Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  As he ate, Ted Kostas thought of Freddy Disanto. Could there be a way to keep some of his thirty thousand in cash from the crazy Italian? True, the D. would be saving his life. A very important item if Ted was going to sell the cars for a profit and be around to enjoy it. But giving up all the cash didn’t have nearly as much appeal that morning as it had had when the D. first brought up the topic the day before. Ted sat nursing his coffee and smoking at the desk for a long time after he’d finished eating. Must have run the problem over in his mind a hundred times before he heard the hand slap on his door and turned to see Freddy Disanto walk into his office. By then, the best that Ted Kostas had come up with was that he’d negotiate with the D. Let him know that all the cash in the suitcase was simply too much to pay. Tell him that the highest he’d go was twenty-five thousand. Cash money, take it or leave it. He had even pulled five thousand from the old suitcase and stuck it in his middle desk drawer. Hell, Kostas thought, if the D. just took the cash and left, he could handle that asshole Todd guy and his brother all by himself. After all, Ted was the one with the .38.

  “Having a little lunch there, are we?” the D. asked casually as he walked into the room. He tucked his sunglasses into his coat pocket and glanced around. It was a tiny space, and he had to squint at first, because there was only one small desk lamp on and very little light was filtering in through the two filthy back windows. A small, square purple satin pillow with the words “Las Vegas” embroidered on it caught his eye. He smiled and picked the pillow up from where it was sitting on a shelf next to a row of sagging auto-parts books.

  “Very nice meal there, Ted,” he continued as he turned toward Kostas. He nodded at the food wrappers on the desk. “You just come off a month-long fast or something?”

  Ted frowned for a second, glanced back at the wrappers and then up at the D. again. “Huh?”

  Freddy rolled his eyes almost imperceptibly. “Forget it. You bring everything? I see the .38 there. How about the money?”

  “I thought you said you’d be here at noon.” His forehead creased in concern. “Why you so early?”

  “I wanted to spend more time with you, seeing as how we had so much fun yesterday.” The D. moved the two steps across the room to put him next to his host. “What difference does it make, me being a few minutes early? The point is, we got work to do.”

  Holding the pillow in his left hand, the D. bent over and reached across the desktop to grab the .38. With one hand, he spun the chamber to make sure it was loaded. He also saw that it wasn’t locked. Then he looked back down at Ted.

  “So far, so good,” the D. said. “Where’s the money? Give me a look at it before I get into position.”

  Ted took a sip from coffee that by now was as cold as wet concrete. Time to negotiate. He took a deep breath and nodded once toward the brown bag at his side on the floor. Bending over to that side, he snapped open the two latches on the case. Then he lifted the leather bag and tipped the thing slightly toward the D., exposing lots of green cash.

  “It’s right here in the case.” Ted shut the suitcase again and straightened up. “But I think we have to talk about something first.” He squinted slightly, pausing to check for a reaction from the D., who seemed to be standing practically on top of him by now.

  What Freddy Disanto did at that point was definitely a reaction, but nothing that Ted Kostas had anticipated as he ate breakfast. Certainly it wasn’t anything like what he had hoped for. With the hint of a smile on his face, the D. moved his left hand deftly and pulled the purple pillow down on top of Kostas’s head. Then, just as smoothly, he brought up his other hand and jammed the barrel of the .38 down onto it, hard. Without a word, the D. fired the Smith & Wesson pistol once. It made a loud pop, but the pillow helped muffle the sound, as Disanto had hoped. The room smelled like burnt metal as the man at the desk jerked tightly and then slumped back and down in his chair.

  Freddy Disanto tossed the pillow off to the side and glanced around the room again. On a bench next to the desk, he spotted a couple of dirty work rags. He picked up one and carefully wiped down Ted’s .38. That finished, he set the gun on the desktop, bent over, and hoisted the brown suitcase. It felt like what he imagined thirty thousand dollars weighed. The D. grinned quickly and looked back down at Ted Kostas.

