Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  Marty was silent for a long moment. “You learned about MoCo, huh? And you have the originals? Tina doesn’t have any other copies?”

  “No. Tina and Richie are out of this. She gave me the originals and I know she doesn’t have any questions about them. As far as Tina and Richie are concerned, this is all ancient history.”

  “When did you figure on getting together?”

  “How about tomorrow? Are you going over to the hospital?”

  “I was planning on it. About noon or thereabouts.”

  “Good. Do they have a visitors’ lounge on his floor?”

  “They do. Third floor, south.”

  “Meet me there at eleven-thirty,” Streeter said. “Just you and just me.”

  “I don’t know what all this secretive horseshit is, son, and I can’t think of a thing I can help you with.” Marty paused again. “But I don’t suppose it’ll hurt to talk about it. Just make sure to bring the files.”

  “I’ll do that, Marty. You can count on it. You’ll have them in your hand by noon.”

  When Streeter hung up, he sat at Frank’s desk, nursing a Johnnie Walker Red. Then he picked up the phone and called Bob Carey. “It’s on for tomorrow, Robert. Third floor south at Littleton Hospital. Eleven-thirty. You okay with that?”

  “We’re there.”

  Streeter could tell his friend had had a few more beers after he and Tina had left. “I’ll call you in the morning but plan on meeting me in the third-floor visitors’ lounge. South. And take it easy on the brews, okay? I want you sharp in the morning.”

  “Not to worry. We’ll nail ’em.”

  Streeter finished his drink and headed up to his loft. A little piano practice would calm him down and help him concentrate on what he’d have to do the next morning. But once he got to his loft, he couldn’t focus on music. He thought about the next day and old Marty Moats. Streeter was just starting to like the guy and now this. Frank was right. Setting up his own nephew like that was beyond bad. All that cornpone folksy charm he used in his waterbed commercials made it seem even worse. And what about Marlene? She was supposed to be a good woman. Did she know the kind of man she was married to? Nothing about this case surprised Streeter anymore.

  Then his thoughts turned to Connie. Bad timing there, so far. Ever since he’d really started talking to her, he’d been bogged down in this Moats fiasco. Couldn’t concentrate on her. He remembered how lonely he’d felt that first night in Mazatlán. What would it be like to take her there for a vacation? The moon, the beach, the soft night air. And Connie in his room. This time he wouldn’t just fall asleep. He had to grin at the thought of their “night” together. She’d looked so warm and friendly reading her book. She’d smelled vaguely of coconut, probably from her facial oil. But Scotch, beer, and painkillers kept him from exploring that. Of course, he probably wouldn’t have been invited into her room if he hadn’t been such a mess.

  What did she mean when she said he had “stay away” written all over him? Maybe that was what Frank was talking about when he said that Streeter panicked every time a woman wanted to get close. But wasn’t that what he wanted most of all? A woman like Connie close to him? Streeter looked at the keyboard and shook his head. Too much to think about for tonight. Just get some sleep and deal with one thing at a time. First, Marty Moats. Then Connie Nolan.

  Dexter Calley leaned into the open refrigerator looking for the last beer. He spotted it next to an old pizza box on the bottom shelf and reached down to grab it. Closing the door with his left knee, he simultaneously opened the twist-off top to the bottle of Miller Genuine Draft. He was thinking about the conversation he’d just had with Marty Moats. The guy calls him at ten-thirty on Friday night and says to be at Littleton Hospital by eleven in the morning.

  “And you better bring along some hardware, son,” Moats had told him. “You won’t be shooting anyone but there’s this one young man we might have to show how serious we are. Streeter doesn’t seem like the type to cause real trouble and he says he just wants to ask me a few questions before he hands over the files. But I got a feeling he’s going to ask for something, and if push comes to shove, we might just have to persuade the big dumb fucker to our way of thinking. You know, like we agreed on when we started all this.”

