The Alvarez Journal: A Gabe Wager Novel

by Rex Burns

  “The car checked out, Howie.”

  The line was silent a few moments. “Man, he’s reliable. I’d hate like hell to lose him. Let me make a couple of calls and I’ll get back to you. You at your office?”

  “Thanks, Howie. And don’t let this information get too far.”

  Denby’s eyebrows bobbed query and Wager shook his head. “He’ll call back in a little while.”

  “Gabe?” Suzy came in, her cheeks still red from the cold wind. “Here’s the other Alvarez file you wanted.”

  “Thanks, Suzy. Let’s take a look at this; it’s Rafael’s older brother Henry.” He and Denby sat and studied the Xeroxed pages, Wager adding occasional lines to the small notebook he was beginning to think of as the Alvarez journal.

  “He spent some time in El Reno, too. Just after Rafael. It must run in the family.”

  Wager grunted and took a careful look at the small list of known associates. No Francisco X. Martinez, no Fuzzy Valdez. Two convictions: one for burglary—suspended, first offense—and a two-year rap for transporting marijuana. It was the usual slim jacket on a small-time crook.

  “Think you can find out from the El Reno authorities who the Alvarez brothers ran around with?”

  “Sure—if anybody remembers.”

  “Give it a try.”

  Denby dialed long-distance information while Wager started through the papers once more, filling in Henry’s life from his own memories. The addresses, the names, even the dates created echoes: popular songs, sports names, the really important news of the district—Father Heinmann being replaced by the first Hispano priest, Father Lopez; the rumbles in high school between the Vaqueros and the Iron Knights; his cousin’s arrest; and the crying that seemed to last for days when his grandfather died. Beneath the glide of his thoughts, Wager heard the mumble of Denby’s voice; its final phrase and a waiting silence brought him back.

  “The warden’s secretary said he’d check with some of the guards and call us back.”

  “Fine. Let’s go for a ride.”

  In the car, Denby finally asked, “Where to?”

  Wager eased into the heavy traffic swerving around the gray stone statehouse. “I spotted a car at the Import Shop last night belonging to Francisco Xavier Martinez, 800 Thirtieth Street.”

  “Last night? What time?”

  “About one.”

  “What in the hell were you doing there at that time of night?”

  “I thought I’d swing by after filing Labelle.”

  “Jesus, don’t you ever sleep?”

  “Not worth a damn lately.”

  Denby yawned widely. “Boy, I did! And was it good!”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  The neighborhood’s large older homes were being cut up into apartments for transients, secretaries, older people, kids going to the new metro university. They all seemed to have cars and bicycles and no place to park them; finally backing into a distant space at the curb, Wager noted Martinez’s Buick Skylark across the street from the apartments. The Dalewood’s foyer was a tiny box lined with mailboxes and a locked inner door; another door, Apartment 1, was labeled “Manager.” Wager verified the name on the mailbox for Apartment 6.

  “Want to try it?”

  Wager nodded and rang the buzzer. A woman’s voice answered through the door, “Manager! Be right there.”

  The door opened a few inches. “Yes?” She was a short nervous woman with one of those faces that seemed to be pulled to a point by the nose.

  “I’m Detective Wager, Denver Police Department. I’d like to ask you a few questions about a tenant.”

  “You got identification?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She peered at the card and badge. “Wager, is it? What can I help you with? My husband isn’t here—he’s down trying to get a valve for the heating element. It’s old and it’s always going out and nobody carries the parts any more. But he should be back soon. Who is it you’re after?”

  “Just some information about one of your tenants, ma’am. Francisco Xavier Martinez, Apartment 6.”

  “Oh, him. He seems awful nice. I rent to some Mexicans and they seem nice. Mostly quiet and pay their bills. What kind of trouble’s he in?”

  “There are no warrants on him, ma’am. We’d just like some information about anybody who visits him.”

  “Visitors? He don’t have visitors. Most people here don’t have visitors. It’s a quiet place.”

  “Doesn’t anybody come see him?” Denby asked.

