Farnsworth Score (18 page)

“What about security patrols?”

“It’s a private system; the watchman’s a friend of mine. That’s how I know about this place. He won’t check it until after midnight.”

“What about our own security?”

“We meet the sergeant in the middle where it’s open. You tell him to park right there. Baca’ll be sitting over there in our truck. You and me, we check out the merchandise; if it’s O.K., Baca brings out the dope.”

“And if it’s not?”

Farnsworth stared at Wager. “You said you grooved on this dude, Gabe.”

“I do. But we’re talking just in case.”

“O.K. Just in case he’s selling us a wolf ticket, Baca’s carrying iron. If that son of a bitch tries anything, he’s had the cock.”

“I think he’s straight.”

“Just make sure he comes alone.”

He and Johnston were alone in the truck, anyway. The two cars with the inspector and the surveillance teams trailed a hundred yards back as they turned west on 1-70 and Wager pressed his transmit key. “Two-one, this is two-one-two.”

“Go ahead.” The inspector’s voice was slightly muffled; he was probably lighting another maduro.

“We’re about a half-mile from the place. Ten seventy-seven in twenty minutes.”

“Ten-four. Make your turn; we’ll double back.”

“Ten-four.”

Johnston steered the spongy truck down the long curve of freeway. “You think they’ll try to rip me off?”

The thought had entered Wager’s head. “What choice do we have?”

Johnston pondered. “Yeah.”

“They didn’t talk rip-off to me. Just go through with it like we planned.”

“O.K. The way we planned.”

The truck edged into the line of cars creeping off the freeway at the Ward Road interchange.

“They really need a traffic light here.”

“File a complaint with the traffic division.”

“Hell of a lot of good it would do.” Ed finally saw an opening to swing the truck toward West Forty-fourth Avenue and out beyond Mount Olivet Cemetery. They rode without speaking; the heavy truck squeaked with the ripples of the two-lane asphalt.

Wager squinted into the darkness against the glare of oncoming traffic. “Slow down; we’re getting close.” Past the advertisement for the railroad museum, he saw the landmark. “There—we turn at that white sign.”

“The white sign.”

Wager keyed the radio: “Here we go.”

“Ten-four” came Sonnenberg’s lazy voice.

“Here we go,” echoed Ed, and swerved the wheel. Wager saw the two unmarked cars flash by as the string of urgent traffic pent up by the truck sped past.

“We’re a little early.”

“They won’t mind,” said Wager.

The rocking headlights picked out the fence, with its boards bending out here and there away from the wire mesh.

“There’s the gate. Hold up, I’ll open it.”

Gabe hopped out into the icy wind that funneled down between North and South Table Mountains, bringing little ice crystals that melted like mist on his face. He fumbled at the metal latch with stinging fingers; then, with a creak, the heavy gates swung in. He held one back while the truck ground by, then quickly climbed back into the cab.

“Jesus, it’s cold! Pull the truck right over there—that open area.”

“Did you see anybody?” Johnston set the brake and turned off the lights, leaving the motor running for heat.

“No.”

Silence. The wind thumped against the truck’s sides and jiggled it slightly.

“I’ll bet those guys on surveillance are freezing their balls off.”

They should be moving along the outside of the fence by now. And they would be cold. “Yes.”

“Something bugging you? You think something’s wrong?”

Billy wouldn’t do it. “No.”

“They’re late.”

He knew Billy wouldn’t do it. “Yes.”

More silence; more wind. His eyes slowly grew accustomed to the darkness and he could see the wisps of dry snow smoke across the ground in the wind. Best not to think of Billy. Right now, everything was right here. It was Farnsworth only. Right now.

“Is that them?” Slits of light moved through the boards as headlights glided down the fence. Wager didn’t bother to answer; they would know soon enough.

The creak of the gate was barely audible over the wind; the headlights swung in, paused, the gate clanged shut, then the rented truck moved past Wager’s side, Farnsworth’s face pale in the dash light’s reflection. Wager clicked his transmit button three times, then hid the radio pack inside his parka.

“Where’s he going?”

“Over by the spools. Baca will cover the deal from there.”

“Oh. Yeah. You said.” Johnston cracked his knuckles. “Blessed baby Jesus, I hope everything goes O.K.”

“Kill the engine; let’s go say hello.”

Farnsworth met them halfway between the trucks. He held a flashlight in one hand and shined it briefly on Johnston and Wager. “Everything all right?”

“Fine. Come on, it’s fucking cold.”

They turned to Johnston’s truck and clambered into the back; their breath frosted in the flashlight’s beam, but at least the truck walls blocked the wind.

“Goddam—they’re all in boxes!”

“What’d you expect?” asked Johnston. “They always come that way. They’re packed for transport.”

“Let’s see them. I want to see what I’m getting for all that dope.”

Johnston began twisting the butterfly nuts off the lid of an olive-drab box. “Where’s the stuff?”

“It’s in my truck. Let me see these babies; then we’ll go over.” Farnsworth raised the lid and shined the light over six M-l rifles nested butt to muzzle in the narrow pine box. “Beautiful. Dy-no-mite! Where’s the rocket launchers?”

“Over here.” Johnston pointed at the folded tubes of painted alloy. “They twist together like this.”

“Beautiful. The M-16’s? The pistols?”

“In here.” He tapped two stacks of shorter, fatter boxes and shifted with cold as Farnsworth opened one and peered in.

“Come on, Dick, it’s getting cold.”

“Man! It makes me feel ten feet tall just to look at this stuff! I got to have one of these for myself!”

Gabe jabbed an elbow into the silent sergeant’s ribs. “Oh,” he said. “I want to see the dope. Then we move the guns.”

“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 should 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.”