Ginger left silently, almost regally, not bothering to make eye contact with any of them. When Rudy was dressed, the three men sat around, drank house bourbon from smudged beer glasses, and discussed the Richie-and-Tina situation. It was only after a couple of stiff ones that Rudy calmed down from his agitation at being interrupted with Ginger.
“So what do you think, Grover?” he asked as he carefully adjusted his butt on the couch. “If your skip-tracer buddy won’t help, you want me to head on down there for a little look-see?”
Royals wasn’t sure if he should even bother to reply. The thought of Rudy flopping around Mexico was ridiculous. Finally, he shook his head. “I’d be better off sending Ginger.”
Rudy’s face showed no response. It hardly ever did when Grover insulted him. The big man wondered if Rudy really didn’t know when he was being humped or if he was just smart enough not to make anything of it. Looking now at his vacant stare, Grover decided on the first explanation. Rudy was just under six feet tall, and had a simple, peasant-like face. Flat blue eyes as revealing as raisins and thick hair the color of very dirty snow. Rudy’s hair. Funniest damned thing Grover’d ever seen. He combed it from a skinny part on the far left, across the top, and over. It looked like a shiny off-white plate as the front came to a well-lacquered, rounded shelf an inch or so above his eyes.
“We have to get serious about Mr. Richie Moats,” Grover continued. “Let’s get cracking on our own again here. I know we’ve had feelers out since it happened, what, about two weeks ago? But it’s time to take off the gloves. Bust some skulls if we have to. Talk to anyone who ever knew those two. I’m going to start with that uncle of Richie’s. Mr. Waterbed. Tomorrow. I have some special plans for him.” He stared at Rudy. “I don’t suppose you came up with anything? Any names we should be checking out? I was you, I wouldn’t be sleeping all that well at night. Those two thought they were stealing from you, plus the fact that you were so tight with Gillis. You’re the one coming off like a real goof here. She was your hire, which makes her your problem.”
Rudy took a long pull from his bourbon but pretended he didn’t hear that last part. He tended to take long pulls from whatever was handy, having no preferences when it came to alcohol or women. “I’m chasing down these leads, Grover.” He nodded his head in almost pained resolution. “Something should shake loose real soon.”
“I can’t tell you how secure that makes me feel,” Grover said, rolling his eyes almost imperceptibly. “Here’s what we do. Like I said, I’m talking to Uncle Marty tomorrow. Let him know I mean business. Then this weekend we’re going back out there and talk to everyone, even the ones we already did last week. But this time, we go together and we lean on them like our lives depend on it.” He shot Rudy another quick look. “In your case, that’s about true. Either of you two got a better idea, let’s hear it.”
Rudy sat there listening, his face passive. Very subtle, you moron, he kept thinking as Grover laid it all out. But when he finished talking, Rudy merely grinned. “That sounds like the plan, big fella. We’ll turn something for sure. This time next week, we’ll have it all nailed down—absolutely.”
SEVEN
It was late Saturday afternoon and Streeter sat nursing a hangover and staring idly at the keyboard of his deep-red mahogany baby grand. The memory of last night’s activities kept him from practicing the Chopin nocturne. Plus, wine and vodka-tonics had left his mouth dry, his head pounding, and his attention span jangled. He leaned back and yawned, thinking about his dating disaster of the night before and how he’d reacted. Of course, in the first place, going on a blind date is asking for trouble. This one was arranged by a private eye who over the years had thrown some serious business his way. Streeter felt a sense of obligation when she called telling of a friend, mid-thirtyish, who was working her way through a divorce and looking to meet “interesting, evolved men. Like you, Street.” He should have been more suspicious when she blew smoke that heavy. Then she described the friend with terms like “wonderful personality” and “deeply sensitive,” but didn’t provide details.