  “I told you this thing’d be all over before you knew it,” the D. said softly. Within seconds, he was back outside in the alley, wiping down the door handle on both sides with the work rag. That done, he walked quietly to his car. The sky seemed to be clearing up a little, he thought as he put his shades back on.

  Todd Janek was loose but excited as he pulled the dark-blue Jaguar into the parking lot at precisely twelve-thirty. Detective Carl Morris followed close behind in a green version of the same vehicle. When they both shut off their engines and got out of their respective cars, Detective Morris walked over to Todd and handed him the car keys. Todd merely nodded, and the detective turned and walked toward the front gate, as Ted Kostas had instructed. Putting Morris’s keys with his own, Todd dropped them into a large manila envelope he was carrying. He then made a quick survey of the scrap yard, noticing that the two aging Dobermans were acting strange. Presumably, they would be out of their pen. And from what Janek had seen the day before, neither of them was what one would call particularly ambitious. But here they were, both just sort of slouched against the front door, barely acknowledging the strangers who’d just arrived.

  Then Todd noticed something that made his stomach drop. It was in the dog pen. Or, rather, not in the pen. Kostas had said he’d leave a suitcase full of money in with the dogs. Todd frowned and looked at the front window to the office. He half expected to see the old Greek looking out to make sure the transaction went as planned. But no one was in sight. Then he walked cautiously to the office door. Neither of the dogs responded much; one just sort of moaned softly. Instinctively, Todd’s free hand, his right, moved toward the small of his back, where he kept his service revolver. Again he glanced at the dog pen. He couldn’t see the suitcase from that angle, either.

  Standing directly in front of the door, Todd took a long moment to figure his options. He really had only one. Leaning forward, he dropped the envelope and pounded three times on the door with the meat of his left fist. He waited for what seemed to be minutes, and then he pounded again. Louder and longer this time. Again nothing, so he reached back farther and pulled out the Ed Brown Classic Custom .45 he carried. Even in a tense moment like this, Janek marveled at how sleek the chrome, steel, and wood looked. He loved his piece. Then he pounded on the door four more times, loudly, while calling out “Kostas!” repeatedly.

  No response, so he grabbed the door handle and turned it. He was half surprised that it was unlocked. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open. Both dogs bolted inside as he did. Todd squinted into the unlit outer-office area. Through the open door to the small room in the rear, he could see the back of Ted Kostas’s head. Or, rather, what used to be his head. The bloody remains were resting quietly on the top of the swivel chair. Todd felt his stomach tighten, and he thought he might get sick. Suddenly, one of the dogs moved back and began to nuzzle the area around Ted Kostas’s neck. The bloody head rolled to its right a shade and then dropped out of sight below the chair top. Todd held his automatic up high while he reached inside his windbreaker for the small cell phone he kept there. When he finished calling his backup, he waited for them quietly, and did not go into Ted’s office alone.

  “No kidding this changes things, Karen.” Todd was again speaking into his cell phone. By now he and the three police detectives had secured the murder scene, and he was standing in the middle of Ted’s tiny office. His eyes kept wandering to the desktop and all the McDonald’s wrappers and empty coffee cups. Hell of a last meal. “I mean, we got Kostas, but not the way we planned.”

  “What else do you have?” Karen asked from her end.

  “Well, we got a murder weapon that looks all smudged up with grease or something.
Good luck getting any decent prints off of it.” Todd glanced around again. “We got a bloody pillow that looks like it’s been fired through. Probably used to quiet the shot. We got no forced entry, no suitcase with money, no eyewitnesses—not yet, anyway—and, last but not least, we got no Jaguar sting. In other words, we got shit.”

  “Not nearly as much as Mr. Kostas,” Karen came back. “Keep that in mind.” She thought for a moment. “Do you think Mitch Bosco had anything to do with this? He knew the money would be there.”

  “Unlikely.” Todd took a deep breath. “For one thing, I talked to him a little while ago and he was still at home. This body looks pretty fresh. I don’t think the timing is right for Bosco to get down here, kill Kostas, and get home to take my call. And for another thing, I doubt that Bosco would be dumb enough to try a stunt like this, knowing we’d be thinking of him first.”

