Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  “That’s not to say his hands are completely clean. He does go in for a little gambling. Sets up card games with his buddies and he’s been known to make book on occasion. And from what I hear, he even used to do a little harmless bootlegging. Cigarettes, designer-watch knockoffs, or what have you.” The attorney glanced back at the old man. “But he’s not nearly what he lets on to be.”

  Streeter looked over for a second himself. “Frank probably knows him. Or at least about him.” Frank Dazzler was a retired sheriff’s deputy and had been a bail bondsman in Denver’s Lower Downtown—LoDo—for the past twenty-seven years. He seemed to know personally everyone in town, and he almost certainly knew about anyone who ran a chance of ever needing his services. Nicholas had gotten bail through another bondsman, so the old man’s name had never come up before with Frank.

  “I’m sure he does,” Knight said. “The Cheese Man’s been around forever. Mostly downtown and on the West Side. He’s one of those guys that, depending on who you ask, you get a whole different version of what he’s like. Mostly you’ll hear that he’s a little loopy and eccentric, but some people will tell you to watch out for him. Me, I like the man. He’s rough around the edges, but you know where he’s coming from, and he pays up like a good slot machine. Has a daughter, too. The Spaceman’s mother. Sheri Lucci. Divorced, and the husband’s long-gone. He was a real bad creature, from what Al tells me. The old man says that’s where Nicky got his ‘moron genes’ from. Sheri’s sort of a looker, although she’s not what you’d call young. Hell, she’s probably close to your age, Street.”

  Streeter shot the lawyer a hard frown. “Ancient, huh?”

  Knight smiled and shrugged, holding his palms up innocently. “Come on. Would you want to go to bed with someone that looked your age?”

  Streeter ignored the crack. “Why isn’t she here?”

  Knight shrugged again. “She had some sort of business up in Vail this morning and she was going to try and make it back by now. Who knows what happened?”

  Just then, the Lucci family meeting broke up. Maria and Nicholas headed toward the rear courtroom exit without even a look back. Alphonse watched them leave and then approached the lawyer and investigator.

  “Mr. Streeter, I’m Alphonse Lucci,” the little man said firmly as he extended his hand. “You can call me Al. Don here tells me you did a hell of a job for Nicky.”

  Streeter shook the hand and watched as Al nodded repeatedly in stern concentration, his head bobbing loosely over a collar that was too big for his neck. His suit seemed at least one size too large, and it made the little man look vulnerable. Not weak, but gentle.

  “Thank you, Al. It was obvious that the boy didn’t rob those stores.”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Streeter. See, nothing’s obvious with Nicky, and if you can make any sense at all outta those eight balls he runs around with, you’re a wizard of a detective. World-class.” He studied Streeter for a moment. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just let me know. Anything at all. Alphonse Lucci never forgets stuff like this, and I know a lot of people around town. I know everyone worth knowing. You keep that in mind.”

  It sounded like half a boast, half a threat. “I’ll do that.”

  Al seemed pleased with the response and he smiled, his head still wobbling in a nod. “Good boy,” he concluded, lifting his open hand up near Streeter’s face as if he was about to give him a friendly slap on the cheek. Then he pulled the hand down. “Good boy,” he repeated. “I never forget.” With that, he turned and headed toward the back of the room.

  TWO

  The night he burned down the wrong house, Mitch Bosco was in a rare mood: stone sober, focused, and confident. So much for rare moods. Before he got out of his car, parked a few hundred yards from the place, he had even rechecked the address in the dirty glow of his flashlight. There it was, 446 Mountain Way, West Vail. The guy who hired him had described the place as a large wood-and-glass custom home near the beginning of a two-block cul-de-sac, just north of the mountainside. Sure, he had warned Mitch that Mountain Way twisted off at an odd angle and it would be hard to determine exact compass directions. Especially at two in the morning. But with the address in hand, Mitch was sure that he’d get it right. As the self-help tape he’d listened to on the way up had warned him, preparation and concentration are the cornerstones to achievement.

