Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  Streeter didn’t answer at first. Finally, “I’ll talk to him when I get back tonight.”

  After he got Kenny situated at the jail, Streeter headed home. Frank had dozed off at his desk, and was leaning back with his mouth wide open when Streeter walked into the office. He sat across from the bondsman, thinking about what Kenny had said. It made sense, Kevin living in the mountains. No wonder he hadn’t been spotted in town. Gallo might be a coconut, but what he told Chapel added up. Suddenly, Frank made a loud, stuttered snore. He was silent for a second and then he lunged awake. When he saw Streeter he jolted forward in his chair.

  “Godawmighty,” he sputtered. “The hell you doing, Street? Watching me sleep? That’s pretty weird.” He frowned. “You get that little bum Chapel taken care of?”

  “Yeah. I just got back here a couple minutes ago. Do you know anyone named Gino Gallo? A bookie, probably lives in Aurora.”

  Frank rolled his head carefully to each side and then stretched his arms out, yawning. “The name sounds familiar but I can’t place it. What about him?”

  Streeter told him Chapel’s story. “Kenny’s worried you’re mad at him and won’t write him up now. I’m supposed to put in a good word. Consider that done.”

  The bondsman waved his right hand casually. “I’m not so mad that I won’t get over it. You gonna go visit Gallo?”

  Streeter nodded. “First thing tomorrow.”

  “It’s probably all crap, coming from Kenny. Even if it’s not, it doesn’t mean this Kev is necessarily Swallow.”

  “True, but what else do I have to go on? I’m glad for any lead.”

  Frank nodded. “That reminds me.” He got up from his chair, moving stiffly. “You got a message on the voice mail from Irwin. You might want to have a listen.”

  Streeter frowned, reached across the desktop, and grabbed the phone. He punched in the numbers and waited. Carol’s voice sounded agitated and scared.

  “Street, call me as soon as you can. Kevin’s starting to make phone calls to me. Three of them, two late last night and one this morning. All at my home. He says hello and dead air. Then he hangs up. I’ve got to get out of here. Hope I can move into the church. Let me know the minute you decide. If I can’t go to your place, I’ll get a motel room. Please call.”

  Fort God was safer than any motel, and Streeter felt saddened by the fear in her voice. Turning to Frank, he said, “Looks like we’re getting a houseguest.”

  Frank frowned. “You sure about this? Carol can be a major pain.”

  “That’s true. And, no, I’m not totally sure. But Swallow’s going tear her down completely if he keeps this up. She won’t be that much trouble and, besides, we’ll be getting free police protection. You’d want someone to do it for you.”

  “I would at that. It’s your call.”

  “It won’t be for long. Someone’ll get to Swallow soon, and if he tries anything here we’ll get him for sure. Look, if you’re really against it, I’ll say no.”

  Frank shook his head and made a sour face. “Don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t mind taking a shot at this asshole myself. Like I said, it’s your call.”

  “Then she moves. It’s all for the best.” Streeter almost sounded convinced.

  NINE

  Brian Cullen leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “It was just last week the cops told me Swallow’s after my ass, but I’m wondering what Laurie’ll make of it,” he told his partner, Terry Blue Nathan. “Hell, she could see it as another chance to get back at me. Might even try something on her own. To say the least, she wouldn’t shed any tears if I go down. Laurie’s one handsome, bright lady, but, hell, no woman’s worth getting exploded over. End of discussion.”

  “You’re kidding,” Terry said, studiously opening a can of beer as he settled into the couch across from Brian’s desk. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about the Kevin Swallow business. Cullen getting killed would mean financial headaches. The two men had run a private-investigations firm together for almost sixteen years, and Brian brought in most of the clients. Still, there were times when Terry wanted to smack the surly Irishman himself. “Look, I know it’s hard to figure out any woman, much less a pistol like Laurie. But this is strictly between you and that car bomber. You’re being paranoid as hell.”

  “Just ’cause I’m paranoid don’t mean everyone’s not out to get me.” Cullen’s eyebrows shot up and he smiled.

