Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  “Yeah.” He spoke weakly into the receiver. Calls at that time of night were unheard of at the Weekses’ house.

  Nothing came from the other end at first. Finally, “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

  Otis struggled to recall where he’d heard the voice before.

  “I say, you weren’t passed out, were you?”

  Weeks shook his head and gave up trying to remember. “Obviously not.”

  “It’s Bill Swallow. I came out to look at your piano the other day.”

  Streeter, the guy from Denver. The name jolted his opium haze, and his head started clearing. “Right, right. Swallow. You made up your mind yet?”

  “About a lot of things. You don’t sound too good, Otis. Feeling a little under the weather tonight?”

  “I’m okay. What’d you decide?”

  “That it’s time to cut the crap.” Streeter spoke in clear, authoritative tones. “You know I’m not Bill Swallow. That was clear the minute I said the name. It’s not important who I am. But what is important is that you listen real close. I know all about you. About you and Kevin and what you did at Carol Irwin’s place. You didn’t mean to kill her, but she’s still dead. You’re up Shit Creek and I’ve got the paddle.” He waited, hoping Weeks would acknowledge something. “What do you think of that?”

  Otis shook his head, his mind clearing. The guy was probably recording the conversation.

  “I said, what do you think of all this, Otis?”

  “All what? So far, I got no idea what you’re talking about. Who the fuck’s this Carol Irwin?”

  “Oh, I see.” Streeter turned it up a notch and put anger in his voice. “I’m all wet here, huh? Maybe I’ll have this little chat with a friend of mine at the Denver PD. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, then I must be dealing to the wrong guy. Let’s just say good night.” Again, silence from the other end. “Good night, Otis. Detective Carey’s the one you’ll be dealing with. Bob’s a good man. I’m sure you two’ll hit off.”

  “So you know everything. What’m I supposed to do about that?” Weeks knew Streeter wasn’t joking.

  “You admit you know what I’m talking about?” Streeter wished he hadn’t said that. “Admit” was too obvious.

  “What do you want?” Weeks’ voice was getting more sure.

  “I want to see you again. Isn’t that nice?” No response. “Tomorrow. And this time you’re the one who’s going to be shopping.”

  “Yeah? What is it I’m buying?”

  “Peace of mind, Otis. Your peace of mind and my silence.”

  Weeks frowned as he let go of the big question: “How much will it cost?”

  Streeter smiled. Otis wasn’t incriminating himself on the phone, but at least he’d show up tomorrow. “Ten thousand. Take it from what you found at Carol’s place.”

  “Where do we meet?”

  “In Denver. South Denver, someplace neutral. The bar at the Broker Restaurant, just off I-25. At noon, when people are around. I want everyone to be nice and safe. Do you know Denver? Can you find the Broker all right?”

  Otis had no idea where it was. “Sure. But noon won’t work. I’ll need time to get my spending money together. Make it the bar there in twenty-four hours. Nine o’clock tomorrow night. There’ll still be plenty of people there then.”

  Streeter looked at Frank across the desk and made a sour face. “Nine o’clock?”

  “That’s the deal, buster. I can’t do it before then.” Otis felt in control. “And how can I be sure that I’ll have complete peace of mind? For all I know, I’ll be hearing from you every couple of weeks with more to sell me.”

  “You’ll just have to trust me. I don’t want to go through this again. Ten grand’s a lot of money, and I wasn’t that close to those people. This is a one-time proposition. Everything’s been priced to move, and all sales are final. Trust me, Otis. What choice do you have?”

  “I suppose none.” He thought he sounded convinced. “And we’ll both be alone? You don’t have any help on this, do you?”

  “Just me.”

  “If your name’s not Bill, what do I call you besides ‘cock-sucker’?”

  “Names aren’t important here. We’re just a couple of guys out for a beer on a Tuesday night. Until tomorrow.”

  Weeks hung up without responding. Streeter turned off the tape recorder and looked over to Frank. “Guy’s no idiot. He didn’t give up a thing. Probably suspected I was recording.”

  “He was a peace officer, Street,” his partner said. “Trained to be cautious. Don’t expect much more than that tomorrow night.”

