Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  “You here already?” Kostas asked as Mitch entered the room. He held a can of Coke in one hand and waved the other in greeting.

  “No, I’ll be coming in an hour or so,” Mitch shot back. He gave his eyes a what-the-hell roll as he stood in front of the desk. “Someone followed me all the way from my place.”

  Kostas frowned deeply and set down his Coke. “Cops?”

  “I doubt it. He was so close on my ass, it had to a been a civilian.” Mitch paused, thinking about the bounty hunter that Disanto had mentioned. He jerked his head toward the front of the shack. “Let’s see if he’s still out there.”

  Kostas got up from his chair and followed Mitch to the small window facing the street. They stopped a couple of steps back from it, both men squinting to see outside. About a minute later, a big man in washed-out jeans and a gray sweater strolled past the driveway entrance, turning his head several times to look into the lot. Must be the bounty hunter, Mitch decided.

  “That the guy?” Kostas asked, still staring out the window.

  “Yeah. That’s no cop.”

  Ted turned to Mitch, his frown deepening. “Better not be. You bring heat down on me now, that deal we got is off.”

  Mitch glanced at him. A string of what looked like roast beef hung off the bottom of his beard. “Don’t soil your pants up. I saw the guy all the way. Remember, ‘It’s better to observe than to be observed.’ ”

  “You can cut that baloney right now,” Ted said, sounding mildly pissed. “From where I’m standing, it looks like you were observed pretty good.”

  “Calm down. This has nothing to do with you. This guy, I’ve been warned about him. I thought he might be a little sharper, but it’s okay he’s none too bright.” Mitch bit his lower lip in thought. Finally, he asked, “You got a piece in here?”

  Ted shrugged. “A small .22 in my desk. Why?”

  “Your car out in the back alley?”

  Ted nodded.

  “Go get the keys. It’s about time I teach this dipshit a lesson. Give me the keys to your car and the .22.”

  “Why?” Kostas took a couple of steps back from the window. “I thought we were supposed to discuss that Jaguar deal. You know I don’t like talking on the phone about that.”

  “Just give me the car and the piece. I want to get this guy off my butt. I’ll come back later, when the dust settles.”

  “What dust?”

  “The dust from me firing off your gun, is what dust. Don’t worry. This guy’s not likely to call the police, and like I said, this has nothing to do with you.”

  Kostas ran one hand over his beard. When he got to the chunk of meat he pulled it out and away from his face, studying it closely. Then he stuck it in his mouth and chewed. “Okay. Just so it’s like you say.”

  “Relax. I have one more meeting with these people with the discount cars and then they bring them down here. You give them the money and it’s over. Except for you selling them on your end.”

  “That’s all covered. Just so I know I can trust these people you found.”

  Mitch nodded. “They’re solid.” He paused for a moment and held out his hand. “The keys and the piece.”

  Kostas went to his desk and took a small revolver out of the top drawer. Then he dug into his pockets and pulled out his key ring. Handing both to Mitch, he asked, “How long you gonna need my car?”

  “An hour or so, maybe. Don’t worry. We’ll talk when I get back.” Mitch put the gun in his pants pocket and studied the keys, frowning.

  “It’s the Volvo keys,” Ted offered. “Like yours but not a wagon. White one, right out back.”

  Mitch nodded. “When I leave, you go out in the yard and act like you got a life. Act busy and curious so the guy moves on.”

  “For how long?”

  “Till you hear a signal from me. You’ll know it. Then you can come back and finish your lunch.”

  As Streeter slowed down in front of the gate, a man suddenly walked out of the shack. He was wearing filthy green work overalls and steel-tipped safety boots, and he looked from side to side as he moved toward the other building. His round, inexpressive face hid behind a thick gray beard. Streeter pegged him to be about sixty. Before he got to the building, the guy stopped and shot him a glance. At that, Streeter picked up the pace back toward his Buick.