He had also made the mistake of agreeing to a full dinner date. That meant several hours of his time and attention, not to mention a potentially stiff tab. All with a woman he didn’t even know if he wanted to spend twenty minutes with. Or vice versa. If you do jump for a blind date, make it a quick drink and both of you drive. But over the phone, Sally let him know that her favorite restaurant was Adde Brewster in Cherry Creek and that she thought it would be terrific if they went there. Adde’s was posh deco and frequented by people who made the local society pages. Streeter couldn’t think of a handy counterargument, so he agreed to make a reservation for seven o’clock.
Unfortunately, Sally believed that a “magnificent personality” demands several coats of makeup to be fully appreciated. Not that she was unattractive, although her actual looks were hard to find. So Streeter escorted her into Adde’s just before seven. The woman liked to talk and to drink, and moderation wasn’t in her repertoire. Sally nailed two quick martinis before the appetizers arrived and she attacked the dinner wine like it was an Olympic event. That was when the “deeply sensitive” portion of her “wonderful personality” kicked in. Halfway through the entrée she was heavily into a tortured postmortem of her marriage. Streeter listened with decreasing interest. She recalled in no small detail the indignities she’d suffered at the hands of her ex. It seems he’d left her for a twenty-two-year-old whose main drawing card was her disdain for wearing a bra. Then, when she tired of that topic, she went into a long riff of her read on why Streeter had been married and divorced four times. Sounded like a self-help marriage manual in the process.
By the time he drove her home, Streeter was a painful combination of bored and agitated. He walked Sally to her door, where they quickly shook hands. Neither of them even bothered to mention another date. She said she was too tired to ask him in and a relieved Streeter simply said good night. When he got back into the Buick at the curb, he just sat there for a long time. That same feeling of loneliness that had swept over him in Mazatlán came back with a vengeance. He wondered if he’d ever meet anyone whom he would feel jazzed up about. Then he thought of Constance from the music store. He wondered what she was doing that night. What she’d be like on a date. He also wondered what was behind those shy and cryptic smiles. Thinking about her made him feel painfully alone and more agitated so he started his car and drove to a bar within walking distance of the church. That was when the vodka-tonics portion of the evening began. No wonder married men live longer.
Sitting at the piano now, he made two more never-again promises to himself. These specifically regarded blind dates and solo drinking. Suddenly the cordless phone on the bench next to him rang. He grabbed it on the first ring and promptly dropped it onto the floor. When he picked it up, he heard that the voice on the other end belonged to a woman. Older and delicate, but strong and articulate. He liked it although he had no idea who it belonged to. “Mr. Streeter?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not interrupting you, am I? I know it’s the weekend.”
The more he heard the woman talk, the more he liked her. “No, that’s okay. Who is this?”
“Oh dear, I’m sorry.” A hint of sincere remorse, then she recovered. “My name is Marlene Moats, Mr. Streeter. I believe you know my husband. Martin.”
She made his name sound formal, almost majestic. Streeter had a hard time putting the woman behind the voice and Marty together in the same marriage. “Sure, sure.” He paused. “You know, I’ve been trying to get ahold of your husband for the past couple of days. He’s never around. What can I do for you, Mrs. Moats?”
“Martin’s been quite busy. We’d like to hire you again. Martin and I. He’ll be on the line in a minute to tell you all about it.” Streeter could hear her softly call out her husband’s name. Then she spoke to him again. “There was an incident at one of his stores last night. It was quite ugly, actually. Martin has the detai
ls, but it seems that several of his delivery trucks were destroyed.” She paused. “Martin has been threatened as well, Mr. Streeter.”
“Threatened? How?” He shifted his position on the piano bench and ran his hand through his hair.
“With extreme physical harm. You had better ask him.” Her voice became less steady as she spoke.
“Have you called the police?”
There was another long pause, and before she could answer, he heard the click of an extension being picked up. “Streeter.” Marty’s voice sounded rough after Marlene’s. “How are you, son? Marlene tell you about our little trouble?”
“Sort of. She said your trucks were destroyed and someone threatened your person.”
Marty let out a harsh grunt indicating amusement. “You might say that, son. When a fella says he’s planning on nailing you to a wall and beating you to death with a baseball bat, I guess that your person’s been threatened.”
“Any idea who it was, Marty?”
