With great hesitation, Ted nodded and frowned in confusion and fear, his eyes still averted.
“I can’t help thinking that you don’t.” Freddy’s voice was low and thick, like he was speaking through a towel. “First of all, I want to hear you say the words. Gestures don’t mean nothing to me. And second of all, I like for the people I’m talking to, I like it for them to look right at me when we’re having our talk.”
Ted’s head shot up and he forced himself to make eye contact. “Okay, I got no idea what you’re talking about. I admit to that, Mr. Disanto.” Kostas had never met Freddy before that day, but he had heard about him: his physical strength and his legendary temper. That he dabbled in the lesser vices and was rumored to have killed a man. You don’t screw around with the D., is exactly what Ted Kostas had always heard. And seeing the big hairy man up close did nothing to change his mind one bit.
Freddy nodded. “That’s better, Ted. Here’s the situation I’m referring to. I hear a lot of things about what’s going on around town. People tell me about this and that all the time. Now, certain people tell me that this Greek guy named Kostas is making a major purchase in the near future.” He studied the man. Ted was wearing filthy coveralls. Balding slightly, chubby, bearded. Probably stubborn in a scared, moronic sense. That was Disanto’s read. “They tell me you’re buying a couple of mint cars and you’ve already got people lined up to take them off your hands for a nifty profit. Any of this ring true?”
Ted shifted in his seat and glanced around the room, wondering how Disanto knew about the Jaguars. Not that it mattered at the moment. The basement was damp and poorly lit. It smelled like rotten tomatoes and stale beer, making Ted’s stomach feel queasy. He looked back at the D., who was bearing down on him with a stare that could stop a train.
“Who told you?” Ted finally asked. “Bosco? That kid—Todd whatever?”
“It really isn’t important, but Mitch Bosco mentioned it,” Disanto replied. He took a deep breath and sat back. Ever since Mitch had first mentioned the Jaguar sting, Freddy’s mind had been working overtime trying to figure an angle. Some way to get his hands on the cash that Ted Kostas had pulled together for the deal. He had gotten a few details from Mitch, but at the moment the D. was mostly improvising. “The point is you’re being set up, Mr. Kostas.”
Ted’s eyes shot up when he heard that one. “Set up? By who? The cops or what?”
“No, not the police.” The D. was smiling slightly now, liking the growing fear he smelled from Kostas. The hook was set. “This seller. Todd, you say his name is? He and his people have no intention of delivering any cars to you. Not permanently, anyway.” He paused and flexed the enormous muscles on his forearms. “Exactly when are they supposed to deliver the things?”
“Mitch is in on it?” Ted’s fear was turning to anger.
“Now, that’s a question there, Ted. No fair, you answering my question with one of your own. The delivery. When and where?”
“Tomorrow, at my place. Around noon.” He thought for a moment. “Twelve-thirty.”
“And I suppose Mitch vouched for these people.”
Ted nodded. “Yeah.”
“But he’s not going to be there personally, correct?” Though Freddy was winging it here, he was reasonably certain he was on the right track.
“Uh-huh.” More nodding.
“Typical of that little shit.” Freddy grimaced and then stood up, leaning his hands on the small table between them. “He makes me want to throw up, you know that? I bet you’re none too thrilled with him right about now, either.”
“You can take that to the bank,” Ted said as he took in a huge sniff of the D.’s aftershave. Some kind of designer smell he’d never encountered before. Looking up at the man leaning in to him now, he guessed that Disanto must go close to two thirty. Ted could feel his mouth getting drier by the minute. “You got anything here for me to drink?”
“Would a beer work?”
“Just about perfect.” Ted felt a hint of relaxation for the first time since he’d heard from the D. on the phone.
Freddy walked to a small refrigerator with rounded edges in one corner of the room, opened it, and pulled out a long-necker of Killian’s Red. In one smooth motion he twisted off the cap and walked back to where Ted Kostas was sitting. “Enjoy,” he said, handing the bottle to him.
