“Do you believe this guy?” Streeter asked, still looking down. Then he turned and leaned in Frank’s window. “Thanks.”
“Right. Just find the keys and get us out of these damned cuffs. I spent enough time hooked up to Harpo back here.”
The siren was getting close. Mechanics at a nearby garage had called 911 when they heard the explosion, although nobody knew exactly where it came from. The police car sped down the road past the shed, but the driver must have seen the remaining dust from the explosion: he turned around and came back.
Inside the Mark IV, Frank turned to the man next to him. “We’re going to be okay, pal. Sorry you had to get dragged into all this.”
The mime sat up indignantly. Then, in a dull monotone, he repeated an earlier comment. “Bite me.” With that, he turned away.
Frank looked back out his window. “Guy’s a regular talking fool once you get him going, Street.”
THIRTY-SIX
Streeter was on the phone to Terry Blue Nathan. “This should do it. Haney and the boys went down to Weeks’ place last night, after he got our statements. You should have seen them trying to drag words out of that crazy mime. I thought Haney’d shoot the guy.” He smiled to himself as he sat behind Frank’s desk. “Anyhow, the cops went to Weeks’ house and found stuff from Carol’s. VCR, cash, some letters. Even a few pair of panties, according to Carey. How about that, Terry? Looks like Otis is going to be back with DOC, but on the other side of the bars.
“I guess it was pretty sad down there. Lois, the mother, took it hard. She and Weeks seemed so pathetic to me. An old boozer living in his mother’s basement. The two of them always snarling at each other. But now she’s alone. Her boy lived with her for fifty-some years and now he’s gone. Poor thing’s pretty upset. ’Course, Otis isn’t feeling too good himself, with a bullet clean through his foot.”
“That ought to slow him down,” Terry said.
“Better his foot than my head. Frank saved me on that one.”
“Tell me, Street, how’d you know he was your man?”
“Followed a hunch. At least that’s what I told Haney. He seemed to believe me, too. I’ll give you all the gory details tonight.”
“Berardi’s, on 17th, right?”
“Eight o’clock, about two hours from now. See you then.”
When he hung up, Streeter returned to the loft to practice the piano. About a half-hour later, Frank yelled up the stairs.
“Someone here to see you.” His voice was followed by the sound of footsteps. Streeter glanced over from the piano keyboard and was stunned to see Linda Parnell walk into the loft. She had her glasses on, and her hair was up in a ponytail near the top of her head.
“Don’t let me disturb you,” she said, nodding toward the piano.
“You always disturb me,” he responded. “You can’t help it.”
Wearing a light-gray pantsuit and white blouse, Linda looked prim but soft. Streeter wondered how she managed that. He stood up and took a step toward her, but neither of them spoke. He glanced at the green sweatpants and tan T-shirt he was wearing. No shoes or socks. Suddenly, he felt self-conscious. “This is sure awkward,” he finally said. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, pop, a double boilermaker?”
She flashed him a grin. “Coffee’ll be fine.” Then she looked slowly around the room. “This is nice, Street. Books, movie posters, a baby grand. The whole works.” She looked back at him. “Very comfortable but sort of elegant.”
“And you were expecting something like Hitler’s bunker in the final days.”
“No, I didn’t know what to expect. Come on, Street. I wasn’t that hard on you.” They both fell silent again. She spoke first. “I talked to Frank for a while. He came out of yesterday in good form.”
“He always does.” Streeter walked to the kitchen and started putting water in the coffee maker. “It’ll take more than handcuffs, a grenade, and a boorish mime to stop Frank Dazzler.” He turned to face her. “I finally think I can describe him, though.”
“What?”
“Saturday, you asked me to describe Frank. While you were critiquing my life. Remember? Well, he’s the best friend I ever had, and that’s going some. After what we went through yesterday, I wouldn’t trade that old warhorse for any twenty grownups and a real career.”
She considered that as he went back to the coffee. “I said a lot of harsh things. Maybe I panicked last week when I realized how much I cared for you.”
“Right!” He stopped to look at her. “Why is it that every time a woman tells me she cares about me, it’s followed by a kick in the ass and a ‘Get out of my life’? I liked it better before you started caring. The sex was sensational.”
“You get your ass kicked often?”
“I’ve got my share of foot marks. For a lot of different reasons.”
Linda walked to the table between the living room and the kitchen and sat down. “I meant a lot of what I said last Saturday, but I overdid it. Can we try to talk about it again? I promise not to call you hopeless.”
He went around to her side of the table and sat next to her. “But I am hopeless. That’s pretty clear after these last few days. I can’t blame you for not wanting to be part of all this. Tossing crime scenes, shaking down guys, bullshitting half the county. Then nearly getting Frank killed. It turned out okay, but next time I play Rambo I might not be so lucky.”
“Come on, cowboy.” She pulled her head back. “Your life’s not that hairy.”
He studied her in silence for a moment. “I always feel obligated to explain myself to you. I’m a big boy and this is how I am. Still, I end up wanting you to understand me and trying to impress you at the same time. It’s that high-school thing I always feel around you.” He paused. “Listen to me. You’ve got me using the F-word in every other sentence. Exactly why are you here, Linda?”
