by Rex Burns
“I have.” More than once, if you’re lucky.
Denby nodded and sighed. “Eleven-thirty tonight?” He blew his nose. “I better tell Helen. She had a movie in mind.”
“I’ll see you about eleven.”
“Right.” His voice sounded a bit forced.
It was dinnertime at the Frontier and Rosy’s face shone with sweat as she hustled among the tables, her arms loaded with hot dishes from the kitchen. In the afternoon, she had a relaxed freshness and there was time to swap a few words, but by now there was only energy enough for grim efficiency. Like her life. Three kids and a skipped-out husband whose only good deed, she said, was leaving. Wager went down the row of crowded tables that dully reflected the chandelier made from an old wagon wheel. No Leonard. He sat at the end of the bar and waited.
“Hello, Gabe, how’s by you?” Red, the bartender, still had an Eastern note in his voice.
Wager nodded and ordered a draw. “Business all right?”
“Too good,” Red said, slapping an icy mug on the bar and meticulously wiping up a circle of old beer. “Hot-weather drinkers—can’t keep up with them.” He bustled away to the other end of the bar to answer the flapping hand of a customer coming in the door. The bartender knew he was a cop, had smelled it on him, but he never poked into Wager’s work. Which was why Wager kept coming back.
Halfway through the second beer, he saw Leonard come in: shorter than Wager, Chicano all over him, with straight black hair, and shoulders bent to keep the rest of the world away. His face was thin despite the full cheeks and the drooping mustache. He answered Wager’s nod with a glance and sat at one of the back booths.
Wager carried his beer over. “Hello, Leonardo.”
“What the hell do you want, Wager?”
“Rafael Alvarez. What do you hear of him?”
Leonard tapped a cigarette on the plank table. “I’m goddam tired of you leaning all over me whenever you feel like it.”
“My friend,” said Wager with his gentlest accent, “I own you.”
“Hi, there.” Rosy materialized from the dark and Wager ordered two more Coors. They sat silent until she brought the frosty steins. Leonard lit a new cigarette from the stub of the first and jabbed the old one out in the cluttered ashtray. “You fuckers,” he said bitterly. “Fuckers like you always own people like me. Someday you’ll get yours.”
Wager sucked at the cold beer and waited. Finally, Leonard ground out his cigarette and reached for his beer. Wager said, “Alvarez. You remember Rafael. He’s supposed to be a big supplier of marijuana. Uses an import shop for a front.”
“More power to him.”
“I want you to find out how straight that word is.”
“Bullshit—I’m not sticking my neck out!”
“You either stick your neck out with him or you stick it out with me.”
“You don’t have anything on me.”
“I’ll get something on you.”
“Goddam you, I been clean!”
“You won’t look clean when I get through.”
“You son of a bitch.” He buried his mustache in the beer foam and glared at Wager.
“If you want to make a buy, I’ve got money.”
“I don’t want nothing from you.”
Wager shrugged. “It’s cover.”
Leonard was silent and Wager saw him weighing it; they both knew how it was going to end, but there were certain steps to go through first. Leonard was still struggling to keep a little bit of something like pride wrapped around his useless life, and for a moment Wager almost liked the dumpy figure pinching himself together in stubbornness over the beer mug. But only for a moment.
“How much?”
“We’ll start with a brick,” Wager said.
Another silence. “I don’t like it. I’ve heard some things. …”
“Like what?” Wager moved too quickly.
Leonard’s dark eyes mocked him. “You’re really hungry, ain’t you? Yeah.” He lit another cigarette and leaned back against the tall wooden seat back. “I’ll buy you a little grass.”
“I want it from Alvarez.”
“What difference does it make who it’s from?”
“It makes a difference.”
“He might not be handling it, Wager.”
“What have you heard?”
“Nothing. Not one fucking thing.”
“This might be big, my friend. I want some information.”
Leonard shrugged. “I’ll buy you some grass.”
“What have you heard?”
“What do you want Alvarez so much for?”
“What have you heard?”
