by Rex Burns
Wager nodded and waited. Then, from the other end of the alley and walking slowly into the light of the doorway with a familiar roll of the shoulders, Fat Willy strolled past without pausing. Wager and Denby slid down in the car seat and watched the linen shadow. He walked toward them, stared hard at their car parked in the black of the narrow driveway, and disappeared around the corner.
“Did he see us?”
“I don’t know. He’s checking things out.”
A few moments later, a dog barked behind them and the sound of slow footsteps came up to the car. Willy’s face, a wide shadow beneath the hat, peered in the window. “My, oh my, the fuzz.”
Wager tried to sound happier than he felt. “Hello, Willy.”
“You going to bust them tonight? You want to blow my cover?”
“I want Officer Denby to get a look at them.”
“Mmm.” The hat brim wagged slowly from side to side. “Sometimes I believe you don’t trust me, brother.”
“Sometimes you’re right, Willy. But we’re the best each other’s got.”
A muffled gurgle of laughter. “I sure ain’t getting no bargain! Catch your act next time.”
The gray shape sauntered back toward the lighted door.
“He’s a cocky son of a bitch, ain’t he! You think Pat and Mike spotted us, too?”
“We’ll find out.” Wager watched as Willy lit a cigarette and flipped the glowing match into the dark. It bounced once on the tar and died out. A few minutes later, the hat brim lifted and Willy stared toward the corner of the bar and nodded. A thin Negro woman in Levis and halter stepped into the light.
“That’s Labelle Browne.” She was older and had changed her hair, but Wager still recognized her.
She held something out in one hand and opened the other for the money; Willy shook his head and stuck his fingertip into the balloon and tasted it, then handed her the cash. She counted it quickly and left. Willy faded into the darkness.
“Just like that.” Denby clicked his tongue in disgust. “We should have popped the bitch right then.”
Wager shrugged. “What’s the rush? Let’s build a case on her first. Hold it!” A second dim figure trotted down the alley in front of the dark car and crossed the patch of light like a frightened cat: same Levis and halter, but shorter and with hair teased out in a wide Afro.
“I’ll bet that’s Halsam, and I’ll bet she was set out somewhere to cover the deal.”
“Goddam! You think she’s got a weapon?”
“You know it.”
Denby’s wide eyes caught the light. “She’d use it, too!”
“She looked scared enough to. But I think they’re more afraid of a rip-off than a bust.”
“I’m glad we didn’t move in!”
“Now we’ll know what to look for when we do.” Ringing loud through his memory was the sound of the first shot fired at him, and the cold, sick feeling of fear and hate that still came with that memory. Fear, hate, suspicion—it was a great life if it didn’t kill you first. But if you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime—old jailhouse philosophy—and most of these people could do the time. They had proved it. The cop better prove it, too.
They sat another ten minutes or so; then Wager, with lights off, pulled the car down the alley and swung onto the street. He turned on the headlights for one last pass in front of the bar.
“Tomorrow why don’t you check vehicle registration for the kind of car Pat and Mike drive?”
“OK.” Denby blew his nose again and looked at his watch. “Jesus—after midnight. Helen wanted to go to a movie tonight.”
“Too bad.”
“Business is business, I guess.”
“Yeah.”
He let Denby out at the office parking lot and watched the new Fury III slide under the gleam of empty streetlights. Denby had a wife and a new kid, a house, and probably a cat or dog. Family. Liked to take his wife to the movies. Deep down, liked to have her tell him what to do. Wager didn’t think Denby would last long in the narcotics division.
CHAPTER 2
WAGER REACHED THE aging office building across from the capitol at nine and climbed the dim narrow stairs to the OCD headquarters. On the second-floor landing, in her box of sterile space, Mrs. Gutierrez smiled through the bulletproof Plexiglas and pressed the “open” buzzer to unlock the inner door. Mrs. Gutierrez and her little window were unit security; the few times Wager had seen anyone held up for clearance, she seemed terribly embarrassed and terribly pleased when the person was finally admitted. As usual, she was terribly happy to see him this morning. Wager couldn’t stand people who were terribly anything.
