The Alvarez Journal: A Gabe Wager Novel

by Rex Burns

  “Here”—he held out his hand—”let me get you a refill.”

  Denby hesitated a moment; then he shoved the cup across the desk. “Thanks.”

  “Sugar and cream?”

  “Black.”

  “I have to cut mine with sugar and cream. It’s a lot of coffee by the end of the day.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  They sipped in silence for a couple of minutes; then Denby asked, “You sure you want me to handle the Robbins thing?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Thanks.” He finished his cup of coffee. “See you about quarter till.”

  “We’ll nail him.”

  The day’s wind had brought one of the late-summer thunderstorms that boil out of the mountains and across the South Platte valley around quitting time. Wager, eating supper at a diner, in one of his favorite booths by the window, watched the secretaries and office help scatter into honking cars and buses that splashed through the suddenly filled gutters and hail-rattled streets. By the time he finished, the rain had stopped and the streets were draining; here and there, pebbled in the streaks of neon light, patches of asphalt rose through the sheets of water. Later, after a nap, when he parked and walked to meet Denby, the air still smelled of wet freshness, but even in the steely glare of the streetlights he could see the concrete already dry and beginning to collect its new layer of dust.

  He spotted Denby by the door of a small camera shop and shook hands with Masters and Billington. Billy looked the same, but both he and Wager felt the distance between them now and they fumbled through the greeting.

  “Is he in there?”

  The black agent nodded. “I just went through. He’s at a table in the back next to the toilet.”

  “Back door?”

  “Locked from the outside, but it can be opened from inside —one of them push bars.”

  “He’ll have to be taken from the front?”

  “Worse than that. There’s a pool table a little over halfway. A lot of light for anybody coming at him.”

  Denby looked at Wager; the younger man’s excitement was more intense now, but it was quiet. That was a good sign. “What do you think?”

  “It’s what we came for. How about you?”

  Billington shrugged, lank blond hair drooping raggedly over his collar. “Want me to go in with Masters?”

  “It’s Denby’s show. I’m just along for the ride.”

  “I’ll go in with Masters,” Denby said. “Why don’t you two cover the back?”

  “Give us five.”

  There was another awkward moment of unfamiliar politeness as Billington asked Wager what position he wanted and Wager left it up to Billy to choose first. The agent took the short leg of the alley, Wager the recessed doorway directly across from the back of the lounge. From there, he could head off the suspect if he turned away from Billington, but he would still be out of Billy’s line of fire.

  Wager checked his watch—about two minutes to go. Breathing deep and slow, he crouched against the cool door and waited. In the distance, near the old train depot, an emergency vehicle pumped its hollow wail; in front of the lounge, traffic rushed past with the slap of tires and occasional rapping pipes. Wager’s radio clicked and Denby’s tense voice came over: “You set, two-one-two?”

  “Roger.”

  A second later, Billington’s laconic “Me, too.”

  “OK—we’re going in.”

  They waited in a gloom made darker by the street glare shining over the low buildings. Billington was invisible, but Wager could sense him there and it felt good—less alone, less vulnerable. He couldn’t remember what it was like before Billy joined up with him, but it couldn’t have been any worse than just after the transfer when he had to keep reminding himself that Billy wouldn’t be at the other end of the radio pack or just around the corner keeping Wager’s back clean. They had been a good team.

  The two men waited. No sound, no noise, none of the half- expected muffled pops of short-barreled weapons. Silence. Then Wager’s radio clicked and a voice that was only something like Denby’s hooted, “He sees us—he’s spotted us—he’s running for the toilet—he’s going for the toilet.”

  “Ten-four.” But no answer; in his excitement Denby was pressing the transmit button, and his voice—distant from the speaker—came through: “Get the fuck out of the way!” Then Wager heard the crackle of old paint as a sealed window was pried open and the long dark shadow of a leg hung against the building’s side. Then both legs were gliding down. Wager held back until he saw the figure stretched out, toes just above the alley and both hands still gripping the windowsill, before shouting, “Police officers! Don’t move, you’re covered!”

  The figure dropped to the ground and froze against the wall, hands still high, as Wager’s hammer clicked loud in the alley.

  “You got me, you got me—don’t shoot! I ain’t armed, don’t shoot!”

  “Billy!” It was the familiar automatic shout, and all the embarrassment was gone. Wager sprinted to the figure and kicked the man’s heels apart, then ran a hand over his thin body and twisted his arms behind for the handcuffs.

  Billington clicked them on and called up to the face peering out the open window, “OK out here.”

  “Right. Search the son of a bitch good. He flushed something down the toilet.”

  Wager read the suspect his rights as he started going through pockets. Nothing. No baggies, no capsules, no balloons, nothing.

  “What’d you do, Robbins, swallow it?”

  “What, man? The only thing I got to swallow’s this shit you’re handing me.”

  Denby and Masters ran around the corner of the alley and came panting up to the group. “Anything?” Denby asked.

  “Nothing. Serve him anyway. We’ll vacuum his pockets.”

  “Jesus God! Man, what you people hassling me for?”

  Denby stuffed a paper in the vest pocket of the man’s plaid coat. “Warrant for the arrest of Roland Robbins. You read him his rights?”

