Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  Streeter looked over at him. “Can you make it earlier? Eight?” When Rafael nodded, the bounty hunter turned to the vice consul. “Any words of wisdom before we take off, Mr. Howell?”

  Howell stood and looked at his guests. “Just try not to piss Ruiz off.”

  By the time Streeter got back to El Cid, it was almost six o’clock. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator in his room and took it with him into the shower. When he’d finished cleaning up, he smoked a cigar. The air-conditioning felt good after the long day in the dusty Jetta. Sitting in the chair next to his bed, his skin still moist from the shower, he wondered who’d killed Richie. Fat chance of finding the perp on his own. Most likely, the mayor had had one of Ruiz’s men do it so he could get the car. His Honor then left town knowing that the attention would blow over in a couple of weeks. Official San Ignacio was hunkered down, covering its ass real good on this one. Still, Streeter was determined to find out all he could. He at least owed Uncle Marty and Aunt Marlene part of an explanation. The body might even turn up, but not at that bogus burial site. Finally, he threw on a pair of khaki slacks and a Banlon shirt and headed to the hotel restaurant.

  El Cid’s sprawling lobby was broken up into several sitting areas, giving it a catacomb-like feel. Just outside, to the west, was a round pool where you could swim up to a bar and sit in the water and drink. There was another bar inside, in the restaurant, and Streeter walked to it. He ordered a Tecate long-necker. When it arrived, he surveyed the room, leaning back against the bar and sipping casually as he did. It was pushing seven-thirty and the sun was setting off to his left, the last rays of the day streaking in. The place was filling mostly with tourists and Streeter spotted someone who looked familiar.

  Evidently finished with her nightly feed to Denver, Lise Abbott entered, kicking back in white shorts and a powder-blue T-shirt with MAZATLÁN embroidered on it. She wore a burgundy NEWS 3 baseball cap and she still managed to look like she was on deadline. That nervousness in her eyes, wide and always scanning. Her movements, quick and almost jerky. Streeter wondered if she always acted like that. Lise walked through the rounded archways from the lobby and moved quickly toward the bar. Suddenly she stopped and sat down in an overstuffed club chair next to one of the low cocktail tables. When the waitress took her order, Lise pulled a small notebook from her purse and began writing.

  Streeter watched as her drink arrived. Chilled blush wine in a tall, perspiring glass. Figures, he thought. He took a last pull on his beer and ordered a second Tecate. When it came, he grabbed it and walked over to her.

  “Are you finding anything interesting down here?” he asked, standing across the table from her. His smile was more inquisitive than friendly.

  Lise looked up, open-mouthed. “Huh?” She frowned. “I mean, pardon me?” Her expression then turned to her version of a practiced on-camera smile.

  Streeter took a small sip from his beer. Despite her formality, he sensed that she was friendly. “I asked if you’re having any luck with your story. I’m from Denver too, and I recognized you from Channel Three. ’Course, the cap helped me a little with that one.”

  “Really.” Lise sat back slightly and studied him for a long moment. “You were at the American consulate this morning, weren’t you?”

  He didn’t say anything at first, wondering if he should tell her why he was in town. He quickly decided against it. “I’ve been all over the place today and I’m beat. Mind if I sit down?” He glanced at the chair next to her.

  Lise nodded quickly several times and closed her notebook. She put the pad and pencil back in her purse as he sat. Streeter noticed how pale her legs were as she stuffed her purse next to her thigh on the chair. He studied her nose as she took a sip from her wine. She looked younger in person than on television.

  “I’m Lise Abbott,” she said when she put her glass down. “But then I suppose you might already have known that.”

  “Not really,” Streeter lied. “I recognized your face from TV, but I’m not much with names.” He paused and held out his hand. “I’m Streeter.”

  “Streeter what?” She sort of smiled. “Is that a nickname?”

  He ignored the question. “Seeing as how you were with a camera crew this morning, I gather you’re not down here on vacation.”

  “That’s true. I don’t know if you heard before you left Denver, but Marty Moats’s nephew is missing and his truck turned up not far from here. You’ve heard of Marty? The big waterbed salesman? Everyone in Colorado seems to know him. Anyhow, the missing guy’s name is Richie Moats and his blood was splattered all over the truck.”