  Dexter had told the old man that he more than likely wouldn’t be doing any shooting on a busy weekend morning in a crowded suburban hospital. Not a wise policy. And he had asked why the gun-toting part always ended up being his job. Moats didn’t care much for the nature of that question. “Because,” he’d answered, obviously pissed, “I say it is. You pulled the trigger on Mr. Fontana by yourself, which means you’re in deep trouble if anyone ever finds out. Hell, you Indians are good at all this tracking-and-hunting nonsense. Everyone knows that. Just do what comes natural and don’t be giving me any more shit about it.”

  Dexter was going to keep after him on the subject but he wanted a beer. So all he said was “I’ll be there. Out front at eleven. You know my truck.”

  Standing in the kitchen now, nailing his beer, Dexter thought about how he’d hooked up with Marty when the old man called him a few weeks earlier. It seems that Moats had heard about Calley from Grover. All of it unflattering. But with relations between Royals and Moats deteriorating almost daily, Marty liked the idea of signing on someone who hated Grover. At first, Calley didn’t believe that the waterbed salesman was in business with Royals. But once they got together and Marty told him a few insider secrets, he was convinced. It took less persuasion to get him to blow Rudy away. Dexter never could stand that weird asshole. Not to mention that getting half of the ludes and twenty-five large for his trouble—well, that was one sweet night. Plus, the old man was dangling one hell of an offer in front of him. Sure, the massage parlors and the porno shops were history. All that reverted to Grover and Rudy’s beneficiaries. And no more drugs: the old man was a complete tight-ass on the subject. But that club he ran up near Conifer would be turned over to Dexter to operate as he saw fit. That is, provided, as Marty had put it, “You run it at a profit and keep the skimming at a tolerable level. It’s a mostly cash business and I don’t hire no saints. But just don’t think you can screw me blind, son.”

  So he’d meet him at the hospital and do whatever “persuading” the old man had in mind. Hell, he’d even pull the trigger again if the situation called for that. But it wouldn’t.

  Suddenly, a whiny female voice called out, “Dex? You coming back to bed or am I going another round with my vibrator?”

  Calley rolled his eyes and glanced toward the rear of his apartment. “Damned white people,” he muttered. “They always want something.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  When he picked up the phone at a little after nine that next morning, Detective Robert Carey was so hungover that Streeter almost called off the meeting with Marty. But Carey assured him that he’d be positioned in the third-floor lounge, in plain sight, reasonably clearheaded and armed, by no later than ten minutes after eleven. Eleven-fifteen at the absolute latest.

  When Streeter walked into the room at eleven-twenty, Carey wasn’t within two miles of the place.

  Some fifteen minutes earlier, in the parking lot along the west side of Littleton Hospital, Dexter Calley had shown Marty Moats his .38 short-nose. Then he’d stuck it into his front pants pocket and smoothed over the bulge with his hand.

  It was that kind of a morning.

  Marty had taken Dexter by both shoulders as they stood next to the driver’s door of the pickup. He’d stared deep into the man’s eyes and spoken in his best closer’s voice. “Here’s the situation, son. I’m meeting this Streeter fella on the third floor in the south lounge. He should have a stack of three or four files for me. He also should be handing them over with a minimum amount of crap. Now I expect he’ll try to squeeze me for a few thousand. I don’t necessarily mind that. Hell, the man went through the damned things and found out about me. I don’t mind rewarding enterprise like that. God knows, Ric
hie couldn’t do it if I spotted him my corporation papers.

  “But here’s what I need you for. First off, I want to make sure the price isn’t too steep. I’d say twenty’s about my ceiling. Secondly, I want to impress upon the man that this is a one-time payment. Third, I want to know that he hasn’t let anyone else in on what he found. I don’t want my old friend Frank Dazzler squeezing me next week himself. Let’s show Streeter that gun of yours and put it upside his head. I want the man to know we’re not just fucking around here. That sound like something you can handle?”

  Dexter slowly glanced at Marty’s hand on his right shoulder, and over to his left shoulder, and then back at the man. Moats’s breath, at this close range, smelled like stale coffee. Slowly, the Indian reached up and took the hands off his shoulders while keeping even eye contact. Then he simply nodded. “No problem.” His tone of voice let Marty know he meant it. “What if he’s not alone? What if he told someone already?”