  “Done.” Wager turned him around. “Let’s get him in.” The excitement of the bust ebbed fast, leaving the disgusted, incomplete feeling of no evidence. And the night was just beginning.

  “Hey, brother, what you doing with these ofay pigs? What you doing, now?”

  Masters’ large shadow leaned over the thin black. “Don’t brother me, you motherfuck. I’m gonna see you get burned hot!”

  “Shee-it!”

  Masters bounced the handcuffed figure against the wall with a soft thud. “You pushed to my nephew and he OD’ed, man, and I’m gonna burn your black ass.”

  “Hey, man, that ain’t my fault!”

  “Shee-it!” Masters’ knee pumped into the suspect’s crotch and sent him, gasping and doubled, down the wall.

  “Hold it, Charlie, hold it now!”

  From the ground, eyes luminous with hate, Robbins grunted, “Yeah, niggershit, hold it. You ain’t got nothing on me, you son of a bitch.”

  Masters dragged Robbins up by the coat front, lapel threads ripping. “I don’t need anything on you, boy, because I got you,” he said.

  Robbins’ face twisted in anger and his hot eyes said what his mouth wouldn’t.

  Waiting, Masters held him; Robbins hung silent and tense. Finally, Masters said, “Let’s drag this shit downtown.”

  Wager held his tired sigh until he was out of Robbins’ sight; then he poured himself another cup of now tasteless coffee, and cracked the stiff vertebrae in his back. Two-thirty. The interrogation rooms were quiet this early in the morning; here and there a fluorescent glare still burned white, but the only action was across the room at table 3, where Robbins sat sullen and defiant as Masters and Denby stared at him.

  “Look, Robbins,” Masters said, “if we had enough for a warrant, we’ve got enough for a case against you.”

  “Where’s my free lawyer?”

  “Look, I’m giving you a chance. We might work something out if you give us a little informat
ion.”

  Silence.

  “Let’s send the son of a bitch down to Cañon City, Denby. He’d be screaming in a week.”

  “I been busted before and never finked.”

  “This way you’ve got a chance, Robbins. The other way”— Denby shook his head sadly—”nothing. You’re sure to get burned.”

  “Where’s my free lawyer? A honky one. I don’t want none of that Chicano shit.”

  Wager walked into the hall and sank onto a waiting bench. Robbins would not give in, he knew. Not this time. Maybe the next time. Or the time after that. Or the next one. But not this time. There wasn’t enough on him. Wager leaned against the plaster wall and rubbed his burning eyes. Billy had gone home quickly after making a card for his day section, telling Wager it was good to work with him again. And, Wager admitted to himself, it was; they had been a good team. But it was funny: now that he’d worked with Billy, he didn’t miss the team any more. Funny.

  He yawned and wished he could go home, too, but Denby was still wound up trying to get Robbins to turn. It was a waste of time; better to book him and let the lab see if there were enough traces for possession. Better to go home and sleep so tomorrow’s calls could be handled. He sipped at the Styrofoam cup and tried to keep his mind blank so time would pass unnoticed. It was that stage of the morning when he was depressed by the odor of old coffee and a weary night, depressed to think how minutes that seemed so slow now were forever gone. And for what? For nothing. Así corriendo la vida: in haste even with slow steps.

  The voices stopped, and there was a silence; after a while Wager heard the chairs scraping. It was over; Robbins had held out. In a few moments, the thin Negro in handcuffs was led to the lockup section by a uniformed officer. Wager stood up from the bench and stretched. “We’ll see him again,” he said to Masters and Denby.

  “I sure as hell will,” Masters said. “Good night, Gabe.”

  “Good night, Charlie.”

  He walked Denby to their cars in the compound.

  “That son of a bitch will be out tomorrow. You think we should work on him again in the morning?”

  Wager yawned and shook his head. “I think we should get some sleep.”

  “The Inspector’s going to be really pissed that we didn’t get him with the dope.”

  He would be, Wager knew; but to hell with Sonnenberg. It had been a fair fight and they’d lost, and that was all there was to it. Especially at three in the morning. “He knows the way things go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah. Jesus Christ, what a grind.”

  For politeness’ sake, they stood a few moments in the cold morning air and talked about the grind. Then Denby climbed into his blue Fury III and glided into the empty street. Wager, almost awake now that he was out of the stuffy air of the police building, tuned to the district channel and listened to police calls as he drove slowly to his empty apartment.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE NOTE FROM the sergeant’s desk told him to report as soon as he came in; and while Wager was completing the journal on Robbins, he looked up to see Johnston coming toward him. He must have been waiting.

  “Morning, Gabe. What happened last night?”

  “He got rid of it before we could grab him.”

  “Sonnenberg’s upset about it.”

  “I figured. It couldn’t be helped.”

  “Did Denby do all right?”

  “He handled it as well as could be expected—followed procedures, carried it out with no injuries to the officers involved or to the suspect. Robbins just got rid of the evidence; you know how it is.”