  It was true that, following their separation a year earlier, Laurie Cullen had caused Brian serious emotional grief. She’d slid into a payback mode against her selfish and at times sadistic husband. Determined to make him miserable, she’d dated many of his single colleagues and friends. She never followed through and actually slept with any of them, but she enjoyed making sure he heard about each flirtation. A shade over forty, she still had the tight body of a woman much younger, and there was no shortage of male volunteers. She’d even toyed with the idea of including Terry.

  “I’d love to see the look on his face if he thought there was something between us,” she had told Nathan once. “Especially with you being black. Brian may have lost some of that legendary racism of his over in Vietnam, but I think if you scratch him hard enough, you’ll still find a regular Bubba under there.”

  “Well, let’s just not scratch the man too hard, then,” Terry responded. “You and me are just friends.”

  Brian now spoke again to Terry Blue. “Don’t be so sure about her. I know how much she’s been trying to give me a healthy taste of hell. Just look at all her fooling around. And I got to hear about most of it right from her, no less. You wouldn’t believe who-all she’s gone out with.” He shook his head. “A woman her age.”

  Terry didn’t know what to say, so he just looked around the room. Brian’s office was done up in a deep cowboy motif. There were framed Remington prints on all the walls. Men on horses shooting and roping. Highly detailed statues of horses sat on the shelves. Ornate brass-and-green-glass banker’s lamps provided the subdued lighting. The furniture was all white oak and the chairs were rockers with wicker backs. Even the couch Terry sat on had an Old West feel to it, stiff with thin cushions. The big man himself favored cowboy boots and bolo ties, although Terry knew he’d probably never been within six blocks of a horse in his life.

  “Don’t put it past her that she might try to come after me herself, knowing this shit bird Swallow’ll get the blame,” Brian said as he reached into his top desk drawer and pulled out a cigar half the size of a Dura-Log. He shook his head and then fired a wooden match to it.

  Terry thought he detected a hint of admiration in his partner’s voice. He knew Brian might be perverse enough to actually appreciate Laurie’s venom. If it takes one to know one, then it certainly takes one to marry one. He’d first met Cullen in early 1969, when they landed in Saigon for a twelve-month stint in the country. Brian seemed like your typical dime-store greaser. But after a month out in the bush, a black grunt named LaMont Plummer saved his life. LaMont pulled the marginally wounded but wildly indignant Cullen from a crossfire. Brian made the rescue a racial thing: “All blacks are my brothers.” He was determined to save at least one African-American life as karmic repayment. Soon after that, Terry became the subject of his redemption. Brian carried him for four miles back to the fire base, where he received treatment for small amounts of shrapnel in one leg. And the Irishman visited him in the hospital religiously before Terry was shipped back to the States.

  The two didn’t meet again until ten years later, when they ran into each other in Denver. It was Brian’s hometown and Terry was traveling through for a magazine sales job he hated. They had dinner and Brian told him that he ran a small private-investigative agency specializing in insurance surveillances and process serving. He talked Terry Blue into working for him. Over the years, the job blossomed into a full partnership as Terry proved to be resourceful and innovative. For his part, Brian was a generous if moody associate, increasingly prone to day drinking and arbitrary hostilit
y as his marriage deteriorated.

  “What makes you think Laurie wants to see you hurting?” Terry took a sip from his Budweiser and then fingered his chin. He wore his hair short and parted severely. With his black-rimmed glasses and white shirts, he looked like either Malcolm X or a middle-aged appliance salesman. “Dating people you know’s one thing. But you’re talking about a whole new ballgame here. Why put it on Laurie like that?”

  Brian studied his cigar for a long time. “Gut feeling,” he finally sighed. “I been in this business so long, Terry Blue, I got a sixth sense for this kind of thing. Besides, who else would want to hurt me?”

  Terry raised his eyebrows. Is he kidding? Cullen had a way about him that could make enemies just by standing in line at the movies. That mean face, getting puffy and more rumpled every year. And that never-back-down attitude. Not to mention his habit of lying when the truth was even remotely inconvenient. Terry knew Laurie had lived with it for years, but Brian didn’t reserve it exclusively for her. “You can be a virtual pain in the neck as often as not, Cullen,” he told the man, contemplating his cigar. “There’s more than a few guys out there wouldn’t mind capping your ass.”

