Farnsworth Score

by Rex Burns

  “Well, my buddy Oscar. He’s in this, too. You deal with me, you deal with him. That’s the way it’s got to be.”

  Wager raised his eyebrows at the inspector, who answered, “Fine. But don’t misconstrue our arrangement, Mr. Ginsdale. We’re not giving you a license to deal; we’re just withholding current charges pending the outcome of this investigation. If you indulge in activities from now on, we will bring new charges. Is that clear?”

  “I think so.”

  Wager said, “If you or Oscar push a half a gram, I’ll bust your fucking asses.”

  “Oh—I hear you! No, we’ll be clean. Count on it.”

  “Where’s Oscar now?”

  “Around.”

  “Call him. Tell him to get over to your place but don’t tell him why. I’m going to sit with you two until the deal goes down. If that’s all right with you, Inspector?”

  “I think that’s a good move. Mr. Ginsdale, how much will the payment to Hansen be?”

  “We don’t usually pay until after a deal.”

  “Just tell Hansen your buyer put up half and that you’re giving it to him. We want to see Hansen take the money from you,” said Wager.

  “Oh, I get it. Well, it’ll be about ten thousand, then. We sell it for two thousand dollars a pound. Nobody beats our prices, man.”

  Why not? It didn’t cost them a damn thing. “Ed, can you bring it over? And maybe we ought to record the conversation.”

  “That won’t do you no good in court, will it? I mean tapes ain’t allowable evidence?”

  “They are, Mr. Ginsdale, if one of the parties testifies to the accuracy of the recorded conversation.”

  “No shit!” He filed that item for future reference.

  Wager stood. “Let’s go call Oscar.”

  Oscar, younger than Ginsdale and with long heavy sideburns that made his round face even fatter, had only shrugged when Larry told him what was going on. “I ain’t got no great affection for Detective Hansen,” he said. “Larry’s my buddy and he’s got good smarts. If he made a deal, that’s fine with me.”

  That meant they had already made enough to be glad to leave the state before they were busted. Wager paced across the small living room of Ginsdale’s apartment. “You remember what I want you to say?”

  “Sure, Gabe. It ain’t much different from what we always say.”

  “Be sure and mention the MDA and the money. Ten thousand.”

  “Yeah, sure. You guys want a beer? We got beer in the box.”

  “No.” Wager would like one. He was hungry, too. But he would enjoy his meal a lot more after the bust and after he was rid of these pukes.

  The door rattled under a knock; Ginsdale looked at Wager.

  “Ask who it is.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Ed Johnston.”

  “Let him in.”

  Johnston puffed in carrying the portable recorder. “Sorry I took so long. The inspector thought we should get a court order for the recording. He don’t want nothing going wrong on this.”

  When did he ever want anything going wrong? “Let’s get set up.”

  The hookup was complete in five minutes. Gabe ran a test call to D.P.D. and played back the brief conversation. Then, “O.K., Ginsdale, do it.”

  The thin man finished his beer and cleared his throat. “Now?”

  “Come on—come on!”

  “All right, take it easy.” He dialed; Wager verified the number in his notebook. Through the earphones, he heard Hansen say hello.

  “Roger? This is Larry. I got a buyer for ten pounds of MDA. He’s put up half the money. I can let you have your ten K now. Can you get the stuff tonight?”

  That was fine, thought Wager: the identifying name and all the details of the transaction. Now, you bastard, answer right.

  “Tonight?” Hansen’s voice dropped. “No way can I get it tonight. Tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.”

  Wager nodded yes to Ginsdale’s inquiring glance.

  “O.K. Where and when do we meet?”

  “What’s wrong with the same place?”

  “Nothing. That’s fine. The same place. When?”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Wrong? No! Things are cool, real cool. Why?”

  “You don’t sound the same.”

  Wager made cutting signals across his throat.

  “Everything’s O.K., man; I’m in a hurry’s all.”

  “O.K. Let’s do it at two. I’ll see you there.”

  The line clicked into a buzz.

  “Well,” asked Johnston, “what do we do now, drop back and punt?”

