Farnsworth Score

by Rex Burns

  “I’d like to see the custodial reports on D.E.A.-6, file number 31942, Farnsworth, Richard Allen.”

  “Yes, sir. Would you sign a check-out form please?”

  Wager looked at the small pad of yellow mimeographed paper. “This is something new?”

  “Yes, sir. For better security.” She bent to pull the file from a cabinet and Wager admired her legs: slender and firm and straight. With a little better face, she really would be nice. She laid the file on the shelf and watched him with eyes made larger and darker by a faint touch of eye shadow.

  He found an almost quiet corner of the busy corridor and leaned against a wall to study the laboratory analysis and custody sheet. The suspect material had been checked into property with a request for analysis at 10:38 P.M. by Rietman, initialed by the night clerk, W.G., then checked out again at 1:07 P.M. the following day by A.D. That would be Archie Douglas, the chief technician at the lab. At 4:13 P.M. it was checked back in by E.M., with a copy of the lab report: 96% lactose, 3% inert matter, 1% cocaine trace. That was all— traces don’t make cases. Out of habit, he copied the facts into his small wire-bound notebook and took the papers back to the property room.

  “Thanks, miss.”

  She dropped the manila folder back into the drawer.

  “Do you know who ‘W.G.’s is? He was on duty last Thursday night.”

  “Wilma Green. She’s a uniformed officer.”

  “Thanks again.” Wager filled in the blank spot on his page and smiled good-bye to Miss Miller. She did not smile back; to hell with her.

  In his car, Wager radioed Suzy: “Two-one-six?”

  “This is two-one-six.”

  “Two-one-two. Anything yet from Detroit?”

  “Negative.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Hansen’s call numbers were two-one-four; Wager radioed them, and the detective’s voice came back quickly in reply, “Go ahead, two-one-two.”

  “Are you in District 1?”

  “Yeah, a few blocks from unit headquarters on Colfax.”

  “Meet me there in ten.”

  It was back to headquarters whether he wanted it or not. Johnston was waiting. “Hey, Gabe! Here’s the name of your liaison in Boulder—Sergeant Paul Mayhew. He’s with the sheriff’s office, and the inspector says he’s first string.”

  “Mayhew in the S.O. Thanks, Ed.”

  Ed gave the little punch in the air. “We’ll get the bastards, Gabe.”

  Hansen was sitting at his desk; Wager nodded to him. “Did Johnston tell you that you’ll be taking some of my cases?”

  Hansen’s eyes rounded. “No. You got a special?”

  “Yes. Here’s what I’ve been doing.” He pulled a small deck of contact cards from his own desk and sat on the corner of Hansen’s. “There’s a buy and bust tomorrow afternoon in Cheesman Park. Pinetti’s the contact man—he’s on loan from Crimes Against Persons. Give him a call and let him know you’ll be handling the surveillance. One of my C.I.s says he’s onto something big; he’s always onto something big, but it has to be listened to just in case. That’s Doc. Fat Willy is setting up a dude in the Points. I’ll call them now and say you’re covering for me. Let’s see.… This one may build into something. It’s a lead into Pueblo, and the C.I. thinks it’s tied into Mexican heroin. He’s just on the edge of the action, but the next month or two should tell. The rest of these”—he tapped the cards—“I’ll give to Ashcroft.”

  Hansen finished making a few notes and looked up, pulling at the tip of his ragged brown mustache. “How long are you gone for?”

  “No idea.”

  “Where to?”

  “The Western Slope.” If Hansen or anybody else had a need to know more, Ed would tell them. If not, he wouldn’t.

  “Jesus. I’ll bet it’s Aspen. That place is dope city any more.”

  “The whole Western Slope is unreal.”

  “Yeah. Say, have you seen Reitman?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “I hear he’s pretty sore.”

  Wager grunted, “Me cae gordo.”

  “Boy, I’d be sore, too, if it was me. He claims he ran a good test.”

  “That’s what he says. But it’s happened to other people, too.”

  “Still, it sure is too bad.” Hansen’s line buzzed.

  Wager turned to his own desk to leaf through the little book of coded numbers for his C.I.s. The first one he dialed rang twice before a wheezing, sleepy voice said, “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s Gabe, Willy. I’m going out of town for a while. You’ll be working with Hansen. You know him?”