  Brian shrugged. “You’re probably right, but just the same, I might go have me a little talk with that lady. Let her know I’m keeping my eye on her.”

  Suddenly, Nathan could see why Brian felt comfort wallowing in his exotic theory. Cullen wanted to believe he was important enough to Laurie that she’d put in the effort to come after him. His saying he’d go talk to her let Terry know the Irishman was using Swallow’s threat as a way to stay in contact with his ex. More important, it was a way to let her know that he was in danger and he could stand for a little soothing and comfort. Brian still thought Laurie hung the moon and he missed the hell out of her every day. Personally, Terry knew she’d never physically hurt him, but if Cullen felt better thinking so, that was his business. Being stubborn came as natural to Brian as pouring a drink.

  Six days earlier, the police had warned them about Swallow and his initial note to Carol Irwin. The big Irishman had trouble remembering the case. His recollection of Carol was more clear, her being so attractive. But he barely flinched when the sergeant told him about the possible danger.

  “If he comes after me, he better pack a lunch,” was what he told Haney. “It might just be an all-day job trying to kill old Brian Cullen.”

  “Whatever you say, Superman,” Haney responded. “But Swallow’s no idiot. You see or hear anything unusual, you give me a call right away. Apparently, this guy thinks you fucked up his case. Did you?”

  “Now, that’s not true,” Brian had responded. “Swallow was as guilty as O.J., and he’s just trying to put it on me and Gagliano and the lady lawyer. Besides, if he’s so damned smart, how’d he end up in prison?”

  Haney shrugged. “What you really might want to be asking yourself is, how’d he manage to get out?”

  TEN

  It was a beautiful piano. Red mahogany polished hard as marble. Keys white enough to blind you and sharps glossy as tiny tuxedos. Streeter loved just looking at it. About two months earlier, he’d acquired the shiny baby grand when a cocaine dealer Frank wrote up decided that disappearing was better than taking his chances in federal court. His collateral, the piano, got left behind. It was less than a year old, and even though Kohler & Campbell wasn’t a top-of-the-line make, it retailed for eighty-five hundred dollars. At nearly six feet long by six feet wide, it took up a good chunk of the church loft’s main room, giving the place a pronounced dignity.

  Streeter even committed himself to taking lessons, which was a novelty for him. After a few days of pounding the keys senselessly on his own, he’d caved in and signed up for weekly sessions with a music teacher. For years, he’d thought about getting a piano so he could play classical and jazz. Those were the only types of music he enjoyed. As a teenager he’d taken lessons for a few months, but then quit when football practice started. This time he was determined to learn to play, and he made himself practice for at least an hour a day. He’d recently rented the video of Five Easy Pieces and he went nuts seeing Jack Nicholson’s soulful playing of Chopin’s Prelude no. 4 in E Minor, op. 28. So he bought some classical and jazz tapes for inspiration, and the more he worked, the more determined he became to master the instrument.

  Now, with his practice hour over, he carefully closed the keyboard cover and got up from the bench. He always felt relaxed when he finished. Then he walked over to the couch, grabbed the newspaper, and sat down. Turning to the sports page, he checked the latest line for this Saturday’s college-football games. He’d made a few bucks already off Northwestern and Alabama, so he’d ride them for another week if the point spread felt right.

  But before he could read the numbers, he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. It sounded like more than one person. Stairs from the first-floor hallway emptied into the loft just a few feet from the piano. With Frank constantly popping up, Streeter never locked the downstairs door. He assumed this was his partner escorting Carol, but he didn’t recognize the first head that came up over the low partition. The man attached to it looked to be in his late twenties and prematurely balding. He wore a police uniform and a constipated scowl, struggling to appear professional. Carol’s bodyguard. No wonder she was nervous. He scanned the room.

  “The can’s over there.” Streeter nodded to the far corner.