He twisted between desks and thin partitions that bounced back the rattle of typewriters and conversations, to the relative quiet of the narcotics unit’s corner. Suzy was out for the moment, but anchored to his desk by the clean ashtray was a note: “DPD file on Browne, Labelle, in top drawer. Nothing on Halsam (Osborne), Ann. Owner of Rare Things Import S.: Montoya, Eduardo Guillermo, 655 W. 8th Ave., Denver. No DPD file on that person.”
He rolled the name through his mind and again sought an echo; still nothing, still no tingle of recognition or “aha” of something clicking into place. Except … Spanish name—imports—a natural setup for a Mexican connection. Maybe something there: check it out. Good title for a detective story: “Wager Checks It Out.”
The secretary came back with a pot of fresh coffee and a cheery “Good morning, Gabe!”
Wager did not like cheery good mornings, either. “Does Ed have any answer on the Robbins preliminary yet?”
“The Inspector said he wanted to see you and Detective Denby on that.”
Scalding hot coffee for a heart attack, and a fight with the Inspector for high blood pressure. “What for?”
“I don’t know, but he didn’t sound upset.”
Then he could wait. Wager turned to work on routine papers: sheaves of forms that seemed to peak in quarterly, semiannual, and annual waves, always the same in content and result. Someone somewhere must have one hell of a big pile of worthless paper, because none of it ever changed anything. It was ten o’clock before he looked up again and saw Denby sit on the edge of his desk. The baggy redness of the younger man’s eyes made Wager rub at his own. “Didn’t you get any sleep last night?”
From behind his handkerchief, Denby mumbled, “Allergies—the wind’s up today and it’s really bad. And Helen wanted to talk half the night.”
Wager thought he should learn how to shut her up. He pushed his copy of the Robbins file at Denby. “Look this over. I’ve asked Ed to let you handle the action on it.”
The younger detective managed a smile. “Good news! I was beginning to feel like a fifth wheel.” He lost himself in the folder.
Wager asked Suzy to find out when the Inspector would be free, then burrowed again into the data that would contribute to the unit sergeant’s report, which would contribute to the Inspector’s report, which would contribute to the division report, which would contribute to the DA’s report, which would contribute … Suzy interrupted his thoughts: “He can see you and Officer Denby now.”
It was the kind of tiny, tidy office that you did not bring your coffee cup into. Sonnenberg nodded to two wooden captain’s chairs jammed against the wall and, talking into the telephone, gestured at Wager to close the door. He finished and turned to the blue-covered preliminary on Robbins. “Where does this one get his merchandise, Gabe?”
“We haven’t been able to find out, sir. He’s been under surveillance by DEA since, I think, August ‘72. But no one’s spotted his supplier.”
“I’d like to get something more than another bagman. We’re getting a hell of a lot more heroin in from somewhere.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Will Robbins work with us if we hang something on him?”
“He might.”
“You don’t sound too sure.”
“No, sir. Other people have tried, but he wanted nothing to do with it.�
��
“See what you can do anyway. Come down on him hard and see what you can do.”
“Yes, sir.” What the hell else did Sonnenberg think he was going to do?
The Inspector tapped a pencil on the blue cover. “Are you handling this?”
“I was. Detective Denby has it now.” The cover letter said that, and Wager knew Sonnenberg had read it.
The Inspector’s eyes, chips of pale blue, studied the younger detective. “You’ve had experience in this?”
“Yes, sir. I wore a uniform for four years, and was on burglary for two more.”
“Hmm.”
“Detective Denby’s very capable, Inspector.” He damned well better be.
“I’m sure he is. What are you on now, Gabe?”
“Quarterly reports and CI calls. And looking into that tip from Seattle.”
“And Ashcroft is still tied up in court?”
“Yes, sir.” Which Sonnenberg also knew.
The Inspector tapped again until the silence grew embarrassing and Wager finally said what he knew Sonnenberg wanted: “When we’re set to bust Robbins, I’ll go along with Detective Denby if you want me to.”