“An old pal of yours. Name of Grover Royals. I understand you two played some ball together back at Central. Royals came out to my downtown store yesterday morning and said that if I don’t produce Richie and his girlfriend, he’ll be doing that nailing I spoke of a minute ago. Then—I gather to drive the point home good and clear—he had a couple of my trucks torched last night. At least it seems to me that he was the one to have done it and that that was his intention.” Marty’s voice rose in anger. “That son of a bitch came right to my place of business and did all that like I’m just another one of his pimps to push around.”
“Martin, don’t be vulgar,” Marlene interrupted sternly.
Her voice calmed him. “That’s asking a lot of me, darlin’,” he responded.
“What did the police say?” Streeter stood up and began pacing his living room. The notion that Grover would do this after Streeter refused to work for him made him queasy and furious at the same time.
“Martin has not spoken to the police, Mr. Streeter,” Marlene interjected. “He’s being quite unreasonable about it.”
“Now darlin’ ”—Marty spoke gently—“no need to go running to the police with every little problem. Besides, he just made that crack about nailing me up to get my attention. I can’t believe he’d really do it.”
Streeter knew better. “You’ve got to go to the police. What about your trucks?”
“No problem there. They were insured to the hilt against vandalism and you can bet I’ll make out just fine on that little exchange. Tell you what, son. This ain’t New York or one of them other faggy places where people have to get all hooked up with the law and the government whenever they got a beef. I take care of myself and my family in my own way.”
“He always has, Mr. Streeter,” Marlene Moats said evenly. “Don’t bother trying to change his mind. Martin’s stubborn as an old mule about most things.”
“Thank you, darlin’.” Marty was clearly pleased with her words.
Streeter ran his left palm over his forehead. “Did he mention that he tried to hire me to find Richie?”
“That he did.”
“Did he tell you why he wants to find Richie?”
“Not exactly. He hinted around about it and I gather Richie and Tina owe him money. Lots of it.”
“How is it that Richie knows Grover Royals?” Streeter looked up at the high ceiling. “You have any idea what kind of sick things Royals does for a living?”
Marty considered that for a moment, so Marlene jumped in. “We gather that Mr. Royals is connected with Tina Gillis and her employer somehow. Miss Gillis works in the adult-entertainment field. Perhaps Richie borrowed money from this Royals. His last business venture did rather poorly and Martin was reluctant to keep financing his endeavors.”
“Got that right, darlin’,” Marty shot in. “The boy knew he’d touched me for the last time when his telemarketing scheme bellied up.”
“Mrs. Moats mentioned that you want to hire me again,” Streeter said. “I take it you want me to look for Richie and Tina?”
“Among other things,” Marty said. “I’d also like you to keep an eye on Marlene and me. Seeing as how you’ve got a history with this Royals guy, I was thinking you could maybe go have a talk with him. Let him know we’re doing all we can to find Richie and that we’ll see to it that the boy does right by him if he owes him money.”
Marlene stepped in, her voice sounding anxious for the first time. “Tell him you’ll find Richie and he’ll come back here and straighten everything out. That is, if he’s still alive.”
“Could be this all is for the best,” Marty said. “This Grover seems to believe that Richie and Tina staged that whole Mexican fiasco so everyone would think they were dead and gone for good. If that’s true, at least the kids are still breathing.”
“We’d practically given up on ever finding Richie.” Marlene sounded more upbeat. “We’re not proud of what he’s done, but at least he may not be dead.”
“That’s right, darlin’,” Marty said and then turned his attention back to Streeter. “I tell you what, son. You come work for me. There’s this old business partner of Richie’s that I told you about by the name of Eddy Spangler. Even Richie stands out as brilliant next to this mutt. I’d go see Eddy right quick. If Richie hatched up this Mexican deal to get lost, Spangler might know a little about it. Then go have that chat with Royals. Get us some time to bring Richie home.”
“Listen, Marty,” Streeter said. “You should be having this conversation with the police. We’re already dealing with more felonies here than you can imagine. Grover Royals should have been slammed behind bars years ago. This could be a good chance to make that happen.”