  “That may be, but let’s round him up anyhow.” Karen was pacing her kitchen as she spoke. “I’ll send a car over to grab him. If we’re screwed on this deal, then so is he. No plea bargain on Monday.” She stopped and thought for a long time. “You-know-what’s going to hit the fan with the DA over this thing, and I don’t want to even think about the press we’re going to get. I want to have someone waiting to catch the flak. Someone besides us, that is. It may as well be Mitch Bosco.”

  Todd considered that. “What do you mean, we? This was your baby, Karen. You were the one who made all the decisions on Bosco and Kostas. They were your guys.”

  Karen glanced at the phone in her hand. “You know what I really like about you, Todd? It’s your loyalty. Here you are, antsy to play hero when all you have to do is pop one elderly fence. Then things go south and you’re running for cover before I can even get down there to view the body.”

  “All I’m saying is, you were the one who dug up Bosco and you were the one who lined this thing up. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “I know exactly what you’re saying, Todd. Try not to mess up the crime scene, okay? Just do me that one little favor. And start talking to the neighbors. See if anyone saw anything. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  When she hung up, Karen Maples stood silently in her kitchen for several minutes, half wishing she’d taken her parents’ advice and gone into contract law.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  By the time Streeter pulled up in front of the Garlic Bulb Too, he had just about given up on finding Alphonse Lucci. The Garlic Bulb itself had been closed and empty when he went there. He’d even walked around the whole building, but, clearly, no one was inside. Then, on the drive over to the second restaurant, his lack of sleep started catching up with him. He figured, if the Cheese Man wasn’t here at the Bulb Too, he’d skip going to his catering office and just head back to the church. Maybe catch a nap and hope that Alphonse would get one of the messages and show up on his own. Walking to the front door of the second Bulb and seeing that the place wouldn’t be open until five-thirty didn’t do much to lift his spirits.

  He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, glancing at the sky. The sun was starting to poke through the clouds, but Streeter was by now as sleepy as if it were midnight. He took a couple more steps toward the restaurant and idly jiggled the front door. Locked. Then he held one hand up to shield his eyes from the sun and leaned into the window on the door, squinting inside. At first, he saw no signs of life in the large main room. But as he squinted harder, he spotted two figures walking up a long stairway to his right. The one farther up the stairs was clearly Alphonse; he couldn’t quite make out the second man. Then both figures stopped and the old man turned and looked down at the guy behind him. They appeared to be arguing. Suddenly, the second man gave Alphonse a push with both hands. When he turned slightly, Streeter recognized him as Mitch Bosco. Mitch was holding something shiny in his right hand and pointing it at the man in front of him. It was a gun.

  “Let’s get along there, Mr. Lucci,” Mitch said, looking up and shaking his head. “No point in dragging this out.”

  “I’ve got plenty of cash in my office,” Al responded. “Whatever those guys are paying you, I’ll top it. Easy.”

  Mitch shook his head again. “Time to negotiate is long-gone, Mr. Lucci. Now it’s time to close the deal. You know I can’t let you walk away from this.”

  Alphonse glanced off, thinking about that. Then he looked back at Mitch. “I’ll double it. No kidding. I’ll double whatever they’re paying.”

  “I’m afraid not.” Mitch reached up with both hands and pushed softly at the little man’s chest. “Let’s get that ladder and do her.” Then he lifted his nine slightly. “Upward we go.”

  Alphonse turned sluggishly and walked up the remaining stairs. When they got to the top, he moved quietly to a small door off to his right and opened it. Inside was a stepladder that, when folded, was about a foot taller than the old man. He reached in and started to pull it out. Then he stopped and turned to face Mitch.

  “Think you can give me a hand here, Bosco?” he asked. “It’s the least you can do.”

  “Just bring it out. It’s not like you have to save your strength for anything.”

  Alphonse faced the ladder again, his mouth opening wide as he sucked for air. He wrestled the ladder out of the closet and dragged it slowly across the carpeting to the rail on the outside of the balcony. Then he stopped, breathing really hard by now and wiping at a crease of sweat over his eyes.

