guys here in Freddy and Mitch. They don’t seem to be killers exactly, and they’re not connected to the really big boys—no Mafia or anything like that. Both are strictly local and fairly small-time. But if they’re going for arson, they’re dangerous. And they’re motivated. Al said Freddy has a lot on the line with this condo project. Plus, there’s that business between Lucci and Freddy’s father. Carey told me that little Al held out for all of ten or twelve seconds before he rolled Disanto’s old man to save his own butt.”
Streeter adjusted himself in his chair. “Carey also said he’s heard gossip lately in the department about Bosco. Something to do with the DA’s office. That’s all he knows.”
“Maybe he’s paying people off.” Frank leaned forward, frowning.
“Doubtful.”
“Maybe he’s under investigation himself,” the bondsman offered.
“We can only hope,” Streeter responded.
“Or he’s a snitch,” Ronnie interjected.
They both looked at her. “It’s possible,” Streeter said. “But how that figures into all this is beyond me. Carey said he’d do a little snooping but I’m not holding my breath on that.”
Ronnie cleared her throat. “You know, while I was down at the courthouse, I thought I might as well check your divorce history, too, Street. Seems you’ve had a little difficulty in that area. By the way, I can see why you don’t use your first name. Anyhow, they practically have a whole Streeter wing over there. Four times?”
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