  Mitch shoved the Volvo into drive and headed quickly down the alley. When he’d gone about two hundred feet, he stopped behind a long toolshed. He rammed the car into park and, leaving the engine running, got out. Pulling the small gun from his pocket, he checked to make sure it was loaded. Then he walked along the side of the shed toward the street. When he got just about to the front corner, he could see the man approaching his Buick, which was parked out front. Mitch half squatted with the shed on his right, and a small evergreen shielding him partially on his left. The man who had followed him stopped, glanced back toward T.K. Scrap, and then moved the final few feet to his car. He got into it and sat behind the wheel.

  Streeter looked through his windshield and decided he’d gotten his message through to Mitch, who’d probably sent the old man into the yard to check him out. Enough of this game. Maybe he’d follow Mitch the next day as a reminder. He reached down and pushed the key forward, and the Buick turned over. Next he heard an explosion off to his right and behind him. Several chunks of glass from his rear passenger’s door hit the back of his head and he could feel them cutting into his skin. Automatically, he moved down to protect himself. Then he heard two more explosions from the same direction and more glass shattered around him. The inside of the car smelled like burned metal.

  Following the third shot, Mitch put the revolver down by his side and watched the Buick for a moment. The second and third shots had gone in through the front passenger’s window and out the driver’s window. Close enough to give the bounty hunter a good earache, Mitch reasoned. As he started to back off, he could see that the driver’s head was still low, only the top of it visible. He turned and trotted back to the idling Volvo. He was in it and all the way to the end of the alley before Streeter dared to lift his head up again.

  The bounty hunter squinted around the car and realized how close he’d come to being hit. He wondered if it was a warning or bad shooting. Then he looked back toward the scrap yard in time to see the old man turning and walking toward the shack. Obviously, the bullets hadn’t come from him. Streeter shook off his shock and put the Buick into reverse. He backed up, looking alternately to both sides of the street. By the time he got to the end of the block, he realized that whoever had done it was gone. He put the car in drive, but kept his foot on the brake. Reaching into his glove box, he pulled out a cell phone and debated for a few seconds whether to call the police. Instead, he threw it on the seat next to him and touched the back of his head with his left hand, feeling what must be blood starting to mat his hair down. Then he headed north, back to the church.

  Once inside the shack, Ted Kostas moved silently to his desk and sat down. Damned Bosco sure didn’t like people following him, he thought. He picked up the sub sandwich and studied it. Then he took a huge bite and started to chew. Like Mitch said, this had nothing to do with him.

  SIXTEEN

  “I’d say, Mitchie, that it’s time for us to put her into a higher gear with the old man,” Freddy said. He and Mitch were sitting on the steps of Denver’s Civic Center, an amphitheater in a park between City Hall and the State Capitol. It was cool that Friday evening, the upper forties at most, and getting dark, but Freddy seemed comfortable in just a Banlon shirt and pleated slacks. For his part, Mitch was pulling on a fresh Salem 100, shivering from time to time in the raw night air, and wishing that Disanto would get to the point. Freddy was trying to act calm, but he was clearly furious: his jaw kept clenching and his eyes looked glazed.

  “That business with the Ramirez Boys the other night…” Freddy paused and studied Mitch. “That was the Cheese Man’s doing all the way. I know that for a fact.”

  “
Yeah?” Mitch’s eyes narrowed. “How you know that?”

  Freddy nodded solemnly. “Just trust me. I know.”

  Right, Mitch thought. You know everything. “Why would Lucci set up his own game? Makes no sense.”

  “At first, that was my thought, too.” The D. shifted his weight on the cold concrete. “But he must be so pissed at me about Vail that he thought it was worth it. Who knows how an old guy like that thinks? He’s pretty confused these days.” Freddy looked off for a moment before he went on. “The point is, I gotta get some real fear working in him. I’ve been talking to my associates in Arizona and they want this deal settled in the next week or so. Lucci sells to me fast or the Arizona people say they’ll drop the whole project.” He shrugged. “Me included. They’ll sell what we got for a tax write-off and move on to something else. Without me. I put way too much time and effort and dough into this thing to let that happen. You follow me, Mitchie?”

