The Alvarez Journal: A Gabe Wager Novel

by Rex Burns

  He had it figured out. “Thirty, thirty-five men.”

  “Jesus H. Christ! Why don’t you ask for a tank division!”

  “Do you have one?”

  “Don’t get wise-assed with me, Wager. You’re asking me to pull a lot of people off the streets and off other cases.”

  “It will be worth it if we get him.”

  The Inspector drew on the cigar and looked out his window to the capitol building across the street. In the overcast, its gray stone seemed heavier and darker than usual. “What do you have in mind?”

  “I’d like a round-the-clock tail on Alvarez starting now. That’ll take four men. When we get the word he’s going to El Paso, I want to follow him; me and Billington … and Denby. Then we’ll need someone covering the airport and bus terminal to pick up on the courier when he comes back. Then we’ll need all the men we can get: on the courier, on Alvarez, on the Rare Things, on the phone tap. And some backup people, too, for a network. It’s the only chance we’ll have to get him at the cut.”

  “You’ll want most of them for a week or so.”

  “Yes, sir. Maybe less.”

  “When you get something worthwhile, I’ll see what I can do. Can I have this tape for a while?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Back in their office, Denby slapped Wager’s shoulder. “Man, we’ve got him!”

  “Not yet, we don’t. Billy, how about twisting Martinez’s tail so he doesn’t forget us.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  They were all on their way. Or at least it felt like it for a day or two. Until the surveillance settled into its pattern and the tapes lived up to Wager’s prediction, with only an occasional deal implied here and there. Wager, taking his turn with Alvarez, spent the late nights and early mornings at the Rare Things or down the street from Alvarez’s home. Routine: Alvarez at the store until 9 or 10 P.M., then home; sometimes he left earlier and went to a movie or a restaurant with his family. A good home-loving parent, taxpaying citizen, probably played church bingo, too. At 7:45 in the morning, Alvarez’s three kids left for school; and he left the house about 9 A.M. Usually to the store, sometimes shopping with the wife. A week. Two weeks. Patience and more patience. On the calendar at his desk, Wager crossed out the days leading up to the circled “30” that marked the end of the wiretap. On the eighteenth, he went to see Sonnenberg.

  “We need that extension.”

  “Alvarez still sitting on his tail?”

  “He probably knows we’re watching him, but he’s going to have to move soon. He’s got customers depending on him.”

  “What do you have from the tapes so far?”

  “A few more deals, but not much that will hold up in court. Billy’s come up with something, though: one of his DEA agents made a heroin buy in the Pecos Lounge; he was told that if he wanted more he could call 632-6081 and order it. That’s the number of the Rare Things.”

  “That’ll help with Weinberg. Can you get it in an affidavit? Firsthand?”

  “I can try. I’ve also got some addresses from the phone numbers on the tapes.” He showed Sonnenberg the list. “The ones with the stars are known traffickers.”

  “OK, that’s something more. But you’d better know there won’t be another one, no matter what evidence comes up.”

  “I hope to hell we won’t need another one.”

  CHAPTER 12

  OTERO STARTED IT with a mid-afternoon call: “My man contacted me about five minutes ago, Gabe. The Rare Things placed a call to Juarez, Mexico, to the residence of Ricardo Valdez. He got a price of sixty thousand for four kilos. The Juarez number said he’d call back when the stuff was ready.”

  “Thanks, Phil. Let me know as soon as Valdez sets up a date.” It could be a few hours or a few days; he took the information to Sergeant Johnston, who started making his phone calls.

  “Suzy, get the motor pool—I want a pickup truck with a camper on it. With plates from El Paso County.” A little humor never hurt. “See if they can have it ready by tonight. I’m not sure how long we’ll need it.”

  Billy was off duty—he had a morning shift—and Denby was with Alvarez and due to check in at four. He left word with the duty watch for both men to call him, and then he telephoned Martinez.

  “Things are starting to happen, Frankie-baby. I don’t want you to miss anything we should know.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You’d better not.”

