Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  “If you say so, Tarzan.” She paused. “I don’t suppose you imagined you’d ever hear from me again.”

  “I didn’t give it much thought. I assumed you were gone for good.” He hinted at a smile. “Or, in your case, no good. But I’m glad you called this morning. As long as you’re coming through town, we might as well say hi.”

  “No good, huh?” She considered that. “A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do, and I suppose that working for Cooper must have made me look terrible.”

  “Terrible, no,” he responded. “Confused and a shade desperate. But you stood up when it counted and I’ll always appreciate your help.” He paused. “Speaking of a girl doing what she has to do, what have you been up to all this time? And where?”

  “I’ve been all over the place,” Ronnie said, and took a sip of her coffee. “After I left Colorado, I wandered around some,” she continued. “Dallas, New Orleans, Atlanta. I finally ended up in Chicago after about a year. I won’t bore you with the details. It involved a man who didn’t wear his wedding ring and made a lot of empty promises. But Chicago turned out all right. Eventually, I got into your line of work.”

  Streeter frowned. “Bail bonds? Private detective?”

  “Investigations. I met a woman who worked for this PI firm. One of the things they did was investigate spouses and significant others. The firm hired people like me—you know, attractive, with some curb appeal—to do the actual testing.”

  Streeter nodded. “That would be you, all right. I always thought you had plenty of curb appeal. So you’d go out and try to tempt husbands into straying?”

  “Yeah, we were the tempters. We’d put on our tempting clothes and we’d place ourselves where the husbands would notice. You know, like their favorite bar or whatever. Then we’d see if they’d come on to us. It never got farther than the talking stage. At least, not for me. We’d see how hard the men would go for the bait.”

  “Sounds like unfair entrapment.” Streeter sat back and watched her closely. “I mean really. You put a sexy, smiling woman in front of a bored husband who’s had a few hoists, what do you expect?”

  “About what I got.”

  “They’d usually go for it?”

  “Only about a thousand percent of the time. But you’re right. It wasn’t exactly a fair test, and there are other ways to find out the same information. I got involved in other kinds of work, too. I ended up getting my PI license from the State of Illinois.”

  “Are you going to set up a practice in Chicago?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I’m through with that part of the country. Too cold, and I miss Colorado. Which leads me to that business proposition I mentioned in my card.” Ronnie carefully set her cup back on the table and bent forward. “There’s practically nothing I can’t handle in PI work. Plus, I can do most office chores and I know my way around the criminal-justice system, not to mention human nature. Around men, which is mostly who you deal with. I’d like to come to work for you and Frank. He could teach me bail bonds and I could give you a hand with your PI cases. I’m not looking for a huge hourly rate. Just enough to get by, for starters. I’m sure we could work something out where everyone would be happy.”

  Streeter and Frank had periodically talked about hiring someone to help with the billing and whatnot. This offer surprised him, though. “I don’t know, Ronnie. We could use the help around the office. With this PI thing, generally I have enough to keep me going, but there’s hardly ever work for more than one person.”

  “Don’t worry about me.” She sat back. “I can ride out the slow times, and with your connections and my energy, we’d be bringing in new business.” She took a sip of coffee. “You must have an extra little room where I could set up a phone and a desk. I’ll print my own cards and you’ll only have to pay me out of pocket for the office work. You’d have to do that for any part-timer. As far as the investigations go, give me a referral rate only for what I do. That way, you get paid for my labor and there’d be no danger of you paying me to sit on my hands. We’ll make it temporary to start with. Just to see how we all fit together.”

  Streeter took a drink and noted her perfume. It was Passion. Matched her new image. He set his coffee down. “It could work. But this would be strictly business. Let me think about it. I’m meeting Frank for dinner in a little while. If he goes for it, we’ll give it a trial run.”

  Although Frank Dazzler was looking more GQ these days, he was still most comfortable in front of a cold beer and a hunk of steak. Like now, although what he was hearing wasn’t going down as well as the Löwenbräu. In his charcoal double-breasted suit and striped power tie, thick combed-back hair, and an earnest face, he was handling aging about as well as anyone could. But the skeptical ex-cop in him had bubbled to the surface when Streeter laid out his proposal.

