Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  “How so?”

  Streeter took another sip. “She’s incredibly intense. Never lightens up. And she’s got this thing about loyalty. You’re either a hundred percent for her or a hundred percent against her. Very draining. Plus, she holds a grudge longer than the Mafia. We broke up years ago.” He finished his beer.

  “With your track record of—what?—four failed marriages, you hardly need another wife. What was the attraction to Carol?”

  Streeter nodded to the bartender for a refill. “She’s quite beautiful and has a great body. Pretty smart, too. And there was something vulnerable about her that I found appealing. She had a way of getting to me. Plus, she can be very affectionate. Very passionate…” His voice trailed off.

  “Now we get to the real reason. Hot sex.”

  “Out of this world. Let’s just say she was intense about everything. You mind if we change the subject?”

  “Fine with me. You live around here, don’t you?”

  “About a mile to the north. Up in the low thirties, near Curtis Street. My partner and I fixed up an old church. We live and work out of it. Frank Dazzler, the bondsman. You may have seen the place. It’s got a red neon ‘Jesus Saves’ sign hanging over the front door. The thing doesn’t work anymore but I think it’s cool. In fact, the whole place looks like a little castle. We call it Fort God.”

  “Interesting. You like living in a fort?”

  “It feels safe. With the jerks I run into, there’s nothing wrong with being fortified. Plus, the church has a colorful history and I’ve always liked Lower Downtown.”

  “Who wouldn’t like LoDo? A new ballpark and all the development. This place is a riot. Art galleries, sports bars, fancy lofts. Not to mention property values through the roof.”

  “I suppose that’s nice, but I miss the old LoDo.” Streeter shrugged. “You know, those funky rat-hole bars and that lonely-warehouse, after-midnight feeling.”

  “You’re quite the little bohemian.” Linda finished her beer and nodded to the bartender for another.

  “Have you and Frank been together long?”

  “About ten years. I trust him with my life and the feeling’s mutual. He’s older than me and I think of him almost as a father.” Streeter waited as the bartender set her beer down. “I met him when I was working as a bouncer at a country-music joint. He came in one night looking for someone and we got to talking. Right on the spot, he offered me a job. Working with him’s been good, but sometimes I wonder.”

  Linda waited for him to finish the thought. Finally, she asked, “Wonder what?”

  “If it’s what I really want out of life. I love Frank, but there’s times I look at him and ask myself if I want to end up like that. Sixty-five years old, living with some guy in an old church. Banging heads with felons and conning assholes to serve them papers. There’s got to be more to life than that. I don’t want to get too heavy here. It’s just that lately I’ve been asking myself if there’s a better way to live. More civilized, for starters.”

  “A home in the suburbs and a few kiddies? The whole nine-to-five deal?”

  Streeter looked hard at her. “Let’s not get carried away. I’m not that unhappy, but it’s just that sometimes I wonder where I’m headed.”

  “You’re trouble all the way around, Streeter. That history with women alone is enough reason to get me running, not to mention a midlife career crisis. The term ‘heavily conflicted’ comes to mind.”

  “So, why aren’t you running?”

  She smiled and stretched casually. “I’ll have to think about that. We might want to get together again and explore it further.”

  He liked the way she moved, the way she carried herself. Confident. A sense of being in control yet still relaxed. Curious without being nosy. Even her glasses added to the effect. “Whatever you say. You’re the shrink.”

  FIVE

  “There you are, Big Guy,” Frank said as he walked into his own office Monday afternoon. Streeter was sitting behind the desk studying notes he’d just written on an envelope, concentrating so hard he seemed to be in pain. “I been down at Division Fourteen since nine o’clock with this total mother of a bond-revision hearing,” Frank continued. “Four hours plus in a death struggle with the judge and those court jesters, the lawyers. On top of all that, we end up with nada. No revision, no nothing. I got to tell you, Streetmeister, this is one hell of a way to make a living.”

