Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  Frank let out a quick grunt that passed as a laugh and Streeter frowned. “You checked out my divorces?”

  Ronnie shrugged and flashed a grin. “I didn’t bill you for the time, Tarzan. Anyhow, I’d suggest a little marriage counseling before you take any more walks down the aisle. The fourth one lasted—what?—sixteen months?”

  Streeter frowned. “Well, I’m sure it couldn’t compare to that beautiful thing you and Tom Cooper had going. That was a regular union made in heaven.”

  Ronnie kept smiling and was about to say something when the phone rang. She leaned forward, keeping eye contact with him, and picked up the receiver.

  “Bail Bonds,” she said, and waited. Finally, “I’ll see if I can find him. May I say who’s calling?” Then she put her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Al Lucci.”

  Streeter grabbed the phone. “Hello.”

  “Yeah, hi there, Streeter. It’s Al. We gotta talk.”

  “So talk.”

  “I don’t know where to start. Normally I’d say Disanto’s up to his old tricks, but he was one of the guys that got his ass kicked over here.”

  “What are you talking about? This isn’t another fire, is it?”

  “I almost wish, but no.” Al coughed loudly into the phone. “Last night a few of us boys were playing a little poker over here, down the hall from my office. About eleven or so, these three assholes wearing masks come storming in and start shooting up the walls. No one got hit, but they took us down for ten, twelve grand along with assorted personal valuables and such.”

  “Disanto did that?”

  “Not likely, seeing as how he was one of the boys that got taken down. He was playing with us when it happened. Even took a good rap to the head. If this was his plan, the man’s a masochist.”

  “He was hurt?”

  “He’ll live.” Al coughed again. “One of the gunmen tapped him on the noodle to get his attention. You know, get his mind right. Then they took everything in the room that resembled money, including all of Disanto’s cash, which was considerable. My only consolation is that, on the first night Disanto’s ahead in maybe four years, he gets it all ripped off before he can spend a penny.”

  “You have any idea who did it?”

  “Just about certain. Guy name of Manny Ramirez and his crew. They’re from up in Wyoming, and they come down here once in a while to pull shit like this. But the Ramirez Boys are a bunch a bugs and they couldn’t a figured this out on their own. I tell you Streeter, I got no idea in hell who set it up.”

  “Maybe you should pick a new set of friends,” Streeter said. Al made a small grunting noise but didn’t say anything. “What did the police say?” Streeter asked.

  “I can’t go to them with this. That game was about as legal as the robbery.”

  “So what do you want me to do, Al?”

  “What I really want you to do is throw this son of a bitch Disanto off Lookout Mountain. He’s foremost on my mind, and now he’s giving me even more crap because I let this thing happen at my joint. I also wouldn’t mind if you found out who put Ramirez and his idiots up to that stunt.” His voice softened. “But it’s mainly the D. Get him off my back, Streeter. I’m too old for this. I can’t take much more of it.”

  “How about if I drop by later and we’ll see what we can come up with?”

  “Tomorrow. First thing in the morning. Today, I gotta deal with the guys from last night. Calm them down some.”

  “Okay. I’ll be over at ten in the morning.”

  “Do that.” He paused. “And Streeter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sheri says hi.”

  TEN

  Albert Hepp figured that from now on he could live just fine without Manny Ramirez telling him what to do every few minutes. But, then, Albert always was a very dumb man. No one who ever talked to him for more than a minute or so would argue with that.

  “Your balls are a lot bigger than your brains, amigo,” Manny had yelled at him that afternoon, just before he and Neal split town. “And that ain’t no real compliment to your balls, either. You stick around here, them crazy guineas gonna come by and put the hurt on you real good, huh? Bad enough you go and tell them who we are. Yell my name out like that when we’re leaving. But now you sticking around like this, it makes no sense.”

  “There’s lots of guys named Manny,” Albert came back. “How they gonna know it was you I was talking about?”