No one spoke at the other end for a long time. “Marty?” Streeter finally offered.
“We’re still here, son.” Then, to his wife, he added, “Marlene, darlin’? Would you mind hanging up and letting me have a word in private with the man? I’d surely appreciate it.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Streeter.” Her voice was calm and composed again. “Thank you for helping us, dear.” With that, she hung up.
Marty’s voice was hushed when he spoke again. “I didn’t want Marlene to hear this, but that crazy fucker Royals didn’t actually say it’d be my ass he’d nail to the wall if I go to the police.” He sounded genuinely shaken. “He said if I involve the cops, it’d be Marlene he’d come after first. I believe him, too. He said if we get Richie to call him, everyone will come out fine. I have to do it his way, son. Work outside the law. I can’t risk getting Marlene hurt. I’ll make it more than worth your while—financially speaking, that is.”
Streeter was pacing faster now. He wasn’t nuts about working for Moats after the way the old man had cut him off at the knees in Mexico. And messing with a severely pissed-off Grover Royals didn’t exactly appeal to him, either. But how could he turn down the kind of money Marty paid? He couldn’t and he damned well knew it. “Okay, I’ll do it,” he heard himself saying. “For you and Mrs. Moats.”
“I was counting on you feeling that way, son.”
EIGHT
Eddy Spangler’s office was located at the end of an aging strip mall, behind a cluttered pet-grooming store named Doggy Styles. The place was just north of 6th Avenue on Wadsworth Boulevard in Lakewood, a suburb west of Denver. Doggy Styles matched the condition and motif of the entire mall: poorly tended schlock. There was a wig store that never seemed busy, a karate school that never seemed open, a take-out pizza place that never seemed closed, and a liquor store that never seemed to have heard about the legal drinking age. Spangler’s decrepit résumé office fit in nicely.
Streeter did a good bit of looking before he found the cramped, windowless room where Eddy toiled as many as three days a week. Luckily, that Monday was one of those days. Streeter knocked on the wood-veneer door bearing a sign in green Magic Marker on typing paper proclaiming EXECUTIVE SEARCH PREPARATION. Spangler wrote résumés primarily for high-school graduates and GEDs looking to crack the
corporate bowels of places like Target or Pep Boys Automotive or KFC. A weary “Yeah” came from within ESP’s headquarters.
Streeter opened the door and winced to focus his eyes. The room was lit by two dim fluorescent ceiling bulbs, one of which flickered randomly. Spangler sat behind a gray metal desk scouring the sports pages of the Denver Post and nursing a Big Gulp the color of turquoise sludge. He barely looked up when the bounty hunter entered. Eddy appeared to be in his late twenties and was good-looking in a retro-disco sort of way. His thick black hair was combed down, highlighted by sideburns almost large enough to suit Elvis in his final Vegas days. But he also had penetrating dark eyes and a handsomely delicate bone structure that gave his face a certain low-rent cool. He glanced up from the paper and studied his visitor.
“You looking for a résumé, hoss?” The words slid out like speaking took great effort, and the rest of his face showed no interest in what his mouth was saying. A trace of a southern accent made him seem even more bored. Streeter stared hard at him without answering. Finally, Eddy shifted in his chair and put down the paper. “I say, hoss, you interested in getting yourself a résumé?” he repeated, almost like this time he cared.
Streeter closed the door and walked the ten or so feet across the room. There was only one other chair, a folding number with duct tape on the seat. A two-drawer file cabinet displaying a bumper sticker that read HUNG LIKE EINSTEIN, SMART AS A HORSE stood in one corner. An IBM clone and an aging printer sat on a card table across from Spangler. The bounty hunter stood in front of the desk staring down at the résumé maker.
“Eddy Spangler?” he finally asked.
The man sat up and his face hardened. “Who wants to know?”
That lazy smugness was still in the voice and Streeter liked him less with every syllable. He decided to see how plugged in the guy was. “Grover Royals, that’s who,” he said.
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