“Thanks, Mr. Disanto,” Ted said as he grabbed the beer. It felt ice cold, and he drank about a third of it in one long gulp. When he finally came up for air, his eyes watered and his temples ached. “Why did Bosco tell you about all this? I can’t see why he’d talk to anyone.”
The D. shrugged innocently. “He and me used to be in a sort of business arrangement together. Bosco has a big mouth. He’s the kind that tells people things that are really better left unsaid.” He leaned back into the table. “The point is, what he said is true. The question then becomes, what are we going to do about it?”
“We?” Ted took another long gulp from his beer, setting his temples to aching once more.
“Precisely.” The D.’s eyes darkened and his voice lowered. “I want to help you out on this thing. Arrange it so you can still get those Jags and make your sale. I also wouldn’t mind seeing to it that Bosco gets shafted.”
Ted frowned and adjusted himself in his chair. “How could you do that?”
“By covering your backside.”
“Huh?” The beer was starting to loosen Ted up a little.
“First off, tell me how the deal is supposed to go down.”
The D. stood up straight now and began pacing slowly in front of the small table as Ted gave him a quick summary of how he and Todd were to exchange the cars and cash.
“And you’re supposed to be inside your office the whole time?” the D. asked when Ted had finished.
“That’s right. My plan was to yell to the dogs through the window if Todd and his brother try to pull something.” Ted was frowning now, studying Disanto’s face closely. “What did Bosco tell you they would do?”
The D. thought about that for a long moment. Then he came up with a line and fed it to Kostas. “The way he told me, when the cars are to arrive at your place, the drivers would go through the motions like you planned. But this Todd guy would take his own sweet time picking up the money. Meanwhile, his brother, or whatever the guy is, will have gone around your yard and come in the back way.” He paused and frowned at Ted. “You do have a back door to your office, right?”
Ted Kostas nodded. “Comes in right off the alley.”
“See, they know that,” the D. continued, relieved. “Anyhow, at the time Todd is collecting the suitcase, the other guy is pounding on your door. They figure you’ll do one of two things: either open the door, in which case he shoots you; or get distracted by the knocking and all, at which time Todd picks up one set of keys and papers and drives off with a Jag. You don’t open the door, the brother goes back, gets the other set of keys, and drives off with the other Jag.”
Ted was shaking his head in disbelief by the time he’d finished. “That sounds like the dumbest thing I ever heard of. It musta taken them all of two minutes to come up with that one.” He looked off for a bit. “What’s to keep me from just calling the dogs to tear Todd apart?”
“If these guys aren’t afraid to shoot you, why would they hesitate shooting a couple of mutts?” Disanto asked.
“That makes a lot of noise.”
“You ever hear of silencers?”
Ted struggled to find more loopholes in the plan. “Well, what’s to stop me from shooting back?”
The D. shrugged dramatically. “Mitch says they don’t figure you to be armed, or if you are, you don’t have the balls to defend yourself. Plus, they’re counting on the element of surprise being heavily in their favor.” He paused and gave Ted a sympathetic nod. “To be perfectly honest here, Kostas, they don’t give you much credit for brains or guts.”
Ted drained his beer in one mighty gulp and then slammed the bottle
down on the table. “We’ll just see about that.” Then he looked back up at the D. “You say you want to cover my backside?”
“You got it. I figure, if I station myself out in the alley, I can head off the one guy. From your end, when Todd gets in the dog pen you can turn the mutts loose.” He narrowed his eyes. “You keep any weapons in the office?”
“Sure do. I have a little .22 and I can bring my .38 from home.”
The D. smiled. “You do that. You bring everything. The money, the suitcase, the guns. When the dogs hit Todd, you come out waving the .38 and bring him back inside. That gives us both the guys and the cars.”
“What happens next?” Ted sat back, his mouth opening slightly.
“You give me the money and keep the cars. I’ll take care of the two tough guys.” Having said that, the D. sat down across from Ted and smiled.
“You get all the money?” Ted frowned now.