  “You’re probably right. I’ll call Terry Nathan and see if he’ll sit in the parking lot and photograph Weeks coming and going. And I’d like you to be in the bar, as close to us as you can, to try and listen in. Even if he doesn’t say anything good, I’ll be able to place him at the Broker and verify that we spoke. I’ll have the money, which could give us prints, and I’ll have you guys to back up what I did. That might give the police probable cause to search Weeks’ place.”

  “What if he doesn’t show?”

  Streeter shrugged. “Then I call him again and we start over. All I can do is what I can do.”

  Otis looked down at the gun he’d just cleaned. A .44, a hand grenade, and who knows what else he’d take? Kevin had talked about rigging traps during their long talks in the pen. There was a lot of planning to do between now and noon on Tuesday. That’s when he’d make his move against Streeter. No way he’d meet the man at some bar and just hand over half of Carol’s money. Hell, he’d probably come wired. Weeks walked back out to the rec room and flopped down on the recliner. He poured himself two fingers of ginger schnapps, knowing he had a lot of work ahead of him. One crack, that’s all he’d have at the bounty hunter. He’d have to kill him then. The schnapps burned nicely as it went down his throat. This whole nightmare would be history by about one the next afternoon. So would Mr. Streeter.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Otis ate a big breakfast that morning and washed it down with three cups of stiff black coffee. He’d been up most of the night working out his plans. Back and forth between the basement and the garage, he’d carefully assembled all that he’d need. By now, he was going for both Streeter and Frank Dazzler. Around 2:00 A.M., he decided that Streeter must have told his partner everything. Weeks’ friend at the Sheriff’s Department said the two men were inseparable. That was the word he used. Which meant that what one of them knew, they both knew. It wouldn’t do any good to take out one of them only to get nailed for it when the other went to the cops.

  “You look like dog do, Od-us.” Lois stared at him from across the table. “What’s the matter? Didn’t you sleep?”

  He looked back, working a piece of bacon fried hard as beef jerky. Suddenly, he stopped chewing. “That’s about how I feel. I was up most of last night thinking about all sorts of stuff. I’m heading to Denver today to pay a visit to this Streeter character. I gotta find out what he’s up to. Talk some sense into the guy.” That said, he returned his attention to the food.

  “Like how you talked sense into Carol Irwin, Od-us?” She grabbed a yellow Bic lighter and put fire to the cigar in her mouth. “We all know how well that one went.”

  He looked up again. “No, not like that. I just want to find out what he’s after and get him off my case.” No need to tell her much. “I’ll be back for supper.”

  “Figure you can outsmart this one, huh?” She looked closely at him through a bluish-white cloud of cigar smoke. Then she mellowed. “Son, you can’t battle wits with another adult human being. You’re unarmed in that department. That should be clear even to you. Now, just what is it you’re up to today?”

  Weeks sat back in his chair, gnawing the last of his breakfast. “I’m not sure yet, but I have to talk to him. Whatever his game is, it’s between me and him. It don’t involve you.”

  She put the cigar down. “If you end up in jail or dead, I got nothing. Sad to say, you
’re the only family I got. And I sure can’t run this place by myself. Let’s face it, Od-us, you were born to screw up and you pretty much always done just that. When the Good Lord was handin’ out the higher traits like looks and brains and such, you musta been in the john. But you’re all I got left, son.”

  He pulled his chair back and stood up, looking genuinely pained. “You think I’m happy with the way things turned out? Hell, no. But I’m in deep shit with Streeter, and there’s no way I’m going to spend the rest of my life locked up. Now, I’m taking off for Denver and that’s that. I’ll be back in time for supper, like always. Tuesday night. Meat loaf, right?” He turned and started to walk out of the room.

  Lois sat there watching. Nodding slowly, she wiped a tear away with her hand.

  The three White Crosses he’d taken began to kick in as Otis walked into the garage. Coffee and amphetamines would counter the lack of sleep and the brown hash he’d toked just before his morning shower. If the speed made him too jangled, he had a bottle of schnapps and more hash in the car. Getting the right mind-set was no small trick, and heading up to Denver straight and sober never occurred to him. He went through the cardboard box on his workbench one last time before putting it in his Sentra’s trunk. Masking tape, fishing line, pliers, wire cutters, hand grenade, hunting knife, several pairs of handcuffs, Super Glue, putty, rope, a flashlight. It was all there, even though he knew half of it probably wouldn’t be needed.

