Streeter Box Set

by Michael Stone

  “Get back up there.” Mitch’s voice was a little hoarse.

  Streeter raised his gun to where it was pointed at Bosco’s head. “Give it up and put down the gun. The party’s over, Bosco. You’ve got a witness, which means you’re finished.”

  By now, Mitch had worked himself completely behind the ladder. His nine was jammed through it and into Alphonse’s side as he stood twisted on the middle rung. Silently, Bosco considered his next move. The old man was above him, wiping at his eyes and moving his head from Mitch to Streeter. Mitch decided he had all of one way out.

  “I’m taking Lucci here and we’re leaving,” he finally said. “Get back down the stairs and out of here. That way I don’t have to shoot the old man.” He jammed his nine into Alphonse’s side.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Streeter asked. “There’s nowhere to run, Bosco. Give it up before someone gets hurt.”

  “Can’t you just shoot him, Streeter?” Alphonse said. There were three rungs between his feet and the ground. He turned out toward the stairs and away from Mitch, his small left foot lowering itself to the next rung down.

  Mitch saw the movement and jammed his gun harder into Alphonse. The old man lost his balance and slid down the remaining rungs, his feet splayed out in front of him and his backside knocking against the steps. It took him all of about a second to hit the ground, landing solidly on his butt. The unexpected motion stunned Mitch for a moment and left him exposed to Streeter, his gun arm dangling through the middle rung of the ladder. The bounty hunter sprang to the top of the stairs and stopped in a half-crouch, his hands holding the .357 extended straight out in front of him. The old man let out a loud groan and rolled onto his side and into a ball on the floor. Mitch tried to get his nine pointed at Streeter, but the ladder prevented that. He fired two shots anyhow; both flew harmlessly a few feet to Streeter’s left. Then Mitch pulled his arm back and out of the ladder. As he did, the bounty hunter fired a warning shot over his head, which Mitch ignored. Instead of stopping, he kept bringing his arm back. When it was free of the ladder, he began to turn it on Alphonse. One way or another, he figured, the old man was going to die.

  Seeing that, Streeter lowered his .357 and fired another round. It hit Mitch on the outer side of his left shoulder, solidly enough to spin him completely around and land him on the ground, facedown. He made one more attempt to move his gun hand back in the Cheese Man’s direction, but instead he went into shock and blacked out.

  “Godawmighty,” Alphonse yelled out as he struggled to his knees. “This is like The Untouchables or something.” He stared down at Mitch’s back, then got to his feet and turned toward Streeter, who had moved alongside of him. “Nice shot there, Streeter.”

  The bounty hunter nodded, went to Mitch’s side, and kicked the nine away from his hand. That done, he looked over at Alphonse.

  “Are you all right, Al?”

  The little man nodded, his mouth still open wide. “If I don’t have a heart attack here, I think I’ll make it.” He paused. “Is Bosco dead?”

  Streeter shook his head. “But you better call 911 fast. He doesn’t look all that good.”

  “He never did,” Alphonse said as he straightened his glasses. “Let him sit there for a while. That schmuck had his way, I’d be splattered all over the floor by now.” Then he looked up hard at Streeter. “How’d you know to come over here just now?”

  Streeter shrugged. “I was doing a little digging around this morning and I wanted to talk to you about what I found.”

  “Digging into my restaurant deal?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why? I told you the other day that all this business was finished.”

  “I guess you did, but it didn’t make any sense, ending all of a sudden like that.”

  Alphonse shook his head. “You’re a bigger worrier than me, and that’s going some.” He stared down at Mitch again. “Which right about now is something I’m pretty happy about.”

  “I doubt if he feels the same as you on that one.” Streeter knelt down and checked Mitch’s pulse. Then he glanced up at Alphonse. “You better make that call right now. This guy’s starting to fade on us.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  They were deep into their third bottle of Al’s dago-red house wine. It tasted like ketchup run amok but had enough attitude to get them feeling friendly and comfortably disoriented. Little Al was standing next to the best table in the Garlic Bulb, holding a glass of the stuff at shoulder level. He was wearing his standard-issue dark suit and red tie, white shirt buttoned to the top. But the smile smeared across his face let them know he was in an unusual mood.

