Farnsworth Score

by Rex Burns

  “It’s there, man, it’s there.”

  “Let’s see it, then.”

  Farnsworth clicked off the flashlight and jumped down to the frozen earth. Wager and Johnston followed him through the wind to the lee side of the orange rental truck. Farnsworth gave a thumbs-up sign; Baca unlocked the cab door and Johnston climbed in beside him. Wager and Farnsworth stamped their feet and waited beside the front fender.

  “He’s all alone?”

  “Like you said.” Wager blew on his hands and jammed them back into his pockets. “Why?”

  “Because we’re taking him. When he comes out of the cab with his hands full of dope, you and me grab him and Manny comes down on him from behind.”

  Wager’s surprise was genuine. “You said it was a straight deal!”

  “Baca and me changed our mind. This dude’s cutting into our profit margin, and we don’t owe him a thing.”

  “Listen, that son of a bitch’ll come after us—I know these army bastards, and he’ll take it personal.” A rip-off meant greater risk; it meant that the targets became the hunters; it meant guns and more danger at an already chancy moment.

  “He’ll be too busy skipping from the feds to worry about us—me and Baca already talked it over. We got him by the balls. It’s all his risk, and he won’t be able to do a thing about it.”

  “If we pull this shit, he’s gonna turn state’s evidence just to get even. And he knows a lot about me.”

  “Yeah. I didn’t think of that.” Farnsworth rubbed a mitten under his nose. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Let’s play him straight. We got to.”

  “He might fink on us anyway. Even if we play him straight, he might fink if something happens.”

  “With the dope, he’s got a reason not to. Was this your idea or Baca’s?”

  “Manny’s. But it sounded pretty good.”

  Wager could see Baca’s plan: the big rip-off and the only one left to feel the heat would be Gabe Villanueva. “Did Baca tell you to tell me that you would keep my cut for me?”

  “Yeah! He said you’d have to dig a hole somewhere and we’d finish the deal and we’d hold your split until you came up again.”

  Sure they would. Good old Manny—a real Aztec prince. “He told you wrong. He’s setting me up. You better play that sergeant straight, because I’m going to be all over you like stink on shit if you don’t. If you make me a pigeon, I’m making you hot. Play him honest, Dick!”

  Doubt, fear, desperation—even in the dim light of the snow, Wager saw all those things in Farnsworth’s face. “It’s too fucking late—Manny thinks it’s all set up.”

  As he spoke, the handle of the orange door bobbed and it swung open to show Ed’s shadow bent to step down from the cab. “It tests O.K.”

  Wager cursed and grabbed Farnsworth’s parka and threw the surprised man aside. “Ed—drop!”

  Wordless, Johnston plunged for the ground; over his shoulder, Baca raised high in the seat, his dim arm groping inside his coat. Wager tugged at the familiar .45 shoved in the back of his pants and cursed again as the sight blade snagged on his underwear. He yanked savagely at the handle, freeing it with a ripping sound.

  Baca beat him. In one of those moments when everything slowed and his eyes saw everywhere, Wager watched Baca’s arm pull from beneath the red down vest, a stubby-barreled small-caliber revolver in his hand. On the ground, Farnsworth and Johnston stared at Wager, one frozen in the act of pushing up with both hands, eyes still wide and jaw sagging; the other as surprised but already, with a cop’s reflexes, bending his arm behind his back for the pistol stuffed there. Baca’s revolver swung toward him and in the glow of the dash lights, Wager saw the greasy glint of bullets in the drum’s chambers. And, beneath it all and somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought how cold it was.

  His own pistol was half raised when Baca fired.

  The orange flash blinded him, and stinging heat whipped across his face. Wager felt his own weapon buck against his hand as the shot went wild and he flung himself aside, grinding the glare out of his eyes with his fingers, twisting under the truck for cover.

  “Police! Don’t move!” Ed’s voice howled from somewhere near the right front tire, and now Wager could see Farnsworth on hands and knees scuttling for the large wooden spools. The truck’s motor suddenly roared and the vehicle lurched forward, Gabe squirming to pull his legs from under the wheels. He yanked out the radio pack and aimed the antenna at the fence.