  Once again he went over the procedures list, once again trying to outguess all the possibilities, once again with that inevitable feeling of something forgotten. His phone rang; it was Denby. “Something up?”

  “Alvarez is setting up a buy in Juarez. What’s he doing now?”

  “He’s been at the store all afternoon. Same routine, no customers.”

  “No extra traffic?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Stay around home when you get off duty. He might start the run any time.”

  “OK. Say, ah, any idea how long it might be? I ought to tell the wife.”

  “Depends on how fast he drives and how quick he deals. Four or five days, maybe.”

  “OK.”

  Just before quitting time, Suzy told him the motor pool called. “The truck’s ready. You’ll have to sign it out.”

  It took forty-five minutes to fill out the paperwork and transfer the paraphernalia from his car to the camper: camera and lenses, binoculars, an extra box of rounds, the handcuffs that were always getting lost somewhere under the car seat. Back at the now quiet headquarters, the duty watch told him Billington had telephoned. “He said for you to call him at home.”

  One of Billy’s young sons—either Chris or Erik—answered, and Wager could hear the high-pitched “Daddy, it’s for you.”

  “This is Gabe. Alvarez is setting up the meet in Juarez.”

  “When do we leave?”

  “It could be soon, it could be in a few days.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  But it wasn’t soon. The afternoon, the evening, the next morning, and the time after that stretched into the worst kind of waiting; everyone seemed to be leaning over a cliff, tensely holding back until the word came to jump. Even Suzy began to answer the telephone with a curt voice, and Wager had to start sucking mints to cut the acid coffee that he kept pouring into his stomach. Otero grew tired of answering the telephone—”Gabe, I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything. I said I would and believe me, I’ll do it.” And Wager grew just as tired of answering Sergeant Johnston’s question: “Ed, I don’t know when. Tell them they’ll just have to stay loose. We’re just as eager as they are to get this crap moving.” And Denby, between sneezes and coffee, kept wishing he could tell his wife something definite: “She just doesn’t like this kind of insecurity.”

  When Otero’s office finally called, Wager was at his apartment sipping a beer and watching Lieutenant Colombo make the guilty confess by popping back into the room and waving a cigar at them.

  “The call just came through, Detective Wager. Just a minute, I’ll replay it for you.”

  A voice with heavy Spanish rhythm came over the crackling connection, “Qué pasa, hombre?”

  “Lo mismo. You ready with it?” It wasn’t quite Rafael’s voice, and not young enough for Anthony. Possibly Henry.

  “Thursday.”

  “OK—Rafael, he’ll call you when he gets there.”

  The tape clicked silent. Otero’s man asked, “You want it again?”

  “No. Thanks for letting me know.”

  El Paso was about six fifty, maybe seven hundred miles: a day and a night or two short days’ drive. Wager traced the probable route down from Denver and along the Front Range to Trinidad, then across the state line into New Mexico and up over Raton Pass. Down through Santa Fe and Albuquerque, to run along the Rio Grande and finally angle east to the spur of Texas where El Paso and Ciudad Juarez sat across from each other on the yellow national boundary line. The map also showed a number of smaller r
oads, narrow blue or dotted bands cutting arcs and elbows off the red trail of the main highway; and a lot of open, empty country where the camper would stick out like a sore thumb. Yet to make the case stand up in court, they would have to be with the suspect every inch of the way, would have to get close enough to identify positively the Mexican connection and the sale; photograph or mark it, if possible; trace the dope back to Denver; and, finally, try to nail good old Rafael with the dope in his pocket. And Denby, who should have known better, was saying Rafael was already in their hands. He poured himself another beer and sipped it through another segment of the TV drama, the part where the bad guy thinks he’s on top of it all just before Colombo drops the bomb. But if he’d been asked to say what the TV detective’s bomb was, he simply wouldn’t have known—his mind was on that red line of a highway wiggling south.

  After a while, he called the duty watch at headquarters. “I’ll be gone for about an hour. If anybody wants me, get a number. I’ll call them back at”—he glanced at his watch—”ten-thirty.”