  When he’d placed the box in the trunk, he turned to the propane tank in the corner of the garage. Not really necessary, but if he wanted a big explosion, it would help. As he bent over to lift the tank, Otis cursed. Empty. He’d been meaning to fill it for over a month. Too late now. Glancing around the room, he noticed a five-gallon gas can back near the bench. That’d do. He made sure the top was on tight and then put it in the trunk.

  Standing behind the car, he spotted his reflection in a wall mirror by the door. Otis was wearing an orange hunting hat, green plaid pants, and an old Miller Lite T-shirt. “Less Filling—Tastes Great,” argued bright-red letters over his huge belly. Should he change? No, he didn’t want to go back into the house and maybe face Lois again. Instead he grabbed the tan windbreaker from a wall hook and put it on. He got into the Sentra and checked his supplies. A shiny nine-millimeter handgun sat next to the schnapps bottle on the passenger’s seat. He’d decided on the nine, the .44 being too large to handle easily. His brass pipe was in the open ashtray on the dash. He didn’t want to go to hash that morning, but he was out of pot. With two more White Crosses in his pants pocket, Otis figured he was ready for whatever lay ahead. His body shuddered from a random speed rush, and he started the engine.

  Driving north on I-25, he had to keep slowing down his car. The White Crosses pulsed through him, and his right foot kept pressing to the floorboards. He worked the ginger schnapps like it was Evian. By the time he hit Denver, he was a twisted mass of energy, rage, and confusion. But was he ever awake. His eyes bulged like a lizard’s, and it’d be days, he realized, before he’d sleep again.

  Frank was doing the Rocky Mountain News crossword puzzle and eating a tuna-fish sandwich at his desk when he heard women going into the gym down the hall. He looked up. Was the noon karate class letting out already? Then he remembered the special gender-awareness presentation set for that day. Frank thought of how he was aware of their gender every time he watched the ladies go to work out. No need to teach that, so he turned back to his puzzle.

  As he drove past the church, Otis finally managed to hit the right tone. Loose and confident, yet focused nicely. He slowed down to read the signs: “Dazzler’s Bail Bonds” on the right; on the left, “Womyn’s Workout Space.” Whatever that was. There was a smaller sign he couldn’t make out. He drove to the corner, took a left, and pulled over. After he parked, he took one more pull of schnapps and stuffed the nine into his waistband. When his feet hit the pavement, he felt light and primed. He walked back to the church, wondering if both his targets would be there. When he got to the front door, he read the small sign. “Noon, today: Removing the gender bias from MIME.”

  He walked into the church and followed the arrow to the bonds office on the right. Just before he entered, Otis put his hand on the nine above his fly. Then he spun into the room, pulling the gun out as he did. Frank didn’t hear him at first. When he looked up, Weeks was standing in front of his desk, waving the small gun at him. The two men stared at each other without speaking. Otis finally broke the ice. “Are you Dazzler?”

  “In that outfit, you’re no slouch yourself,” Frank deadpanned, setting down his paper. “Yeah, I’m Frank Dazzler. What’s this all about?”

  Otis glanced down and realized how bad he looked. “Where’s Streeter?”

  “Be back in an hour. Why don’t you put that thing down and we’ll wait for him?”

  Otis’s eyes shot around the room. No way he could sit still in there for that long. “We’re going for a ride. Get up.” He tipped the gun slightly.

  “What the hell’s this all about?” Frank was getting mad. Then it dawned on him. “Your name wouldn’t happen to be Otis Weeks? How the hell did you find us?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Just get up! Where’s your car? You’re driving.”

  Frank rose slowly, keeping even eye contact. “Where to?”

  “To wherever the fuck I say.” He held the gun higher.

  “When Streeter gets back we can all sit down and straighten this out. Why not just put the gun away and I’ll go get us some coffee.”