  Mitch frowned and considered the question. He also considered the pressure Freddy was getting from Arizona. Bosco knew all about that, but he was still surprised to see how it shook the D. He debated whether to tell Freddy about his run-in with the bounty hunter that morning and decided against it. “You asking me to whack the old man or what?” he finally asked.

  Freddy shook his head. “You do that, how’m I supposed to negotiate with a dead man? Believe me, the thought of taking him out makes me very happy. Especially with that crap from the card game. Those guys roughin’ me up. But I need him alive if I’m going to buy his place.”

  “I’m just asking, is all.” Mitch stomped out his cigarette. “Why don’t you tell me what it is you want?”

  “I’ll do that.” Freddy stood up and looked down at Mitch. “The old man has a car he keeps under wraps. We’re talking about a 1979 Lincoln Town Car here. Lucci loves the thing. What I’m saying is that we do a little number on that car so it causes the old man problems.”

  Mitch studied the D. “I gather that when you say ‘we’ you mean me.”

  “You got that right. I’ll pay you like always. Not to mention that the last time we spoke you said something about making up for that bungled job in Vail.”

  “Not to mention, huh?”

  Freddy shot him a hard stare. “Not to mention. This is how it’ll go down. Lucci keeps the Lincoln parked in a garage about four doors down from his house. He has a one-car garage, so he rents another one from a neighbor. Like I said, the old man’s totally nuts about that car. He only drives it on special occasions, like to Mass every Sunday morning. And he’s the only guy who drives the thing. No one touches that Lincoln besides him. That means, Mitchie, that if someone were to fuck up the car, like, say, bleed the brakes dry or whatever, Alphonse Lucci would be sure to get the fallout.”

  Slowly, the seated man lifted his head to make eye contact with Disanto. He nodded, but said nothing.

  “I checked out the garage,” Freddy continued, “and getting inside should be a piece of cake. No security system, no outer lighting, and just one flimsy lock. You should be in and out of there in no time.” He looked deeply into Mitch’s eyes. “My suggestion is that you do it early tomorrow morning. Lucci probably won’t drive it during the day tomorrow, but first thing Sunday morning he will.”

  Mitch sat there, looking up. His body swayed slightly in the darkness. “Any chance he goes to church by himself?”

  “I don’t see what that matters to you.”

  Mitch pulled another cigarette from his pack and thought of how, if Alphonse drove the Lincoln and banged it up, old lady Lucci would probably get hurt, too. He remained silent.

  “All you gotta worry about is doing the job right,” Freddy was now saying. “Bleed the brakes. The old man won’t get far before he runs into something. It shouldn’t kill him, but it will screw his precious car, and I’ll make sure he gets the point from my end. You okay with all this?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Outstanding.” The D. pulled a slip of paper from his pants pocket. “Here’s the old man’s address and the location of the garage.”

  Mitch stood up, taking the paper from Freddy. Then he nodded and started toward where he’d parked his car.

  “Not so fast, Mitchie.”

  He stopped and faced Freddy again. “What?”

  “We’re driving past the house and the garage right now. You and me. I wanna make sure that you know exactly where to go later. We don’t need any of the Cheese Man’s neighbors getting their brakes screwed up by mistake, do we?”

  Compared with Ben Champine, Space Lucci seemed nearly functional. Although only three months younger than Space, Ben was functionally illiterate and had served nearly four of his twenty-one years locked up for various controlled-substance violations. His drug of choice was primarily anything he could get his hands on. Pot, speed, hallucinogens, crack, airplane glue, meth, cough medicine, alcohol. If it was placed in front of young Ben, he consumed it, somehow. The two of them were sitting in the huge guest bedroom at Alphonse Lucci’s house that Saturday night, smoking a third joint and drinking the old man’s bourbon. Alphonse and Maria had just left to visit her sister and would be gone for at least three hours. Ben and Space had come to the house earlier for lasagna and were planning on spending the night. Space did that often on Saturday nights, and Ben, well, he didn’t much care where he was as long as he could get high for free, which is what Space had promised him. Not to mention that this was a special night. Ben’s twenty-first birthday. He kept forgetting that, but Space now reminded him as they toasted each other with a stiff drink and a toke from the yellow plastic bong.