  “You don’t say? When did all this happen?”

  “Well, Richie’s been missing for over a week and they just found the truck a day or so ago. I flew right in last night. We’ve got an exclusive on the story so far. Anyhow, I had a long talk this afternoon with the chief of police in the town where they found the truck. A Chevy Blazer, actually.” Lise paused to take another sip from the wine. “He told me that they’ve arrested a couple of guys who confessed to killing Richie for his truck. Both of the suspects have long criminal histories. They’re supposed to be really bad people, but I’m not so sure. Anyhow, they supposedly buried Richie out in the brush somewhere.”

  “What do you mean, you’re not sure about the two men?”

  “Well, I went out to where the body is said to be buried and it was pretty weird. I can’t believe they’re in the right place. And the two guys they arrested are more like playful teenagers. They even tried to get on camera and they were playing golf or something like that. It seemed silly to me.”

  “I take it they didn’t find a body,” he asked, smiling.

  She looked closely at him and paused, then shook her head and returned his smile. “Not as of deadline tonight.” She perked up. “We got the murder confession for tonight’s feed and I got in the golf stuff, too. My cameraman and I are heading back to San Ignacio first thing in the morning. San Ignacio’s where the Blazer was found. About all I can do is keep after it.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  Lise glanced around the room like she was expecting someone. Turning back, she said, “The police chief’s a piece of work. He’s scary. But the guy in charge of the burial site is a regular hoot. He’s all dressed up like my father would have been back in the seventies. A white leisure suit or whatever they call it.” Her smile was warm and genuine by now.

  “You hear all those stories about Mexican police being strange,” he said. “I guess it’s true.”

  Lise pulled her head back. “Anyhow, it gives me the lead story for a day or so. At least until the other stations get down here.” Suddenly she motioned to a man behind him, near the archways. Looking back at Streeter, she rose from her chair. “You’ll have to excuse me. Hal, my cameraman, is here and we have to meet some people for dinner.”

  “More sources for your story?”

  She shook her head. “No, just friends. You ask a lot of questions, Streeter. Maybe you should have been a reporter or a private eye or something. But curiosity is a good thing, in my opinion.” She smiled again, then set her glass on the table and got up. “It was nice to meet you. Maybe we’ll see each other around. Have a good vacation.”

  Streeter watched her leave. Nice lady, he thought, but she has a lot to learn. She hadn’t even asked him what he was doing at the consulate. At least she wasn’t completely fooled by Ruiz and all that garbage in the countryside. But he could tell that she was struggling with the story. He finished his beer and got a table for dinner. Tired from so little sleep the night before, he wanted to eat and turn in early.

  If his first day in Mexico was fruitless, the next three were laughable. Rivera and his men went to no fewer than four more “burial sites.” Same results: a worker or two would whack away at the hard dirt while the sergeant whacked away at his long irons. Then they’d move on. An AP writer and another on-camera reporter, this one from Channel 10 in Denver, made it to Mazatlán on Fri
day. By the next morning, a regular little caravan of reporters was setting out from the oceanfront hotels to San Ignacio. Once they were there, Ruiz would feed them their daily load of bullshit and then they’d dutifully head to the newest grave site, hoping to capture Richie Moats’s body on film.

  After seeing Streeter twice more at the consulate, Lise finally asked Howell exactly who he was and what he was doing there. As the bounty hunter had requested, Ben just said he was a friend of Marty’s who was keeping an eye on things for the family. That night Abbott mentioned it near the end of her telecast, although she never did try to interview him.

  For Streeter’s part, he didn’t even bother with the police. He just worked the streets of San Ignacio with Rafael, interviewing anyone who’d talk to him. The two went to other little towns in the area. particularly the three between the main highway and San Ignacio. By mid-Sunday, they’d spoken to over one hundred people. No one had seen the Blazer before it turned up with Mayor Hernández on board. No one had seen any Americans, male or female, in the area prior to the media excitement. And no one expressed surprise that both Hernández and Ruiz were knee-deep in the mess.