“Nothing!”
Wager counted out four tens and let Leonard see him mark it down in his small notebook. “If it doesn’t come from Alvarez, don’t buy.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Leonard said sullenly.
“Call me tomorrow night. Nine o’clock.”
“I can’t get anything that soon!”
Wager smiled. “OK, I’ll be generous. Make it eleven.”
“Goddam you, Wager, I can’t even make a contact that soon!”
“You hustle a little, my friend. Or you’ll have a vacation in colorful Cañon City.”
Even in the dimness, he saw Leonard’s face pale so that the drooping mustache looked black against his lips. “They’d kill me.”
“I know. Eleven. Tomorrow night.”
“I can’t do it, goddam you!” The bravado was gone and the dark eyes were stretched with terror. There was something; Leonard knew something he was still holding back.
Wager drained his mug and pressed the moisture from his mouth with a paper napkin. “I don’t see why not. If Rafael’s got it, he’ll want to sell.”
“I haven’t heard of him dealing in marijuana.”
“What have you heard of him doing?”
“Nothing. His name just comes up every now and then, but nobody really knows what’s going on.”
“What have you heard, Leonard?”
“Just that he’s in fat city somehow. That’s all the word that’s on the street: Rafael’s got it made. New car, new house—that shit. But nobody knows what he’s doing—it could be marijuana or it couldn’t be.”
Wager shook his head when Rosy paused to ask if they’d like another round. “See what you can buy, anyway.”
“I’ll listen around.”
The summer sun had finally dropped below the mountains, throwing their shadow across the shallow bowl of the sprawling city. Above the glass towers of Fourteenth Street, a jet blasted across the sky, its wing lights beginning to glow in the dusk; then it was gone, a rush of engines fading through the tall buildings. Wager shoved further into the small box around the pay phone and tried to blot out the noise as he dialed. It rattled five times before Ray’s wet voice answered.
“This is Gabe. You find out anything?”
“If this guy’s dealing in grass, I’d know. And he ain’t.”
“Nothing at all on him?”
“He’s known, but I couldn’t get no leads.”
“Who knows him?”
“Well, it’s kind of funny—a lot of people. But nobody knows what he’s doing. Or they won’t say nothing. And a couple of the spicks was real nervous about saying anything about it.”
“How?”
“You know—like I shouldn’t of been asking. And maybe I shouldn’t.”
“Any problems?”
“Naw, they was just surprised-like that somebody was asking.”
“Well, keep your eyes open and play it cool.”
“Hell, yes! I don’t want to collect no shivs. With niggers it’s razors, with spicks it’s shivs.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Yeah. Anyway, something’s maybe going on, but nobody’s saying much.”
As Wager paid his car out of the parking lot, he checked his watch and turned north on 1-25 to cruise past the Rare Things. The windows were dim, but a glow insid
e meant someone was still in the back room. Wager turned past the tavern and up the alley. Alvarez’s Firebird was behind the store; beside it was a white-over-dark—maybe dark blue—Caprice ‘71, Texas plates CVM 389. He thought, but wasn’t sure, that the county code meant El Paso. Down the alley and left through a residential block, a U-turn without lights, and back to the alley to park in the narrow band of darkness against the building wall. He reached under the seat to where his transmitter rested in the mobile pack, took it out, and called the Texas number into DPD for a check. In a few minutes, the reply came back: “No warrants issued.” He sat for half an hour or so watching the back door, finally giving in to his stomach and driving until he saw the glaring yellow arcs of a hamburger stand; back again, this time parking across Thirty-eighth and adjusting the rear-view mirror to frame the Rare Things’ front door. He settled down, bit into a tasteless hamburger, and, eating slowly, sipped now and then at the coffee whose heat had gone to leave the faint flavor of paper cup. Eating was something to do when you sat and watched; eating made time pass. At 9:38, a dark Mach-1 Mustang, Colorado plates BC 3226, parked in front of the store and Alvarez’s nephew Anthony strolled in. On the contact card Wager listed the Mustang and plates under the previous Texas entry. At 10:15, the inside lights went dark and a couple of minutes later Anthony came out and drove west on Thirty-eighth; Wager swung left at the corner and parked at the entrance of the alley in time to see the Firebird and the Caprice back away from the building and also go west. Wager marked the time and event on the contact card and completed the routine by calling for a check on Anthony’s license number.