  “We’re blown. Baca’s in the truck. Armed. He’s going for the gate!”

  “Ten-four.” The inspector sounded almost bored.

  The truck’s differential swung just over his head and Wager darted for Farnsworth as the tailgate cleared him. “Down, you fucker—down and spread!”

  “What is this? What the shit is this?”

  “It’s a bust!”

  Johnston kicked Farnsworth’s legs apart and slapped at his body; Wager twisted the man’s arms behind him and clamped the irons around his wrists. “Ed—you got the keys! Get the truck behind Baca—block him off!”

  “What? Oh—yeah!” He stumbled toward the vehicle; even in haste, his long body curved at the shoulders like a question mark.

  “You’re a fucking cop? You?”

  “You got a right to remain silent, you son of a bitch, and you better use it.” Wager watched Baca’s truck rumble in screaming low gear for the closed gate. Ed clambered into his cab and turned on the headlights. Jesus, thought Wager, it’s a wonder he didn’t stop to check the oil. Then the lights dimmed and brightened as the vehicle started and rolled forward.

  Baca hit the gate with the splintering sound of bolts pulled through wood, wheeled left to snag the gatepost with the truck body, and yanked to a halt in a swirl of powdery snow as headlights bounded down the fence toward him. Ed thumped the rear of Baca’s truck with his bumper, and in the glare of headlights spotlighting the cab, Wager saw Baca’s door open cautiously, two empty hands spread high and tensely still over the window frame. At Wager’s feet, the silent Farnsworth, face almost as pale as the patches of snow, stared up at him.

  Baca and Farnsworth were already in separate holding pens at Main Headquarters by the time Wager, driving the rental truck, arrived. Johnston and the inspector were still unloading and re-inventorying the weapons for an anxious marine colonel. Wager filled out an impound order on the truck and checked in the keys; Flint would have some explaining to do to the rental agency, and wasn’t that too goddam bad. Tucking under his arm the two square bundles wrapped in newspaper and masking tape, Wager headed for the custodian’s office.

  “Hey—Gabe! Detective Wager!” Through the bustling uniforms and confusion of the retiring shift, Gargan, the police reporter, wagged a hand at Wager. “Wait a minute!”

  There were a lot of things Wager didn’t need right now. One of them was Gargan.

  “Hey, I hear you pulled off a heavy bust!” Beneath the worn sheepskin coat peeked Gargan’s inevitable black turtleneck. “How about something on it, Gabe? Is that the dope there?”

  With the caution he could never quite hide around newsmen, Wager nodded. “We got a couple kilos of coke.”

  “What’s it worth?”

  “Street value, maybe five or eight hundred thousand. But listen, there’s no story in it yet.”

  “No story? That’s got to be the biggest bust in the state! Come on, man, what happened?”

  “I can’t open it up yet, Gargan. There’s still a lot of loose ends. As soon as things are ready, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Yeah? That’s what you said about that Alvarez bust, too; and a hell of a lot of good you did me.”

  Wager had forgotten that one. Somehow, there always seemed to be something more important to do than talk to reporters. “I’m sorry about that. This time for sure.”

  “If I don’t get it from you, I’ll get it from somebody else. It may not be as good, but by God I’ll get a story!”

  “Then talk to Sonnenberg. He s
hould be in soon.” That’s what inspectors were paid for; they always thought reporters were important.

  “Where is he? Who else was in on it?”

  “He’s on pager.” Wager pulled away and headed down the tan hallway toward the property room. “Tell the shift sergeant you’re trying to reach him.”

  “Can I use your name? Thanks, Gabe!”

  Officer Green was on duty in the custodian wing; she whistled slightly when Wager set the bundles on the counter. “Is that all for real?”

  “That’s what the lab’s supposed to tell me.”

  “Gosh—I’ve never seen so much.” She initialed the large evidence bag and slipped the packages inside and then wound the tape tightly.

  Wager filled out a laboratory analysis request while she placed the bag in the safe. “Have the lab give me a call as soon as the test is run.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The next stop was the booking desk. A sergeant who looked as if his retirement date was circled on his calendar glanced at Wager and then turned back to his newspaper.

