Tina frowned, trying to remember if she’d seen a stalled truck as they got off the freeway. “We’re in kind of a hurry,” she said.
“This won’t be out of your way.” His voice sounded as tired as the man looked. He squinted into the van and added, “You got plenty of room.”
Tina glanced at Richie, who shrugged and rolled his eyes. Her call. She looked back out her window. The man appeared to be in his sixties and small. “Okay.”
The old man nodded wildly. “Thanks, ma’am.”
Richie pulled away from the intersection and no one spoke for a few minutes. Finally, the new passenger said, “You folks just passing through?”
Richie nodded once but neither of them answered.
“Folks call me Sonny,” the old man said. “Yourselves?”
Tina looked back briefly, a stench from the old man reaching her now. Body odor so strong it was practically visible. “I’m Tina and this is Richard,” she said quickly.
Sonny considered that as he looked around the back of the minivan. He saw the wooden crates. “Whatcha hauling?”
Tina answered without looking back. “Stone crabs.”
Sonny’s eyes darted around. That’s when he spotted it. Under Tina’s seat directly in front of him, the nut-brown handle of the huge Smith & Wesson .357. He looked up and saw that they weren’t paying attention to him. Slowly he bent over and eased the gun from under the seat. He waited another minute before speaking. “Nice leather luggage. My bet is you folks aren’t wanting for things, Materially, that is.” The strange comment caused Tina to look back again. She let out a short gulp at what she saw. Sonny was holding the .357, pointed midway between the two in the front seat. His left hand was draped over the top of it and he slowly pulled back the hammer. “Wouldn’t mind having some of your possessions to take with me,” he added.
The heavy click of the hammer caught Richie’s attention. He quickly twisted around in his seat and when he saw what was happening he let out a quick “Jesus!” He now spun between the passenger and the windshield, trying to keep an eye on everything.
“You’ve got to be nuts,” Tina said without emotion. “We know your name and, plus, that thing’s not even loaded.”
Sonny frowned and glanced at the gun. He examined the cylinder. Then a quick grin worked its way back across his face. “That’s not entirely true, ma’am. I believe I see one bullet in there. That’s damned near fully loaded for my purposes.” Now he paused for effect. “Which one of you wants the pleasure of taking it?”
Tina looked over at Richie, who stared at the windshield. “I thought we agreed that you’d keep the bullet in the glove box. That way, no one could possibly get hurt.”
“Come on, Teen. What good is it going to do us in there?” He hated the subject. Hell, Tina had only let him put the one bullet in the .357 when he robbed Sid.
“Not nearly as much good as it’s doing us where it is,” she now answered. Suddenly she reached into her purse, pulled out a small blue canister of Mace, and aimed it at the hitchhiker. “Why don’t you just put the gun down and we’ll drop you off and forget this ever happened. I spray this, it’ll make you sick for a month.”
The old man studied the tiny can. “Whatcha got there, ma’am? Nerve gas?”
“Just about. Shoot me and he’ll break you in two. Shoot him and I’ll gas you.”
The hitchhiker frowned and shifted in his seat. “Looks like we have us a standoff here, ma’am. But there’s no way I’m getting out of here as broke as when I got in.”
Tina considered that as Richie drove in silence. “Take my wallet,” she finally said. “There’s fifty bucks in there. Probably more than you’ve earned in a month.”
“You don’t have to insult me, ma’am.” The old man paused, mulling over her offer. Then he glanced to his left. “I’ll take your wallet and the suitcases.”
“Come on, old-timer.” Tina’s eyes widened as she spoke. “Don’t push your luck.”
“Don’t push yours, ma’am. This cannon here’s getting awfully heavy. I’d hate to have an accident to where it went off and you got hurt.” He was smiling.
At that, Richie jumped into the negotiations. “Teen! Give him the damned suitcases and the fifty. Whatever he wants. It’s not worth getting shot over.”
“The young man’s right. Silly to die for a few pieces of luggage.”
But Tina was heavily into the process now. “The fifty, and one suitcase.” She paused. “And you leave the gun. That’s my final offer.”
