Killing Zone

by Rex Burns

  “I never said anything to Albro about that rumor.” Wager nodded at the memo pinned under Wolfard’s forefinger. “There’s not one thing about Green in that memo.”

  “I don’t give a damn what’s in the memo or not. I’m asking you what you’ve found out about Green!”

  “I haven’t found out anything about him. I heard a rumor he was peddling votes on the zoning board and I’ve been checking it out. So far, no evidence.”

  “Where’d you hear that rumor?”

  Wager felt his head lower stubbornly; it was the habit of a lifetime, and his mother when she saw it used to say, “There he goes again—un torito testarudo, ‘stubborn little bull.’” And he heard the angry Spanish inflection in his own words, “I promised I would not say.”

  Wolfard sagged back in his chair. “You promised.” He leaned forward again. “I don’t give a shit who you promised. You tell me.”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  The word had been clear. Wager didn’t need to repeat it.

  “Detective Sergeant Wager, that’s an order. I want to know who gave you the information that Councilman Horace Green may have been selling votes.”

  “It’s a politically sensitive source, Wolfard. I promised I would keep it confidential. I’m going to keep it confidential.”

  “I can suspend you, Wager. You were ordered by the chief to keep me informed. You’ve disobeyed that order and mine as well. I can have your goddamned badge, Wager!”

  Not without a long series of hearings and a hell of a lot of due process and paperwork. Wolfard should have thought of that before he started threatening. “I’m the assigned detective on this case, Wolfard. It’s my case and my judgment how I get information about it.”

  “I can by God reassign the case.”

  “You by God better have good reason to. Or I’ll file my own complaint.”

  “You haven’t kept me informed!”

  “There’s nothing to inform you about. Nothing but rumors. Unsubstantiated rumors. No goddamned cop is going to run in and out of here with every rumor he hears on the street, and no administrator worth a damn is going to want him to.”

  “This isn’t an ordinary case—we’ve got a fucking riot about to happen out there!”

  “So you want to go out and cool it by telling them Green was crooked? Is that what you want to do, Wolfard?”

  The lieutenant sagged back again, a deep breath puffing his lips wearily.

  Wager jabbed him once more. “That would really quiet things down, wouldn’t it? Those people already think we’re covering up for the White Brotherhood. Now you go on out there and tell them Green was crooked. See what that gets you, Wolfard.”

  “Jesus.”

  Wager stood up. The lieutenant’s face didn’t follow him but kept staring at the now-empty chair. “I’m the assigned detective, Wolfard. It’s my case. Any facts I get—facts!—I’ll inform you. But by God I’ll run my cases the way I think right.”

  “Wager—” Wolfard sighed again and rubbed his eyes. “Ah, shit.”

  Stubbs was busy at his desk and didn’t look up when Wager came in.

  “I want to ask you something.”

  “Hi, Gabe! Seems like we were here only a couple hours ago.”

  “Why did you tell Wolfard about those rumors on Green?”

  “Hey, I—” He studied Wager’s eyes and then shrugged. “He cornered me. He had a complaint from Councilman Albro on you and wanted to know what it was all about.”

  “I told you to keep your mouth shut about it.”

  “Listen, Wager, I did it for your own good. He wanted to know why you went over to see Albro in the first place, and I told him it was nothing heavy—you went over to check out information.”

  “So you told him what information?”

  “Well, yeah. He wanted to know all about it, so I had to tell him.”

  “No, Stubbs. You didn’t have to tell him. All you had to do was tell him to talk to me.” Devereaux came quickly into the office to grab his radio and hustle back out with a quick “See you on the street.” Wager dropped his voice as the man disappeared around the door. “When I tell you to keep quiet about something, Stubbs, you do it. Now that rumor’s going to run all through this goddamned building like Epsom salts, and you can bet your pimply butt we’re going to hear from the goddamned FBI or somebody about why we didn’t bring them in sooner.”

  “Gabe, the lieutenant said—”

  “To hell with what he said. This is my case.”