  “We do what we have to,” said Wager. And that meant spending another fifteen hours cooped up with scum like Ginsdale and Pitkin. He sighed and picked up the telephone, dialing a familiar number. “How do you people like your pizza?”

  Pitkin looked up from tuning the television set. “I don’t like pizza.”

  “That means with mushrooms,” said Wager, and ordered one large for them and one separate small one for himself.

  “You saying we can’t leave?” Ginsdale’s voice wanted to squeak.

  “No leaving, no calls until after you meet Hansen.”

  “Aw, you got to be kidding, man!”

  “Try me.”

  Johnston stood and whispered under the noise of the television, “You want some relief? A partner?”

  “We’d better not. Hansen knows people all over the department. All we have to do is get the word out that we’re sitting on these two cruds and there goes the whole thing.”

  “But there’s two of them.”

  “They’ve got as much to lose by messing up. They’ll sit here.”

  “Then why do you need to stay here?”

  “Because they’re dumb, Ed, and Ginsdale’s about to rupture because he wants to finish one last deal. They might do something that would accidentally tip Hansen.”

  “Right. Well, listen, is there anything I can get for you?”

  “Send a cold six-pack. I don’t even like drinking their crap. And did Archie Douglas send over the lab report on that dope from last night?”

  “Seventy-eight percent cocaine. About as good as most labs produce.”

  “That’ll tickle Kolagny. How did the advisement go?”

  “Farnsworth made bail, Baca didn’t. They both entered a motion to suppress.”

  “It figures.” That meant at least six weeks before the judge would hear arguments on suppression of evidence. From there, it would be another month to the preliminary hearing to determine if they’d be bound over for trial. Then a maximum six months before the guilty sons of bitches were brought in for their fair trial. Except, of course, for continuances asked by the defendants. And finally the appeals following the trial. In a year or so, they would go to jail. Wager rubbed a hand over the weary flesh of his face: it was lawyer Kolagny’s game from here out; Gabe was now just another pawn. Which was fine with him—he was tired, and he still had Hansen.

  Pitkin wanted Chinese food for lunch—the pizza had given him gas all night, he said, and he didn’t know why in the hell Wager went ahead and ordered that wop food when he told him he didn’t like it. Across the little boxes whose wet-cardboard smell spoke to Wager of hundreds of meals eaten in parked cars, in run-down hotel rooms, even at his desk, Ginsdale sucked bean sprouts until Wager, his appetite fading into the weariness of a too light sleep on a too short couch, finally stood. “It’s time.”

  It was a brief drive across town to the empty parking lot of the McNichols Arena, a squat mushroom of concrete that loomed just west of I-25. Larry drove; Oscar sat beside him. Wager was in the back seat by himself.

  “Pull over at the next corner.”

  “This all right?”

  “Fine.” He saw Johnston angle to the curb behind them. The inspector got out and walked to Larry’s car; the radio pack was still useless with the suspect tied into the net.

  “Everything set, Gabe?”

  “Mr. G
insdale don’t like wearing the body transmitter. Other than that, we’re all right.”

  “Think of it as your contribution to a cleaner Denver, Mr. Ginsdale.”

  “Yes, sir, Inspector. Ha-ha.”

  “We’re set, too, Gabe.”

  He got out and leaned to the driver’s window one last time. “Just play it like it’s for real. When he gives you the MDA, you hand him the money and say, ‘Have a good day.’ That’s the bust signal: ‘Have a good day.’”

  “You sure this gismo works? I hear a lot about them breaking down.”

  “It works. Especially in an open parking lot.” He started to go, and then said, “Oh—and don’t go anywhere with that MDA. Just stay in your car until Sergeant Johnston gets to you. Clear?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Give us five, then go in.”

  They pulled the unmarked car into an ice-streaked alley that had a clear view of the wide asphalt lot. It was empty. A few moments later, Larry and Oscar drove their Impala slowly across the old snow and coasted to a halt near the center. Johnston balanced the binoculars on the steering wheel and fiddled with the focus screw. The receiver of the Kell Kit body transmitter squawked, “Here he comes.”