Sonny nodded. “Fair enough. But I get to pick the bag and I take the bullet with me. Wouldn’t do to get shot the minute I step out.”
“Done,” Tina said.
Richie stopped at the side of the road and they made the exchange. The old man carefully closed the sliding door behind him. “Have a nice trip, you two,” he said, speaking as pleasantly as when he’d first approached them. “Enjoy Florida, now. Ya hear?”
Tina glared back at him. “Take a shower. Ya hear?”
Richie pulled away from the shoulder with her staring straight ahead. Finally, she spoke. “This is not a good sign and now we don’t even have our bullet anymore.” She paused. “You and me definitely were not cut out for this outlaw life.”
“You can say that again.” Richie wiped at a band of sweat on his forehead. It was nearly dark by now. “When that old fart was aiming the gun at you, Teen, I nearly lost it. I’d just die if anything happened to you.”
She reached over in the darkness and wiped gently at his forehead. “The same for me, Richard.” Then she smiled and leaned toward him, her voice suddenly husky. “But I have to tell you, all this gunplay sort of got me excited. Worked up romantically.”
His head spun in her direction. “I know what you mean.” Richie was smiling back now, and without another word, he pulled the van back off the road and onto the shoulder. They stayed there for over an hour, making love like it was their first time. In fact, for the rest of the trip to St. Louis, they made a fair number of roadside stops. Just outside of Birmingham, due north of Memphis, in a rest stop on 55 across the river from Cairo, Illinois. Turned out that the outlaw life wasn’t totally without its benefits.
It took Streeter about two hours to find Ernie Lomeli late Wednesday afternoon. It was a fairly typical skip trace and he followed his normal routine. He pegged Ernie as someone who doesn’t particularly want to be found, but who isn’t in deep hiding, either. Undoubtedly, he moved around a lot, never leaving a clear trail like forwarding addresses with the post office or updated information at voter registration. If he stiffed Constance, he’d most certainly stiffed other people. But probably not enough that he’d change his identity.
First, Streeter checked the latest Denver residential phone book. He’d learned long ago never to overlook the obvious. No Ernie. Then he called directory assistance. Same result. So he drove to the Department of Motor Vehicles and pulled a copy of Lomeli’s driver’s history. It showed his most recent address, nearly three years old, as being in the southeast part of town. There was a unit number, so Streeter assumed it was an apartment or a condo. Maybe a town house. It turned out that the address was in a huge development of triplexes off Monaco Parkway. He went there, and from the current renter he learned that Lomeli had moved out about ten months earlier. The tenant had no idea where he’d gone, but he gave Streeter the name and phone number of the unit’s owner.
When he got back to the church he went to Frank’s empty office, called the owner, and explained what he was after. He assumed the guy, being a landlord, would be sympathetic to people looking for deadbeats. He was, but about all he knew was that Lomeli used to work as a bartender at a Cherry Creek singles bar called Butterfield Eight. Streeter then called the club and asked for Ernie. He was told he had quit in February. Streeter said he was a distant cousin of Lomeli’s who’d just moved to town and needed to contact him quick. The manager put him on hold and asked a couple of the bartenders where Ernie was. When he got back on
the line, he said that the best they knew, the guy was tending bar at the Proof of the Pudding, another huge singles bar, in South Denver.
Streeter called the Proof. “Is Ernie Lomeli on duty?” he asked.
There was a pause and then “You got him. Who’s this?” The voice was tight and cautious.
The bounty hunter now knew where Ernie worked, so he tried to finesse the guy’s home address out of him. “I’m looking for the one who lives in the Breakers, near Aurora. We were in the army together twenty years ago. He’d be about forty or so. Would that be you?”
“No, no. Not even close.” The fake description worked as Ernie, thinking he had the wrong man, loosened up immediately. “Sorry, pal. I don’t live near the Breakers.”
“No? What part of town are you in?”
“Over in Capitol Hill. On Lafayette.”
“An apartment?”
“Yeah. In the Cheesman Arms. Why?” Then the voice tightened again. “Like I said, I’m not the one you’re looking for.”