  “No, I don’t know him, man. And I don’t dig this shit of you handing me around like I was a motherfucking dog or something. Why don’t you just put my fucking name on the bulletin board down there or something?”

  “It can’t be helped, Willy.”

  “Say, man, maybe Fat Willy can help it.”

  “Hansen’s got all the bread now, Fat Man. If you want some, work with him. If not, wait’ll I get back. It’s up to you.”

  In the pause, Wager heard the black’s slow, fleshy breath. “How long you gonna be out of town?”

  “A couple months. Maybe more.”

  “Jesus Hebrew Christ! I been working with you for three years and now you pull shit like this. You pass me around like that, and people gonna find out who I am. You don’t think nothing of leaving me hanging by the balls, do you?”

  Wager didn’t. “It’s part of the job.”

  “Yeah! Well, maybe me and this Hansen dude will get along. Maybe I won’t want no more of your shit when you get back!”

  “Willy, I’ll bring you a little present.”

  “Shee-it!” The line went dead. Wager pictured the huge black figure wheezing and grunting curses as he always did when his routine was changed and the cold breeze of fear went across his sweating back. But he would work for Hansen, Wager knew. The big man was always hungry. And he would work for Wager later, for as long as Wager needed him—or as long as he lasted.

  The second number was answered by a woman whose voice Wager did not recognize. “Is Doc there?”

  The male voice came on quickly, “Who’s it?”

  “It’s Gabe. You got another old lady already?”

  “Hey, man, yeah! Really far out! It’s about time you called—hey, I’m really onto it big this time.”

  “Right, Doc. Listen …”

  The high-pitched voice cut in, “We can get it by the pound, man—I mean really heavy!”

  “Listen, Doc—I’m going out of town for a while. You’ll be working with Detective Hansen.”

  “Who? What’s his first name?”

  “Hansen. Roger Hansen.”

  “I got it. It’s really big, man. Too bad you’re gonna miss it.”

  “Right, I’m all broken up, too. But listen, now, don’t give Hansen bad hype.”

  “Naw, naw. I wouldn’t shit him any more than I would you. Tell him to call me as soon as he can, you hear?”

  “Sure will, Doc.” Wager hung up and jotted both numbers on a page torn from the small notebook. He slipped it on Hansen’s desk. “Willy’s not happy about the switch, but he’ll come around. Doc wants you to call him right away, but don’t waste too much time on him.”

  “He’s not reliable?”

  “Sometimes he comes up with something solid, but he’s not consistent. Still, make him think you’re with him. He really eats that crap up.”

  “I know the type,” said Hansen. The younger detective fingered the page with the numbers. “You really think Rietman just fucked up?”

  Wager stared at him, “What?”

  “Well, Rietman could of—well—if he was the type, I mean, he could of maybe switched.”

  Wager looked at Hansen as if seeing him for the first time: light brown hair long and curling down his neck and over the tops of his ears, eyes gray against the tanned face, mustache also slightly curly and turned down below the corners of his mouth to end in tiny clumps
of wild hair. “Reitman’s a cop.”

  “Well I was just …”

  “If you got evidence, you take it to Sonnenberg or the Staff Investigation Bureau. If you don’t, you shut up. ¿Comprendes tú?”

  “It happens, Wager!” Hansen’s tan darkened. “Rietman may be a cop, but it does happen sometimes.”

  That was true. But you didn’t go around saying something like that, especially about anyone in your own unit. A cop is a cop until it’s proved he’s not. “Rietman’s a cop,” he said again, and turned back to his desk.

  The Detroit call came through at 3:27, and Wager was given three telephone numbers where Agent Chandler might be found. “Say,” the Detroit D.E.A. man finished, “what happened out there, anyway?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” said Wager, and hung up. The first number just rang; the second was answered by a woman, and from the way she said hello Wager pictured a housewife who did not want her husband’s business invading his home life. “Can I talk to Agent Chandler, please?”

  “Well, he’s asleep right now.”

  “This is Detective Wager in Denver, Colorado, and it’s very important, ma’am.”

  “Well, just a minute, then.”

  A groggy voice eventually sighed, “Chandler.”