  Manny shook his head and got into the pickup truck. He looked once more at the fat man standing on the curb in downtown Cheyenne, clutching the neck of an unopened bottle of malt liquor in a brown paper bag. Albert’s face displayed its usual utter lack of anything. Two small eyes, close together over a nose crooked as a Cheeto. Mouth perpetually open about an inch. Manny wondered if Albert’s lips had ever touched. Ever. “Your last chance, man. You don’t come now, you’re on your own.”

  “Where you headed?” Albert switched his weight to his right leg and scratched idly at his crotch.

  Manny thought for a moment and then glanced at Neal, sitting next to the passenger’s door. He winked and turned back to Albert. “Canada. No one’ll look up there. I got a cousin in Montreal. We’ll lay low at his place until this all blows over. You coming, huh?”

  “No,” Albert said, switching his weight back to the other leg. “And I mean fuck no. Too cold up there.”

  “Suit yourself, huh?” With that, Manny shoved the truck into first gear and pulled away from the curb without looking back. When he’d gone about half a block, he turned to Neal again. “Think he’ll remember that my cousin lives in New Orleans?”

  “Most the time, he don’t remember that the President lives in Washington, D.C.,” Neal responded. “You said Canada, he’s thinking Canada.”

  Now, as Albert Hepp watched a Honeymooners repeat in Glenda’s mobile home, he was polishing off yet another forty. He had to take a leak, but he didn’t feel like walking all the way to the bathroom in the rear, next to the bedroom. He glanced down at the bottle in his hands and briefly thought about pissing into it. But he could feel there was still a couple inches of brew in there and he didn’t want to waste it. He looked over at the door, about four feet from the couch, and decided he’d urinate off the side porch. Hell, it was after one o’clock on Wednesday morning. Idiot neighbors would all be asleep. Albert stood up, his bathrobe shifting open as he did. He was wearing only a pair of green plaid boxer shorts and yellow socks underneath it. He took one more look down the hall, toward where Glenda was sleeping. Good old Glenda. Might be built like a bookshelf and shy a tooth or two, but, man oh man, she could outcook and outscrew any woman in the whole state of Wyoming. Satisfied she was still asleep, Albert moved to the door and opened it.

  Outside, the night was so dark that it took his eyes a while to adjust to it. Before they completely did, he felt a huge hand gripping the front collar of his bathrobe. He opened his mouth to say something, but the hand yanked hard at his robe and jerked his whole body onto the little wooden deck. The force of the pull was so strong that Albert flew out the door and moved straight ahead about five feet. His stomach, at about the level of his belly button, rammed into the metal railing. He bounced hard off of it and back onto the deck, losing his footing as he did. Albert slammed down onto his back, the rear of his head hitting the bottom of the doorframe he had just left.

  His arm, the hand still holding the bottle of malt liquor, flew off to the side, and the bagged bottle hit the wall of the trailer, causing a muffled crash. Albert himself let out an abrupt scream, nearly going unconscious. Before he could move, he felt someone grab his ankles and pull him toward the edge of the porch and under the metal railing. His head lifted slightly to see a man standing on the ground and pulling him out. This clearly was one strong man: he yanked the two-hundred-thirty-eight pound Albert Hepp straight out and over the edge of the deck. Albert, dazed, could feel air beneath himself for a second, and then his backside landed on the ground, about three and a half feet be
low the edge of the deck. Knocked the wind out of him so fast that he could only let out a swift, dull “ugggh.”

  He was nearly unconscious as he lay there, wondering how one man could get around the porch so fast and move him out there like that. Then he became aware of the guy kneeling over him. He was now holding Albert’s robe front again in his giant paw. Blinking hard several times, Albert could hear the man say, “Hey, shit-for-brains. You remember me?”

  At that moment Albert didn’t actually remember how many toes he had. He shook his head and muttered, “Naw.”

  Apparently that wasn’t much of an answer, because the guy’s fist shot into Albert’s nose, breaking it. Albert thought how it sounded like someone taking a step onto frozen snow.

  “You stopped by our little card game last night,” the man continued. “That coming back to you now?”