  Frank was bushed, sweaty, and looking forward to flopping down in the leather swivel chair he’d bought at roughly the time gas was three gallons for a buck. But that would be difficult, since the bounty hunter was already sitting there. So the bondsman lowered himself into the smaller chair across the desk. Frank’s office was an uneasy blend of wood-veneer and plastic furniture coexisting with the rich mahogany built-ins and thick, flowered carpeting appropriate to a rectory. It was bright thanks to an enormous, arched stained-glass window on the west wall. By late afternoon it had a rainbow feel to it as the sun poured through the deep purples, reds, and yellows.

  Streeter kept studying the envelope. Finally, he glanced up. “You look tired, Frank.” His mind was still focused on the conversation he’d just had with Carol Irwin. “Where’ve you been?”

  Dazzler stared across the desk and just muttered, “Shopping,” while waving his hand feebly in that direction. “Anything new on Irwin’s case?”

  Streeter looked hard at him. Frank was a decorated Korean War veteran and an ex-sheriff’s deputy of twenty years. At first glance he seemed as rumpled and tired as the wilted tan linen suits he favored. But he had those lively blue eyes and a quick smile. His hair was still surprisingly dark. It was thinning only slightly and he kept it long and neatly combed back.

  “It’s getting more crazy, Frank. Watts is killed last Friday and then Carol gets threatened again. Swallow left a dead cat this time. You believe that?”

  “A dead what?” Frank shifted forward. “The hell you talking about?”

  “Somehow, yesterday, he got into Carol’s office and left her another one of his dopey poems. She read it to me over the phone.” He glanced down at the envelope. “ ‘One down, how many more to go? Just enjoy the wait.’ To make his point he left a dead cat, cut down the middle. First that spider and now this. Personally, I’ve never been a very big fan of felines, but come on.”

  “How’d he get into her place?”

  “Picked the lock. It’s one of those Denver Squares up on Capitol Hill. East of all the government buildings. She doesn’t have an alarm system in yet. Smart move in that neighborhood, but, then, Carol never was much for details.”

  “What the hell’s his problem,” Frank said slowly. “He can’t just kill people? He has to make a production out of it? Bet Irwin’s about ready to blow through the ceiling. You got any idea where Swallow is?”

  “I’ve been talking to people all weekend. Called or visited everyone who might know about an ex-con. Bartenders all up and down Colfax and Broadway. Former cons, bondsmen, pawn-shop guys, probation people. Hell, I went out Saturday night and talked to most of the hookers we’ve written up. Showed his mug shot, too. Even been spreading Carol’s money around. I told everyone that he’s traveling with a woman, too. This morning I talked to our computer friend Stevey down in Castle Rock and had him do a trace. Guys like Swallow don’t take out loans or set up any bank accounts, but why not give it a try? All that, and nothing.” Streeter built up momentum and volume as he talked. “I’m starting to wonder if he’s even in Denver. Maybe he’s not the one we’re after. Maybe someone else is pulling this crap and trying to make Swallow look like the man. He should have been spotted by now. Not that I’m quitting. This guy’s got to turn up eventually.”

  Frank watched him closely as he spoke. “The cops are with her, Big Guy. You might wanna consider not giving it such a high priority. Working this close with Carol Irwin and all. We don’t want another Story Moffatt situation here, do we? By the way, are you still seeing that woman?”

&nbs
p; The bounty hunter flashed a grin. Story was a former client whose case had led to several people dying as well as to a decent financial payoff. It also resulted in him and Story having a passionate if choppy fling together. “Naw, we broke up.”

  “It was a mutual decision, I trust.”

  “Right.” Streeter’s head pulled back slightly. “We mutually decided she never wanted to see me again. Don’t worry, Carol’s different. All business. Starting up with her romantically again is not in the cards. But I have to admit, when I see her, I still get a little jazzed. Maybe I’ll always have a blind spot where she’s concerned. Maybe I can’t be totally objective. You know me and women. Carol and I had some hot times back in the old days and she’s one great-looking lady.” He thought for a moment. “Actually, I’m surprised at how well she’s holding up. A guy breaks into her office, leaves a dead cat, and still she doesn’t fall apart. The old Carol would have gone Oklahoma City on us.”

  “Yeah, that’s about her style, as I recall,” Frank said. “Totally unglued at the drop of a hat. Not that you never gave her any good reasons to be upset.”

