The Alvarez Journal: A Gabe Wager Novel

by Rex Burns

  “Not much, Detective Wager. With the case load we have, we’re sticking to the hard stuff. Are you on to something?”

  “Only a little.” He gave the deskman his information.

  “Right, I remember Alvarez. It sure sounds like he’s dealing, doesn’t it? But we don’t have a thing on him, and right now we’re too jammed up to free anyone for a new investigation. Maybe by the end of the month …”

  “I understand.”

  “If you want, I’ll alert customs and they can check any shipments coming from across the border.”

  “I’ve already done that.” He hung up as Denby came in.

  “Did Suzy tell you we’ve set another buy from Pat and Mike?”

  “I heard,” said Wager.

  “You think we should set up surveillance?”

  “No, it makes Willy nervous and there’s no reason to take a chance on being seen.”

  “OK.” Denby blew his nose and muttered something against ragweed. “What did you get on the Import Shop?”

  Wager went through it one more time, talking as much to himself as to Denby, lining up the information and weighing it once again.

  “Don’t you think there’s enough for a search warrant now?”

  “It’s still so-so; it’ll depend on the judge. But it wouldn’t do any good. He doesn’t keep the stuff on the premises. I’ve been through that with him before.” It had not been a pleasure, that time five years ago, when, hot with the chase and blindly certain of his information, he had broken into Alvarez’s house, sending his wife on a crying jag and seeing the wet-eyed hatred of the children as they watched the raiding team tear through every drawer, strip the beds, probe cushions and mattresses, scattering worn underwear and frayed toys, dislodging and clumsily chipping the plaster Madonna. And stupidly finding nothing. Not one damn thing. Wager had been very lucky on that, he knew; Alvarez could have raised holy hell, but he didn’t. Probably because he really did have a stash somewhere. But it had not been a pleasure, either, standing before the district chief to be chewed out for finding nothing—being shown graphically how much more difficult it would be for him to get subsequent warrants when a search was unproductive. Counterproductive. That was the word the chief had used: when a search was counterproductive.

  “Well, you’re the one who knows. I got a lot to learn. I guess I showed that last night.”

  It was a conscious effort at humility, and it rubbed Wager wrong—as if Denby were wagging his tail, hoping to have a pat on the head. And Wager couldn’t bring himself to feed Denby’s self-pity. “You do,” he said.

  Denby hung around a few more minutes, said good night to Suzy, whose heels clattered through the rapidly emptying offices. Finally: “It’s after five. Going down to your car?”

  “In a little while. I want to think about this Alvarez thing.”

  “Any action tonight? Other than the Pat and Mike buy?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Well, Helen’ll be glad to see me on time for supper.”

  “Take it easy.”

  “See you Monday.”

  The outside door closed behind Denby, cutting off the buzzer’s rattle. Wager stared through the window at the hot afternoon sunshine that blotted out the details and colors of the mountains. Beyond west Denver’s stubby skyline, almost out of sight in the hazy distance and the green foam of scattered trees, lay what was left of District 3, with its tired brick tenements and sagging frame houses. Rafael Alvarez. It brought back the district’s smell and sound and the powdery touch of crumbling brick that reddened your clothes when, as a kid, you rubbed against the walls to chase a ball or another kid. Rafael Alvarez had been one of the chasers and the chased. So had Gabriel Villanueva Wager. At that time as children, and later as cops and robbers, and now once again. It was enough to make a fatalist of you.

  He unlocked the small door leading upstairs to the attic and the cardboard boxes that held inactive files. There it was, dusty now, and smelling of old copy paper: “Alvarez, Rafael (none) DPD #75862, b 15 Sep 1943; 15 Jun 65 arr possession marijuana, probation 1 yr; 30 Oct 66 arr suspic burglary, no convic; 4 Apr 69 arr Nogales, Ariz, smuggling marijuana; 16 Jul 69 sent 2 yrs El Reno Fed Pen; serv 14 mos incl time await trial; 15 Sep 70 parole; no other convic. Residence: 655 W. 8th, Denver.