  Albert could feel his bathrobe bunched up under his upper back. He was aware that his huge gut was exposed to the man kneeling next to him and that a warm blast of piss had come out of him, short but hard, when he hit the ground. Card game? Of course. It finally dawned on him why this was happening.

  “You,” was all he could get out. He still had no idea who the guy was.

  “Damned right it’s me.”

  The man’s voice sounded slightly familiar now, and Albert assumed it was the big, younger guy from the poker game. The one who looked like he could crush cinderblocks in his bare hands, no sweat.

  “I’m Freddy Disanto,” the voice continued. “Definitely not the guy you want all mad at you like this.” He paused. “Where are your two girlfriends?”

  Albert frowned. “Glenda?”

  Freddy the D.’s fist came back down into his face, this time landed mostly on Albert’s lower jaw. Another sound of frozen snow. “Who the hell is that? I’m talking about Manny and Ringo. Where are they?”

  Albert’s mind gave him permission to give up his friends before Freddy had even finished asking. “Canada. Montreal. Manny’s cousin lives up there.”

  “What’s the cousin’s name?”

  “Ramirez,” Albert said.

  “I could guess that much, jerkoff. What’s the first name?”

  “I ’unno.”

  “You’re very loyal,” Freddy the D. came back. “That’s so admirable.” He threw another fist into Albert’s jaw.

  “But you asked!” Albert’s voice rose to a whine.

  “What a pig.” Freddy paused. “Who put you morons up to that move?”

  “Manny.”

  Freddy’s eyes rolled in the darkness. “I mean, who put Manny up to it?”

  Albert frowned, desperately trying to remember the man’s name. He had no idea. All Manny had told him and Neal was that an Italian from Denver called him and set it up. An old guy, no names. Seeing as how all he cared about was the money, Albert hadn’t ask anything beyond that. “Some guy phoned Manny from Denver. All I know was he was a wop and that’s that. Some old guy.”

  “Lucci?” Freddy the D. moved his head back slightly. “Al Lucci?”

  “Could be. I never heard the name.” He paused, figuring it was better to be as helpful as possible. “Yeah, I think that’s it.”

  Freddy the D. let go of the bathrobe and stood up. He stared down at Albert, who lay there without moving except for the broad up and down of his chest and belly as he breathed. Freddy sniffed the air.

  “You pissed in your pants, didn’t you?” he asked the man on the ground.

  “I think so,” Albert said, still pretty confused.

  Freddy the D. put his right hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a handgun with a long silencer attached. Albert couldn’t exactly make it out to be a gun, but his frown deepened. Even if he wasn’t sure what Freddy was holding in the darkness, he could guess it wasn’t good news. He opened his mouth to say something, anything that might calm the man down. He thought about repeating the Canada business, but that didn’t seem to make much sense. Then he thought about calling out for Glenda. Like that would do him any good. Just get her into trouble. Before he could move or say anything, the gun went off. Twice. Barely as loud as a book slamming shut. Albert’s body jolted a couple of times and then he was still.

  Staring silently at the fat body for a moment, Freddy the D. thought of Alphonse Lucci. That feeble old man had knocked off his own card game just to cause Freddy trouble. He’d pay for that move. Time to turn up the heat on Lucci, the D. reasoned. Talk to Mitchie about it when you get back to Denver. Then he thought of Manny Ramirez and his other partner. And then Lucci again. He studied the body at his feet. This should get the right message to all three of those guys. Especially Lucci. The other two, who cared.

  “No way I’m going up to Canada this time of year,” the D. said softly to no one in particular. Way too cold, he thought. And, hell, it was only a stupid card game.

  With that, he turned and walked back to his car.

  ELEVEN

  When Streeter walked into the office that Wednesday morning, Alphonse Lucci was shivering like a wet spaniel. His pale face looked smaller than usual behind his glasses. Sheri was standing over his left shoulder, and they were looking at a fax sheet on top of the desk. As Streeter approached, the Luccis looked up. Al’s head bobbed twice in what Streeter interpreted to be nerves.