  “I don’t know, Street,” Frank said as he sawed at his porterhouse. He stopped and looked up. “This Ronnie sounded like more than a small amount of trouble the last time you dealt with her. And being Thomas Cooper’s secretary—or girlfriend or whatever she was—hardly comes as what you’d call a sterling recommendation.” He shook his head slowly and winced. “You remember his friends. A regular bunch of psychopaths. You sure you want us to hook up with that crowd again?”

  Streeter slowly swirled the Johnnie Walker Red and ice in his glass and studied his slab of ribs. When he left Ronnie, he’d driven down Colfax Avenue, just east of Greek Town, to meet Frank at Bastien’s Restaurant, a legendary if shopworn steak house that the bondsman loved. The place was a vintage roundish building cut into several bizarre-shaped rooms on two levels. A wide menu, moderate prices, and stiff drinks. It was a throwback to the old Denver days of neighborhood restaurants heavily done up in someone’s version of fifties glitz. Frank’s kind of joint.

  “We won’t be hooking up with that crowd,” Streeter finally said. “We’d just be hiring a secretary for you and someone to do legwork for me. All that grunt work I’m so sick of. Mostly, she’ll just help you in the office. You’ve been talking for months now about hiring someone, and besides”—he winked without enthusiasm—“it won’t hurt to see a pretty face around the church once in a while. One besides yours, that is.”

  Frank put down his knife and fork and stared hard at his partner. “That’s right. You mentioned she’s a knockout. I hope you’re not thinking you’re going to get a little action on the job by hiring this girl.”

  “Course not.” Streeter took a sip of his Scotch and then set the glass down. “If I wanted to go out with Ronnie I’d just ask her out. Skip all this. Hell, Frank, she’s just a kid. All of thirty. Maybe. But she’s got brains and cojones and she’s eager to work with us. If she doesn’t work out, she’s gone. It’s not like we’re getting married.”

  “There’s a relief,” Frank said as he sat back. “If this don’t turn out any better than one of your marriages—or longer, for that matter—I’ll be pretty disappointed.”

  “Funny guy.”

  Frank studied Streeter. “You’re generally a pretty good judge of people—your wives aside. I gotta hand you that. So, when you sit there and tell me little Ronnie’s okay for the job, I’m inclined to go along with you. I wouldn’t mind kicking back a little, myself. As far as your work goes, that’s strictly between you and her. But I see you mooning around the place all day or taking three-hour lunches with the new hire, well, we end the whole deal right then and there. We’re running a business, not a lonely-hearts club.”

  Streeter sat up and moved the Scotch glass away from him a few inches with his fingertips. “First of all, I don’t ‘moon around’ anywhere. Secondly, she made it perfectly clear that she’s only looking for one thing from us and that thing is work.”

  “If that’s the case, have her come in Monday. About nine.” Frank picked up his silverware and focused back on his steak. “I got enough to keep her occupied.” He looked back at Streeter for a moment. “How about you? Can little Ronnie help you with that Lucci b
usiness?”

  Streeter shrugged and picked up a rib without answering. With a crazy bunch like the Luccis, he figured Ronnie might just be able to give him a hand.

  SEVEN

  Getting ready for her first day of work, Ronnie changed clothes several times. First she put on a lightweight red-and-yellow dress. Indian summer had hit Denver over the weekend and it was supposed to be eighty today. But, seeing herself in the mirror, she realized she looked too girlish. Especially given what Streeter had told her on the phone the day before about Frank. The bondsman was strictly old-school. Ladies and gentlemen behaving as such and all that. Not like her last boss. That horny clown thought she was a pleasure perk. But her days of sleeping with the boss had ended when Tom Cooper got himself killed. Now she just wanted work experience and to get a few bucks ahead. Figure out the rest of her life later.

  “You want to make a decent first impression on Frank, you play it straight,” Streeter had told her. “Dress nice but not like you’re too good for the job. Once he gets to know you, then you can loosen up. And be on time. Early would be even better.”