  “Well now, I suppose that’s always a possibility, son.” Marty took a step back. “You see any police, it’s all off. Just give me a sign and get out of there. I’ll deal with him later.”

  Streeter glanced at the clock on the wall above the television set. Eleven-twenty-eight. Still no Carey in sight. The visitors’ lounge was small and quiet. On the couch in one corner sat an elderly man in his bathrobe and pajamas talking softly to a middle-aged woman and a boy who looked to be about fourteen. A young couple, not talking, stood near the large entryway. They seemed to waiting for someone. There was a baseball game on the TV but the sound was turned off. Streeter held the files in his left hand and scratched idly around his cast on that arm. Down the hall he saw a large, dark man with a thick ponytail, wearing dress slacks and a white T-shirt, approaching. His shirt was packed so tight with muscles that Streeter pegged him for an athlete. The man walked into the room without even noticing Streeter and sat in a chair facing the television, his eyes glued immediately to the ballgame.

  Streeter looked up at the clock again. Eleven-thirty-two and no Carey or Marty Moats. He walked out into the hall and looked both ways. Then he moved back into the lounge. He wore a loose plaid lumberjack shirt, unbuttoned, with a black T-shirt underneath. There was a small tape recorder in his back pocket with the mike line running up his left side against his skin and out the T-shirt arm, down his left arm and under the cast. The tiny microphone itself was sticking out the top of the cast, no more than a quarter of an inch, and resting in his palm. It would pick up anything said within five to eight feet. He shifted the files to his right hand and glanced at the baseball game. One more look at the clock. Eleven-thirty-five.

  Suddenly there was a tap on his right shoulder. Streeter spun around to see Marty Moats standing off to his side and slightly behind him, smiling calmly.

  “You seem a little spooked, son,” Marty said quietly. “It’s just me.”

  “I was wondering if you were going to show up,” Streeter said. He glanced around the room and noticed that the young couple had left and that the three people from the couch were now standing. And still, no Carey.

  Marty nodded toward Streeter’s right hand. “I see you brought the package. You want to give it over now?”

  Streeter studied Marty’s face, which was frozen in a tiny smile. The man who had probably had Rudy Fontana murdered and was willing to kill his own nephew and Tina. Here he was within inches of the files. Calm and charming as if he were peddling a bedroom set. “In a minute,” Streeter said. “I think we should discuss the terms first. You know, I was pretty surprised when I found out about you and Grover.”

  Marty frowned. “We’re not here to discuss that, Streeter. We’re here to get those papers into my hands and to make you go away.” He glanced toward the door to the stairwell and then back. “I tell you what. Why don’t you and me step outside where it’s a mite more private and take care of everything?”

  Streeter shot a quick look at the door. “We’re okay right out here.” He scanned the room and saw that the three people on the couch were leaving. The muscle man was now watching him and Marty. “This is private enough.”

  “And I say this here conversation doesn’t go any further unless we have some privacy.” Marty nodded toward Dexter, who stood up and walked casually their way. When he got to them, Marty added, “This here’s a friend of mine. I think he’d like to join us out there in the stairwell.”

  With that, Dexter raised his eyebrows for a second and pulled the top of his .38 from his pocket. Streeter glanced down at it and then looked at Marty. “I thought I said you should come alone.”

  “That’s what you said, but I brought Dexter here to help me emphasize my bargaining position.” He nodded toward the side door again. “Let’s step out there quietly and talk. Given what’s happened in the last few days, Rudy’s accident and all that, I think you know we mean business.” There wasn’t a trace of charm in his voice.

  Streeter knew that without Carey in sight, he didn’t have much choice in the matter. Finally, he nodded and all three men moved toward the side door. When they got there, Dexter opened the door and let the other two walk out into the stairwell. He took one more quick look around the lounge and then followed them.