  So much for confidence. If you wrote down “446 Mountain Way” and the man actually told you to torch 448, you’ve got a problem no matter how intent you are or how clearheaded you might be at that particular moment.

  Not that arson really was Mitch’s specialty. Arson, drug running, extortion, burglary, armed robbery, and the occasional Ponzi scheme—he did them all with about the same level of slightly better-than-average competence. Diversity of skills ensures your marketability. Mitch had read something to that effect two years earlier when he first embarked on his “Ladder of Success.” That’s what he’d labeled his self-improvement jag in his “Prosperity Journal” back then. And he was dead serious about the whole thing. Back on his fortieth birthday, Mitch Bosco had done some serious soul-searching and had decided to turn his life around. He knew he would never be a real citizen with an actual job and benefits, paying withholding taxes and all. That, obviously, was not Mitch. But if he was going to be an outlaw, he determined to be the best outlaw he could be and to make it profitable. So he immersed himself in the works of all the self-help gurus. Anthony Robbins, Stephen Covey, M. Scott Peck, and the like. Even dabbled in New Age spirituality. He’d read scores of books, attended dozens of workshops, and listened to countless hours of tapes. And he chronicled it all in the “Prosperity Journal” he carried with him always.

  Actually, except for its being the wrong house, Mitch did an outstanding job that morning. He lugged eight large bags of cheap, greasy potato chips to the house, broke in effortlessly through a rear kitchen door, and then scattered the chips thickly throughout the living-room and dining-room floor as well as on most of the overstuffed furniture. A firefighter he knew in Denver had told him once that greasy potato chips make the perfect accelerant for an arson. They burn quick and hot, and they’re all but impossible to trace. Mitch lit the chips in about four different spots with the large farmer matches he’d brought and then he put the burned matches in his pocket. He’d long ago learned that no detail is too insignificant if you want to be the best.

  The first floor was going like a dry Christmas tree before he even got back outside. In fact, the whole place was starting to burn real good a couple of minutes later, as Mitch stood off to the side for a bit, admiring his masterpiece. Feeling the warm glow of the flames washing over his face in the early-October mountain air, he felt proud and competent. The place was vacant, as the man had said it would be. Most of the houses up there were during the week at that time of year: too early for skiing and too cool for summer sports. Mitch wished he’d brought a camera to record his creation. Later, jogging back to the car, he couldn’t wait to return to Denver to tell the man how well the job went. With the kind of guy Mitch was working for, Freddy Disanto, the only news you wanted to deliver was good news.

  Once he got to his Volvo station wagon and started moving toward the highway, Mitch lit a Salem 100 and smiled. He knew he’d be on I-70, past Vail and probably beyond East Vail, by the time the tiny rural fire department made it to the scene. Even if the firefighters got there quickly, which they seldom did, in these remote places they never had anything like enough water to do much good. Their job really was just to make sure that everyone got out safely and that none of the neighboring houses went up. As he moved the Volvo onto the highway entrance ramp, Mitch grabbed the pint of ginger schnapps from the seat next to him and took a quick pull. Sure, he knew that “absolute self-control” was rule eight on his Complete Success tape and that smoking and drinking definitely didn’t fit into that category. He knew he’d have to work on those two. Maybe even write about them in his journal. Still, being confident was on
e thing, but as Mitch Bosco rolled onto the freeway he knew that “absolute self-control” in the form of sobriety was not in his near future. He was only human, he reminded himself.

  Sheri Lucci took three quick puffs from her Virginia Slim and then snuffed it into an ashtray on the kitchen counter. She had been seriously trying to quit smoking for about six months now, and she was down to the point where she’d allow herself seven cigarettes a day. Maybe eight. Even then, she’d go no farther than halfway into the thing before putting it out. Seven cigarettes a day except for times like now. Nights when she’d wake up after a couple fitful hours of sleep and lie in bed knowing it would be a good long time before she’d nod off again. All bets were off when that happened. She’d get up, put on her robe, pace the house, and have a few cigarettes until she got drowsy. And those nights were coming more often lately.