  No, Ronnie thought as she took the dress off. This one clung to her butt like a hand. Finally, she settled on a denim skirt, almost to her knees, a powder-blue shirt, and a pair of black flats. The outfit said, I’m here to work.

  Later, standing in front of the church at quarter to nine, Ronnie studied the neon sign above the door: “Jesus Saves,” with the “Jesus” running horizontally and the “Saves” coming down vertically. There was a star above the joint “S” that they shared. The building itself was neater and more updated than she’d expected. Ronnie opened the front door and walked into the large foyer. To the left was the entrance to the “Womyn’s Workout Place.” Evidently a gym for women who didn’t know how to spell or were trying to make some kind of point. She moved quietly down the hall to the right. When she got to Frank’s door, she heard what sounded like the music from an old black-and-white movie. Big-band stuff that reminded Ronnie of her father, who used to whistle those tunes. Horn sections of a hundred guys or more, absolutely none of them getting out of line. Subdued drums. She moved to the door and looked inside the room. An older man in a long-sleeved white shirt and a blue tie was sitting at a huge desk studying legal papers. He wore those half-glasses used for reading. His longish hair was dark and fairly shiny. Reminded her of a cool college professor.

  “Excuse me,” she said as she walked into the room. “Are you Frank Dazzler?”

  The man lowered the papers to the desk and looked up, slowly removing the glasses with his left hand. “That’s me, darlin’.” A confident smile worked its way across his face. Kindly. “And right now, looking at you, I’m glad I am. I take it you’re Ronnie Taggert. Streeter’s friend. It’s good to finally meet you, Miss Ronnie.”

  As she approached, Frank stood and extended his hand. He was wearing gray pleated pants. There was a sharp look in his hazel eyes and he was taller and thinner than she expected. She liked being called Miss Ronnie. By him, anyhow. It made her feel special, as did his warm smile. This was a man who genuinely liked women.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too, Mr. Dazzler,” she said as they shook hands.

  “Frank’s good enough. ‘Mr. Dazzler’ makes me sound like a Vegas lounge act.” Casually he gestured toward a chair on the other side of the desk. When she sat, he dropped back into his chair. He glanced at the clock on a shelf to his left. “I see you believe in being punctual. We’re going to get along fine, Miss Ronnie.”

  Behind Frank and his credenza was a wall of stained glass that gave the place a soft, colorful look. The furniture was more functional than elegant. There was a bookshelf to the right of the desk that was overflowing with paperbacks.

  “You’re a lot younger-looking than I expected,” she said. “Streeter told me that you were old enough to be his father, but I’m guessing older brother. At most. You can’t be more than—what?—fifty-five. Fifty-seven, tops.”

  Frank’s eyes opened slightly and he felt himself automatically suck in his stomach. “Aren’t you kind?” His voice was soft and he smiled again. “Street’s a good man, but he has a way of putting his foot into it from time to time.” He took her in as he spoke. Frank pegged her at mid-twenties, but obviously no airhead. She sat tall and proud without giving off any attitude. Like it was just another day at the office, even though she must know this was sort of an interview. Confident women appealed to him, especially ones who looked as nice as Ronnie and underguessed his age by fifteen years. Miss Ronnie here had what they used to call moxie.

  “He speaks highly of you, too.” Ronnie shot him a smile. “So, Frank, where do we start? Streeter said you might want me to help get your billing up to date.”

  “I’m afraid that’ll have to wait. Seems I’ve got an emergency in district court this morning. These things happen.” Frank leaned forward as he spoke. “Street should be down here in a minute, and you’ll be working with him today.” He frowned. “You two figure out your pay for that?”

  “I get forty percent of his hourly rate.”

  Before she could go on, Streeter himself walked into the room. He was wearing one of those shirts with a banded collar that he favored lately. Loose dress slacks and polished shoes. Watching him, Ronnie was glad she’d gone for the look she chose. His face was serious and it took him a few seconds to realize who she was.

  “Ronnie,” he said as he moved toward the desk. “That’s right. Today’s the big day. I sure wish I could use you this morning.”