  “Not that I know of. My husband might of seen somebody, but Mr. Martinez don’t spend much time around the apartment, and when he does he’s pretty quiet. You can’t tell if he’s in or out most of the time. I guess he spends a lot of time at one of the Mexican restaurants. You’re Mexican, ain’t you? You know how they do—it’s like a club, I guess.”

  Wager nodded. “Do you know the name of the restaurant?”

  “Can’t say as I do. There’s half a dozen around here. A lot of Mexicans are moving in, and some of them not so nice. No offense, but you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Did Martinez sign a lease for the room?”

  “Apartment. We don’t rent rooms, just apartments. And yes, he did.”

  “Do you have a copy?”

  “Certainly! We don’t rent without at least a six-month lease, one month in advance for damage deposit. That’s how we keep a good clientele. It’s awful easy around here to start renting rooms by the day or week, and first thing you know a nice place is turned into a flophouse. There’s a lot of hippies, too, that don’t care for nothing and tear a place up in no time. This is a nice apartment house, and me and Mr. Miller aim to keep it that way.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Can we see a copy of the lease?”

  “Certainly. Glad to help out the police. You come when we need you, I reckon we should be here when you need us.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

  She held the door for them to come into the living room, a long box with bay windows covered by white curtains spotted with tiny cotton balls. The pigeonhole desk against the wall served as the office and she riffled through a drawer for a few moments. “Here it is. You can’t take it with you, but you can look at it. What kind of trouble’s Mr. Martinez in?”

  “None that we know of, ma’am. It’s some of his friends we’re worried about.”

  “Well, he seems like a mighty nice man. And pays his bills. I’m sure if his friends are up to no good, he don’t know nothing about it.”

  “He won’t even know we were asking about him if you don’t tell him, Ma’am.” The form read “Employment: salesman at 1543 W. 38th. Personal reference: Diana Lucero, 3422 Kalamath. Prior address: 764 Navajo, Farmington, New Mexico. Vehicle: 1971 Buick Skylark, Colo, plates BC 7130.” Wager finished copying the information. “We’d appreciate it if you kept this confidential, Ma’am. There’s no sense upsetting Mr. Martinez for nothing.”

  “That’s so—he’s a nice man.”

  They sat a few moments in Wager’s car as he leafed through the notebook. “This Diana Lucero, she lives at the same address as Henry Alvarez.”

  “And Martinez is a salesman for the Rare Things.”

  “Which doesn’t sell much of anything.”

  Wager radioed for a make on Diana Lucero and drove down Champa toward the police building. The reply came back when they were two or three blocks from the police center: “No DPD number, no warrants.”

  “Ten-four.” That made it a little harder; he was getting into the vague area where official data left off but the suspect’s actions and contacts kept up. It was an area where informants were a must, but with the Alvarez family it would have to be someone from the inside. Cruising through the parking compound, he finally located a slot on the crowded asphalt.

  “Let’s see if we can find Masters,” he said. “Maybe he got to Annie.”

  They located the Negro detective drinking coffee in the cubicle that was his office. He pul
led two more cups off a shelf and wiped them with a paper towel.

  “How’s Annie?”

  “We kept her up all night before we booked her—great God almighty, I’m tired! Cream and sugar?”

  “Black.”

  Denby shook his head. “I had a lot this morning. Too much coffee’s bad for the heart.”

  “Oh?” Masters’ wide brown eyes queried Wager, who glanced away.

  “Did you get anything?”

  “Oh. No. But she’s getting ripe. The public defender’s with her now. He’s gonna show her she ain’t got a chance; then I’ll lay a deal on her.”

  “See what she knows about the supplier. Labelle said he was a Chicano kid, but that’s all she let slip.”

  “Hey, we getting integrated pushers! That this Alvarez dude you’re after?”

  “It could be one of his associates. I don’t think it’s Alvarez himself. He’s no kid.”

  “I see.” The telephone buzzed and Masters said “All right” into the mouthpiece and hung up. “The public defender’s leaving. You want to come with me?”