  The hour was spent shopping at an all-night food store, Wager loading up the wire cart with cans and boxes of quick foods. At one entrance to the store was the inevitable ice machine and, after storing the food in the camper’s tiny cupboards, he slid a couple of blocks of ice into the cooler unit. Eggs, butter, a case of Coors, milk, fresh fruit—all in under the ice compartment. He hoped that one of them would be a good cook. He measured the LP gas and the water reservoirs: both full. The bunks were only bare mattresses—he should get some blankets and towels from the apartment. And toilet paper—he almost forgot the toilet paper. Back into the empty store and aware of the lone clerk’s nervous eyes following him up one aisle and down the other. Finally, it seemed done; the truck, spongy on its shocks, rocked heavily up and over the cross streets as he drove back to his apartment, stopping once to top off the gas tank at an all-night Serv-Ur-Self. Then he called in: “Any messages?”

  “One. Here’s the number.”

  It was Francisco’s. Wager dialed it; it rang twice. “Hello?”

  “This is Wager.”

  “It’s about goddam time—I thought you were hot for this!”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “There’s a buy set up for this weekend. Rafael and a friend of Anthony’s are driving down to Juarez for the deal.”

  “When are they leaving?”

  “Wednesday morning. The stuff should be back Saturday or Sunday.”

  “Who’s this friend of Anthony’s?”

  “I don’t know his name. I’ve seen him around is all. Say, you don’t sound too excited about this; you know I’m really out on a limb talking to you like this.”

  “I’m excited. What car are they driving?”

  “I can’t say for sure. They usually take one from the store and then trade off somewhere for another one.”

  That was a wrinkle to iron out. “When’s the cut?”

  “I don’t know. It’ll be sometime after the stuff cools for a while. Maybe next week, maybe a couple of weeks. It’s up to how Rafael feels about it.”

  “I should be back when Rafael is and I’ll give you a call. But if you hear anything about the cut and I’m not around, you call this number and ask for Detective Sergeant Johnston.” He gave him the duty watch’s number. “Tell him where the cut is and that I said you were to call him. Repeat the number to me.”

  “I got it. I ain’t a kid.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “It’s 255-1522.”

  “Detective Sergeant Johnston, the minute you hear a thing.”

  “Yeah. Hey, now you owe me again, right?”

  “If we get that cut, we’ll not only owe you, we’ll pay you.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten percent of the value.”

  A cautious pause. “That could be a lot.”

  “How much do you think it might be?”

  “I heard Anthony mention sixty, maybe seventy big ones.”

  That fit. “Ten percent. And protection if you want it.”

  “Jesus, I hope I don’t need it. You people couldn’t do it anyway—you don’t know Anthony. Just pay me and keep your goddam mouth shut.”

  “What we owe, we pay.”

  “I hope so.”

  On Monday afternoon, Sergeant Johnston held a conference: Wager, Denby, and Billington, along with ten members of the task force, crowded into the small room. Johnston introduced the two or three faces that were new and then propped up the organization chart he and Wager had put together that morning. At the top was Rafael’s mug shot, with a line running down from him to the smaller pictures of Henry and Anthony. Beside their faces was the label “Lieutenants.” Valdez’s photograph was on the same row, with “Supplier” under his name. The third row held other pictures labeled “Bagmen”: Francisco, Spider Robbins, Pat and Mike (with a green dot after their names indicating conviction), some blank squares of Unidentifieds. Beneath that were the known bagmen and female associates. Most of the women were young, some even pretty despite the police photograph and the hatred or fear that closed their faces against the camera. All but one were Chicanos; she was a blond Anglo. Wager knew most of them; they gathered like flies on shit, and if you stuck your nose in enough shit, you began to recognize the flies. Along the border of the organization chart, and listed by police district, were the bars and restaurants known to be frequented by the suspects. Sergeant Johnston went through the chart in a stiff voice, adding a comment here and there. Suzy was kept busy filling and refilling the coffeepot.