  “To Streeter,” the Cheese Man said. “Guy that saved the family and made things right again.” He glanced over at the bounty hunter, who was sitting between Frank and Ronnie. “To your whole gang there, Streeter. Thanks for getting me outta the woods like that.”

  Streeter nodded, and all four of them clinked glasses.

  “I mean it,” Al continued when they’d finished the toast. “I owe you plenty. If you woulda dropped the whole thing like I asked”—he shook his head—“I’d be history by now.”

  “What ever happened to the big bad hit man?” Frank asked.

  “Detective Carey tells me he’s going to make it, all right,” Streeter replied. “But apparently he’s none too thrilled with the prospect. He’s facing more charges than I can remember off the top of my head. I hear he’s scrambling to make a deal with the DA, who isn’t interested in making any more deals with him. Not after that Ted Kostas fiasco.”

  “Can you blame him after what happened at that junkyard last week?” Frank said. In his expensive dark-brown suit and club tie, he looked like a banker. He studied the cigar burning in his right hand and then looked over at the dirty dishes on the table. “They go out there to take Kostas off for those hot cars and he ends up getting splattered all over his own office with his own gun.”

  “The DA’s people came off looking like total jerks in the media,” Ronnie said. She took another sip from her wineglass. “Especially on TV. It sounds like the deputy who set up that sting is going to be doing traffic court and dog-barking complaints for the next few years.”

  Streeter glanced at her. She was wearing a white cotton blouse and a simple navy skirt. Easy on the makeup and easy on the eye. Nothing like how she looked the night she scammed Ted Kostas. “How do you feel about your date from that one night getting killed the way he did?” he asked her.

  “It’s not like we were going together or anything, but I felt sorry for old Teddy,” she said. “He was about as pathetic as they come, but he sure didn’t deserve what he got.”

  “I hate to bad-mouth the dead, but I agree with your appraisal, Ronnie,” Frank interjected. “It doesn’t sound like he’ll be missed all that much by anyone.” He paused. “I’m not surprised about that deputy getting demoted, though. It doesn’t look so good when your people run into a place to arrest someone and they find him all dead like that and you don’t have any idea who did the thing. Not a clue.”

  “You got that right,” Streeter said, nodding. “At any rate, Mitch is trying to make a deal with the local guys for his testimony against the people down in Arizona who set him up to kill Al. He wants to get a few hundred years knocked off his potential sentence so he has a shot at getting out of prison in this lifetime. Carey says that the DA seems mildly interested, but it’s the feds who are really putting the pressure on him to talk.”

  “Don’t hold your breath on that one,” Frank said. He studied his partner. “Who do you think it was that actually killed Mr. Kostas, Street?”

  Streeter shook his head. “I wouldn’t know. Maybe I’ve got an educated guess, but I’ve got nothing to back it up with. The best I can figure out is that he made arrangements with someone to help him with the deal and that someone turned on him. Probably to get the money, although Carey tells me they found five thousand in cash in the office. Evidently the police were expecting about thirty
thousand on hand.” He shrugged. “Either that or one of the buyers showed up early and it got out of hand for some reason.”

  “Who’s your educated guess?” Ronnie asked.

  “I have to admit that the name Freddy Disanto has crossed my mind, but that’s probably way off the mark. The only reason I say that is because of his connection to Mitch Bosco. One thing for sure—whoever it was, they’re home free now.”

  Al worked into that one. “If you’re right about Freddy, it really corks me royally that he’ll never have to answer for it. Just like with him killing that guy up in Wyoming. The D. is one of those rare guys that can get away with murder and even make a few bucks off of it. Ain’t no one I ever heard of tough enough to go after the D. Or crazy enough, for that matter.”

  “He can’t go on like that forever,” the bounty hunter said.