“We have a saying in therapy. ‘Great sex is the best reason to stay together.’ ”
“Really?”
“No, but we should.” She shook her head slowly. “I’m not sure why I’m here. It’s just that I hated the way we left it and I missed you. That’s all. Maybe I should go.”
He leaned in to her. “You know, if you weren’t so edgy and I wasn’t so flaky, we might have a shot at hammering something out for ourselves here.”
“That was pure poetry,” she said. “You really should write greeting cards for a living.”
“So I’ve been told.” He stood up. “Look, in about an hour, I’m going to dinner with Frank and a friend of mine named Terry Nathan. His partner’s ex-wife, too. Why don’t you join us? I promise that we’ll actually eat this time. And who knows? If we’re still talking at the end of the night, we could slip back here and I’ll give you a tour of the place.”
“I’d like that, Street.” She stood up and moved toward him. “I’m starving, and I can always use another tour.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Stone started his career as a newspaper reporter, working as a correspondent for the Dallas Morning News and winning awards for his investigative journalism, before becoming a private detective in Denver. He used that experience to powerful effect when he became a crime fiction novelist.
Stone’s blockbuster series of thrillers began with The Low End of Nowhere, which introduced bounty hunter Streeter, the tough-guy-with-a-tender-heart tracking down terrifying criminals on the streets of Denver. The smashing debut earned Stone praise from Robert B. Parker and other crime fiction legends…and snagged him a coveted Shamus Award nomination for best novel from the Private Eye Writers of America. The book was quickly followed by A Long Reach, Token of Remorse, and Totally Dead, each a uniquely authentic and explosive mystery packed with the author’s real-life experience. Stone’s series of crime noir fiction is both darkly funny and deeply gritty…and rates as some of the most original and cutting-edge work in the mystery genre.
TOKEN OF
REMORSE
The characters and events portraye
d in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 1998 Michael Stone
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 1941298087
ISBN-13: 9781941298084
Published by Brash Books, LLC
12120 State Line, #253
Leawood, Kansas 66209
www.brash-books.com
ALSO BY MICHAEL STONE
Low End of Nowhere
A Long Reach
Totally Dead
To Carolyn Carlson,
a terrific friend and a great editor
The author would like to thank and acknowledge my special best friend Lynda Ferguson, Donald Knight, Harry McLean, Greg Rawlings, Craig Skinner, Diane Balken, and Bill Wise, along with Brett Favre, Reggie White, and Mike Holmgren and company.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ONE
When Dexter walked out the back of the Manhandler massage parlor, Richie Moats panicked and almost blew his own leg off with the .357 he was holding. Great, he thought. Why him tonight? Dexter Calley is pure mean crazy and damned near bulletproof. Part Arapahoe, part black, and just up from Nogales. Big and quick enough to play pro football in Canada for two seasons. Vicious enough to serve thirty-eight months in Oklahoma on a manslaughter beef. Luckily, they’d only met a couple of times, so he probably wouldn’t recognize Richie behind his mask. Dexter glided slow and easy, a cornerback’s poise in a prison-yard strut. Shoulders wide as a dashboard. He studied the alley and casually sniffed at the air. His black hair was in a luxurious long ponytail that Cindy Crawford would have envied. Although the late-March Colorado night was cool, he wore only a T-shirt and charcoal pleated dress slacks. Suddenly, he turned back to the door and nodded.
If seeing Dexter made him nervous, Richie almost had a seizure at what came next. Out into the alley strolled all five feet, five inches of Sid Wahl. Richie swallowed hard. Not that he was intimidated by Sid. But the two men had talked to each other a dozen times or more and the little man might make him, eye mask or not. What then? Killing people was definitely not in Richie’s repertoire. Relax, he told himself. Like Tina had said just that morning, “If armed robbery was easy, everyone’d be doing it.”
“Let’s get a move on,” Sid said as he adjusted the leather briefcase in his hand. “I told him we’d be back by eight.”
Dexter grunted and they both turned to head toward the car. Before they could take two steps, Richie moved from behind the Dumpster. Standing firm, he waved the huge .357 blue barrel between the two. “Hold it right there!” He was relieved that his voice was deep and steady.
They stopped, although Dexter swayed a bit. Even standing still he seemed to be in motion. Richie leaned back a tad and aimed his gun squarely at the big man. “I said stop!” he yelled. Glancing at Sid, he added. “And you, drop that briefcase!”
“You got any idea who you’re fucking around with out here?” Dexter asked, clearly pissed, but calm. He sized up the masked man standing about four feet away with the cannon aimed at his chest. Could he lunge and grab the barrel before the guy fired? Probably not.
“I’m sure he does or he wouldn’t be here.” Sid’s voice was flat and he broke into quick grin. A flesh-colored Band-Aid was wrapped around the nose bridge of his horn-rimmed glasses and he squinted hard at the mask. Not much those eyes missed. “Ain’t that right, Zorro?”