  The sergeant frowned and lit a cigarette, offering one to Wager, who refused as usual. “I know. But the Inspector, ah, has some worries about him. You know, new man and all. He really wanted you to handle it so there’d be no screw-ups. He thought Robbins might turn informer if he was busted solid enough.”

  “You saw Denby’s record.”

  “Sure, sure. He looks good on paper. Don’t we all. But Sonnenberg wanted Robbins bad. He doesn’t want this division to turn into another metro unit and neither do I.”

  Too many departments used the metropolitan task forces as a chance to get rid of poor personnel; hell, what district chief wanted to give away good men? “Me either, Ed. That’s the reason I haven’t taken leave since I’ve been here—so we’ll have time to screen people before accepting them.” And because too goddamned many of them transferred out!

  “I know, Gabe; we all feel the same way.”

  “Denby’s an experienced officer, and that bust last night was nothing new for him. He handled it well. The suspect got rid of the evidence, that’s all.”

  “And we don’t have a case on him.”

  “Nothing from the vacuum bag?”

  “Clean.”

  Wager shook his head. “He’s dealing and we know it. We’ll get him next time.”

  The sergeant poked out his half-smoked cigarette in Wager’s unused ashtray. “Robbins claims he was beat up. He’s got bruises in the groin area.”

  “He climbed out a window. Maybe he got his balls hung up on the sash.”

  “Come on, Gabe!”

  “Ed, it was dark, the suspect was trying to escape, and there was a little scuffle.”

  “The unit can’t afford any sadists, Gabe.”

  “Will you take my word?”

  “Sure. And so will Sonnenberg.”

  “All right. Denby had nothing to do with it. Robbins was a bad break but it’s not that big an issue. If it had been me that blew it, nobody would say anything. And I could have blown it as easy as Denby. Hell, Charlie Masters was there—he didn’t get anything either, did he?”

  “No.”

  “All right, then. Give Denby a fair chance; we’ll learn soon enough if he fouls things up.”

  “You sound sold on him.”

  “All I’m saying is give him time; last night wasn’t a fair test. And Jesus knows we’re short-handed right now.”

  “Right. I’ll pass the word to the Inspector. Anything on that Seattle tip?”

  “I’m going out there today.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  Two minutes after the sergeant left, Denby poked his head around the doorframe. He looked worried. “I saw you and the sergeant talking. I thought I’d wait outside.”

  “It was about you and Robbins. I told him it was the same bad luck that could happen to me or to him or to anybody else.”

  “You really think so?”

  Wager looked at him sharply; he had no patience with grown men who whined. “I do.”

  “Well.” Denby cleared his throat. “Well, we’ll get him next time. You want some coffee, Gabe?”

  It was after lunch before he could get clear of the office to go out to the Rare Things Import Shop. At the West Thirty-eighth Street ramp, he swung his dark green Dodge 650 off the freeway and onto one of those streets widened years ago from a neighborhood road to a through avenue. Now it was crammed with cars and traffic lights, and though many of the homes and tenements lining the curbs still had old-fashioned curtains at their windows, most were becoming shops and stores. Wager drove slowly down the shimmering street and felt the relaxation that comes with the sense of fitting in completely. It wasn’t his old neighborhood—that had been scraped away by the bulldozer blade—but it was close enough to it so that when he parked and stood a few moments in the white heat of the sun, he had the sensation of going back in time: of seeing himself as a bony-kneed kid sprinting down these same sidewalks, of knowing already what kind of people would be in the stores, how they would greet each other, how these streets would fill in the cool of evening, and how the invisible back yards of the sagging houses were patched with cool, worn clay in the shade of cottonwood trees.

  He sighed and walked the half-block to the Rare Things. It was on the north side of the street in one of the newer buildings, a low rectangle whose front showed three or four doors flanked by plate-glass windows. One window was soaped with a
“FOR RENT” sign, and someone had sprayed “The Chicano Army is on the move” in paint across the concrete block. Next came an auto-parts store, then the import shop, and beyond that the last store, which bore a sign for unpainted and refinished furniture. Cheap. On the corner, a stark house, whose yard was now treeless and filled with white gravel for a parking lot, was the Cantina Bar. That brought a faint memory, and Wager dredged it up: a shooting incident in late summer, 1971, three kids—two brothers against a third Chicano—one dead, one still in Canyon City. A question of manly honor. Or sister’s honor. Or just plain showing off.

  He paused in front of the import shop’s window and studied the empty doorway with its Chamber of Commerce sticker and the red “OPEN” sign, then the display of tumbled bolts of East Indian cloth, a big brass tray, heavy Spanish candlesticks, paintings of bright colors and heavy outline: “Ojas Altas en Mazatlán,” a burro and cactus, a big-chested senorita with a water jug on her head. The shop seemed empty of customers and help; no faces peered back through the reflections gathered on the glass, no shapes moved in the dark of the store. He pushed into the air-conditioned coolness, heralded by a bell whose tinkle sounded unused, and stood waiting.

  From somewhere in back, a low murmur of voices suddenly stopped and a clerk came through the beaded curtain: five feet ten, around twenty-five years old, black hair, brown eyes, Chicano, no distinguishing marks or scars. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for some Spanish chairs. The wooden kind.”