  Al nodded, set his wine down, and put both hands on the table, leaning in slightly. His glasses looked huge against his white skin and small eyes, which seemed to be tearing up. “I gotta say, this situation was one major pain in the ass, but I think me and my family’s all the better for it.

  “Take Sheri. She tells me now she wants to spend a lot more time with Nicky when he gets home in a couple of weeks. Kid’s doing great in rehab, and he says he wants to come work in the restaurant business. Course, he still has that car theft to deal with.” Al nodded slowly, like he was spreading great insights. “But he will have quite a good chance to learn the business pretty soon. I’m retiring, and Sheri’s taking over. I’m gonna do some traveling with Maria. We been talking about it the last few days. Back to Italy, like we always planned on but never got around to actually doing. Neither of us is getting any younger and I figure it’s time I stop trying to act like James Cagney all over the place and enjoy Maria a lot more.”

  “No more card games?” Streeter asked.

  “You got that one right.” The old man’s face turned suddenly stern. “Who the hell needs to deal with the likes of Freddy the D. and all those crazy punks running around shooting up my walls? I tell you, no more of that stuff for me. Time for me to appreciate what I got and knock off the gangster stuff.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Freddy the D. was feeling so good when he left his girlfriend’s house that night that he even gave a passing thought to maybe having sex with his wife. That weekend might work. Definitely not when he got home later. It was just before twelve, and he’d been with Candy since right after his regular Thursday lunch at Pagliacci’s. Ten hours of pure sex and a ton of wine. I still got it, even at my age, he thought. Of course, who wouldn’t have the energy and stamina with Candy? Man oh man, she had a build on her. That woman could give a corpse a wet dream. Plus, she wouldn’t be pushing forty for another twenty years, give or take. By then, the D. knew, he’d have replaced her at least three or four times. Yes indeed, life was truly good. Plenty of poontang, food, and wine. What else do you need? the D. asked himself. Even if that big development deal with the Arizona people fell through, Disanto had managed to come away with twenty-five grand and his skin. Which is more than Mitch Bosco and old Niles and company could say right about now. Bosco was getting the FBI very interested in Niles and his people, which meant that everyone involved would probably be doing some serious time over the failed project. Everyone, that is, except for Freddy “the D.” Disanto.

  As he walked to his car, he flashed on his wife again. It had been so long since they’d really touched that he had to struggle to recall what Angie was like in the sack. He used to be so incredibly hot for her, too. Those first couple of years they were married, hell, he nearly killed himself in the bedroom with her. But then came four kids, more than a few extra pounds, and the hint of a mustache. Not to mention her attitude. Angie would come at him sometimes lately like a constipated wolf. All those accusations. “Where you been?” “Why do you smell like that?” Forget about it. Most of the time, he felt like smacking her around the room. More often than not, he would.

  What can I do? he wondered. Changes in old Angie’s body, and the feelings for her changed, too. Freddy didn’t understand all that, but he didn’t fight it, either. That’s how men act in these circumstances. At least Angie was a good mother, and she could still cook better than a pro when she got in the right mind-set.

  At first he didn’t see the man leaning against his Infiniti. There were no streetlights near where he parked in the alley off 43rd Street. But then the guy coughed lightly and Freddy spotted him. The D. squinted in the moonlight. He was in too good a mood right then to get very pissed off. When he came within about twenty feet of his car, he just waved a hand.

  “Move it along, pal,” he said in a tired voice. “It’s too late at night for games.”

  “You got a nice ride here, man.” The voice was casual and the form moved a bit, though in no obvious hurry.

  Freddy took a few more steps and he could see that it was a man about his height but with a much slimmer build. Even in the bad light, there was something familiar about the face. The voice and accent, too.

  “Like that’s any of your fucking business.” This time the D. put some muscle in his tone. Last thing he wanted now was to have to take the time to kick the shit out of some Mexican. He was becoming vaguely aware of a growing Chianti headache.

  “Forget your car, man. You’re my business, Fredo.”

  He definitely knew that voice. By now the D. was only ten feet from his car.