“Just curious.” Streeter had enough. Better back off. “Sorry to bother you.”
When he hung up he jotted down the information and then got out the phone number for his music school. But he decided not to call Constance yet. It had been only a day since they’d talked and he didn’t want to appear too eager. He’d wait until the next night, when he went for his piano lesson, and tell her in person. As he sat there, Frank walked in.
“Hey, Street.” He dropped into one of the chairs facing his desk. “Haven’t seen you in a couple of days. What’s up with old Marty and all that?”
“Looks like it’s going to get taken care of soon,” Streeter answered. He then filled his partner in on what had happened since Monday. “I still don’t trust Grover not to go after those two when he gets his money back. But as long as they keep the file originals, he’ll probably behave himself. At any rate, once the exchange is made, I’m out of it.” He thought for a moment. “Uncle Marty seems pretty interested in getting all the files back to Grover. I can’t quite figure that out.”
Frank shrugged. “With an old farmer like Marty Moats, it could mean anything. So, what you been doing today?”
“I just did a skip trace for someone. This gorgeous guitar teacher down at my music school. I told you about her. Constance. The one who got dumped last year for her best friend. The one who looks at me in that strange way all the time.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Frank straightened up. “You mentioned her. She gave you a job?”
“I ran into her last night and we got to talking. She said if I find this deadbeat for her she’ll take me out to dinner.”
The bondsman grinned at that. “All right, Street-aire. This is good news. You’ve been kind of smitten by her for a while.”
“Smitten. Jesus, Frank. You are old. Nowadays people don’t get smitten anymore.”
Frank frowned. “Well, whatever they get, you’ve been leaning that way. Now you’ll get a chance to do something about it.”
“I suppose.” Streeter shrugged.
“You don’t seem too happy about it.”
“You know me, Frank. I always get panicky when a woman seems interested in me. To paraphrase Groucho, I wouldn’t want to go out with any woman who’d go out with me. Something like that.”
“You’re nuts. You know that?” Frank shook his head. “You’ve been moping around here for all these months complaining that you’re alone and can’t find anyone interesting. How you’re sick of being by yourself and how nice it would be to have someone cool in your life. Blah, blah, blah. Then you find her and you’re not sure it’s what you want. One of these days you better figure out exactly what you’re after. Like they say, if you don’t know where you’re going, that’s where you’ll end up.”
FIFTEEN
As Dexter Calley drove, he toked on the tiny joint pressed between his thumb and index finger and wondered what that little ass-kisser wanted. Rudy had called the day before and suggested meeting at the Esquire Lounge on East Colfax at ten on Wednesday night. Dexter had asked why, but Fontana had played it cagey. All he’d say was that he would make it worth Dexter’s while. That’ll be the day, Dexter thought as he wheeled his pickup truck into the Esquire’s parking lot at twenty to eleven. He sat in his truck, smoking and thinking about the man he was meeting. Rudy with the slicked-down slab of hair and those stupid leisure suits or whatever the hell they were. And the way he let Grover Royals dump on him whenever he felt like it. Guy like Rudy’d last maybe half an hour locked up in Stillwater before they’d have him wearing a bra and mascara. Dexter finished his joint and headed toward the Esquire’s front door.
Sitting in a booth in the restaurant, Rudy was deep into his third gin and tonic when the big Indian blew through the front door. Look at that guy, he thought as Dexter squinted into the darkened room. Flat nose and square jaw, wearing that jail-house scowl. Chest muscles packed so tight into his black T-shirt that you could bounce new forks off them. That would have been one hell of a fight if he and Grover had squared off the night of the robbery: both dumb and viscous beyond description. Probably would have killed each other and not even noticed. As Rudy motioned to Dexter, he imagined both Grover and Calley dead. Like winning the lottery twice, as Rudy didn’t know which of the two he hated more. But he knew that Dexter was the one he needed right now.
“There’s the man,” Rudy said a little louder than he’d intended. He lifted his butt a couple of inches off the red vinyl bench seat and leaned forward by way of a greeting. “How they hangin’, Dex?”
