“Yeah,” the old man said. “But it ain’t gonna happen, Streeter. I’d rather get blown away than break my word to my father.” He stiffened slightly. “And I’m not gonna let this mutt dictate my life to me.”
“Well, if that’s the way you want to play it, then we confront Disanto and let him know the score.” Streeter paced slowly in front of the desk. “I want to go talk to Freddy and I want to do it fast. Hopefully today. Tomorrow at the latest. Do you have any idea where’s the best place to get to him? And I wouldn’t mind a suggestion or two on how I should approach the man.”
“Tomorrow’s Thursday,” Al said. “I know for a fact that he eats lunch every Thursday at Pagliacci’s. I know people who’ve met him there once or twice.” He blinked at Streeter. “You know the place? It’s over on 33rd, near the freeway.”
The bounty hunter nodded.
“Good,” Alphonse continued. “He’s usually alone. Guy like Fred don’t have much use for bodyguards or that kind of thing. I think he keeps a girl near there and he visits her after he’s done eating. Anyhow, you get over there a few minutes before noon, when he’s just sitting down. That’s our best move.”
“Sounds okay. I’ll let him know that your feelings on the sale are final and that you had nothing to do with the robbery,” Streeter said. “Then I’ll also let him know we know about the whole Vail business and that you’re feeling very uncomfortable about the entire situation. I’ll let him know that we’ve been talking to the police about all of it, including Cheyenne, and they’re getting interested in him. That’s mostly BS, but it wouldn’t hurt to have Disanto thinking along those lines. And, finally, I’ll let him know that I’m keeping a close watch on you and your family from now on. We’ve got to get this guy on the defensive.”
“You’ll be watching us?” Sheri asked.
He looked at her. “Probably not much, but more than before.”
The two held eye contact for a moment, so Alphonse spoke up. “You’ll want to be firm with the D., but don’t be getting into his face none.” The old man nodded wisely. “Freddy the D. wouldn’t take to that kind of thing. He’s one of those guys that walks around cocked and ready to go off at all times.”
Streeter nodded. “What does he look like?”
Alphonse smiled. “Picture a big pit bull in a silk suit and a lousy haircut. And I’m being generous here, Streeter. You’ll know him. No neck to speak of and yellow eyeballs. And he’ll probably be the only one in the joint eating with his fingers. The D. is no beauty, and he’s even a little taller than you. Broader, too, and we’re not talking baby fat here.” Then he frowned. “Freddy’s barely civilized and he’s got the pain threshold of a asphalt highway.”
“That’s very encouraging,” the bounty hunter said. “It’s a public place, and he’s not likely to pull anything there if I don’t get too stiff with him.”
No one spoke for a long time. The Luccis focused on the fax again, and Streeter was thinking about meeting Freddy the next day. Finally, Alphonse looked up. “You find out anything more on Mitch Bosco? Your cop friend any help?”
“Something’s going on between him and the police,” Streeter said. “My source, Carey, tells me he hears that Bosco’s helping the police with something. I met Carey last night for beers and he claims he doesn’t know anything more than that. And he’s not going to know anything more in the future, either. He made it clear to me that whatever Bosco’s doing with the cops is being kept quiet.” He paused. “I think it would be a good idea if I followed Bosco around a little. Might not even hurt if he knew I was doing it. That way he could get the word back to Disanto. Like I said, I want Freddy on the defensive. I keep a slow, steady flame under these two and something’s bound to shake out for us.”
“That could get a little tricky for you, Streeter,” Alphonse said.
“That it could,” he replied. “I’m more than open to any better ideas.”
Neither Lucci said anything.