“Of course I do.” Disanto’s eyes flared. “I just saved your fat ass from getting shot and I arranged it so you keep the cars. Plus, I have to get rid of Todd and his friend. I shouldn’t get compensated for that? Give me a break here. If it wasn’t for me you’d be dead. Look at it this way: if things went the way you originally planned, you’d be out the thirty thousand anyhow. You’ll make out fine.”
“What about Mitch? Ain’t he gonna come after me when this thing blows up on him?”
The D. hadn’t considered that, so he shrugged. “You let me worry about Mitch Bosco.” He held out his hand. “We in agreement here?”
Slowly, Ted nodded and stuck his hand out to be shaken. “All right. How will I know when you’re back there in the alley?”
“I’ll show up at about noon. I’ll come to the back door to your office, so leave it open for me. We’ll go through everything one more time, and then you show me a good spot to wait out back where I won’t be seen. Don’t worry, Ted. This thing’ll be over before you know it.”
Kostas stood up now. “Can I go now?”
The D. nodded. “Just remember to bring the .38 and the cash. We got to make this look realistic.” He paused. “And, Ted, try and get a good night’s sleep tonight. Like I said, this thing’ll be over before you know it.”
After he had walked Kostas back to his car outside, the D. went back to the office in the rear of the restaurant. He was still stewing over the Lucci fiasco. That was another matter, but to tell the truth, Disanto was almost glad it had turned out the way it did. He hated the Arizona people, particularly that little schmuck Niles Macmillan. They’d only met a couple of times, but Niles had treated him like an idiot. Just another wimp in a suit. That’s how the D. pegged him.
Niles and his associates had given him so many orders in general, and so much crap about not getting Lucci’s place, that last week, by the time Niles started hinting at killing the old man, the D. had told him to shove it. He just wanted out of the project, so he picked a fight with Niles over the phone. Within a couple of hours he was offered the buyout. The Arizona people said they’d found someone else who might be able to negotiate with the Lucci family. Niles even went so far as to say it was a Denver man they’d pegged for the job. The D. suspected Mitch Bosco, for Mitch had let it slip once that he had talked to Niles on the phone.
Who the hell can you trust anymore? The D. asked himself as he sat behind his desk. Then he thought about Ted Kostas. Teddy boy would be wondering the same thing long about noon tomorrow, the way the D. had it planned. The thirty thousand in cash would at least compensate Freddy for his grief from the Arizona boys, and the Jaguar sting going all to hell would blow Mitch’s plea bargain with the DA’s office. There was plenty of justice in all of that. When you can’t trust the people around you, the D. reasoned as he sat there, at least you can trust your own wits and take action.
THIRTY-ONE
Streeter slept for a total of maybe four hours that Friday night. He kept waking up and thinking about old man Lucci. How his problems with Disanto and the Arizona developers had just disappeared too easily. Way too easily. When he finally woke up for good at about six, he decided it was a nice morning to take a drive up to Cheyenne. Maybe tie up at least one loose end while he was at it. The Ramirez Boys and the card-game robbery had nagged at him since he first heard about it. What was that all about? As he dressed in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, he figured that, if he could find out who put them up to the job, he’d have something to go on. What that would be, he had no idea.
It was shortly before eight when he pulled into downtown Cheyenne. Streeter had always thought the city was fairly flat and nondescript. If he wanted any real flavor of the Old West, he’d take the extra hour and drive to Laramie. But on this morning he wasn’t interested in local color. He parked his car downtown and went into a diner near the State Capitol. Then he ordered coffee, grabbed the phone book from behind the counter, and looked up the address and phone number for a Glenda Switt; a newspaper wire story he’d read about Albert Hepp had said that Hepp was visiting her mobile home at the time of his death. Streeter also tried to find anyone with the last name of Hepp and found none. He’d hoped to talk to Albert’s surviving relatives. Then he checked out the surname Ramirez and found six of them listed. He wrote down all the numbers and addresses, figuring he’d call them if he struck out with Glenda Switt. When he finished his coffee, he drove to the mobile-home park on the northern edge of the city where she lived.
“What is it?” Glenda asked when she opened the side door a crack. She was tying up her terry-cloth bathrobe and blinking to get her eyes focused.
“I’m looking for Glenda Switt,” Streeter said.