Richie glanced down at himself. He was wearing all black: shoes, sweatshirt, pants, eye mask, and fedora pulled low over his forehead. “Drop it, asshole,” he said, looking up again. “And keep your hands where I can see them. Both of you.” He forced his voice deeper, but Sid was boring in. Damned smile, Richie thought. Sid knows he knows me, even if he can’t come up with a name yet.
Sid held his gaze for another moment before tossing the case to the ground in front of him. The alley was quiet as a coffin, and the thick smell of Chinese cooking from the restaurant next to the Manhandler made it feel cramped and stale. Szechuan and garlic. On both sides, ancient brick walls the color of dried ketchup appeared to lean inward. A bare bulb over the doorway Sid had just left was the only illumination. To Richie, there was a stark, almost comical contrast between the two men standing in the dirty light. Dexter’s tight physique and dark features next to Sid’s squat, lumpy body stuffed into a plaid cloth coat like so much ripe produce.
“What now, hard guy?” Sid asked. He let out a soft hiccup. Whenever he got mad or anxious, that happened. Standing there with his hands raised to his shoulders, he was both. Furious with the man holding him up and nervous about the bitter fallout that would roll his way later. “Is this where we’re supposed to beg you not to kill us?” His head hopped as he finished another hiccup.
“You got a big mouth for being such a little pecker,” Richie said. “Whoever’s got the car keys, toss them down.”
Dexter Calley let out a long sigh like the whole deal was getting too tedious for words. Richie took a short step toward him and stopped. With both thumbs, he pulled back the gun’s hammer, making a loud, clicking noise. “I’d hate for this thing to go off, me being so buggy and all,” he said.
His voice was deliberately lifeless and it had the desired effect. Dexter reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the keys to the Lincoln. Without looking, he tossed them onto the ground next to the briefcase. Richie Moats drew them toward him with his foot. Then he squatted and grabbed them, all the while keeping the .357 on Dexter. “Let’s go,” he barked as he straightened up.
No one budged and Richie frowned behind his mask. “If I have to shoot you two jerk-offs every time I give an order, it’s gonna start hurting after a while.” Slowly, Dexter and Sid started toward the big white vehicle parked about fifteen feet in front of them. Richie stepped aside and then followed them. When they got there, the pair stopped and looked back, their faces betraying nothing.
“Move over,” Richie ordered. As they did, he walked forward and opened the trunk with the third key that he tried on the chain. Then he stepped back and motioned toward the car. “Get in!”
“What the fuck?!” Dexter shouted.
Richie raised the gun with both hands. “I’ll tell you ‘what the fuck,’ Geronimo. Get in the trunk or you’re dead. That’s what.”
Dexter looked at Sid, who just shrugged, so the big man crawled into the trunk, keeping tight eye contact with Richie as he did. Sid moved forward and stopped. “Don’t you want our wallets?” he asked. His head bobbed again in the tiny spasm of a hiccup. A hint of a smile was back on his face. “This here’s a robbery, ain’t it?”
Richie didn’t say anything. He released the hammer on his weapon, but kept it trained on them.
“A real coincidence, us walking out with that particular briefcase just now and you
being right here,” Sid continued as he lowered himself next to Dexter. The two were now spooned together in scrunched-up, interlocking positions. “Yes sir. With what’s in there you sure don’t need our wallets.”
It was Sid’s way of saying he knew this was an inside job. He and Dexter were making the rounds of sex shops and massage parlors like the Manhandler, picking up a week’s cash gross. Had to be at least four hundred thousand dollars stuffed into the huge briefcase. The masked man knew that the massage parlor, just off Colfax Avenue on Denver’s West Side, was their last stop. He had to know: a total inside job.
Richie ignored Sid and grabbed the trunk top, about to close it.
“You’re gonna regret this, pal,” Sid hissed from below him. “That’s a promise. You’re gonna regret it like the plague.”
Richie bent in closer, glared at Sid, and then pulled back. As he did, his black fedora hit the edge of the lid and slid off his head. In one harsh motion, he reached for it with his left hand. His fingers brushed hard against his temple, causing the cheap elastic string on his party mask to snap. The mask tumbled after the hat into the trunk. His mouth dropped as Dexter and Sid stared up at him. He frowned, confused and terrified, and his legs felt weak. Then he swallowed and took a step back. The best he could do was utter “Holy shit,” barely above a whisper.
Sid’s face flickered with anger, but his mouth quickly turned up again in a smile. “My, oh my. If it isn’t little Richie-what’s-his-name. Tina’s friend. That’s one very slick disguise. You got any idea what kind a deep shit you just stepped into, Richie boy? Any idea whose money’s in that case?”
Richie was suddenly nauseated and his mouth was so dry he began moving his tongue around furiously to work up some saliva. But his voice stayed even. “Well, seeing as how I’m the one with the gun, I guess it’s mine.” His eyes bulged with stress. “Organ-grinder, Dago eyes,” his uncle used to tease him when he was a kid. Large, intense, and almost black. Same color as his mustache and the mop of curly hair that now dangled freely around his face.
Streeter Box Set Page 45