  As Robert Carey got into the elevator on the first floor, his head felt like it was filled with burning charcoal. Damn, why did I stay up and drink so much after Streeter and Tina left last night? Carey hadn’t gotten that drunk in a long time. Just sitting there in his rec room, thinking about Tina Gillis and Marty Moats and pounding Budweisers. Barely watching the movie in his VCR. His wife, Cookie, had called down once about ten-thirty, saying she was going to bed. But Carey kept drinking and ended up sleeping on the couch right where he sat. Now he looked at his wristwatch. Almost quarter to twelve. Streeter’s going to be furious. Carey wasn’t paying much attention to what he was doing, so when he reached to hit the third-floor button and pushed the one for four instead, he didn’t even notice.

  Riding up, he moved his hand back to make sure that his service revolver was in the holster in the small of his back, under his jacket. Like he’d really need it. What was Marty going to pull in the hospital? Carey shook his head and wished Streeter had not called him the day before. The elevator stopped and he got out without checking the floor light on the panel. Once in the hallway, he asked a nurse for directions to the south waiting area. She pointed to the end of the hall to her left and he nodded, then started in that direction. As he approached the room, he could see it was empty. Streeter’d come and gone without him. Or maybe he wasn’t there yet. The way his forehead was pounding, Carey didn’t much care. Then he noticed that the small wooden sign on the side of the entrance read FOUR—SOUTH. His stomach did a turn as he realized his mistake. He glanced back toward the elevators way down the hall and then he looked around the room. Off to the left of the television was an open door. He squinted toward it and saw that it led to a back stairway.

  Carey walked to the open door and moved through it without looking back.

  Eddy Spangler walked fast as he left Richie’s room. He hated hospitals. Always had. Not that he had ever been a patient in one himself, but the other times he had visited them it was to watch someone dying. Two uncles, his grandparents on both sides. His mother. His aversion was so strong that he’d waited over a week to visit Richie. He kept thinking his friend would be released soon. But when he’d called the day before, Richie had said he had to spend the weekend there for observation after his leg became infected. Eddy could put off the visit no longer. Even at that, he stayed less than half an hour.

  He took a wrong turn, so he ended up approaching the south lounge rather than the elevators. As he got closer to the area, he saw Marty Moats just leaving through the side door to the stairwell. This puzzled Eddy. Where was Marty going? And who were the men with him? The big guy with the cast he could only see from behind, but the dude with the ponytail looked like a prison bully in nice slacks. At first, Eddy was tempted to let it slide and just get the
hell out of there. He had enough on his mind with his recent DUI and drug charges. But he had nowhere to go just then and he wanted to say howdy to the rich uncle. After all, if he had a decent spot on the payroll for Richie, maybe Marty could come up with something to get him out of that ridiculous résumé business.

  The door the ponytail guy closed behind as Eddy entered the room. On the television, the Rockies were playing a day game against what appeared to be the Reds in Cincinnati. Not that Eddy cared about baseball. He stared at the screen for a moment, considering what he’d say to Marty. They’d only met a couple of times and that was over a year before. Richie had told him later that his uncle blamed Eddy for them going down the tubes on the telemarketing scheme. Maybe he should just turn around and head for the elevators. Naw, he thought. This is as good a time as any to press the old guy for a job. He took a deep breath and walked toward the side door.

  Streeter went into the stairwell without looking back. The place was done up in a dull beige: the cinder-block walls, the concrete floor, even the metal-pipe guardrails. It smelled vaguely of some kind of disinfectant. When he got into the middle of the third-floor landing he turned around just in time to see the door closing behind Dexter, who pulled the short-nose pistol from his pants.

  “What the hell is he going to do?” Streeter asked Marty. “Shoot me right out here?”

  Marty smiled and raised his eyebrows slightly. “If you’re not reasonable with us, that’s exactly what he’ll do. And then I’ll have him go over and shoot Frank just for good measure.” He nodded toward Streeter’s right hand. “I’ll take those now.”

  “I was going to give them to you anyhow,” Streeter said as he reached out with the files and handed them to Marty. He looked at Dexter. “Put that away.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Dexter answered. “Marty wasn’t joking. A hospital’s as good as anywhere to get shot.”