“Not anymore, you’re not. Now you’re looking at Glenda Switt.” She smiled briefly at that one.
Her grin exposed a mouth that had seen precious few trips to the dentist’s office. Streeter immediately counted two missing teeth near the front, and the remaining ones were badly stained from—judging by a breath of astounding range—coffee and cigarettes. Glenda was a redhead, pushing forty and no stranger to groceries. But she had a friendly, open face and kind green eyes.
“My name is Streeter. I’m a private investigator doing research for a gentleman in Denver.” He leaned into the doorframe. “Do you know Albert Hepp?”
Glenda’s face clouded. “I used to. Al’s dead.” She looked down.
“Right. I meant ‘used to.’ ” He paused. “Listen, Glenda, I don’t want to stir up any bad memories, but we believe that Albert was involved in a robbery down in Denver just before he died. I’m trying to track down the man who set it up. I think it’s the same person who’s trying to hurt my client.”
“You know who shot Al?” Her face brightened for a second.
“I’m not sure.” He didn’t want to go into Freddy the D. just then. “Did Albert talk about a robbery the day before he died?”
“He said something about a job down in Colorado that day, and then all of a sudden he had a couple of grand the night he was shot. My hunch was that he didn’t inherit the money.” She retied her robe casually as she spoke and then shrugged. “I never asked him much about his work, and he was a man of few words. Believe me on that one. About all he said was that him and Manny and Neal had a job and that something went wrong, so them other two left town for Canada or Oregon or like that.” She looked off for a moment. “I expect that Al should of gone with them, but he was a stubborn one. He was tired of Manny bossing him around, so he stayed here.” She cleared her throat. “Al was a sweet man in a lot of ways, but smart thinking never was a strong suit of his.”
“Did he ever mention any names regarding who hired them?”
She shook her head. “The way those boys operated, everything came through Manny. Al and Neal couldn’t organize a bake sale on their own.” She stared closely at Streeter for a while and then took a deep breath. “You might ask Manny’s sister. He was staying with her at the time.”
“Do you know where she lives?”
“Not exactly.”
Str
eeter pulled the list of Ramirez names and addresses from his pants pocket and read them to her. She stopped him at “L. Ramirez.” “That’s probably the one. Linda’s the sister’s name, and I think she lives over on that part of town.” She gave him directions, nodded once, and closed the door.
It took Streeter about fifteen minutes to find Linda Ramirez’s home. As he pulled up in front of the small wood-frame house, Linda herself was just coming out the door and heading for a small blue car parked in the driveway. She was a tall woman of about thirty, with dark, handsome features and a no-nonsense way about her. She turned that on high the minute Streeter introduced himself and told her what he was after.
“Look, mister,” she said as she opened her car, “my brother’s long-gone and I don’t know where he is. Manny’s not the kind to write, either.”
“I just wanted to know if you had any idea who he was working for right before he left. I’ll be happy with a name. Anything.”
She looked up at him intently. “And I should tell you because…?”
Streeter nodded and pulled out his wallet. He took out a fifty and two twenties and handed them to her. “Because why not? Like you said, Manny’s long-gone, and you could maybe help me with my little problem. I’m not interested in finding your brother or giving him any hassles. It’s the guy who hired him I want to talk to.”
She took the bills slowly, studying his face the whole time. “You’re not with the law, right?”
Streeter shook his head. “Not even close.”
“All I know is that he was talking to someone named Mitch on the phone a night or so before they split. The next thing, Manny and Neal are leaving Wyoming and Albert Hepp ends up dead. That’s all I know.” With that, she got into her car, closed the door, and started the engine.
Streeter walked to his Buick, got in, and headed back to Denver. As he moved south on I-25, he knew he had to find Alphonse Lucci as soon as he could. If Mitch Bosco had set up the card-game robbery, he was working a weird angle that Streeter couldn’t imagine. But it probably didn’t involve Freddy the D., which meant that Alphonse might still be in trouble. Crossing the state line into Colorado, he grabbed his cell phone and called the church.
Streeter Box Set Page 85