  “Get off the car or you’re gonna be one fucked-up unit,” the D. growled. Suddenly, it came to Freddy. This had to be him. “You!” he yelled. The D. stopped walking and began to reach down to his ankle holster. As he did he was aware of a motion behind him and the whooshing sound of something large moving through the air. An instant later he felt a jolt of hot pain from the top right side of his head shooting all the way down that side of his body and leg to his foot. It was like one long nerve on fire.

  The D. dropped to both knees so fast he couldn’t get his hands out to help break the fall. Once his knees hit the ground he tried to reach out. But he kept going and ended up with his face in the dirt and gravel. His butt was up in the air and his hands were flung lamely out to either side. Seeing his breath burst out around his face, he realized how cold the autumn night air really was. He stayed in that position for a moment and then got his left hand up under his chest. The D. managed to push himself up to nearly a kneeling position, but he knew that he had little control over his right side. His head felt like it was in flames, and when he tried to say something, the best he could do was make a hoarse gurgling sound.

  The man leaning against the car stepped toward him and bent over. “No, man. You got it all wrong. You the fucked-up unit here.”

  Freddy could see the man was smiling, so he reached out with his left hand to grab at his face. Another whooshing sound, this time slower. Another jolt to the top of his head. Not nearly as hard, but still mean. This time, the D.’s face practically flew back down to the ground. He could feel the side of one cheek scrape against the stones, and he had no energy or motor control to move. Then he thought he heard a clunking sound, like something hollow being thrown on the ground next to him. A second or so later he could feel a hand grabbing the hair on the top of his head from behind and pulling it back. He wanted to fight, but there was no way his body would respond as he lay there on the gravel with only his head lifted. It forced him to look at the man in front of him. The other guy, the one who by now was on top of him holding up his head, Freddy could not see.

  “You’re not so tough now, are you?” the man in front of him asked. “Dago piece of shit. You know what this is all about, don’t you?”

  The D. knew, but the best he could do was spit weakly in the man’s direction.

  “Still got a little fight, huh?” The man smiled. He nodded to the guy kneeling on Freddy Disanto. “End it now.”

  The man behind let go of the hair, and Freddy’s face fell back to the ground. Then he pulled a two-foot piece of piano wire fr
om his back pocket, wrapping an end around each of his hands. He tugged it quickly one time. The guy in front of the D. lifted his head again while the other man worked the wire under his chin and around his neck. With both of his hands crossed over behind Freddy’s neck, he suddenly pulled hard with each. Freddy’s windpipe broke right away under the intense pressure from the wire, but it was still another minute or so before he stopped breathing entirely.

  “How you like that, tough-guy wop? Don’t feel so good, huh?” The man from in front asked, glaring down at the D.’s body.

  The two men then turned him over and checked for any signs of life. There were none. They emptied Freddy’s pockets of everything. When they stood up, the quiet one grabbed the aluminum bat he’d used, wiped his fingerprints from it with his red handkerchief, and tossed it into the bushes in front of the Infiniti. Without a word, they walked quickly from the alley and two blocks to the west, where their pickup was parked. Once inside, the driver turned to the man who had garroted Freddy Disanto.

  “That’s about the same chance he gave Albert, huh?” Manny Ramirez asked the passenger.

  Neal Ringo nodded in the darkness. “Let’s get a move on. It’s a long way back down to New Orleans.”

  “You got that about right,” Manny said as he turned on the engine. “A long way. Ain’t no one gonna figure out it was us did this, but I got a feeling we’ll be down there for a while.” He shoved the gear shift into first and pulled away from the curb. After about a block he glanced over at Neal for a second. “You know, man, it’s like the old days. The Ramirez Boys ride again. That dumb Albert might have been useless as shit dust half the time, but he was one of us. Feels good, what we just did, huh?”

  Neal grunted in agreement, but he was starting to see a pattern emerging. Albert Hepp and now Freddy Disanto. Manny’s time would come, too. So would his. Neal closed his eyes and slumped down in his seat. Might as well sleep for as much of the ride as he could.