  He crossed out the old address and put in the new Monaco Circle one. Then he pulled a dust-free manila folder from the storage cabinet, carefully inked Alvarez’s name and DPD number on the lip, and placed the file in the active drawer.

  CHAPTER 4

  THREE WEEKS PASSED before Wager found a few minutes to pull the Alvarez folder again. This work was, he thought, like a virus: when action started in one location, it spread for some reason across the cases until every time he was on his way to one corner of the city, two or three informants were trying to call him from other areas. And then came periodic calms, like now, when it seemed that every pusher in town slowed for breath, when it seemed that the virus had used its strength and was waiting to gather more energy before starting another run. Maybe it had to do with moon phases, or biocycles, or—if anything—periodic shipments coming in to major suppliers. Whatever the reason, there had come a pause and Wager finally had time to answer the itch of the Alvarez file.

  “Suzy, did Detective Denby say when he’d be out of court?”

  “No, he just said he’d check in.”

  Because Denby’s face was still new in the area, he had seen a lot of recent use as the arresting officer for local and federal agents; now the busts were starting to appear in court, and Denby spent more time as a witness than as an officer on the street.

  “What about Ashcroft?”

  “He’s on loan to the Pitkin County sheriffs office.”

  “On loan again? How long’s that supposed to last?” It was a dumb question. It would last as long as it had to.

  “I certainly don’t know!” She still resented his tone when he was irritated, even though she knew he wasn’t angry with her. And that fed his anger more.

  “Is Sergeant Johnston in?”

  “He just came out of the Inspector’s office.”

  Wager knocked on Johnston’s doorframe and waited until the balding man looked up. “Come in, Gabe,” Johnston said. “You’ve been pretty busy lately.”

  Nodding, Wager sat and did not hide his disgust. “All little stuff—street buys, that kind of thing.”

  “Not much to brag about, but it’s got to be done.”

  “It takes up time, Ed. And people. Ashcroft’s up in Aspen, Denby’s in court every goddamned day, and we still don’t have a replacement for Simpson. I have cases that I haven’t been able to look at for three weeks, and when I get to them, all the people are loaned out. When do we get enough people to do our job?”

  The sergeant leaned back and looked at him narrowly. “When’s the last time you had a vacation?”

  “You’ve been watching the goddamned Late Late Show too much—don’t go psyching me out, Ed. I’ve got a case I want to get some consistency on, and it’s going to take a team. Now we don’t even have our own people to work with.”

  “Which case?”

  “Alvarez—the Seattle tip about that import shop.”

  “Do you have anything new on it?”

  “How can I get anything? That’s what I want the team for!”

  “What does DEA have?”

  “Nothing. They’re tied up, too. I asked customs to watch for any shipments coming through from Mexico, but there hasn’t been a damn thing.”

  “Tips?”

  “Nothing.”

  Johnston stared down at the forms on his blotter and then up again. “You don’t have any hard evidence?”

  “Something’s going on, Ed. The guy’s got a record for dealing, he’s living high with no visible income. And he’s not working the street. He’s on to something, and it’s got to be behind the street.”

  “Gabe, if we get some slack I can maybe help you out; but until that happens o
r until there’s some real evidence, I can’t justify the expense. This new line-item accountability system those half-wits saddled us with doesn’t give me any flexibility. You get me some solid corroborating evidence, and I’ll do what I can to get the money. But in the meantime, I’ve got to prioritize the operations, and the priority standard is the probability of conviction.”

  “What the hell does all that garbage mean?”

  Johnston reddened and Wager knew he’d struck a nerve; the sergeant liked to use administrative language. “It means, goddam it, that we spend our time on sure things!”

  “Well, our TO calls for a replacement for Simpson. The money’s budgeted—do we have a man coming or not?”

  “The money was budgeted. There’s a freeze on positions and we don’t have a man coming.”

  “Jesus Christ! Whose side’s the legislature on?”