TWELVE
Freddy Disanto had taught himself to eat slowly for the sole reason that he knew he could fit more in if he did. As a kid, he’d shovel down his mother’s food like every meal might be his last. But he’d get full too soon, so he learned to pace himself. He was always big for his age. Big and, since his early teens, hairy. With bones thick as drainpipes, an oversized skull, and a neck indistinguishable from his shoulders, he could handle a lot of weight without looking fat. He was barrel-chested and had heavy limbs that possessed amazing strength. And it seemed like the D. had dark hair growing everywhere except for maybe on the palms of his hands, the bottom of his feet, and the narrow band of his forehead. Although he was forty-seven, he had looked about the same at twenty-one. Probably would at sixty-five, too. Just sitting there in a wall booth at Pagliacci’s, casually taking in the linguine and garlic bread with his huge hands, he looked forbidding. Streeter watched the D. for a few minutes before he took a deep breath and walked up to him.
“You mind a little company, Mr. Disanto?” His hands were in his coat side pockets as he stood directly across the booth, looking down at the top of the D.’s head. There was no immediate response, and Streeter could hear the uneven sound of Pagliacci’s indoor fountain somewhere behind him. They were in the big room, which was about two-thirds full of people, and still the fountain was loud enough to be heard. The man eating didn’t look up directly, but Streeter caught a flash in his direction from his dark eyes and he knew that the D. had spotted him. “I need a few minutes of your time.”
Freddy reached to the side, still without looking up, and grabbed another slice of bread. He put it to his mouth and took a surprisingly tiny bite from it. Almost dainty. Then he chewed like he was counting the bites. Streeter shifted his weight from one leg to the other and continued to stare at the top of Freddy’s head. His hair was black, with a few white ones salted around the temples. He wore it long but it was thinning a little in front, about like Streeter’s. The bounty hunter thought briefly of the minoxidil he’d started using a week or so ago. He was about to make his request again when Freddy finally spoke.
“I’m eating and I don’t know you,” he said without looking up. “That should answer your question.”
Streeter cleared his throat softly. “I just need a few minutes and, besides, we seem to know a lot of the same people.”
Freddy’s head lifted slightly but he still didn’t look up. “Yeah? Like who?” He picked up his glass of red wine and put it to his mouth, lowering his head slightly as he did so.
“Like Al Lucci and Mitch Bosco,” he said slowly, pronouncing every syllable distinctly. “Manny Ramirez.” He paused. “Albert Hepp.”
That last one brought Freddy’s head up till he was looking just above Streeter’s belt buckle. Still no eye contact. “Albert? Where do you know him from?”
“Around. I didn’t actually know him personally, but I know about him and his poker-playing habits. He and his friends seem to like the game almost as much as you do, and I hear that they figured out a way to win. Big.”
This time, the D. carefully set his wineglass down and looked right into Streeter’s face. He sized up the man in front of him, in the black leather coat with the white sweatshirt underneath. The guy was about his height, and Freddy could see that the legs packed in the tight blue jeans were nearly as thick as his own. There was a calmness about the man that said he’d be inclined to stand there all day if necessary.
“Ramirez too, huh? You know where he is right about now?” the D. asked.
Streeter shook his head and took a step forward so that his thighs were touching the table. “But I know a few things about that whole situation. In fact, about everything. West Vail, Albert Hepp’s demise, your interest in Al Lucci’s place.”
Freddy sat back and ran his tongue between his top teeth and the inside of his upper lip. It seemed to take him about half an hour to do it. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You mind if I call you Freddy?”
“Who are you?” The D. i
gnored his question.
“My name’s Streeter.”
“What’s a Streeter?”
“I work for Alphonse Lucci.” He could see a flicker of a frown when Freddy heard that. “In fact, I’m a good friend of his. That’s why I’m here. Because I think this whole thing between you and Mr. Lucci is getting way out of hand and it’s time we talked it out and got a few things straight.” Streeter took his hands out of his jacket and rested them on the table, leaning in slightly as he did. “That would save everyone a lot of trouble and time. Why not hear me out? It won’t cost you a penny.”
Freddy reached for his wineglass again, still looking directly into Streeter’s eyes. “One thing I know for sure, nothing worth a shit is free.” His head moved a tad to the left and down, indicating that the man in front of him could sit. “So talk.”