  Stubbs, his face a shade of red, repeated, “I did it for your own good, Wager. I wanted him to know you weren’t screwing around with a city councilman for no good reason. And by God it’s our case, not just yours.”

  Somebody else’s good is nobody else’s business no matter whose case it was. “You let me worry about my own good.”

  “Wager—Lester. I want to see you two a minute.” Wolfard’s voice came around the door frame and cut into the tense silence between the men. They masked their feelings as they went into the lieutenant’s office. He glanced at them and seemed about to ask something, then thought better of it. “I just got word from Intelligence that the White Brotherhood’s meeting up in Morrison at a place called the Four Aces. I think you’d better talk to them.”

  Nothing would come of it, Wager knew. What were they going to do, throw up their hands and surrender when he asked them if they killed Green? “You really think it’s worth the time to interview those people?”

  Wolfard’s voice was almost a whisper. “Yes, Wager. That’s just what I do think. Rumor has them connected to your case. Your case. I want you to find out what they know about your case.”

  Wager shrugged and started to leave.

  “And one more thing—maybe just as important.” Wolfard almost smiled as his eyes held Wager’s. “Intelligence says the Uhuru Warriors put out the word to the White Brotherhood—dared them to be on the streets tonight.”

  “They’ll get their little black asses kicked,” said Stubbs.

  “Any ass-kicking goes on, we’ll do it. You tell them that, Wager. You tell them to stay the hell out of Five Points this whole weekend.”

  Wager nodded. Wolfard was right about that item, anyway: It was at least as important as the lead on the killing. And knowing they were already under police surveillance might keep the White Brotherhood from answering the Warriors’ challenge. For a while, anyway.

  2157 Hours

  Morrison was one of those mountain towns molded by the shape of creek beds that carved their way down the face of the Rockies to spew into the Cottonwood tangles of prairie. Tucked between the Hogback and the foothills, it was surprisingly close to Denver, yet kept its feel of isolation because it was still too expensive to develop the steep slopes and rocky cliffs that surrounded it. The main street—almost the only street—twisted along the foaming waters of Bear Creek and was lined by stone-faced shops and small frame houses turned into stores and boutiques. Nearby and out of sight behind outcroppings of weathered cliffs, was the Red Rocks amphitheatre whose weekend crowds pumped money into the small town. Even now, they could hear the thud of heavy electronic instruments and an occasional roar like distant surf as the crowd cheered whatever rock group was filling the open night with noise. Wager swung into a gravel lot crowded with four-wheel vehicles, pickup trucks carrying camper shells, and an assortment of city cars bearing Denver plates. In the twilight that gathered like thin smoke among the folds and valleys of the mountains, he saw a couple standing on a large boulder washed by the creek and half-hidden by the screen of willow and wild plum that lined the stream. Isolated by the sound of water, they slowly turned to kiss, their bodies pressed tightly against each other from lips to knees.

  “By God, if I ever have any time off, I’d like to come up here with Nancy,” said Stubbs.

  It was something Wager and Jo had planned to do, too, but they never got around to it. He found a space at the end of a straggling line of cars near the
creek and pulled in. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “You’ve got no romance in your soul, do you, Gabe?” Stubbs said it in a joking tone, willing to forgive and forget the argument over Wolfard.

  Wager glanced at him and then nodded at the door that gaped in a plain stucco wall and had two steps that led down to the slanting sidewalk. “That’s the bar.” In one of the two cramped windows, pink neon spelled BUDWEISER, and unlit above the door a faded tin sign displayed four aces fanned out just under the dark second-floor windows. Lined up at the high curb in front of the bar, rear wheels nudging the worn concrete, a row of gleaming choppers waited.

  Stubbs gave up trying to be Mr. Congeniality. “Fine. Let’s do it.” He got out and eyed the motorcycles. “Looks like about twenty of them.” Then, “And two of us.”

  Wager nodded. They paused to let a string of cars wind down-canyon toward Denver, then crossed the street.