  “I’d like to.”

  “I better stay here,” said Denby.

  “You better, man! Little Annie’s a little pissed at you.”

  She waited in one of the windowless interrogation rooms, still pulling deeply on the cigarette left by the defender. The matron, a skinny white who looked as if she had sour thoughts about all men, asked, “How long do you want her?”

  Masters shrugged. “Half-hour, maybe. We’ll call when we’re through.” He turned the chair back toward Annie and draped himself over it to stare into her worried face. “Hello, missy.”

  The younger woman grunted and stared dully at Wager through the glare of the lamp, then back to the tabletop greased by sweaty arm prints.

  “The public defender’s told you we got a case on you,” Masters said. “We got your ass, Annie, busted and booked, and we’re gonna get a conviction, too. I bet the defender told you to plead guilty and ask for court’s mercy. The old first-offense bit.”

  “He told me I didn’t have to talk to you!”

  “He didn’t tell you he was gonna get you off, did he?”

  “I bet you and him in this together.”

  “We don’t have to be, missy. I know when I got a good case. And you are it.”

  She sucked the cigarette down to a crackling ash, her forehead pinched into deep wrinkles that made her look far older than her twenty-four years.

  “That public defender’s right about one thing—he ain’t got a defense,” Masters said. “But you better listen to me, little mama: there ain’t nobody can guarantee you court’s mercy.”

  “It ain’t but a first offense. I ain’t never been busted before.”

  “It ain’t one count, Annie, it’s two. And them things add up, first offense or not. And I’ll lay something else on you, foxy: you black, and the man, he’s white.”

  She finished the cigarette and jabbed it against the cardboard ashtray, sending it sliding and spilling off the table.

  “Annie, you know where I’m coming from.”

  “I know.”

  “You know where I’m going, too.”

  “I can’t do it!”

  “There ain’t nothing to do. All you got to do is make a phone call every now and then. I ain’t asking you to buy and I ain’t asking you to set anybody up.”

  “And you ain’t asking me to snitch!”

  “I’m giving you a chance to get out of this.” Masters offered her a cigarette; she stared at it a few moments before she shrugged and reached for it. “Don’t make it any harder for me, Annie. It ain’t everybody the DA says OK to.”

  “What I gotta do?” she said dully.

  “Here’s the deal—I go to the DA and ask him to hold up proceedings. What that means is you don’t even go to court. If he says yes—and maybe he won’t—then your charges go in the drawer.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “That means we hold on to them and can file them again at any time.”

  “That DA’s gonna own me!”

  “No, not him, baby, me,” Masters said. “I’m the one that’s gonna own you.”

  “I be better off in jail!”

  “We can fix that right quick.”

  “It ain’t fair—it’s a first arrest!”

  “Ha, where’s a nigger gal get treated fair—you tell me that!”

  “Well, that lawyer said …”

  “He said ‘chances are,’ or ‘the court’s often lenient,’ or ‘maybe the judge will appreciate.’ That’s what he said. You better listen to me, Annie, and listen good because I’m getting short on time. I can maybe get you off if you’re willing to give me a call every now and then. If not, then you can take your chances in court with that honky public defender and that honky judge. It’s up to you.” He shoved the chair back and stood into the dimness above the lamp.

  She looked up toward him, the glare of the light etching the lines on her face even deeper; then she stared at Wager. He stared back without blinking and listened to the heavy silence of the room and to the periodic rush of traffic outside.

  Her eyes fell from the men and stared again at the table. “All right.” Then she looked up angrily. “But I ain’t gonna snitch on no friends of mine!”

  “Sure, baby. I wouldn’t ask you that!” Masters opened the door to call the matron. “We’ll know this afternoon if the DA buys it. Hang in there, baby.”

  “Yeah—ain’t no place else to hang.”

  In the hall, Masters grinned at Wager. “What’d I tell you, man! That old racist shit works every time!”

  “I think you got a good one, Charlie.”

  “Yeah. I bet she’s good for a year. Maybe two.”