Once in the booth, Streeter moved the bread plate away from in front of him. “Here’s the deal, Freddy. You want to buy out part of Mr. Lucci’s business interests but he really isn’t inclined to sell. And ever since he informed you of his reluctance, you’ve been letting people know how unhappy you are about it.” Streeter waited for a moment, but the D. didn’t respond. “Not only that, but lately some very weird things have been happening around Mr. Lucci. There was a fire next to his place in West Vail. Right next door, in fact. Then one of his friendly little card games got taken off earlier this week.”
“This is supposed to be new information?” Freddy picked at his linguine without looking at Streeter. “I was at the fucking game myself.”
“So I’m told.” Streeter shot him a grin. “I heard you got pushed around some.”
The D. stopped chewing his food for a second or two but said nothing.
“Anyhow, here’s the new part,” Streeter continued. “First off, Mr. Lucci has hired me to keep an eye on him and to make sure no more weird things happen. And I take my job so seriously you wouldn’t believe it. Also, I have a lot of friends on the Denver Police Department and we chat from time to time. What I told them today is that there was a problem at Mr. Lucci’s place on Monday and that a couple of days later one of the guys who helped cause that problem ended up dead in Wyoming. I also showed them a fax that Mr. Lucci got right after that death. From you, no less.” He paused to let it sink in. “They were very interested in that. Then I told them that someone saw a certain Mitch Bosco leave the scene of that West Vail fire last week and that Mr. Bosco works for you periodically. This really got their interest. Finally, I told them about Mr. Lucci refusing to sell you his property and how unpleasant you got over that. Almost threatening. By that time, you might say that my friends were all ears.”
Streeter leaned back in his seat and watched the D. for a moment. He felt loose and decided to ad-lib a little. Frank had taught him years ago to divide and conquer, so he thought he’d give that a shot. “They were so intrigued that they said they’d do a little looking into the situation. But here’s the funny part. They said that Mitch Bosco had already been in touch with them about some legal problems he has and that he seemed inclined to cooperate with them on other matters if it would help keep his sorry butt out of jail. They said that your name was mentioned in that context.”
Freddy turned to Streeter now. “Is that right? You get around.”
“That I do.” Streeter nodded. “And I want you to know that I’m going to stay around. Around Mr. Lucci and his family, specifically. I’m going to be watching them like crazy from now on. My impression from my friends at the DPD is that they might be doing the same. And one more thing, Freddy. Mr. Lucci wanted me to let you know that he’s been giving your offer on the restaurant a lot of thought.”
“And?” His voice was more bored than ever.
“And he’s decided for dead solid certain that he won’t sell the place, not even for ten times what you offered. He’ll never sell.”
Freddy nodded and then looked back to his lunch. “You know, I’m not the brightest guy on earth, so most of what you’re saying is going way the hell over my head. I’m not even sure what I have to do with all that stuff. Faxes and fires and whatnot. But if you’re saying Lucci doesn’t want to sell, that’s a surprise to me. ’Cause my impression is that he might be open to more negotiations.” He took another small bite from his bread and chewed thoughtfully. “We done here or what?”
“I guess we are. Except that I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for Mr. Lucci to reimburse you for Monday night’s theft. It’s not gonna happen. Not ever.” Streeter slid out of the booth. After looking back down at Freddy for a moment, he walked toward the door without saying another word.
The D. stared at him until he was gone and then he grabbed a tiny cell phone from inside his sport coat, punched in Mitch’s number. “Yeah, it’s me. We gotta get together soon. Yeah, tomorrow night’ll be good. I got more work for you.”
THIRTEEN
It was said of Karen Maples when she was a prosecutor in Pittsburgh that if she hadn’t gone into law she would have made one outstanding dominatrix. You always half expected her to pull a whip and a ball gag from her briefcase. Rarin’ Karen, as they called her, was all of five feet five inches, but she had the audacity of a rhino in mating season. Determined and always focused. What Karen wanted, Karen got. Plain to see that from a mile away. How she carried herself, her shoulders set high, searing Joan Crawford stare, drawing in deep breaths that made her breasts rise with authority. Seemed to take her forever to exhale. Walked like she couldn’t get around fast enough and talked in short, don’t-screw-with-me bursts. Her demeanor demanded attention and, having graduated second in her class from the University of Texas Law School, this woman could back it up. One solid glare from her could suck the oxygen from a small room.