  “Right,” said Ed. “He’s just turning in.”

  In the back seat, Wager switched on the tape recorder. They watched the O.C.D.’s unmarked Plymouth crackle through the puddles of melting snow.

  Larry’s voice came over the microphone, “You set?”

  Oscar might have said “Yeah,” but the signal was too broken to tell.

  “They’re getting out,” said Ed. “So’s Hansen.”

  “We can see that, Sergeant. Just keep your eyes on the dope.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hi, Ro g… Yeah, I got the money right here … That’s good, the MDA looks real good … O.K., and, ah, have a good day.”

  “Now,” said the inspector. Johnston pulled from the alley and swung around the fence into the entryway, the car whining into second gear as they splashed toward the three men turning to watch them arrive. Johnston skidded to a halt; Sonnenberg was out of the car before it stopped rocking, and Gabe was just behind him, eyes fixed on Hansen’s gun hand.

  “Inspector! What are you guys doing here?”

  “It’s all over, Hansen. Let’s go in.”

  “What’s all over? What the hell are you people talking about?” To Wager, he looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, determined to bluff it out, determined that they would believe him if he only sounded innocent enough.

  “You know your rights, Hansen? Or do you want them read?”

  “Inspector, I don’t know what the shit you think this is. I don’t know what the shit game you people think you’re playing!”

  Sergeant Johnston said to Larry, “Let’s have it.”

  He handed the sergeant a paper sack; Ed looked in it.

  “And the Kell Kit.”

  Larry propped a foot on his car’s bumper and unstrapped the small flat box from his bony shin. Then he drew the mike cord up through his trousers and out of his grimy shirt collar. Hansen watched him.

  Larry turned to the inspector. “Now what?”

  “Now go home. Stay clean—stay in town until you get an O.K. from us to leave.”

  Then Sonnenberg said, “Hansen, hand over your weapon and the money.”

  “Inspector, I honest to God don’t—”

  Wager lunged, both hands gripping for the open collar of Hansen’s topcoat, spinning the larger detective around and grabbing the handle of the policeman’s weapon through the heavy cloth. “All right, you son of a bitch, if you want it this way—spread; God damn your soul, spread! You’re busted!”

  “Aw, shit! Aw, shit, shit, shit!” Hansen’s voice cracked and so did he, leaning heavily against the side of his car, knees sagging and forehead jammed against the car roof gutter. “Shit. Here.” He held out the roll of marked bills. “No cuffs. You got me.”

  The interrogation took place in the inspector’s office. Hansen, who seemed almost glad to be caught, waived his right to an attorney. He spoke directly to the tape recorder’s microphone; he did not look up at either Wager or Johnston. Occasionally, he looked across the desk at the inspector and said, “You see?”

  “Where did you get your supply?”

  “In the custodian’s office. Most of it was dope that had been used as evidence and then stored after the trial ended. Everybody just forgot about it; it never was even inventoried. It was just so goddamn easy—the stuff just sat there and nobody ever checked it. You see?”

  “How did you get access to the custodian’s office?”

  “Well, I—ah—well, I didn’t. Liz got it for me.”

  “Last name?” The inspector motioned to Johnston, who nodded.

  “Miller. She’s a civilian employee there.”

  Johnston left the room.

  “Not a police officer?” asked Wager. He remembered the woman with hair longer than regulations allowed.

  Hansen hunched his shoulders. “No. Not an officer.”

  “Tell us about it,” said Sonnenberg.

  “Well, it was easy. She’d get the stuff and I’d come by for coffee. Then we would sit down, and she’d just leave it on the table when she left. I’d pick it up and walk out.”

  “What about a ten-pound package of MDA? She didn’t just walk out of the custodian’s office with ten pounds of dope!”

  “Yes, sir. That was her lunch bag. Nobody ever looked, you see?”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Wager. “Ten pounds of lunch!”

  “Yeah.” Hansen almost laughed, but stifled it. “If it wasn’t so easy, I wouldn’t of tried it.”