  “Gabe, you want to take the next part? Detective Wager will now go over the next part.”

  He picked his way forward through the knees and feet. “We have information that Alvarez and an accomplice will make their run Wednesday morning. They may switch cars before leaving the city. What I’d like is for the local surveillance on the store and on Alvarez’s home to tail them to the switch, and then—if they do it—to have a new unit pick them up from there. If there’s no switch, the original tail should stay with them. The suspects should be followed south as far as Colorado Springs, where Detectives Billington, Denby, and I will be waiting. We guess they’ll take the freeway south, but they might take this route”—his grease pencil slid down the acetate-covered map of the state’s roads—”State Highway 83, just to see if anybody’s following them. We’ll be stationed at this point here”—he drew a circle—”just north of the Springs where 83 and I-25 join. There’s a little roadside park where people pull over to look at the Air Force Academy, and it’s within radio distance of both highways. We’ll also try to establish phone contact with unit headquarters. The tail should use the police band to tell us you’re coming and on what highway; Sergeant Johnston can let us know ahead of time what kind of car you’ll be driving.”

  “I’ll give them yours.”

  He waited for the ripple of laughter to die. “They probably know that one. Anyway, we’ll pull in behind the tail and come up on closed channel two; give us a description of the suspect vehicle and then pull off somewhere in the Springs. We’ll take it from there.”

  There were some questions and suggestions but none of them worth a damn. They seldom were. One of the men, whose face Wager hadn’t recognized, raised his hand. “What’s the chance of popping Alvarez when he crosses the border with the stuff? Maybe we could get him on a federal charge.”

  “We’re not sure Alvarez crosses it himself. If he does, we just might tip off customs right then.”

  “What about the buy? He’s gonna look at the stuff to make sure it’s good before he pays off; we might nail him then.”

  Billy answered that one: “It’ll be in Mexico, and we don’t trust the Mexican officials all that much. We know that some of them are owned by local dealers, but we don’t know which ones. We just don’t want to take a chance on a leak.”

  “The only real chance we’ll have for a possession charge is at the cut here. When Alvarez comes back from the run, we’ll jus
t have to put a lot of people all over the place. Sergeant Johnston will be organizing that end of it while we follow Alvarez, and that’s when most of you will be involved.”

  There were few other comments; the meeting broke up. Back in their office, Billy yawned and scrubbed at his bloodshot eyes. “I’m going home—I’ve got to get some sleep.”

  Denby sneezed and asked, “What about the truck—is it all set for the trip?”

  “I picked up some stuff last night. I hope you like Chinese food.”

  “I’m allergic to almonds.”

  They neared the rendezvous point at seven, just after the late-autumn sunrise. The dawn’s brief glare washed against the rock faces of the Front Range, tinting the granite ribs of Pikes Peak to the southwest and turning the scattered mine tailings into scarlet spills here and there across the slope of the range. It gave Wager the hungry feeling he sometimes had when he let himself think of the quiet emptiness of the high valleys; it was a feeling he did not like, because it reminded him too sharply of the other things he would rather be doing. The answer was not to let himself think of that feeling, but to watch the heavy work-bound traffic swinging in long lines down and over I-25 into Colorado Springs and toward the south gate of the Air Force Academy. Wager steered the pickup truck into a gas station and while the tank was filled and Billy and Denby trooped to the rest room, he called Denver.

  “Ed? This is Gabe.” It was a bad connection and he had to shout through the traffic sounds echoing in the open phone hood. “We’re on location. Have you heard anything?”

  A faint “Not yet” through the humming wire.

  “Here’s this number.” He read it twice before Johnston had it. “It’s a pay phone in a Conoco station at the south gate of the Academy. We’ll wait here and you call us when you get word that Rafael’s on his way.” Damned if he wanted to spend the day waiting for nothing if the tip had been wrong.

  When the truck was topped off, Wager pulled up near the telephone and sat in the warm cab listening, while Billy and Denby went in for breakfast. Then he ate in the chrome and plastic and glass restaurant while the other two waited at the phone.