  Streeter thought about how close he’d come to marrying Carol. That near miss alone was reason enough to cut down his drinking, which he did after their split. He’d cheated on her. Something he’d never done before. Or since. It was a quick, joyless roll with her best friend. He felt guilty for months afterward, and not just because she found out about it. Carol was furious, of course. But to his surprise, she eventually mellowed and even initiated a friendship.

  “That wasn’t my finest hour,” he admitted. “I still cringe when I think about it. We had our problems, but sliding around like that was no way to deal with it. Especially when I’d said I’d be monogamous.”

  “You were monogamous, Street. Just that you weren’t fanatical about it.”

  “There’s an unusual spin. Anyhow, I’ve met someone I’m interested in.”

  “Who’s that?” Frank perked up.

  “A lady shrink named Linda Parnell. She works with the police, among others.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but she can take care of herself. Thirty-three, bright, funny, nice-looking. All the right curves, as they used to say in your day. But a little distant. Linda has a way of studying people like she’s always doing an evaluation. It can be unsettling. The other day, we met to talk about Watts and I ended up babbling about my problems. She seems to have a good approach to work, though. It’s important to her, but she’s got a life outside of it. Sort of the anti-Carol in that regard.”

  “Just keep your head screwed on this time, okay?” Frank looked concerned. “Take it slow and easy.”

  “We haven’t done anything except neck in her car. Very passionate, and she seems to like me. But don’t worry. I’ve got a feeling I’ll be too busy with Swallow to be seeing much of Linda for a while.”

  SIX

  As he approached Denver from Greeley, to the north, Steve Gagliano was in a foul mood. He saw the infamous “Brown Cloud,” Denver’s shroud of sooty air, draped low around the skyline. That didn’t help. Then he focused on where he was going. Denargo Market. It’s an old industrial-warehouse area festering under the I-25 viaducts on the near West Side. A client’s receptionist had called him that morning and told him to meet the lawyer on Huron Street, at a small furniture factory next to an abandoned Shell station.

  “Mr. Hillebrandt would like you there by two o’clock,” she had told the private investigator. “He has two new cases for you and one of the clients works in that building. The three of you should meet there.”

  “Shee-it,” Steve muttered under his breath. He hated that part of town. It was practically impossible to find street addresses there. Only a small fraction of Steve’s clients were in Denver, since he had moved to Greeley a few years earlier. But even before the move he had a hard time finding his way around downtown in general, much less a screwed-up area like Denargo Market. Still, Hillebrandt was an all-too-rare quick-pay client. Although he grumbled, Steve knew he’d make the trip.

  “One case, an agg assault, took place in that furniture factory, and he wants to walk you through it with the client,” the receptionist had explained with obvious irritation. “Will there be any problem with that or do you want me to tell Mr. Hillebrandt you’re busy and he might wanna find another investigator?”

  “Let me talk to him.” Steve didn’t recognize her voice. Probably a new hire, he thought. Almost like she was reading from a script. Despite her attitude, she sounded young and sexy. Possibly Hispanic. He’d have to get the lowdown on her from Hillebrandt.

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” she responded. “He’ll be in Denver District Court until just about two. But he should be calling in for messages. If he’s a couple of minutes late, don’t worry. Just go to the door nearest to the gas station and walk in. The client’ll be working and he probably won’t hear you knock. His name is Dwayne Carter and he’s expecting you.”

  Her instructions sounded like something out of the Hardy Boys, Gagliano thought. “All right, all right. Tell Hillebrandt I’ll be there. He would have to pick a hot day like this, wouldn’t he, honey? So late in the year and I bet it still hits ninety. Maybe higher.”

  The receptionist hung up without saying another word.

  When Steve saw Coors Field looming up on the left, his spirits rose. He pulled his leased Mercedes off the highway and drove past the stadium for a closer look. The Rockies’ new stadium went up quickly and on budget. A far cry from the grossly extravagant Denver International Airport, which came in millions of dollars over cost and missed its initial opening date by about a year. Speaking of overbudget and out of time, Steve could use a little boost himself. Business was slow and he lived a life-style where that particular pace wasn’t welcome and couldn’t last long. He hoped that the cases Hillebrandt had were big ones. Maybe federal court appointments. They tended to drag on for months, if not years. His meter would run the whole time and he could easily pad out his invoices. The government. He shook his head. Nothing more than a damned slot machine that paid every time you yanked the lever.