  “Now.” Sonnenberg pinched his cigar and leaned forward. “What about Rietman? Was he in this with you?”

  “No, sir. That was a fuck-up. His evidence got put in the post-trial section instead of the pre-trial section, and we—Liz—made the switch with some lactose. Boy, was I surprised when I heard what happened.”

  Wager almost spit through the acid taste on the back of his tongue. “So was Rietman.”

  “Yeah. Well. There wasn’t much I could say at the time.”

  Sonnenberg scribbled a note to himself. “What was your reason?”

  “I don’t know. Money. Me and my wife’s been having troubles lately. And, well, me and Liz, we got a thing going. I don’t know; it seemed like the thing to do at the time, you see? We’d get enough bread to split for South America. God, there’s a lot of money just sitting in that custodian’s office, and it was so easy—security ain’t much good there.”

  “There will be changes made,” said Sonnenberg.

  Sergeant Johnston knocked and entered. “D.P.D.’s been given a warrant on her, sir.”

  The inspector grunted and turned back to Hansen. “Anything else you want to add? Anything you want to say?”

  Hansen shrugged again. “I guess I said it all. Do you have to put me in custody? I sent some people up, you know, and they’re still in.”

  They all knew how long a cop would last in jail. “You volunteered a confession; I think we can ask for low bail.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Sonnenberg sighed and drew on his cigar. Wager tried to hide a yawn; as he had listened, as he had watched, the muscles of his neck and back had slowly relaxed and the eight hours’ sleep of the last three days began to catch up with him. He still had to call Billy and tell the D.E.A. agent when Ginsdale and Pitkin were leaving the state. Billy didn’t need to know that the tip was an apology.

  The inspector pushed the rewind button on the tape recorder. “At least Officer Rietman gets a Christmas present out of this.”

  “I don’t know if it’ll do any good,” said Sergeant Johnston. “I heard he resigned. He’s moving back East somewhere.”

  “I see.” The inspector did not look at Hansen. “Take this one over to the bail commissioner.”

  Wager and Hansen met Gargan in the lobby of t
he City-County Building; the reporter smelled a story and stared hard at Roger. “What’s going down, Gabe? Can you tell me something about it?”

  “Gabe,” Hansen mumbled, “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  Wager looked at the ex-cop and did not feel a thing. No pleasure, no pity. And maybe Rietman would be interested in the story. “It’s all public now, Hansen. Even this.”

  CHAPTER 13

  OUTSIDE THE WINDOW beside Wager’s desk, the heavy spring snow had finally stopped, and by mid-morning the sun seemed to glare from every direction: above, below, even from under the window’s overhang where the brilliance made the normally dusty shadows a clear blue. The streets were already wet black strips of tire tracks, and the heat of a March sun would soon melt the rest of the thick snow. Wager wagged his head at the telephone’s mouthpiece. “O.K., Fat Willy—where and when?”

  The wheezing voice said, “Nineteenth and Wazee—there’s this Mexican joint. You know about them spic joints, don’t you, Señor Wager?”

  “I know. What time?”

  “Ten. There’s two cunts. We getting a lot of them in the business lately.”

  “Well, it’s a democracy, Willy.”

  “Yeah—if you white, hey, brother?”

  “I’ll see you at ten.”

  “Hey, I heard ol’ Roger the Dodger’s got his day in court today.”

  Wager glanced at the squeaking electric clock on a filing cabinet; the preliminary was in a half-hour. Johnston and Wager had been told to attend just in case. “That’s right.”

  “Well give ol’ Rog a big kiss for me. And, say, if you ever get a little extra stuff you want to sell, I won’t turn fink like them two honkies.”

  “Not likely, Willy.” Not very God damned likely.

  “Don’t shit me, man; all you fuzz is the same—give a crook a badge and call him a cop. Haw!”

  “Ten tonight, Willy.”

  “Right on. Brother. Haw!”

  He hung up. “Suzy, I’m on pager at Hansen’s preliminary.”

  “All right, Gabe.” She watched him pass the green plywood partition.

  “You ready, Ed?”