  Otis shook from the speed and blinked. Standing still for any length of time was out of the question. “We’re going to hop in your car and take a drive. Then we’re going to call back here in an hour and have Streeter meet us. We’ll leave a note, so he sticks by the phone. Now, where’s your car?”

  Behind the thick glasses, Weeks’ bloodshot eyes were wide. Anger and fear. Frank knew, if he didn’t hurry, the guy’d do something crazy. “Out front.”

  That calmed Weeks. He looked at the reading glasses and a cellular phone sitting on the desk next to Frank’s food. “Bring the phone with you,” he ordered.

  Frank reached down and grabbed it. Suddenly, Weeks stepped forward, picked up a coffee mug on the desk, and brought it down hard on the glasses. They smashed, and part of the frame slid off the desk.

  “Hey! The hell you do that for?” Dazzler moved, but Otis poked the gun at him.

  “So your partner knows I’m serious. Let’s go.” He stepped aside to let Frank out.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something, Robin Hood?” Frank asked. The gunman frowned, puzzled. “You said you wanted to leave a note. Remember?”

  “ ’Course I do. I was getting to it.” He nodded at the desk. “Write something.”

  The bondsman grabbed a pen and notepad from the top drawer and then bent over to where his face was just inches above the paper. Squinting hard without his glasses, he scrawled: “Street, I’m with Otis Weeks and he seems rather upset. Call my cell phone right away. F.” Finished, he looked up. “You want to read it?”

  Otis shook his head. “Let’s just go.”

  They moved into the hallway. Otis walked a couple of feet behind Frank, the gun held up close to his chest. Suddenly, a side door from the gym opened. A thin man in a black full-body leotard, a black bowler hat, and chalk-white face makeup stepped out between them.

  Weeks let out a grunt and then, “What the hell?” He moved his gun back and forth between Frank and the stranger. The mime stayed true to his profession, silently throwing his hands back—palms out—to shoulder level. His mouth shot open in exaggerated shock. Otis turned to Frank. “What’s this?”

  “He’s a mime. Didn’t you read the sign out front?”

  Otis’s frown deepened as he glanced at the door and then back. “So what’s that mean? Is he like a retard?”

  “A mime,” Frank repeated. “As in pantomime. You know, street performers who pretend they can’t talk so they can wave their
arms around and piss everyone off. Some people think it’s funny. They’re the retards.”

  Clearly, Otis didn’t get it, but he knew the mime was trouble. “You can’t talk?” he asked. “Then listen. I’m not leaving you here. You’re coming with us. If you understand, nod.” Ever the performer, he bobbed his head wildly, his face twisted in concern.

  “They can talk and they can hear,” Frank interrupted. “Least I think they can. Clamming up like that’s just part of their act. Can’t you leave the poor guy here?”

  “No way. He’ll be on the phone to 911 before we get started. Come on, let’s all of us get going.” Otis waved the gun to indicate the mime should walk in front of him. For his part, the silent one held up his hands like a robbery victim and moved ahead. “Hey, asshole, cut the drama,” Weeks snarled.

  When they got to Frank’s Mark IV, Weeks ordered Dazzler behind the wheel; the mime would ride shotgun, and he himself would cover both from the back seat. He said to drive around the block, to where his Sentra was parked. Once there, he told Frank to pull right alongside, stop, and pop his trunk. Then he leaned forward in his seat. “Cut the engine and give me the keys,” he said to the driver. “I gotta get something out of my car and I don’t want you running off.”

  Frank did as he was told. Otis jumped out of the Mark IV and walked to his Sentra. He got the box with his tools and the gas can, and put both in the trunk of Dazzler’s car. That done, he returned to the back seat and returned the keys to Frank.

  “Just head north up Brighton Boulevard to where it leaves town. We’re going to the country.” Then he turned to the mime. “Hey, dickface, aren’t you going to pretend to clap your hands or something? Not so funny anymore, is it?”

  Frank drove about four miles. The farther they went, the more open spaces appeared between industrial buildings and small shops. Right before they crossed into Adams County, Otis ordered him to take a left, south of Riverside Cemetery. Vaguely nauseous from the drugs and schnapps, and not used to being in the back, Weeks was getting carsick. To ease the pressure, he leaned forward and let one rip quietly into the seat.