Farnsworth Score (19 page)

“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 witnesses, 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.

“Hello again, Bruce.”

The youth’s face sagged into a gray color. “Hey, Sergeant. What’s this guy doing here?”

“It’s a democracy, sonny. And this is a public building.”

Wager smiled. “I’ve been assigned to escort you home safely.”

“No way—come on, Sergeant. I ain’t going with him!”

“You’re released, Hornbacher. We got no jurisdiction. Just sign that personal-effects form and get out.”

“But … But …”

Wager’s hand gripped the thin arm. “Let’s go, Bruce. I’ll even buy you a beer on the way.”

B
RUCE SAGGED IN
Wager’s car, head jiggling loosely against the window glass, weary eyes sliding past the streetlights, past the occasional lumpy pedestrians who walked rapidly from the snowy parking lots to the municipal auditorium, past the restless youths huddled in a cold line outside a nightclub featuring Freddie Henchie and the Soul Setters. The nervous energy Bruce had inside headquarters was gone now, and thin lines of sweat filled the creases on his forehead. Wager let him sweat.

They turned west on Sixth Avenue and crossed the series of narrow viaducts, then dipped beneath overpasses and behind the high concrete revetments that collected the rattle of traffic and brown slush dropped like manure from snow-packed fenders. Bruce finally licked his chapped lips and half turned his head. “Where we going?”

“I told you. I’m taking you home. You look like you need a rest.”

Bruce had come down fast in the last twenty-four hours—his face sagging and yellow, his thin hands clusters of fingers gripping each other because there was nothing else to hold. Gradually, Gabe’s words elbowed through the woolly layers to mean something. “What for?”

“I want people to see that we’re good friends.”

“I ain’t friends with no pig!”

“You and I know that.”

Another silence. Wager heard the sticky sound of Bruce’s tongue peeling from the roof of his dry mouth. “I don’t want nobody to think we’re friends.”

“Me either—but that’s what I got to do.”

“You just let me out. I can get home all right.”

“Relax. Enjoy the ride. I’ll even buy you a beer at the Timber Line when we get there. By the way, I busted Farnsworth and Baca tonight.” He nudged the loose shoulder. “Did you hear me?”

“What? You what?”

“I busted Farnsworth and Baca tonight.”

“No shit! What’d you get them on?”

“Conspiracy to sell, selling, possession, and assaulting an officer with a deadly weapon.”

“Old Farns and Manny! I’ll be Goddamned.” The news worked through the padding of his drug hangover to wake him up. “Those fuckers had it coming. But Jesus, there’s going to be some bopping when the system dries up.” He fell silent picturing the shifting routes of supply, the sudden jumps in prices, the scramble for new sources, the possibilities that opened for him. And then something else. “Hey, Villanueva—the whole town is gonna know who busted him. And you want to take me to the Timber Line for a friendly beer?”

The soft smile was in Wager’s voice as well as on his lips. “That’s right.”

“No way! I ain’t finked and I ain’t getting burned by you!”

“Now, now, they’ll just think you’re a good citizen showing a little civic pride by having a beer with the arresting officer.”

“No—you ain’t got nothing on me.”

“After they see you with me, I won’t need anything on you.”

“They’ll know I was clean. They’ll believe me before they believe any goddam narc.”

“Maybe. And maybe not. I always thought Jo-Jo was a little nuts. I’ll bet your ass I can make him believe you turned.”

“No way. Jo-Jo’s my buddy. You can’t shit him about me.”

“You know what I’ll tell him? I’ll say that you knew I was a narc when you brought me in. I’ll say that I told you to spread the word just before I popped Farnsworth that there was a narc in town. That way nobody would lay the bust against you. You know that son of a bitch has fried brains—he’s going to believe my rap just long enough to plant some lumps on your skull, Brucie.”

From the corner of his eye, Wager saw Bruce’s face wince against the ache of his head and the weight of Gabe’s words.

“Tell me you don’t think he’s a crazy bastard, Brucie.”

Silence.

“Tell me you don’t think he might cut you up before you can say diddly shit.”

“Why?” Bruce’s dry voice barely carried over the smack of tires on the wet highway. “Why this action?”

“Figure it out: I want something from you.”

“Like what?”

“Like where did you get your information about a narc up in Nederland.”

“That’s all you want?”

“That’ll do for starters.”