  Streeter trotted quickly back to the Buick. Under the driver’s seat was his .357. He took the gun out and checked to make sure it was loaded. Back at the front door of the restaurant, he strained to look inside. He could see that Mitch and Alphonse were right next to the balcony edge by now. The old man was opening a small stepladder, while Mitch watched him closely. Streeter debated whether to smash the window on the door and try to get in that way. But he didn’t know how the lock worked, and he was afraid that the sudden noise and movement would set Bosco off and start him shooting. Glancing to the side, he figured it would be better to run around to the back of the place. Mitch and Al had probably come in a rear door; maybe it was still unlocked. He broke into a full sprint and ran to the north side of the building, leading to the alley behind it.

  “Now I’m supposed to just hop up there and jump off?” Al was saying as he looked at the ladder. It was open and shoved directly against the ornate wrought-iron railing along the balcony.

  “You don’t have to hop,” Mitch responded. “Just climbing will do fine. And I can push you, if that would make it any easier.”

  Alphonse continued to study the ladder, not moving. Finally, Mitch tapped his shoulder with the gun. “Like I said, there’s no point in dragging this out. You might as well just do it. That is, unless you’d like Maria to get hurt, too.”

  “There’s gotta be a way we can work this thing out,” Alphonse said, turning back to Mitch.

  “That’s exactly what we’re doing here. Working it out.” He nodded toward the ladder. “So let’s get going.”

  Streeter grabbed the handle on the back door and opened it quickly but carefully, to avoid making noise. He stepped into the kitchen and spotted the double doors leading to the restaurant itself. Glancing from side to side, he moved through the long room and stopped at the doors. Then he pushed one open slowly, straining to spot the balcony. He could hear Alphonse and Mitch Bosco talking off to his left and above him. When he got the door open far enough, he stepped into the main room and looked in that direction. The old man was stepping onto a lower rung of the ladder. Alphonse appeared to be holding the sides of the ladder tightly, moving about as slowly as Streeter had ever seen anyone move. He’d look up toward the top of the ladder and the huge chandelier from time to time, and then back down at Bosco.

  “That’s right, Mr. Lucci,” Mitch was saying. “One step at a time until you get to the top.”

  “This is crazy, Bosco.” Alphonse was sweating freely by now, and his face was completely white. The sweat dripped into his eyes; he pulled one hand off the l
adder and wiped at them.

  “Tell me about it,” Mitch responded. “But just crazy enough to work.”

  Walking silently toward the stairs, Streeter grabbed his gun with both hands. By the time he made it to the bottom step, the old man had gone up another rung. Streeter couldn’t figure out what the two men were doing up there, but it was plain to see that Alphonse was terrified. Looking down at the carpeted steps in front of him, the bounty hunter took them fast and quiet, two at a time until he got near the top. When he stopped there, he could see all of the Cheese Man, who by now had made it halfway up the ladder. Mitch Bosco was standing off to the side with a small automatic pointed at Alphonse’s body. Streeter took another step and then raised his .357 toward Mitch.

  “Let’s hold it right where you are, Bosco,” he yelled. “Al, climb down slowly.”

  Both men on the balcony turned to see where the voice was coming from. Instinctively, Mitch took a step away from it and toward the far side of the ladder, his gun still pointed at Alphonse.

  “Streeter?” the old man asked hoarsely. “That you, Streeter?”

  “It’s me, Al.” Streeter took another step up, so he was about ten feet from the ladder. He stared at Mitch. “Drop the gun, Bosco.”

  Mitch moved behind the ladder till it was partially shielding him from Streeter. He frowned, his eyes darting from the man on the ladder to the man on the stairs. But he said nothing.

  “Drop the gun and move away from there,” Streeter yelled. “Now!”

  “How’d you get here?” Mitch asked, moving even closer to the ladder for protection.

  “Never mind.” Streeter paused. “What’s going on?”

  “This guy wants me to climb up here and jump off,” Alphonse said, looking down at Mitch. “You believe that? Thinks that’ll make it look like I fell by accident. Said he’d shoot both me and Maria if I don’t.” He took a slow step back down the ladder.