  The anger was gone from the sergeant’s voice, and it was steadily patient again. “The Inspector says he’s asking for a supplemental appropriation to get the money back. We should know in a few weeks. In the meantime, I’ve got to keep assigning cases on the maximum probability of conviction.”

  “OK, OK, I understand.” Wager sighed and stood. “What’s coming up?”

  “For you? Not a thing right now. If you want some time off, take it now. God knows you got it coming.”

  Wager shrugged. “Maybe I can find some of that corroborating evidence.”

  The sergeant laughed. “It won’t do us much good right now, so don’t look too hard.”

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “How’s Denby working out?”

  “Fine, I guess. From what little I see of him.”

  Wager went back to his quiet desk and sat a few moments, gazing but not really seeing the walls crowded with framed certificates and posters. The Law Enforcement Code of Ethics was tacked to the wall over Simpson’s empty desk; it said a policeman should be a good guy. Around it were smaller frames that said being a good guy wasn’t good enough: Colorado Law Enforcement Training Academy; U.S. Department of Justice—Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs National Training Institute; International Narcotics Enforcement Officers Association; Law Enforcement Award; Letter of Appreciation from … He pulled out his notebook with its cryptic symbols of informants’ names and jabbed one of the unlighted buttons on his phone. Dialing, he waited and counted the rattles of the bell at the other end of the line. Finally, a sleepy voice mumbled hello.

  “This is Wager. I want to see you.”

  Squawk.

  “I want to see you tonight at the Frontier. Six o’clock. Be there.” He hung up and dialed another number from the little book.

  “Ray? This is Gabe. I need some help.”

  “How much help?”

  Some you threatened, some you bribed—with money, with self-importance. “It could build up into something hot—it could be real important. Have you heard of Rafael Alvarez?”

  A silence, and Wager could picture the gray face dusted with white bristles as it twisted in thought. “Alvarez? I don’t know … there’s a lot of spicks around.” He added quickly, “No offense intended, Gabe.”

  “None taken.” To the spicks he was a honky, to the honkies he was a spick. It used to make a difference; now, screw all of them.

  “Alvarez? No. What’s he into?”

  “Marijuana.”

  “Funny I ain’t tumbled on him.”

  “He’s supposed to be big. As high as a thousand pounds a week.”

  Ray’s low whistle sounded choked with an old man’s phlegm. “That’s some brick pile. I should of heard of anybody that big. Unless he’s got a special market. Maybe he just transfers?”

  “The word is he wholesales.”

  “I should of heard of him if he’s that big. Funny.”

  A lot of people should have heard of him if he’s that big. “Let me know if you find out anything. If I’m not around, leave a message with Suzy.”

  “Who?”

  “The secretary. She’ll take messages for me.”

  A long silence as the face probably worked again. “I don’t know. I don’t like too many in on this.”

  “Do you trust me or not, Ray?”

  “Yeah! You’re all right … but …”

  “She’s all right, too. You’re part of a big operation, and Suzy’s part of the team, too.”

  “Oh. Well, I guess it’s all right.” The sound of a cigarette shoved between his lips followed by the faint crackle of a match near the receiver. “Alvarez? Supposed to be big in pot?”

  “It might mean some real bread for a change.”

  “I could use it for a change.”

  He tried one more number, but there was no answer; perhaps it was just as well—it was dangerous for an informant to ask instead of just listen. Old Ray would know that, and Leonard—the CI he would meet at six—wouldn’t stick his neck out for his own mother unless he was kicked. Wager wouldn’t have to sweat either of those two.

  Denby burst in, a glow of pleasure in his blue eyes. “Gabe, we got the bastards! I bet they’re hit with five years! The bench even congratulated the prosecution on its case.”

  “What was the defense?”

  “Mistaken identity—they thought it was the defendants’ word against mine for identification. Shit! They should have pleaded guilty—what they didn’t know was that Billy and another DEA man were watching the whole thing with glasses. Positive identification from three sources. Shit, man, you should have seen their faces!”