“I wish you would.” The icy eyes turned toward Denby. “You’ve got a good record or you wouldn’t be here. But it’s my policy to have a man well-grounded in our procedures before he’s left on his own. If Detective Wager gave you the case, that’s a mark in your favor, and I’ll leave you on it. But I want Wager to observe your first few operations and report your progress to me. And I want you to learn from Wager. Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
The Inspector turned back to Wager. “What about the Seattle thing?”
Glad for a different topic, Wager told the little he knew.
“I’d rather go after the heroin than the marijuana,” the Inspector said.
“Yes, sir. But this could be a lot of grass.”
“I suppose it’s worth a little time, but don’t overdo it.” He turned back to the blue file and tapped Robbins’ name again. “I’ll have a DEA man work with you on this. Billington’s still over there, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, nail Robbins good and maybe we can turn him into a CI.”
Back in their office, Denby sat glumly on the edge of the desk. “What’s so hard about busting a two-bit pusher?”
“Don’t let it eat you. Sonnenberg’s up tight because we’re a new unit and appropriations time’s coming up. If the unit doesn’t prove out”—Wager shrugged—”we go back to burglary.”
“I should’ve opted for homicide.”
Wager poured fresh coffee into the cold pool in his cup. “Organized crime’s here to stay, and dope’s a part of it. We’ll always have a job. Hell, we got more than we can handle now.”
“My wife wanted me to be a fireman.”
“Is she trying to get rid of you?”
“She thought it would be more romantic.” Denby sneezed and dabbed at his eyes.
Suzy said “Just a moment” into the phone and aimed it at Wager. “It’s Agent Billington from DEA. He wants to know about Robbins.”
“Take it, Denby. Set it up.” He tried to avoid talking to Billy since the transfer.
“For when? When do you want it?”
“Let’s try tonight—the informant said he’s hot all week.”
The younger man hopped for the phone. “This is Detective Denby. No, he’ll be with us, but I’m handling it from this end. How about tonight—the CI said he’d be hot all week. Fine. Why don’t we meet about eleven?” He glanced inquiringly at Wager, who nodded. “Right, we have the warrant. Right. That’s what our informant said. Fine.” Denby hung up. He looked embarrassed. “He—ah—preferred you, I think.”
“We’ve worked together before. Billy’s a good man.” Wager slid another form under his pen and began filling in the blanks.
“Does he try to rub it all over you that he’s a federal officer?”
“No. He used to be in this office.”
“Oh.”
“Here—you might as well learn the really important part of this job. See these interagency request forms?” He showed Denby how to fill in the rough for Suzy to type later. Then he worked through lunch into the afternoon while Denby rounded up the Robbins warrant and the various agencies involved in the night’s move. At four, Simpson came by to check in his keys and equipment and say good-bye to Wager.
“Say, we’ll still be seeing a lot of each other.” The tall, stoop-shouldered man gripped Wager’s brown hand in both of his. Denby said a brief “Pleased to meet you” and moved back to his desk. It was an awkward moment for Wager: a sense of being left behind, a feeling of betrayal, a desire not to show any ill temper. It was Simpson’s choice, and, like everybody else, he had the right to move.
“You’ll do a good job out there. It’ll be nice to have a good man out there.”
“Well, I don’t know; I’ll give it a try anyhow. Say, when you’re in the area, come by for a cup of coffee.”
“Right. And you know where we are.”
“Right.”
Simpson was gone and Wager sat staring wearily out the window. A sergeant’s rating, regular hours, civil service security—he couldn’t blame Simpson for taking the better job. Still, you always measured yourself against your co-workers, and Wager knew who the better man was. And he also knew he would have turned down the job if he had been asked—Simpson was a family man and he wasn’t. But he hadn’t even been asked. He would have liked to have been asked.
Denby cleared his throat. “I’ve got a four-man team: you and me, a man from Metro Enforcement Group—Masters—and Billington, the DEA man. You know Masters?”
“A tall black, heavyset, late twenties?”
“I only talked to him on the phone. He sounded tough.”
“He is. He’s a good one to have along.”
“You think that’s enough people?”