  Usually, Sheri could put her finger on what caused the insomnia: Her wacky family, money troubles, not having a man. Or having the wrong one. Tonight, it was her son. Nicky getting his verdict that afternoon and her being stuck up in Vail trying to set up a catering operation for her father. Alphonse was convinced that he should expand his business outside of Denver. More money. Not to mention that the old man was getting pressure to close up his pizza parlors in town. The Vail Valley, with its constant weddings, business meetings, and parties, was the place he chose to go first. Sheri had been trying to connect with local sources and feel out the help situation for the past month. But this was the first time the work went so late into the evening. Spending the night at the Lucci vacation home on Mountain Way made more sense than driving two hours back to Denver. Especially seeing as how she’d missed Nicky’s verdict by several hours anyhow. Sheri had worked for Alphonse ever since that useless boner she’d married and had a child with left her sixteen years ago. She adored her father. What the Cheese Man wanted, she did her best to provide.

  At least Nicky beat that robbery nonsense, Sheri thought as she lit another Slim and pushed back at the long brown hair flowing into her eyes. Poor lost Nicky. She couldn’t specifically remember dropping him on his head while he was still in diapers, but she and her husband were so deep into coke and pot back then that she figured something like that must have happened. How else could you explain her son? Dull-witted and utterly lacking direction, her Nicholas was a chip off the old blockhead. Just like his father, Donny Scarpetto. But, sadly, without his looks, muscles, and street-lacquered charisma. Poor lost Nicky, she thought again as she moved silently around the huge kitchen, illuminated only by a small lamp in the next room. No prison time for the armed robbery. A silly charge from the word “go.” As if Nicky could find a gun and the cojones to use it in a stunt like that. But he’d surely be going away for that numbskull car theft up near Boulder, and that troubled his mother, getting her up just before 2 A.M. to pace the kitchen.

  Studying her reflection in the darkened microwave door, Sheri put out the cigarette. Her eyes didn’t look too tired and she took pride in her wrinkle-free face. Not bad for forty-two. If she could keep her weight in check, which she usually did, Sheri Lucci could still turn a head or two. At least her legs and butt were holding up, she thought. God, it was sad watching some women her age or even younger at the gym. No matter how many hours they spent in the aerobics room, their rear ends sagged like old pillows over legs growing chunkier by the month.

  Sheri coughed once and figured she’d take another whack at sleep. But before she could empty the ashtray, she noticed a flicker of light coming from outside the kitchen window—from next door, the place owned by that arrogant gynecologist from Mexico City. Sheri had only met the man, Omar something-or-other, once, when he’d come up to ski a couple of years earlier. The jerk practically stared right through her clothes on their first meeting. With Alphonse and Maria standing next to her out on the back deck and Omar’s wife all of three feet away, for crying out loud.

  Sheri put down the ashtray and moved to the west window, leaning over the sill and straining her eyes. The first floor on that side was going up in flames as she watched. Luckily, the houses up there were spaced close to a hundred feet apart. Flames were shooting out every window and spreading to the second floor. Within a couple of minutes, as Sheri watched in horror, the entire building seemed to be engulfed. She shook her head to clear it and then grabbed the phone to call 911. No way they’d save Omar the hard-on’s place, but at least she could protect the Lucci house. Then, as she gave the groggy dispatcher the necessary information, Sheri saw him. His profile standing about thirty feet from her back deck, facing the burning building. In the flickering light, she could see that the man was about average height, a little overweight, and bald except for the thick fringe of dark hair around the temples and back. Seemed to have a dense mustache, too, and long narrow sideburns. As he turned briefly in her direction, he seemed to be smiling. The guy stood there for a moment more and then turned away from Omar’s, breaking into a slow trot out around behind her house and heading east.