  The guy shot him a hard glance. He didn’t seem to know what to say and it looked like he was straining for a good comeback. Before he spoke, Carol’s head rose next to him as she gently bumped him from behind. He stepped aside and looked down at her. As he did, his face brightened.

  “Up you go, hero,” she said to him. She glanced at Streeter and rolled her eyes. “And here I was worried about Kevin when I’ve got this guy on my side.”

  The cop looked at Streeter again and frowned. Clearly, her comment bothered him. He wasn’t tall, maybe five seven, but he had thick shoulders. Streeter pegged him for a serious weight-lifter trying to offset his height and retreating hairline. “Mind if I look around, sir?” the guy finally said. “I have to secure the floor.”

  Streeter shrugged, not sure he liked the tone of the “sir.” “By all means. Nothing worse than an insecure floor.” He turned to Carol, who by now was in the loft. She carried only a small gym bag. “Don’t tell me that’s all you brought. I don’t remember you being a light traveler.”

  “The rest is in the car. When he’s done securing, Officer Barrows’ll get it. This is Jeff Barrows. He’s on a special detail. Me.” She paused. “Thanks for letting me come on such short notice, Street. Really. I couldn’t have taken another night at my place. By the way, you don’t mind if I smoke up here, do you?”

  “Is that really a question?”

  “I hope not. Certainly you don’t believe all that media nonsense about secondhand smoke.”

  Streeter looked closely at her. She seemed harder than she used to be. He’d noticed that the other day at her office. There was an edge in her voice and a bite to her words that had never been there before. Less whiny. Maybe the years had toughened her. Maybe it was the strain of the threats. “If you have to smoke, it’s all right with me.” Then he turned to the cop. “If it’s all right with you, Officer Barrows.”

  Jeff glanced at her and grinned. “Whatever she wants.” Slowly, he began walking around the room. Although the loft had hardwood floors and brick walls, there was a certain warmth thanks to enormous throw rugs, a few overstuffed chairs and couches, and two walls of packed bookshelves. A trivia nut, Streeter had seventeen sets of encyclopedias and more than three hundred assorted reference books. He also had several hundred novels. The officer glanced at the framed movie posters—there were twenty of them—that hung throughout. An ancient stereo, sans CD player, sat in a corner. He stopped at each of three slot windows and ran his hand around the edges. When he finished, he went into the kitchen and checked out the pantry. “Are there any other exits up he
re, sir?” He looked back at the bounty hunter.

  “No. And don’t be so formal. Call me Streeter.”

  “Yes sir.” He turned away and kept inspecting the kitchen.

  Streeter frowned and looked at Carol.

  “He’s polite to the point of torture.” She seemed amused. “You’ll get used to it.”

  Barrows now walked into the large bedroom. He spent a couple of minutes in there as Carol went to the nearest couch and dropped her bag on it. Streeter noticed her jeans fit perfectly over her butt and the tight pink T-shirt strained across her chest in all the right places. Some things about her definitely hadn’t changed.

  Jeff came back out into the main room. “This is good,” he said. “Small windows. Only one way in and out. Will you be staying in there, Ms. Irwin?” He jerked his head toward the bedroom.

  She turned to her host, still smiling. “Will I, Street? Are we going to double up, like the old days?”

  He glanced toward the bedroom, vaguely wondering if she was serious. “I didn’t put those clean sheets on in there for Barrows, but I’ll sleep in Frank’s spare bedroom downstairs.” Then he turned to the officer. “How do you work it from your end?”

  Barrows cleared his throat. “We’re assigned to come in three eight-hour shifts. I’m on from four p.m. until midnight. My relief works from then until eight a.m., and then someone else comes on until I get back at four. I’ll need an extra set of keys. We’ll set up a base down at the bottom of the stairs, if that’s all right with you, sir.”

  Streeter now shot him a hard look. “I tell you what—you don’t call me ‘sir’ and I won’t call you ‘Junior.’ A deal?”

  Barrows thought for a second and then nodded. With that, he headed back down the stairs to get the rest of the luggage.

  “He tries, Street.” Carol sat on the sofa next to her bag.