  “Looks like you’re beating a dead horse down there, son,” Marty Moats told him over the phone late Sunday afternoon. “Hell, even the bimbos on the local news seem to be getting the message by now. Richie’s dead and if the right people get nailed, it’ll be pure coincidence and blind luck. The story’s dying of natural causes up here.”

  “I don’t get it, Marty,” Streeter said. “We still don’t have a clue about what Richie was doing here. Absolutely no one saw him or Tina. And these people are leveling with me. It’s like the two of them blew into town late one night, dropped off the Blazer, and then disappeared.”

  “Enough is enough,” Marty said. “Get yourself a good night’s sleep and then first thing in the morning get a flight back up here. Keep the rest of the advance I gave you. That should cover your expenses. If not, send me an invoice. Richie’s gone and that’s that.” His voice got quiet. “ ’Course, Marlene ain’t feeling too good about all of it, but there’s not much I can do about that.”

  Streeter thought for a moment. “Listen, when I get back to Denver, let me see if I can at least find out why he came to Mexico. I’ll backtrack from up there. We can’t just leave it like this.”

  Marty cleared his throat. “We can and we will, son. Once you get back up here you’re off the meter and off the job. Just let it lie. You did your best and we appreciate that. Richie had his own way of doing things and his own reasons for getting himself stuck out there in the rat lands. Marlene and me’ll grieve for the boy and then get on with our lives.”

  “But if I could—”

  “But nothing.” Moats sounded irritated. “No hard feelings, but you’re fired.” He coughed once and then added, “Say howdy to Frank for me. Okay?” With that he hung up.

  FIVE

  She had acted curiously toward Streeter ever since she’d seen the faded SAVE THE WHALES: COLLECT THE ENTIRE SET bumper sticker on his Buick. That was a month earlier, when he’d gone to the music store on South Broadway for his weekly piano lesson. He was just getting out of his car and she was approaching hers. She’d stopped, studied his rear bumper, and then looked at him with a confused half smile, half frown.

  “I suppose you think it’s funny when they club baby seals, too,” she’d said.

  Her voice was even, but he couldn’t tell if it was anger or amusement in her eyes. Those eyes. Huge, soft brown, and each a perfect almond shape. Damp and dreamy. At first, Streeter could only stare at them. Then he glanced down at his bumper and the source of her concern. It had been on there so long he’d forgotten the stupid sticker. He looked back at her.

  “It’s just a joke,” he’d answered with a hint of a smile himself.

  “I see.” She’d taken a step toward him, the same puzzled look on her face. Her perfume was lilac, but he couldn’t place it.

  “It probably isn’t all that funny.”

  She’d considered that for a moment, the smile seeming to win out. “Probably.” Then she’d walked away without saying anything else.

  It turned out the woman worked at the store in sales. Gave guitar lessons, too. Constance—seldom Connie—is what his piano teacher told him. Streeter had seen her twice inside the store since the parking-lot incident and each time she’d just given him only a perfunctory nod. Still, she looked terrific and he thought he’d caught a hint of a smile both times. Great legs, long hair a shade or two darker than her eyes. Those perfect eyes. He’d asked his teacher about her. Single? Available? The usual bachelor stuff. Apparently, just about a year earlier her boyfriend, a violinist with the Denver Symphony Orchestra, had left her for a close friend. Or someone she thought was a close friend. Since then she’d become increasingly distant and brittle with people, especially of the male variety.

  “Constance used to be a real treat to work with,” Streeter’s teacher had told him. “She’s still a good person, but not so friendly anymore. I’m sure it takes time to get over what she’s been dealing with, but she can be pretty aloof. Don’t take it personally.” He thought for a moment. “If you think she might have given you a smile, that’s not bad for her. Hell, you should be encouraged.”

  After hearing about her boyfriend, Streeter wasn’t sure what his move should be. Still, he thought of her again this particular Thursday night as he left the music store. A couple of guitar cases stood near the front door and he wondered where she was. Once he got outside he saw something that jolted his attention away from Constance.