  The two or three small houses turned into shops, to the right of the tavern, were dark except for one that had its display window lit to show awkwardly crafted coffee cups. They looked as if they would slosh over their rims when you tried to drink from them, but that just seemed to make the price higher. To the left, across the town’s other street that led up toward Red Rocks, a Mexican restaurant glowed under a battery of outside floodlights, and its large plate-glass windows were filled with silhouettes moving back and forth in front of white neon bar lights. Another distant roar echoed from the canyon walls and they heard a series of climactic chords and an amplified voice shout something unintelligible.

  A pair of young tourists came quickly out of the tavern, their half-frightened expressions changing to awareness as they noticed the line of motorcycles. The boy looked back over his shoulder once and then, trying to hide his fear and embarrassment, spat at the building’s blank wall.

  Stubbs hesitated, to check his holster, then fell in step behind Wager. Even in the twilight, the doorway seemed dark, and it took a moment or two for Wager’s eyes to adjust to the faint light from the bar. The only other light seemed to be a dull moonglow from overhead bulbs turned low on a rheostat, and from the red of cigarettes at the tables. In the back, partitioned off from the barroom by a plywood wall, the smoky glare of a pool table spilled into the hallway, and he could hear the crack of a cue ball break rack, followed by a laughing voice, “Shit, look at that fucker drop!”

  There was no sense pretending they weren’t cops; already the low talk had faded until the only noise was the pool game and a hoarse voice that sang happily from a speaker about the joys of eating crawdads and making love to Cajun women. His vision clearing against the dim light, Wager strolled past the tables of silent, bearded faces that looked back with surprise and suspicion. The record ended in a clatter of guitars and drums and sudden blankness.

  “They don’t have their women with them.” Stubbs’s voice muttered at Wager’s shoulder.

  “How can you tell?”

  “Well, the women have bigger mustaches.”

  The absence of women meant a business meeting or possibly a war council, possibly something in response to the challenge from the Uhuru Warriors. At a table near the door to the poolroom, Wager saw a swelling mound of hairy darkness that looked familiar, and he headed that way, his back feeling the silent interest from the other tables. “Hello, Sonny.”

  The large man grunted something, his breath a cadenced, pumping sound in the silence. From the corner of his eye, Wager saw the bartender nervously work his way to the nearest end of the counter, his bar apron a wad of cloth in his hands. Stubbs turned to keep casual watch on the rest of the room.

  “Is Big Nose around?”

  “You’re out of your jurisdiction, Wager.”

  “Who said anything about a bust? What about Leon? Or Two Fingers?”

  “What you want with them?”

  Wager smiled. “Friendly conversation. Nothing heavy.”

  Sonny, his neckless head turning on his shoulders like an owl’s, bobbed his chin at the man sitting beside him. That one stood to stare at Wager and tug the fringe on the leather vest that rode over his T-shirt. Then he strolled toward the sound of the pool game. The clatter of the balls fell silent and the vest came back and sat down without a word.

  Sonny said, “In back.”

  Wager and Stubbs were greeted with the same silence from a row of bodies lounging beyond the glow of the pool table. Their legs and feet caught the light, frayed and dirt-stained jeans that showed the heavy soles of boots, some with thick metal toe-guards, others narrower like snubbed cowboy boots and with raked heels.

  “Hello, Big Nose.” Wager made out the familiar face in the lineup. “It’s been a while.”

  “Could have been longer, Wager. What’s that following you?”

  “Detective Stubbs, meet Jerome Davis, a.k.a. Big Nose Smith. I’m sure you’ve seen his publicity photos.”

  Neither man offered to shake hands.

  Big Nose’s beard showed streaks of gray at the chin, and his long hair, pulled back into a ponytail, was also streaked. Beside him, Leon Oakland showed his years in the deep lines that creased his cheeks above the clipped beard. “Leon, I believe you’re getting bald.”

  “What the fuck you want here, Wager?”

  “I want you to tell me you didn’t have anything to do with the murder of Councilman Green.”

  “Oh yeah? We offed him. We did it and we’re glad.” Laughter ran like a mutter along the row of watching men.

  “Want to say that after I read you Miranda?”