  “This is Detective Wager with the Denver Police Department. I’d like some more information on the Farnsworth case.”

  “Jesus—Farnsworth! You people out there have my reports.”

  “Just a few things your report didn’t cover that might help us out.”

  “Yeah—you people need all the help you can get. All right.” The voice pulled away from the mouthpiece to say, “Get me some coffee, honey.”

  Wager poured himself another cup from the thermos. “Can you give me the vitals on Ramona Alcala—if that’s her name—Charles Flint, and John Lewis?”

  “It’s Alcala; around twenty-three, five two, a hundred and ten, dark hair and eyes. She’s a greaser. She’s got a big birthmark near her elbow on her right arm. Charlie Flint’s a little older, white, around twenty-seven, five ten, one sixty-five; his face is full of red beard. I didn’t see any scars or marks. He’s an art freak—wants to get enough bread to set up a gallery in Aspen or Taos or wherever. He’s full of sh—uh—hot air, always using fancy words. Lewis’s alias is Jo-Jo. He’s kind of weird; I had my eye on him to flip him. He still might if he’s squeezed, but you got to watch him and he’s not really one of the top operators, anyway. He makes it as a middler. Penny-a-pound stuff. He’s white, about twenty-one, five eleven, a hundred and forty. Light-brown Afro-style hair, hazel eyes. He tries to be a political activist. That’s the thing with a lot of them now—support radical movements, start a commune, that kind of crap.”

  Wager finished his line of unorthodox shorthand in the little notebook. “Any other known associates?”

  “The whole damn town.”

  “They’re all dealing?”

  “Well, I tell you. Out of a population of maybe five hundred, I could touch a hundred small-timers. But most of them were just divvying their own stash. The real core is about ten people, and Farnsworth seems to be the main source for all of them.”

  “Does he run it himself?”

  “He’s made some trips to Colombia and Venezuela, him and Ramona. But I think he’s got his own mules now who bring it in through California and sometimes Canada. That’s all guesswork, though, and he trades a lot of coke for other stuff.”

  “What about the other four hundred?”

  “They’re either rednecks or clean freaks, and they hate each other’s guts. We almost had us a vigilante war between the straights and the hips. I used to think Detroit was the nut house of the universe, but you people have some real winners out there.”

  Wager spoke as softly as possible but could not keep the heavier accent from his voice. “It’s the altitude—thin air and x-rays. Farnsworth’s operation—maybe you can tell me something about it?”

  “Boy, it’s a joy to behold. That son of a gun just sits up there and makes money hand over fist. I could have spent ten kilo a day if I had it, and Farns would have gotten a cut of it all. Coke, acid, grass, hash, magic mushroom—you name it, Farns can get it. They’ve got a kind of co-op; the big ten cover for each other and so far everybody’s happy. All the top ones, anyway. Farnsworth’s not laying it all over everybody that he’s the heavy. Honor among pushers, you know.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Naw, me neither until I saw that operation. But it’s true. If one’s short, he’ll steer you to somebody who can handle it. Maybe they have a set of books to keep it all straight; maybe they just remember. I don’t know. I think they’re just making so much that they can afford not to be greedy.”

  “Any places they’re known to frequent?”

  “There aren’t many places up there. The Timber Line Tavern’s where everybody hangs out. It’s in colorful downtown Nederland—you can’t miss it. If you did, you’d end up in the lake.”

  “Do buyers come up there?”

  “A lot do. That was my cover. Like I say, there’s maybe a hundred small dealers that get supplied by the big ten. Most of them go to Boulder, Denver, Fort Collins, and all over Jefferson County. Up to Estes Park, too, but there’s a lot of competition up there from people who bring their own stuff from both coasts and up from Texas. I couldn’t check it all out—hell, I had ten primary targets and it was all I could do to handle them.”

  “Can you give me a list?”

  “Look, why don’t I just send you a copy of what I’ve got? I don’t have all my notes at home.”

  “Just one more question. What happened on the bust?”

  “That’s a good question—Rietman ran the reagent test and gave the signal for the bust. Neither one of them were worth a damn.”

  “Did you watch him test it?”