“Registered to Rafael Alvarez, 1123 Monaco Parkway Circle, Denver. No warrants.”
“Thanks.”
A new car for nephew Anthony—gift of Rafael, whose store did little business. After finishing the entry on the card, Wager scraped together the crumbs and wads of paper from his lap and the car seat and crushed them into the paper bag; then he went past the dark store once more and headed downtown to meet Denby.
Denby had changed from light sport jacket and tie to Levis and a denim shirt. “How’s it look? It’s what I been wearing as number-three man. Is it all right?”
“Legitimate. All you need’s the patchouli oil.”
“Ha-ha.” He looked puzzled. “What’s that?”
“A perfume some of the hips wear.”
“Oh. You think this’ll be good enough without it?”
“All they have to do is see you. They don’t have to smell you.”
“Oh. Ha-ha.”
“Don’t let Willy know that I’m in the area.”
“Right. What about my hair, think it needs to come down this way more?”
“It looks fine.”
They went to the graveled parking area beside the OCD offices. Denby slid into his own car, rolled down the window, and called to Wager, “You have any idea where you’ll be?”
“Probably around the corner on Fifteenth. I’ll follow you.”
“Roger.”
Downtown traffic away from Capitol Hill was a brief pulse of surging cars filled with young faces still excited by the movies that had just let out. Wager circled the block on the one-way streets and pulled into a no-parking area in front of a skin-flick marquee. The young, clean-cut kid behind the tiny window peered at him nervously over the paperback book he pretended to read. Wager saw Denby’s car pass the red Woolworth’s sign once, turn left and then right down the block; a moment or two later, Denby’s voice came over the radio: “He’s on the corner, I’m picking him up now.” Wager clicked his transmit button twice to acknowledge and slumped down into the shadow of the seat. The blue Fury III went past the intersection slowly, with a large white-coated figure in the rider’s seat. Wager let a few cars get behind Denby’s, then pulled into traffic. Ahead, the Fury turned right out of the mainstream of traffic, and Wager turned behind it; seeing it cruise slowly north, he turned right and sprinted through a red light to parallel the blue car, turning back toward them on the next one-way street. When he glimpsed the Fury turning in to an alley just this side of Larimer, Wager eased his car, lightless, to the curb beside the dark heave of a demolition project. A minute—at the most two—later, the Fury backed into the empty street from the alley and headed west; Wager followed in silence until he saw Denby pause at the curb to let Willy lift himself out. Then he keyed the mike: “Did it go all right?”
Denby’s voice, mixing excitement and relief, came back: “Right! Real fast—she almost didn’t stop to count the money.”
“OK. I got an evidence bag; I’ll see you at the DPD lot.”
“Right.”
Denby was there ahead of him, angling through the enclosure crowded with police vehicles and civilian cars. Wager pulled in at the curb and walked to Denby, who dangled the balloon at him. “Here we are!”
“Fine. Let’s get it in the locker.” He had Denby fill out and sign the first entry, then walked with him to the locker where a baggy-eyed policewoman initialed the time and her receipt of the evidence and placed it in the safe. In the morning, a lab tech would initial the evidence out, check its substance, record it, and initial the evidence back in, where it would wait until the prosecutor needed it—the chain of possession carefully recorded on the cover of the brown bag.