Dexter slid into the booth and merely nodded. Both men sat there for an edgy moment. Rudy wore a green silk shirt and a tight grin and Dexter sported a frown.
Finally, the newcomer spoke. “So, what’s this all about?”
Rudy’s smile widened and he glanced toward the waitress. “Over here, nurse.” Then he looked back. “A little something to loosen you up?”
By this time the waitress had arrived and was standing beside the booth. Dexter shot his eyes toward her without moving his head. “Coke, no ice.” She nodded and moved away. Dexter glanced around. The Esquire was a hard-drinking, blue-collar joint where the bar seemed to stay almost packed no matter what the time of day whereas the restaurant part never saw more than one or two full booths. The clientele consisted mainly of aging Charles Bronson impersonators and cranky women who were willing to overlook details like poor personal hygiene and wedding rings if the guy was buying the rounds.
“Not a drinking man, huh?” Rudy asked as he lit one cigarette off another. Then, without waiting for an answer, he added, “ ’Course not. You being a football player.”
Dexter rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right. You never know when the Forty Niners are gonna call.” His voice was as bored as his expression. He idly pulled his ponytail from the side to the back of his head. “Let’s get to it. What was all that ‘make it worth my while’ crap you were telling me yesterday?”
Before Rudy could answer, the waitress returned with the Coke. Rudy held up his glass and nodded for another drink. When she left he turned his attention back to the question at hand. “First of all, Dex, I know you left our little organization under less than ideal circumstances. Grover giving you all that friction about the robbery.” He shook his head and frowned in pained concern. “I wasn’t happy, the way he handled that. Believe you me, I told him as much later that night.”
Now there’s a crock, Dexter thought.
“Yessir, I told Royals that I wouldn’t stand for any more of that. Like it was your fault that Richie and Tina pulled that crazy stunt. What the hell, maybe he thought you were supposed to get blown away for our money. Give me a break.”
“Give me a break, Rudy.” Dexter shifted his seat, more irritated as he remembered those odor-filled hours in the trunk. He practically didn’t eat for a week after that one. “Where the hell you headed with all this?”
Just as Rudy leaned in, about to speak, the waitress reappeared with his drink. He look
ed up at her and smiled. “Thanks, honey.” Then he watched her butt as she walked away.
Fontana straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat. “Fair enough. Dex, I can imagine how you feel about Grover. Truth is, I probably feel about the same way. He’s a shitheel from way back and he always will be. And now he’s all worked up about this Richie Moats thing. We found him and Tina down in Florida and Grover convinced them to bring the money back. They should be in Denver by the weekend.” He winced like he was confiding something major. “I think that’s our chance.”
“Ours?” Dexter frowned. “As in you and me? The hell you talking about?”
Rudy leaned into the table again. “I’m talking about us taking Grover down. Hard and fast. I’m saying that with him so pissed off and with all those files Tina stole floating around like that, Grover’s vulnerable.” He sat back when he’d finished and took a long sip from his drink.
“Are you really saying we should make a move against Grover?”
“Yea-uh.” Rudy’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “You got a problem with that? It’s not like you’re about to get your old job back. Let’s face it, Dex, you sure didn’t have any future working for that prick. Grover would never let a half-nigger get too deep into his operation.” Then, seeing Calley grimace and tense up, he quickly added, “No offense intended with that racial crack. It’s not like I invented the word, you know.”
“I hear you say it one more time you’ll wish you never even heard it before.”
The booth fell silent again and Rudy lit another cigarette. Dexter drummed his fingers softly on the table, deep in thought. Then he looked at Rudy. “Why am I the lucky one you called about this?”
“Because if I’m going to need any muscle, you’re the perfect choice. You hate Grover, you think good on your feet, and you know what’s what with how he runs things.” He nodded sagely. “Plus, I trust you, Dex. And I like you. Always have.”
Right. Still, the idea of getting something out of Grover intrigued Dexter. Not that numb nuts here, on his best day, could take over a Sunday-school picnic. But the little goofwad definitely had something in mind. “Just how you planning to pull this one off?”
Streeter Box Set Page 56