  “No, I was in Farnsworth’s car with the front money. Rietman and Goldberg were in the government vehicle. That was the deal: I went with the money, Goldberg went with the dope until it was checked out. Then we were supposed to leave the money and the dope and walk back to our cars and drive away. You know how an exchange is set up.”

  “You and Rietman were in separate cars—him and Goldberg, you and Farnsworth?” Maybe the question wasn’t his to ask, but he was a cop. And despite what he had said to Hansen, an ugly thought began to lie restless in his mind.

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Well, we told them it was a bust and covered them, and neither one tried anything. They were cool—they knew when they were took. Rietman had the radio and called in the surveillance, and then we all went to Denver.”

  “Who drove what?”

  “I drove Farnsworth’s car and Rietman drove his.”

  “His was the government vehicle?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yeah, the suspects were put in custody of the surveillance team—they had more people to secure the prisoners—and they transported them to headquarters.”

  “Did you all go straight to D.P.D?”

  Chandler gave a short laugh. “Yeah, it looked like a god-darned parade.”

  “What time did you get there?”

  “Oh, between ten and eleven. An hour or so after the meet.”

  “What about the dope?”

  “What about it?”

  “Did it stay in Rietman’s possession or go with you or with the surveillance team?”

  The long-distance line hummed and clicked faintly. Finally Chandler said, “Rietman kept it.”

  And logged it into the police locker at—Wager looked in his notebook—10:38 P.M.

  “Say, Wager, are you with D.P.D.’s internal security?”

  “No, I’m just trying to get some facts straight, Chandler.”

  A guarded note had come into Chandler’s voice; it wasn’t worry—he was just putting distance between himself and trouble. “Well, I wasn’t with Ri
etman that much, you know, but he seemed O.K. And God knows it wouldn’t be the first time somebody ran a bad color test.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. And I’d appreciate having copies of your documents on the case as soon as possible,” Wager said.

  “O.K.—ah, I’ll send them to our office in Denver and you can pick them up there.” That would be a little more distance for Chandler.

  “Fine. Send them in care of Agent Billington.”

  “Billington. Will do.”

  Wager sat staring at the cradled receiver, not really hearing the bustle and jingle of the warren of offices around him. Outside, west of the sprawling city and beyond the occasional skeleton of new offices or apartment towers that were beginning to erupt here and there, loomed the mountains. In the late-afternoon light their colors were blurred by the fall of shadows, the tan and green and white of timberline and snow- field turning into ridges of dusty gray lifting one behind the other. It was summer in the hills and he was missing it again. In the hills, he could be alone and washed clean by white sunlight and that cold high-altitude wind. Maybe. Farnsworth was in the hills, too. The Farnsworths were everywhere now. And Wager wasn’t in the hills. He was in an ugly avocado-green office sitting at a gray metal desk and vaguely hearing Hansen’s voice behind him setting up a meet with Doc.

  He poured another cup of coffee and leafed through the small notebook. Rietman could have done it—run the test, called for the bust, loaded up the suspects, and then just reached under the front seat of his own car and pulled out a package of lactose and wrapped it in the original cover. He’d know beforehand how much lactose he’d need; he wouldn’t have known how easy the switch would be. But he could gamble on that. For a quick profit of anywhere between $85,000 in bulk and a million in street sales for the two and a half pounds, Rietman could have gambled. And that would sure cushion the hassle of running a bad test. Except that Rietman claimed it was a good test. Still, what else could he claim? And how else could he act? And what the hell did he, Wager, do now?

  His coffee was cold; he poured it back into the thermos and wandered without seeing back through the labyrinth of partitions and jutting desks to the coffee machine for a hot refill. It could have been an honest mistake. Officers had made mistakes before, especially on their first big buy like this one, when they tended to see what they wanted to see. Maybe the reagent kit hadn’t been cleaned—the lab report showed a trace of cocaine; maybe Rietman really did see some color and thought the suspect material had been cut to, say, 30 percent from the original 70, and that explained the color’s thinness. Because Rietman was a cop, god damn it, and cops didn’t—shouldn’t —do things like that! And you didn’t go walking into Sonnenberg’s office with an accusation against a fellow officer unless you had a hell of a lot more than guesswork or even circumstantial evidence. You didn’t even whisper those things or bring them up like Hansen did, because that eroded the vital trust an officer had to have in his companions.