  “I’m Detective Wager, Sergeant. Can you tell me if either Farnsworth or Baca have posted bond yet?”

  “Wager?” He peered at Gabe’s face. “I didn’t recognize you with all the face hair.”

  “I’m on assignment.”

  “Right, right—everybody grows a beard on assignment. Let’s see,” he slowly drew his thumb down a ledger. “Farnsworth and Baca, Baca and Farnsworth. Yep, here they are. And nope, no bond yet. They’re still up in the pens: Felony bonds are posted only during working hours in front of a judge. You want to see them?”

  “I’ve seen enough of them.”

  “Seen one, seen them all.”

  “Can you tell me if a flake was brought in late yesterday, maybe early this morning?”

  “Name?”

  “Hornbacher, Bruce.”

  Again the slow thumb whispering down the page of the ledger. “Detective Austin was the minion who harassed that poor innocent lad.”

  “Can I talk with him?”

  “I don’t believe you’re the officer of record, Detective Wager. Ain’t you read the latest law bulletin?” This week’s area of legal uncertainty concerned the authority to interview prisoners; some judge in a federal court somewhere had bought what some lawyer had argued about extended hearsay, and so far no prosecutor had come up with a rebuttal.

  “Is Austin the one in Crimes Against Persons?”

  “The same.”

  “Can I use your phone?”

  “Official call?”

  On this side of the law, there were few things he disliked more than a philosophical Irish cop with more hash marks than days to retirement. “Yes, Sergeant. It’s an official call.”

  “Keep it short. Them’s regulations.”

  The dispatcher took Wager’s request, and in a few minutes Austin telephoned.

  “Can you meet me at Main Headquarters? I’ve got to talk to one of your prisoners, Hornbacher.”

  “How soon?”

  “The sooner the better.”

  In the pause, Wager heard the background commotion: a drunk howling “No! Fuck you all! No!”; a woman crying nasally with snagging breaths; an official voice saying, “Over here—bring the stretcher over here.” “Man, I’m up to my eyes in shit right now. I’ll try to get over there, but I sure as hell can’t promise.”

  “Hang on a minute.” He turned to the desk sergeant. “Can he give authorization by telephone?”

  The sergeant rubbed the bristles of his chin. “I don’t know—be worth a try. You got to state your exact purpose in interviewing said suspect.”

  “Austin? My exact purpose in interviewing said suspect is to determine his alleged involvement in local narcotics operations. Now tell the sergeant I can talk to the turd.” He handed over the receiver.

  “Yeah, Detective Austin, it’s me … O.K.” The sergeant hung up and made a note. “He’ll be in Room 2 in about twenty minutes.”

  “Fine.”

  There was one more telephone call he had to make, but this one was unofficial. And he didn’t want that red-beaked Mick cop listening anyway. He spun the pay phone’s dial in a familiar series, and Ramona said, “Hello.”

  “This is Gabe. Dick and Manny were busted.”

  “Oh, Jesús María!”

  “Ramona—I’m a narc. I busted them.”

  In the long silence, he could hear the dog barking faintly outside the cabin. “You son of a bitch. You cabrón pinche. I guess you’re happy.”

  “I am. I am God damned happy there’s two less pushers on the street, and this is no apology.”

  “So you’re calling to tell me how happy you are.”

  “I’m calling to say that Dick will be doing your time, too. But if there’s something you and Pedro need—if you need help getting to see Dick—let me know and I’ll do what I can.”

  “I don’t need your help. We don’t want your help.”

  “They’re in Main Headquarters, down in Denver.”

  She hung up before he did.