“I think that’s all the outside help Johnston wants to pay for, and we don’t have any more inside.”
“Do you think it’s too many? There’s no sense getting Johnston pissed off.”
“I think it’s just fine.”
Denby nodded and leafed through the Xeroxed sheets of the Robbins file one more time. Finally he looked up. “There’s already enough here for a conspiracy charge.”
“Conspiracy’s not worth a fart in a jury trial. We need a possession charge. Any idiot civilian can understand possession: there’s the man, there’s the dope, there’s where they were together. Unless some assistant DA can’t even handle that.”
“You think the CI’s right about tonight?”
“He said he’d call if he heard different.”
“I guess if he’s wrong there’s always another night.”
“Always.”
“It’s set for the Melody Lounge. You want to meet here and go with me?”
“Where are you meeting the others?”
“On the corner of Colfax and Race. We didn’t want too many cars in the area.”
“I’ll see you there.”
“OK.” He leafed through the file again, reluctant to put it down, feeling—Wager knew—his hand already reaching for Robbins’ neck and the excitement that went with that reach.
“Goddam—six two, a hundred and forty pounds! Skinny son of a bitch, ain’t he?”
“He’s known to carry a weapon.”
They both thought of the small headline on page 3 of the morning paper: “BOULDER POLICEMAN KILLED.”
“Who doesn’t, these days,” Denby said.
Wager nodded.
There was a long pause, which Denby broke. “What about the Seattle tip?”
“I’ll go by tomorrow and eyeball the place.”
“Couldn’t we get a search warrant based on the agent’s information?”
“I’d like to do a little groundwork first.”
“What about a phone tap?”
Wager was surprised at Den
by’s ignorance. “Not a chance without some corroborating evidence to show a crime in progress at said location.” It was going to be a long break-in period.
Denby blew his nose again as his eyes slid away from Wager’s.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing …”
“Come on, Denby. What’s the problem?”
The handkerchief flapped. “I don’t know. It just seems—well, chickenshit! I mean, if you know this place is suspect, why not just walk in there with a no-knock and surprise the bastards before they can get rid of the evidence!”
“And squeeze them until they break.”
“Yeah!”
Pouring another cup of coffee, Wager shook his head. “You sound like a DALE agent. Do you know our unit doesn’t have an automatic weapon?” He tapped the plated .44 magnum on his belt. “Only these little cannons.”
Denby blinked. “What’s that mean?”
“It means that we build cases for court. We don’t just go out and start chopping people up unless we’re absolutely legitimate.”
“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
“It doesn’t make any difference what we think. We’ve got to build a case for the court—one a fumble-brained idiot could win. Our feelings don’t convict anybody; it’s the jury’s feelings that count. And it’s hard enough to get warrants when we have the court’s confidence. Don’t blow that confidence by running out and busting everybody who feels wrong to you.”
“Well, it seems to me”—he groped for the word—”too cautious, I guess.”
Wager spoke with his heaviest accent: “Do you mean cowardly, my friend?”
“Naw. I didn’t mean that. Hell, everybody knows better than that. I just think an officer should spend more time charging and less time sitting on his ass with paperwork. If an officer doesn’t move fast, he doesn’t step on cockroaches.”
“You listen good: there’s such a thing as moving too fast, such a thing as blowing a case from insufficient evidence or illegal evidence, and in the narc game it’s awful easy to do. By the sweet toes of little Lord Jesus, if you ever do it to me, I’ll nail you to the wall. Is that clear? Is it?”
“It’s clear.”
He heard his own breathing loud against Denby’s sullen silence, and the quickness of his anger made him feel almost guilty. Denby was young and would be hard-charging if his wife let him; he had a number of convictions on the burglary squad and that showed skill. It would be worse to make him overcautious; there were already enough timeservers who had been ground into inaction by the growing restrictions on police procedure. And, above all, Wager was the first to admit that he didn’t know everything about this job. He was just another detective in a second-rate city with a police department to match, and there were a lot of people a lot of places who knew the business better than he did. It was smart to remember that; not that remembering it made Denby any better, but it gave Wager more patience.