  Frank stepped in. “If you mean is she free to work for you, this is your lucky day. I’m going down to court, so she’s available.” With that, he stood up and walked around to the front of the desk.

  Ronnie had gotten up as well and was watching the two men. They both seemed a little nervous, obviously not used to having a third person in the room when they worked. She reached out to shake Frank’s hand goodbye and he did likewise. He put his left hand on top of their hands as they shook.

  “We’re not always this slick, Miss Ronnie,” he said. “Give us a little time to get used to the new routine.” He shot his head back at Streeter. “And don’t let him work you too hard.” Then he winked at her, turned, and left the room.

  Streeter stood in front of her, so Ronnie moved past him to get behind the desk. She lowered herself into Frank’s overstuffed chair and looked up at the bounty hunter. He smiled, shook his head, and then sat down in the chair she had just left.

  “I knew you’d fit right in, Ronnie, but I didn’t think you’d take over this soon.”

  “I’m just getting comfortable, Street.” She watched for a reaction. “You mind if I call you that? I like the way it sounds when Frank says it.”

  “That’s okay with me, but don’t expect me to call you Miss Ronnie and don’t get too comfortable. You’re going to be running around town most of the morning.”

  “Doing what?”

  Streeter looked at the desktop and pointed to a legal pad near the phone. “You better write this down. We’ve got to check out a few people for a PI case I picked up last week. Have you ever heard of an Alphonse Lucci?”

  Ronnie shook her head and grabbed the pad and a Bic pen. “Should I have?”

  “Probably not. Have you ever been to Motor Vehicles to check driving records?”

  “A couple of times. For Cooper.”

  “Good. Go out there this morning and get Alphonse Lucci’s driving history. L-U-C-C-I. DMV usually wants to know the person’s date of birth, but I don’t have one. I’d say he’s about seventy. Then get the histories for a Mitch Bosco, he’s early forties, and a Fred Disanto. B-O-S-C-O and D-I-S-A-N-T-O. Disanto’s a little older—about my age or more. Then head on over to the courthouse and look up the criminal and civil records for all of those guys. That’s the Denver courthouse, second floor. Just ask someone where the records room is.”

  “I know it.” She looked up from the pad. “Do you want copies of everything?”

&nb
sp; “All felonies and any misdemeanors that seem interesting. This is only for my information, so you don’t have to copy every page. Just the complaints and how the case was resolved. Same thing with any interesting civil suits.”

  Ronnie was watching him closely. “How much older than forty are you?”

  Streeter rolled his eyes. “Not much. Disanto could be in his late forties. Fifty, even.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “We work for Al and his daughter. Sheri Lucci. That’s Sheri with an ‘i.’ Like a model or a hairdresser. Check her out, too.” He stood up. “They have reason to believe that Bosco and Disanto are trying to hurt them. They think that Disanto ordered a fire at the house next to theirs in Vail. It’s a long story.”

  “Do you usually investigate your clients?” Ronnie also stood up, holding the legal pad close to her as she did.

  “No. But this is one weird situation and I heard that Al hasn’t always operated above the law.” He glanced at the clock. “I’ll be downtown the rest of the morning, and then I’ve got a few things to take care of this afternoon. You’ve got enough work to keep you busy for a while, and considering you’ll be going at thirty-five an hour, you’ll make some money today. Meet me back here in the morning. Let’s shoot for eight-thirty this time.”

  “About how old is this Sheri?” Ronnie moved from behind the desk.

  “Hell, she’s just a kid. Can’t be more than forty.”

  EIGHT

  Freddy Disanto had been winning big all night, which happened about as often as a Kennedy acting like a gentleman. He looked at the chunky stack of money in front of him and figured he was up close to five grand. Had to be his best night ever. Freddy the D. had never seen so many similar faces on his cards. One thing for sure, they were better-looking than the six faces sitting around the table. At forty-seven, Freddy was way younger than the rest of the guys playing five-card draw. But they could handle their cards. Freddy the D. had to give them that. Even with the hands he was catching tonight, he still couldn’t pull away more than a couple hundred bucks each hand. These old guys hung on to their money like it was part of their skin. The D. had to give them that.