  Wager, interrupted by his radio, couldn’t answer. “This is two-one-two.”

  “You have an urgent call at 837-3496.”

  That was Howie’s number; Wager borrowed Masters’s phone and dialed an outside line, then the customs agent.

  “Hi, Howie, what do you have for me?”

  “I’ve got a no-no.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means Juarez would like your cooperation with Valdez.”

  “They want my cooperation? I’m asking them to cooperate with me!”

  “He’s really a valuable CI, Gabe. You wouldn’t believe the stuff he comes up with. Information that nobody else ever had a chance at.”

  “He may be real deep into heroin in my territory. I just want some information on him. It was his car I spotted.”

  “His car isn’t him. He hasn’t been north of El Paso in a month and there’s nothing on him locally about any heroin. El Paso port authorities aren’t about to stir him up for no reason. You know how it is with a good CI. And Valdez has really come up with some heavy tips.”

  “What about existing information—known associates, history, records, that stuff?”

  “Oh, sure. No problem with that. They’re sending it up as soon as they get it together, and I should have it in a few days. They just don’t want anybody messing with him unless there’s substantial evidence. And they want to be notified of any action concerning him.”

  “Well, I sure as hell can’t move on him in Texas, can I? That’s a little beyond my jurisdiction.”

  “El Paso authorities are just nervous, Gabe. He’s number one in their stable, and ninety-five percent reliable, too. You can understand how they feel.”

  “A good snitch is hard to find.”

  “If they’re like Valdez.”

  “I’d appreciate a call when the information comes in.”

  “As soon as I get it.”

  Masters and Denby looked at him as he set the phone down. “Mexican connection?”

  “More like a disconnection,” he said.

  CHAPTER 7

  WHENEVER WAGER TOOK time to think about the philosophy of his business, it seemed to boil down to a handful of familiar words that probably fit every other bus
iness, too: patience, memory, luck, persistence, detail, sequence. The last wasn’t the most important, but without it none of the detective work built into a court case; and without a court case the detective work wasn’t worth a feathery fart. Sequence of events, sequence of cause and effect, sequence of evidence, sequence of testimony. A detective had to be a lawyer, and a sneaky, crafty, tricky one, if he wasn’t to lose the case before it even got to court. Like the Alvarez file: he could see it all, could lay out the action with a lot of truth—Rafael at the top, with a connection in El Paso; lieutenants, brother Henry and nephew Anthony, and maybe another couple of people who supervised the bagmen and the drops; Francisco Martinez one of the bagmen. He could see it, but what he saw would never get to court without all the little steps of fact and corroboration. A game. It was all a game where the rules of play were more important than the right or wrong of an act, and when you finally sent someone up it was punishment not for breaking a law but for the defense not playing the game as well as the prosecution.

  Even now, as he sat on the smooth yellow wood of the courtroom bench and waited for Labelle’s plea, the dark-faced woman sitting in the empty jury box with her warden seemed no longer to be the person he had arrested, but a distant object in an impersonal game. The distance used to bother him; somehow it seemed that the prisoner should be striding nervously back and forth from the bench to the table to the jury box. The prisoner always seemed aloof from his own trial, as if he weren’t really there to be tried, weren’t really there to be punished. It had bothered him until finally he realized that he was just as distant, that he—the arresting officer—was also an object in a game whose players strode back and forth with their hint of self-conscious drama or sat murmuring together at the bleak tables on each side of the arena. Labelle sat and watched; he sat and watched. They would be called and used as testimony and then dismissed, and the game would play to its end while they watched.

  Wager stood at the bailiff’s cry as Judge McCormick entered to start the afternoon session. Then came the usual settling-down noises, the shuffle of papers by the judge, the relaxing and shifting by the spectators and witnesses scattered over the rows of long polished benches, the fading murmur from lawyers allowed to use the tiny chambers as a waiting room. The judge checked the docket and mumbled a few words to the stenographer, who mumbled a reply; at last he nodded to the bailiff.