CHAPTER 5
ANOTHER WEEK PASSED before Ray called in, a week when the action picked up with the same viral effect Wager had noted earlier. The word came in that Spider Robbins was in action again; and Fat Willy had dropped out of sight, which meant he had some deal going. The surveillance of Alvarez had become a routine of stops at the Rare Things and the Monaco Parkway address, but there were no new facts, no hard evidence. Simpson’s old position was still unfilled, but Ashcroft was finally back and following up the calls left by his stable of CIs; Denby had bought another balloon from Pat and Mike, this one alone, and his early excited worry was replaced by faintly swaggering self-confidence: “Those broads”—he shrugged—”no problem.” Wager wondered briefly if there was something wrong with himself; Denby offered a choice of personalities and Wager couldn’t seem to like any of them.
“What do you have, Ray?”
“Can you meet me at the Gaucho’s?”
“When?”
An old man’s wet cough into the mouthpiece: “Half-hour.”
“I’ll be there.”
It was a Larimer Street bar where water stains blossomed through the low ceiling of fiber panels; the bartender called them “gaucho marks,” but Wager couldn’t see anything funny in it. They just matched the rest of the beat-up decor: peeling asphalt tiles and tables that tilted wearily this way and that. Wager ordered a small draw and waited at the bar until Ray came in, his chalky face touched bright pink on the cheeks, limp white hair across the dome of his bony skull.
“Let’s sit back here.”
Wager ordered two more beers and followed the thin figure to the darkest of the many booths.
“You don’t smoke yet, hey?” The old man pushed a quivering filter tip between his narrow lips as Wager shook his head. He dropped his voice to a mumble and leaned across the table. A faintly bitter smell rose from its sticky surface. “You was right about this Alvarez—something’s going on. But it ain’t grass. It’s bigger.”
“Coke? Smack?”
“Smack.” He rumbled a cough and spit a wad of something on the wrinkled floor. “He’s pretty big in it, but I ain’t sure how big.”
“Where’d you get your information?”
“Well, I got to thinking, you know, about all the grass the guy was supposed to be handling. Anybody that big in grass I should of heard of. So I think maybe it’s something else, you know. And I put out the word I’m looking for some hard stuff, that my customers is shifting off grass.” He smiled at Wager apologetically and shrugged. “A little grass never hurt nobody, and I got to have cover.”
“It’s legal if you don’t get caught.”
“Yeah—that’s what I think, too. A
nyway, I ask around for some stuff”—he paused to cough again and rinse his mouth with beer—”and this black dude says he can put me on to it so long as I give him a broker’s fee and stay out of his territory. Which ain’t no problem; I wouldn’t last a minute in Five-Points.”
“Who was it?”
“A guy named Spider Robbins—you know him?”
“Roland Robbins? About six two, skinny and mean?”
“You know him. Anyway, he says, ‘I can put you on to some fifty-percent stuff.’”
“You want to do it?”
The thin shoulders rose and fell. “I ain’t never been in on anything this big before.”
“I’ll get the money for you. Where’d you say the stuff was coming from?”
“That’s what I’m getting to—I asked him was it good stuff and all that, and he says it comes in from Mexico and they cut it here. It’s a local product, he says, satisfaction guaranteed. I says real fast, ‘Yeah, I heard that before—give me a local name,’ and he says, ‘Ever heard of Alvarez?’ ‘He’s in grass,’ I says; and he nods like this, real slow, and I says, ‘Put me on it, I’ll see you in a couple days with the money.’”
“That’s all?”
“I wasn’t going to push him any more, Wager.”
“OK. When’d you talk to Robbins?”
“Just before I called you.”
Wager let the information settle and felt more pieces of the puzzle shift and click into place. There were a lot of gaps and as yet no solid evidence, but the shape was beginning to rise out of the growing collection of facts. “How much do you want to buy?”
“I don’t know—a couple ounces, maybe. I don’t want to come on too strong at first.”
“Right. Check with me tomorrow and I’ll have the money.” He pulled three twenty-dollar bills from his wallet. “Here’s a down payment on the tip. I think you’ve got something this time. If it goes all the way, you could clean up.”
“Hey, that’s real good!”
Wager drove to a pay phone and dialed Leonard’s number, telling the surly voice to meet him at the Frontier in twenty minutes. As usual, the soft-faced kid was as late as he thought safe.