  “I’m thinking, like, we should do something different tonight, man,” Ben said as he passed the pipe to his friend.

  Space frowned in confusion and said nothing.

  “Like maybe tool on downtown and get some women,” Ben continued, nodding at the reasonableness of his plan.

  “Cool.” Neither of them said anything for a long time as they both continued to work on the bong and their drinks. Finally, Space spoke up. “Let’s go, man.”

  They stood and began to move toward the steps leading down to the first floor. But when they got to the top of the stairs, they stopped and faced each other.

  “Hell, man,” Ben said. “How we gonna do it? No ride.”

  Space’s eyes narrowed in recognition of the fact that they had hitchhiked to his grandfather’s house. Not only did neither man own a car, but only Space had ever actually gotten a driver’s license, and that had been revoked over a year ago. Ben had quit trying for his after a bad accident on his third test. Also, Ben had to consider that he had never been with a woman in the carnal sense of the word. Between drugs and lockup, he had never gotten around to actually losing his virginity.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Space said. “We don’t know any women, anyhow. I’m like thinkin’ that we should stay here and just chill some more.”

  Ben frowned at the thought. “Not tonight, man. My birthday.”

  Space pulled his head back and smiled. “Right.”

  “Doesn’t your grandpa have a car?”

  “Sure. A Ford Escort. But that’s what they took.”

  “Too bad, man. I guess we do stay here and chill.”

  But neither of them moved. Suddenly, Space smiled again. From somewhere in the back of his mind, he recalled the Cheese Man’s Lincoln. “Wait, man. He’s got another ride. This old blue car he keeps down the block. He drove me to court in it one time. The keys must be around here somewhere.”

  “Excellent. Let’s go.”

  It took them nearly half an hour to find the keys, which turned out to be hanging on the hooks near the back kitchen door where Alphonse and Maria kept objects like umbrellas and keys. Of all things. Then they walked the four houses down to the garage, and it took them several more minutes to wrestle the correct key into the side door. Once inside, Space opened the overhead while Ben hopped in behind the wheel. On the way over, they’d decided that the birthday boy shoul
d drive. Ben fumbled with the keys as Space jumped into the passenger’s seat. With only a little illumination coming in from the streetlight, it was dark in the car.

  “This thing’s huge. Like something out of Star Wars,” Ben said as he put the key in the ignition. He turned over the engine, which was loud enough all by itself. But when he tromped the accelerator it sounded like they were cranking up a rocket ship in a closet. “Excellent!” Ben, smiling broadly, hollered over the roar. “No problem getting women with this baby,” he added. Looking out past the steering wheel and through the windshield, he realized that he could barely focus his eyes. In passing, he wondered if that would cause him any problems driving.

  “Let’s do it,” Space yelled back.

  Ben, his mouth open wide in concentration, nodded once and then dropped the car into reverse. He tromped the gas pedal again with his right foot, and before he could turn his head completely to look out the back window in the direction they were headed, the old Lincoln squealed out of the tiny garage.

  Both boys yelped in confusion as the giant car rumbled over the driveway. They had gone almost to the end of the thirty-foot drive when Ben collected himself enough to pull his foot off the gas and ram it onto the brakes. He shoved down hard, instantly ramming the pedal all the way to the floorboards. He tried to yell out to Space, but his mouth worked about as well as the brakes. Nothing came out as the car flew the remaining few feet of driveway and out onto the street.

  “Car!” was the best Space could get out as he stared in shock at the parked yellow Honda Prelude sitting perpendicular to the Lincoln immediately across the narrow road. Within seconds, the Town Car shot to the other side of the street, its wide rear end hitting the Prelude at a nearly perfect ninety-degree angle. The right side of the smaller import caved in like it was made of papier-mâché, sending out a loud groan of crushed sheet metal and broken glass.