  “Fuck you. I wish we had killed the nigger.” The voice from a seated figure drew another laugh. “Maybe we’ll go after the next one.”

  “What’s your name?” asked Stubbs.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “His name’s Two Fingers Marshall. That’s because the rest of them are shoved up his ass,” said Wager. He turned to Big Nose. “The word on the street’s that you people killed Green.”

  Smith shrugged, the gesture making the chrome badges on his denim jacket catch the light. “Maybe we did, maybe we didn’t. That’s your problem, ain’t it?”

  Wager shook his head. “No, amigo, it’s yours. We’ll be all over you like stink on shit until we find out one way or the other. You won’t be able to peddle an ounce of pot without somebody busting you.”

  “Fucking chili bean talks big, don’t he?”

  “Does your p.o. know you’re consorting with known criminals, Two Fingers? You just sit quiet and maybe I won’t jerk your chain.”

  Smith scratched thoughtfully somewhere up under the ragged hair that came down to his collarbone. “If you had something on us, Wager—if you even thought we did it—you wouldn’t be here talking about it. Just what the hell do you want?”

  “Green’s killer.”

  “You think we’ll help you? You think that?” asked Smith.

  “That or take the heat.” He added, “A lot of it, because somebody keeps pointing the finger at you. As long as they do, we’ll keep looking.”

  “Yeah? We’ll give them the finger back—and you, too: Here’s the finger.”

  “Marshall, you better keep what fingers you’ve got.”

  “Shut up,” said Smith over his shoulder to the seated figure. “I’m thinking.”

  Wager let Big Nose scratch in meditative silence. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered the man when he had been some fifteen years younger. Smith, then known by his real name of Jerome Davis, had stomped and permanently crippled a teenager who accidentally backed his car into one of the gang’s motorcycles. Wager, then in uniform, had busted him and watched as the man, grinning, was set free by a court that thought Wager’s justification for arresting the scumbag wasn’t sufficient; the charges were never even heard. That he got away with it was a boost to Big Nose’s rise in the gang. Ironically, the case had been a help to Wager, too: It brought home the awareness that a good cop didn’t just get arrests, he got convictions—no matter how silly the court
made the rules of the game. Since then, Wager had followed Big Nose’s rise in the gang and his occasional falls in court as he’d made his way from the early juvenile arrests to involvement in murder. In a way, they were matching each other’s careers.

  Smith finally looked up, his stomach bulging softly against the stained T-shirt that shone under the open denim jacket. “We didn’t do it, Wager. I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t none of our people.” He added, “I’d of heard about it and I ain’t.”

  “You want me to take your word for that?”

  A note of anger tinged his voice. “What the hell else you got? I can’t fucking prove we didn’t do something we didn’t do.”

  “Cops and dumb—they go together like niggers and tennis shoes,” said Marshall.

  “Have you heard anything about who did do it?”

  “No.” Smith shook his head slowly. “Not a word anywhere.” He looked up, his blue eyes catching the dim light from under heavy eyebrows. “But we been asking around; I want to know who the hell’s fingering us for it. Nothing. Nobody’s come up with nothing.”

  “Have you heard from the Uhuru Warriors?”

  “Shit—those faggoty punks! They want stomping, by God they’ll get what they want!”

  “Not this weekend they won’t—any of your people come near Five Points, and they’re going to eat county food for a long time. That’s from the chief.”

  Smith said nothing.

  The main business over, Wager turned to go.

  “Wager?”

  He looked back.

  “How’d you know where to find us?”

  “You people are popular, Big Nose. And hard to miss on those crummy machines. We asked Smokey; they told us.”

  “Yeah?” A tinge of smugness at having their trips monitored by the Highway Patrol. “We got you cocksuckers worried, huh?”

  “Not worried. We just like to know where the sewage is.”

  CHAPTER 13

  SATURDAY, 14 JUNE, 2218 Hours

  The dispatcher told them that Lieutenant Wolfard I was at the temporary command center which had been set up on Thirty-second Street. It was near enough to the troubled area for accurate information and quick response, but far enough away for security purposes.