  He drove slowly past the north side of the park. Set near the middle of town, it looked like it had been there forever. The designers gave Coors Field plenty of blue-collar charm while providing state-of-the-art conveniences that customers demanded. Fans, Gagliano thought bitterly. Players and the owners both dump on them with strikes and tickets costing more than a round trip to Spain. Still they turn out, cash in hand, like zombies who get nervous if they walk ten feet without seeing a vendor.

  Steve headed down 20th Street and then wound his way toward Denargo. He cursed periodically, never feeling sure of his sense of direction. When he got below freeway level, he squinted for numbers on the odd side of Huron Street. Most of the buildings didn’t have visible addresses, so he looked for the boarded-up Shell station. When he saw it he pulled in and glanced at the decaying building next door.

  “Shee-it,” he mumbled; it was one of his favorite words. Hillebrandt’s Volvo was nowhere in sight, even though it was almost twenty minutes after two. Steve got out of his car and walked to Carter’s building. There was a metal door off to the side that opened almost directly into the Shell lot. Must be the one the receptionist told him to use. Even though she said don’t bother knocking, he banged on the door twice out of habit. He waited a couple of minutes, standing off to the side like he’d seen cops do on television. Then he let out a quick “Fuckin’ Hardy Boys” under his breath.

  The twelve-gauge was adjusted to hit him in the middle of his torso. It was set fairly low, for Gagliano stood only five feet five. What Kevin couldn’t have anticipated when he placed the trap was that, just as Steve opened the door, an obese brown rat would run over his shoes. That caused him to jump across the threshold nearly a foot off the ground and twist to his right. The elaborate entrance ended the kill-shot possibilities, although it didn’t leave Mr. Gagliano feeling any too g
ood.

  Kevin had rigged a simple trip wire from the door to the shotgun trigger. There was no trouble with the gun going off on cue, and the aim stayed true. But Gagliano came flying into the room at such a weird angle and height that the load hit mainly his upper left thigh. Close enough to his groin to leave some incredibly unromantic scars, but not so close as to change his gender.

  Gagliano screamed twice before he hit the ground. The burn on his left leg was excruciating. With all his remaining strength, he crawled to his car, leaving behind a trail of blood that looked like he’d dragged a slaughtered chicken. When he got there, he phoned 911 from his cellular. Within seconds after giving his location, he passed out. The only thing his muddled mind could reason up as he slid into unconsciousness was how that new receptionist had given him the wrong directions. He’d tell Hillebrandt not to make her permanent if she was going to keep on screwing up like this. It was inexcusable, no matter how sexy her voice was.

  SEVEN

  Golf is truly evil, Streeter thought as he sifted through the church basement’s storage area, next to his weight room. There were tools, snow tires, skis, cleaning supplies, and other stuff he seldom used. Like that bag of Spalding golf clubs. He’d bought them fifteen years ago, when he’d made a serious run at learning how to play. But within two seasons, he’d lost interest. Golf isn’t like simpler games, such as bowling or volleyball. Those are for “fun.” But a golf swing is a skill you must learn. If you don’t, you’re destined to relentless heartache and deep humiliation. You have to practice and take lessons. Streeter wasn’t much for either, so he stored his clubs and only hauled them out occasionally to hit balls at the driving range. Like now, meeting Linda at Wellshire. He’d called her that morning and she said she was going to practice her short irons after work. She asked him to join her.

  Wellshire, formerly a private golf course, now open to the public, is a moderately challenging course on the border between southern Denver County and Arapahoe County. Streeter met Linda in the parking lot just before five. It was cool and cloudy. He wore a white Western Michigan University sweatshirt and blue jeans, which Linda almost matched with faded jeans and a powder-blue sweatshirt. Her raven hair was in a ponytail that came to the middle of her back and she wasn’t wearing glasses.