  After she’d hung up, Sheri lit another cigarette and thought how familiar the man looked. It was the longish hair on the sides and back of the shiny scalp. She hated it when bald men tried to make up for it by growing what little hair they had longish like that. Then it came to her. She crushed the cigarette and picked up the phone again. Alphonse answered on the fifth ring.

  “What the hell?” he asked, his voice dry from sleeping with his mouth open.

  “It’s me. Sheri.”

  “Sheri?” He said the word quickly and waited.

  “Yes.”

  “This better be important, honey.” His voice rose but stayed hoarse.

  “The place next door up here. The one owned by that horny Mexican doctor. It’s on fire. It’ll be history in about five minutes. Unfortunately, the doctor isn’t inside.”

  Nothing at first, and then he spoke irritably. “If I was a horny Mexican doctor, that might sound important. But I’m not.” No one spoke for a moment, so he added, “Is our place in any danger?”

  “I doubt it.” Sheri was getting a little angry herself. “I called the fire department and they should get here in time to save us. They’ll probably just watch it for a while and then a couple of them’ll hit on me. Like that time we had the propane leak.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. And thanks for asking.” After a beat. “Finally.”

  “Look, honey, I could tell by your voice you weren’t in any real trouble.”

  She knew that, too. From before the time she could walk, her father had instilled a sense of old-country toughness in her. He really wanted a son, but, since he didn’t get one, there was no way on earth he was about to settle for a weak daughter. And the lesson was not wasted on Sheri. Generally—that is, except when it came to men. “Listen, Daddy, it was an arson and I saw the guy who did it.”

  “You’re kidding.” The Cheese Man was sitting up now and had put his glasses on. “That horny doctor must have some real enemies. Either that or he’s got financial troubles and he’s using a little Jewish lightning to bail himself out. The place was probably insured to the hilt.”

  “I don’t think that it’s his enemies you should be worried about. The guy who did it, I’m pretty sure he’s one of those clowns working for your friend Disanto. That bald moron with the funny eyes. Almost looks like they’re crossed. I don’t remember his name.”

  Al stared at the opposite wall for a long time without answering. Finally, “I know who you mean. But why would they burn down the doctor’s house?”

  Sheri shrugged and reached for another Virginia Slim. The light from the flames was so bright by now that she took a step back from the window. In the distance she could hear the fire-engine sirens wailing. “Those guys, who knows? But with all the bad blood between you and Freddy the D., it’s a pretty safe bet that our neighbor had nothing to do with this.”

  “No doubt about that, honey. That damned Disanto’ll stop at nothing to get me out.” Al nodded to the oppo
site wall. “Maybe it’s a warning. Maybe they think I’ll figure I’m next and have a heart attack or something.”

  Both of them were silent for a long time. Sheri finally crushed her cigarette and spoke. “You want me to tell the cops about this?”

  The old man shook his head wildly. “No. As far as they know, all you saw was the fire. Luccis take care of their own problems.” He paused. “Their own way. Besides, with Disanto, you send the cops after him and it’ll only make him more pissed. And more determined to get to me.”

  “I thought you’d say that.” She paused for a moment. “Look, Daddy, I think you should consider the man’s offer. Arson is pretty serious business.”

  Al said nothing for a long time. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe, but I doubt it. Just try to get some sleep for now and then head back down here first thing in the morning. I think I know who to go to with this. Someone to help out.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “No one you know, honey. Just you try to get some sleep.” He hung up without either of them saying good night. As he sat there in the dark, Alphonse took off his heavy glasses and returned them to the nightstand. He thought about the big private eye who’d kept his grandson out of jail. If this Streeter could make a clod like Nicky look good, he could probably deal with a slimeball like Freddy Disanto. He recalled the shoulders on Streeter. Wide as a doorframe. At least maybe he could throw a scare into Disanto. Get the guy to back off some. The Cheese Man made a mental note to call Don Knight in the morning and get Streeter’s number. Then he farted dully into his flannel pajamas and crawled back under the covers.