  “That’s fine. It’s nice to see the good guys win one.”

  “Yeah. It feels good. And we’re going to nail some more, too. Billy has another case starting tomorrow on that bust up in Louisville. You know, the one where I chased the bastards down when they saw it coming.”

  “That’s going to be tougher.”

  “The dope was in their car.”

  “I heard it was a question of proper search.”

  “Aw, crap, no. They showed it to me before they started to run. Billy says we got them nailed.”

  “Sure you have. When the hell are you going to be through in court?”

  “Gee, I don’t know, Gabe. I’m the main witness, you know. Billy says he’ll need me for all the hearings as well as the trials. You got something lined up?”

  “I’d like to get on with the Alvarez thing.”

  “Oh, that. Well, as soon as I’m through, let’s get to him. It may be a week or two, unless you want to do some night work. You want to bust him tonight?”

  “On what? I need a case before I can bust him. I need some goddamned surveillance!”

  “Oh. Well, I don’t know. It may be a week or two.”

  “I guess I can handle the preliminary stuff myself.”

  “I’ll be real glad to help you out at night when court’s not in session. Just let me know so I can tell Helen.”

  “I’ll do what I can myself.”

  “Right on. Man, you should have seen that defense lawyer’s face!” Denby’s excited voice filled the office so that Wager barely realized Suzy had answered the phone until she called his name.

  “It’s for you, Gabe.”

  “Detective Wager speaking.”

  “I got a meet tonight with Pat and Mike. I’ll need some bread for it.” The voice wheezed with the effort of heavy flesh.

  “This is number four, Willy.”

  “Sure, man, I hear you. Is your man ready? What’s his name?”

  “Denby. He’s right here.”

  “He ain’t used up, is he?”

  “He’s been working out of town.”

  “I don’t want no fuck-ups. I don’t want no snitch jacket on me.”

  “There isn’t one big enough, Willy.”

  “Aw, yeah. Here’s the deal, man. Have this Denby dude meet me at Fifteenth and Champa, at the Woolworth’s. Eleven-thirty tonight. We go down the block for the meet. I told them he just wanted a little bit.”

  “That’s good for a start. We�
��ll be there.”

  “He’ll be there. I don’t like crowds.”

  “You sound strung out, Willy. What’s the matter?”

  “Just you do it my way or it’s no way.”

  “Woolworth’s, eleven-thirty. You’re on.”

  Denby leaned over the desk as Wager hung up. “Pat and Mike?”

  “Right. Fat Willy told them he’s bringing a friend.”

  “It’s about time. Say, it’ll be good to be number-two man for a change. We’ll have those two broads in a week.”

  “In three or four weeks. We want a solid felony charge.”

  “Right. You gonna back me up?”

  “I’ll be around, but not too close. Willy’s really up tight about something.”

  “Think he’ll stay legitimate?”

  “I think so, but it’s always a question.”

  The younger detective was quiet a few moments. “That puts some pressure on the number-two man, doesn’t it?”

  So far, Denby had been the number-three man, the arresting officer supported by backup people; now he would have to cover Willy and meet with the suspects all alone. The job was just becoming clear to him.

  Wager stretched and folded his hands behind his head. “You’ll have to string Pat and Mike along by yourself for a while.”

  “How up tight did Willy sound?”

  “He’s real nervous. But it could be about anything. Maybe he needed a fix.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Could he get nervous enough to tip them off about me?”

  Wager shrugged; it could happen. It could always happen. And Denby had a right to know what he was getting into. “He knows where his bread comes from, and he’s never finked before.”

  “Yeah. But there’s always a first time.”

  “That’s so.”

  “Well, what the hell; that’s what I’m getting paid for, ain’t it?”

  “That’s so, too. But I’ll be around for each of the meets.”

  “Good. But I can’t help thinking of that broad covering the action with a pistol.”

  “If Willy tips them, they just won’t show up. They’re not looking for a fight.”

  “You never had a phony tip from somebody out to waste you?”