  “Hey, scrub. I stopped by your place, but you weren’t around.” The big man was leaning against the driver’s door of a jet-black 1967 GT Ford Mustang fastback. “Nice neighborhood you got up there. Don’t you like white people?”

  Streeter stared straight into his eyes. “Right at this moment, no.” It was Grover Royals. He hadn’t seen him in eight years, which wasn’t nearly long enough. Streeter hated Royals. He had ever since they’d played football together in high school, which was when Grover’d started calling him “scrub.”

  Born exactly one year and a day before Streeter, Grover Royals came from the same middle-class background. Right up to junior year, Streeter had idolized him in terms of football. Grover was an inch or two taller, thirty pounds stronger, and even a step faster. And that competitive fire: always the last one off the field. Win or lose, he’d keep kicking ass until there was no more ass left to kick. By senior year, he was a full six feet, three inches tall and college recruiters were sniffing around like hogs in heat. But in his second game that fall, he blew out a knee so badly that he was on crutches for over six months. During that time, his mother died of cancer and his father crawled into a bottle of blended. When he could finally move around again, Grover was all wrong and twisted inside. He started muling drugs around the country and then moved on to prostitution, numbers running, and kiddie porno. By the time he was thirty, his name had been mentioned in the deaths of at least two business rivals. He was rumored to be “connected” or “made” or whatever the street term was for being in bed with organized crime. Streeter’s hero had turned out to be pure poison.

  Now Grover kept up his smirk, cool and confident. It had snowed that day and he was wearing a knee-length, Gestapo-type leather coat. The thing was black, thick, and must have weighed a ton. Probably cost a ton, too. But it couldn’t hide the fact that Royals was built like a bear. His breath fogged as he spoke. “Yeah, real nice neighborhood,” he repeated. “Like living in Denver’s smoking section. And your place looks like a damned fort. All those red bricks and steeples and shit. ’Course, with as many winos and jigaboos as you got living near you, I suppose you want to keep some of the scumbags out.”

  “Did Frank tell you where I was?”

  “Yeah. We had a nice little chat in his office.” Grover adjusted himself and casually rolled his neck. Guys who spend four hours a day throwing weights around have ways of showing off th
eir physiques even when they’re bundled up.

  “If you got inside, then obviously we can’t keep all the scumbags out.” Streeter paused to let that sink in. “Exactly what do you want? I’m sure you didn’t come out here to take piano lessons.”

  Grover’s smile flattened but he kept eye contact. His thinning dark hair was combed straight back, held in place by what appeared to be pig lard. He also had a tightly trimmed goatee. With his blunt, uneven features and small eyes in such a large face, even his mother would probably admit he was butt-ugly. “You’re right. Don’t want any piano lessons tonight.”

  Neither man spoke for a moment. Finally, Streeter spoke. “I’d like to say that it’s been a pleasure and then just head home. But that would be a lie and you might follow me anyway.”

  “You want to go have a beer with me and Sid?” Grover stepped to one side so Streeter could see into the Mustang. It had deeply tinted glass, but the side window was open, exposing the chunky profile of Sid Wahl in the passenger’s seat. “This is Sid, an associate of mine.” He looked back at the bounty hunter. “We can all go get a brew. I’m buying. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  Streeter leaned forward slightly and studied Sid. He wore a cheap plaid coat and his glasses had a Band-Aid around the nose bridge. Compared with him, Grover seemed almost classy. Almost. Casually, Sid looked out at the man on the sidewalk and issued a muffled “Aye” that passed for hello.

  “No thanks,” Streeter said, straightening up. “I’m not going anywhere in this stupid Batmobile of yours. You want to talk, walk me to my car over there. I’m in kind of a hurry.”

  Grover shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Lead the way.”

  The day had been so cloudy that there was no actual sunset. It was almost dark as they walked away from the huge music store. Every Thursday night for the past ten months, except for the week he was in Mexico, Streeter drove to the funky shopping center on South Broadway near the freeway for piano lessons. Last year he’d gotten a baby grand when a drug dealer, who had put it up as collateral, left the state without so much as a goodbye. Streeter had always wanted to learn to play and this was his chance.