  Wager used the rest of the time and the silent interrogation room to fill out the form for ammunition expended in the line of duty. Thank God he hadn’t hit Baca: the paperwork on a wounded or slain suspect was endless. He closed his eyes to picture the truck’s cab and where he had stood in relation to Baca, where he had fired, where the bullet seemed to have gone: Baca’s arm lifting the small pistol from under his down vest, swinging the muzzle toward him, and the tenseness and acid burning and even sweat that came stronger now with his eyes closed than when he had slid aside through slowly yielding air to force his own pistol up against the weight of an endless moment, Baca’s weapon spurting heat and stinging flecks of burning powder across his face and eyeballs, and Wager, even as he fired, waiting for the punch of the round, the numbness, the expected surprise of being hit. He opened his eyes and drew in a long, slow breath; the dim wall of the interrogation room hung blankly just beyond the light over the interview table. From the plastic compound of its top came that familiar odor of rancid sweat, sour sponge water, old cigarette smoke. Baca had missed; so had Wager. He noted the probable direction of his round—somewhere into the floorboard on the rider’s side of the cab. He wrote “unobserved” for Baca’s round; it was enough that Baca had missed.

  “You Detective Wager?”

  A uniformed policeman led Bruce the Juice into the small room and looked at him dubiously.

  Wager nodded. “I’ll give you a call when we’re through. Well, Brucie, it’s good to see you here.”

  Hornbacher stared at Wager and then tried to spit; it came out a fluffy white bubble that rested on the stringy hair of his chin. Wager stood and smiled. “Sit down, Brucie.”

  “I’ll stand, you fucking pig. I should of known you was a fucking pig.”

  Wager’s fist jabbed out to clamp Bruce’s thin neck, and the soft flesh and cords squeezed in his fingers like rotten fruit—like Ramona and Baca and Rietman squeezed to pulp in his hand.

  “Cut it out! You’re hurting me! Guard!”

  The policeman’s worried face swung into the open door. “Hey, hey—let’s take it easy, now!”

  Wager shoved the clammy flesh from him, bouncing Bruce into the dark green chair and wiping his hand to rid it of the oily, pimply, dirty slime that he had bathed himself in for the last months. “I’m going to take you away from all this, Brucie.”

  “Did you hear that? Did you hear what he said? He’s going to waste me!”

  “No, I didn’t hear it. You can file a complaint if you want. Maybe I’d better stay in the room, Detective Wager.”

  “That’s O.K., Officer. Mr. Hornbacher and me are through.”

  “Already? You want me to take him back now?”

  “I do.”

  Wager stood rigid until their steps had faded into the general rustle of movement that always filled the restless building. He had been stupid, he knew; it was dumb enough to lean on a prisoner around witness
es, but dumbest of all was to lose his temper. The brief pleasure of breaking Bruce’s goddamned neck could be paid for by the loss of months of work. He sucked another deep breath of stale air and rubbed his grainy eyes and stood quite still until he felt his self-control gain over the tense muscles of his back and chest and neck. It was all a game; you had to remember that. The pay was the same, and if you took the game seriously you could lose it all.

  “That was quick.” The Irish sergeant’s eyes studied Wager.

  “He didn’t have much to say. He’s due for release. I’d like to give him a ride home.”

  Again the eyes, distant, weighing. “If he’s released, he won’t have to go with you.”

  “So don’t tell him, Sergeant. You’re not a lawyer.”

  “I’m not a narcotics agent, either, Detective.”

  The slight Spanish lilt came: “And that means what?”

  “That means you got your ways of doing things and I got mine. I’d just as soon keep them separate.”

  Seldom did the dislike of the other branches of police work for narcotics agents come out, but Wager knew it was always there. The others didn’t have to reach so deep into shit. They didn’t like the stench that came with that reach. “I want to talk with the man, Sergeant. If he does not like my questions, he can file a complaint.”

  “It’s your career.”

  “It is. Just tell him I’m giving him a ride home.”

  “We’ll see what Austin says first.” He pressed the transmit button of the desk radio.

  “I’ll be in Room 2 working on affidavits.”

  The paperwork went slowly; he tried to list the events of the investigation and bust, but the effort was broken by his mind’s turning from Bruce to Ramona to Rietman to Billy. First the possible rip-off of evidence, then a tip on a fellow officer. And God only knew how much more that had not surfaced yet.

  He was halfway through the “details” section of the arresting officer’s report when his radio pack sounded his number. “Ten-ninety-one at Sergeant Ahern’s desk.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Pick up a prisoner at the booking sergeant’s desk. Wager arrived in time to see Bruce the Juice counting the change from his personal-effects envelope.