Watching her now on the phone at her desk, Todd Janek could feel himself getting as stiff as rolled steel. He was totally infatuated with the woman. Not a terrific idea, considering he worked for her. She wasn’t particularly attractive. Decent-looking enough, but nothing special. Karen had a pale complexion offset by thick hair the color of fresh tar. Small hazel eyes that looked innocent and set up an opponent nicely. Her chin was a little small and weak, but she did have a great smile. Slightly chunky legs that flowed down from a slightly chunky waist. But Todd’s interest in her was spurred more by her aggressive style than by her looks. He found her attitude to be irresistible.
“You’re talking nothing but utter nonsense here, Clarence,” she was saying into the receiver. “Your guy takes a woman to a hotel out on East Colfax, plies her with coke and brandy, they have sex—which she swears was clearly not consensual—and he goes out to his car and gets a sawed-off shotgun. Then he brings it back to the room and passes out. When he wakes up, half his face is pushed in and she’s holding the gun. Your guy”—she glanced down at the file in front of her and read—“Tyrone Moore, got a few stitches out of the deal. He’s lucky that’s all he got. If he’d had shells in that thing he’d be dead now and you’d be representing Miss Franklin on at least a manslaughter charge.
“So Tyrone’s looking at—what?—kidnapping, sex assault, possession with intent to deliver, and possession of a lethal weapon by a convicted felon. I assume you’re aware that Tyrone has a fairly colorful felony record.” She looked at the file quickly again. “Hell, he’d only been out of prison a grand total of three weeks when this happened.” She paused and cleared her throat. “I can prove all of it and you want me to drop everything but the drug charge. What kind of drugs would I have to be on to even consider that?”
She looked straight ahead—past Todd, sitting across from her, like he wasn’t there. Her features were drawn in a tight frown. Todd really liked her war face. As she listened to Clarence on the other end, Karen rocked slightly in her chair.
“Who gives a flying you-know-what if the gun wasn’t loaded?” she asked as she suddenly stopped rocking. “His just having the damned thing is enough to meet the statute requirements. That alone gets Mr. Moore eight to twelve. And also, who cares i
f Miss Franklin has a couple of prostitution convictions? The last one was months ago. She’s obviously left the life and this is the thanks she gets. Drugged and raped. I can’t wait to hear you tell a jury that a tiny little thing like Miss Franklin beat up a man as large as your Tyrone. Give me a break. He could play for the Broncos if he wasn’t in prison most of the time.”
She paused again, listening hard. “No, Clarence, you’re fucked all the way around on this one. Not me. I’ve got nothing better to do than go slam-dunk you and your client in court. I look forward to it. I really do. You go tell Tyrone to get ready to head back down to Cañon City. I’ll see if I can get him roomed up with one of those maniacs from the Aryan Brotherhood.” She paused again and lowered her voice. “Yes, yes. There might be some wiggle room on that kidnapping-and-assault business. But the rest of it’s there for good. You better just prepare your guy for the hammer coming down.” She listened for a moment. “That’s good, Clarence. Go talk to my boss. I’m sure he’s in today. Do you want me to transfer you over?” Another pause. “Not right now, huh? You do that, Clarence. You get back to me on it.”
When Karen hung up, she kept looking straight ahead for a moment and then she focused on Todd Janek. “Why do they stick me with these turkeys now? As if I don’t have enough to think about. But, no, I have to fart around with this.” She threw her hand out toward the file on her desk. “I’ve got a hooker robbing a scumbag and then beating the poor slob half to death with his own gun after he passes out. Hell, the coke was even hers. The best we’ve got is that possession-of-deadly-weapon rap, and the lab isn’t even sure if the thing was operational. Lucky for me Clarence wants to go to trial less than I do. I’ll let him and Tyrone stew with it for a week or so, and then we’ll deal out. No way I’m going to put this mess in front of a jury. I tell you, Todd, I’m batting a thousand percent in Denver District Court and I intend to keep my record that way.”
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