  “Streeter,” Al said, glancing down at the desk again. “You gotta read this fax I just got.” He shook his head and looked back up. “A fax it is nowadays. You believe that?”

  Streeter got to the desk and looked down. “What’s it about?”

  “Freddy Disanto,” Sheri said. “He’s going off the deep end.”

  Streeter glanced up at her. Sheri was wearing a little more makeup than the first time he’d met her. She was looking closely at him, and he wondered if he detected the trace of a smile on her face. “How so?” he asked her.

  “You read this sheet and tell me,” Alphonse stepped in. “Looks to me like he already killed one of the robbers from the other night and he claims that the other two left the country.”

  Streeter picked up the fax sheet. It was typed out, sloppy, and with only a casual interest in grammar and spelling. But the message seemed fairly clear:

  I understand that one of the punks who visited your place Monday night is no longer with us. His body was found early this morning in Cheyenne. I also understand that the other two perps are no longer residing in this particular country for fear of having the same thing happen to them. A fairly healthy notion since I’m not thrilled with being jerked around like we were by them.

  “He faxed you what amounts to nearly a confession.” Streeter looked at both of them.

  “That would be my assumption,” the old man said. “With a head case like the D., it probably didn’t register what he was doing. But how else did he know about that goofus getting whacked up there in Cheyenne? It had to be him. I made some calls to a guy I know up there and it seems that one Albert Hepp was found this morning shot to death outside a trailer. Albert was a close associate of Manny Ramirez.”

  Streeter looked back at the sheet and continued reading.

  “I also want you to know that I expect to be reimbursed for the five grand or so these individuals took off of me Monday night. Your game, your job to see it’s safe. Not to mention that the dead man in Wyoming was known to tell people that it was you who hired him. D.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Streeter asked when he finished reading. “You get robbed and then you’re held liable to pay Disanto for his losses. He’s trying to put this thing with the Ramirez Boys on you?”

  “So it would seem,” Al said sadly. “This Hepp must a said I hired them. A course, I imagine he was under a great deal a stress and pressure at the time he made that little confession. But, still, why would he finger me? I mean, I know some heavy people around town, but this…” The old man shook his tiny head and looked down at his empty desktop.

  Sheri rolled her eyes. “Sure you do.” She said. “You’re a regular organized-crim
e kingpin.”

  The old man’s head jerked up at that. “I know people,” he said hoarsely, with all the pride he could muster.

  “Right.” Sheri turned to Streeter. “He had one second cousin who lived in New Jersey and hung out with a few wise guys. That’s exactly who he knows. And that cousin’s been dead for nine years now.” She glanced back at Alphonse. “You don’t know squat and it’s time you admit it.”

  The little man stared off but said nothing at first. “Maybe so, but we gotta find out who set up that robbery. I, personally, don’t have a clue.”

  “We’ve got more important things to deal with here,” the bounty hunter said. “First off, are you going to show this to the police?”

  They both shook their heads in unison. “What for?” Al asked. “All it says is ‘D.’ That can’t be traced to Freddy. Not to mention that he doesn’t come right out and actually admit to anything.”

  “You’re right about that,” Streeter said. “If Disanto killed Hepp, that means he’s capable of anything. And if he’s blaming you for hiring Ramirez, then he’s capable of doing anything to you. Which means we’ve got to deal with Freddy boy. Fast. I’d also like to find out exactly who it was that actually did hire Manny and his crew. That’s essential.”

  “You’re right about Disanto,” Al said, saliva forming on the corners of his mouth. “Those rumors about him must be true. Either he did this Wyoming thing or he sent someone like Bosco up to do it. I’ve got to get him some money to make good for the other night.” He homed in on Streeter. “And you’ve got to give me some breathing room here. This guy’s making me mental.”

  Streeter shook his head. “You’re not paying Disanto a penny. That would be like admitting you set up the robbery.” He paused for a long moment. “Have you given any more thought to selling out to him?”