Farnsworth Score (20 page)

“Listen, can we stop and get a drink somewhere? I’m hurting.”

Wager spotted the neon cocktail glass of a roadside bar, and turned in to the parking lot. The Juice’s hand was on the door handle before the car stopped. Wager grabbed the arm of Bruce’s Levi jacket and pulled his pistol from the waist of his trousers. “See this?” The chrome angles of the weapon glinted in the blue neon.

Bruce sat very still. “What’s that for, man?”

“It’s for you if you try to cut out on me. I’ll blow you in half.”

Again the faintly sticky sound from Bruce’s mouth before he spoke. “I wasn’t even thinking of that. I just wanted to stop for a drink. If you don’t really want one, man, just say so.”

“Sure I do, Brucie.” He patted the bony shoulder beneath the grime-slick cloth. “It’s a real pleasure to spend a quiet hour with you.”

He placed Bruce next to the wall in the dark leatherette booth. A girl in a frilly skirt and black mesh stockings smiled for their order. In the dim blue light, her lipstick looked black. Wager waited until the drinks were brought before speaking.

“The information—where’d you get it?”

“God, that’s good! God, I was thirsty.”

“Where?”

“From that guy named Larry.”

“The one who set me up with you?” Wager brought him up in memory: white male, slender build, mid-thirties, straight hair slicked back into a curly fringe just over his collar.

“Yeah. That bastard. We were working on this big deal and he says, ‘You better play it cool.’ ‘Why?’ I says. ‘There’s a narc up there,’ he says. ‘He ain’t after you now, but if you get too big he will be.’ ‘Who is it?’ I says. And the fucker said he didn’t know. The son of a bitch put you on me and then he said he didn’t know you.”

“What the hell did you expect him to say, Brucie? What the hell would you say?”

“Yeah? Well, I wouldn’t pull nothing like that. He’s a son of a bitch.”

“When did he tell you about the raid?”

“At the same time. He said I wouldn’t have to stay low for long—that the narc—you—was gonna wrap things up in a few days, and then I could start moving my stuff.”

“Where’d he get his word?”

“He said he had a pipeline with the man.”

“What kind of pipeline?”

“That’s all he said and that’s all I asked.” Bruce rattled the cubes in his empty glass. “How about another?”

Wager signaled the black mesh stockings.

“It don’t sound good, does it, Villanueva?” Bruce’s teeth showed dimly beneath his thin mustache. “I mean it sounds like some fucking cop just might be doing a number, don’t it?”

It did. It all figured up in ways Wager didn’t like. He swallowed a mouthful of beer that tasted flat and sour and watery. “I’d like to know more about that pipeline.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed over the rim of his glass. “I bet you would.”

In the eyes, in the mockery, Wager saw the erosion already at work. One bad cop—one cop who was no better than the puke he was supposed to be wiping up—and scum like that across the table laughed to see it happen. “You want to tell me how much you like it?”

The eyes slid away. “Naw, man. I’m just agreeing with you. I bet you would like to know more about that pipeline. That’s all.”

“I’m glad that’s all. What kind of deal did you and Larry set up?”

Bruce rattled the suddenly empty glass. Wager ordered another for him, and mesh stockings said, “My, we’re a thirsty boy tonight, aren’t we?” He waited until Bruce was sucking at the next glass and then repeated the question.

“I don’t think I got to answer that. I think I got some rights under the Fifth Amendment, Mr. Narc.”

“That booze is lifting you up again, Bruce. I can fix it so you’ll come down fast. I can send you places where you won’t get even a sniff of pot.”

He swallowed. “That don’t shake me. I can get off this stuff any time I want, and it don’t shake me at all.”

“I want something on Larry that will lead me to that pipeline. I don’t give a damn about you or your deal—unless you make it important. Then I’ll shake you like a fucking rug. Now, what were you putting down?”

“You want me to set him up with you?”

“What’d he do to you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he did that, didn’t he?”

“What was your deal?”

“You won’t hassle me on this? I mean I got some stuff that I want to move; it ain’t for me—it’s for my old lady’s kid; he’s got spasms or something and needs a specialist. What doctor’s gonna do something for nothing?”

Wager didn’t care who it was for. “I’ll let you take your crap out of the state and work somewhere else.”

Bruce chewed the thin fringe of hair on his lip. “I can just take all my stash and leave—that’s what you mean?”

Wager said yes. And it was true. The Juice would take his fall sooner or later, either busted or hooked. Turds like him were mashed all the time.

“O.K.—it’s a deal. Here’s the action: Larry got ahold of some MDA, real quality stuff, and wanted to sell it cheap. He said he had to move it fast.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. At the price he wanted, I wasn’t asking. Anyway, me and Jo-Jo got some bread together and went in heavy, you know? This MDA is something that even Farnsworth ain’t got. And it was really a good deal.”

“And?”

“And that’s it. Jo-Jo and me put the money down and Larry gave us five pounds of pure.”

“This is when he told you about the agent in Nederland?”

“Yeah. Ain’t that a bitch?”

“Was Jo-Jo with you then?”

“Naw. Him and his old lady was working another deal in Fort Collins. I ain’t seen Jo-Jo since the deal with Larry went down. Shit, I was having a drink at the Timber Line—you remember, you bought me a whole pitcher of beer—and I farted around there a couple hours and then I went out to my car, and the man takes my elbow and says, ‘Let’s go.’ We must of rode around four hours before he finally brought me in, and then nobody even let me make my goddam phone call. They just put me in a cage and forgot about me—it was unreal, man! Talk about your police state! I bet old Jo-Jo’s crapping little blue pills. We put down a lot of bread and I didn’t get to tell him where the stash is.”

“I hope he gives you time to explain.”

“He’ll be all right—all he’s got to do is see the stuff. He’s just a little bit crazy, you know?”

“You two better have your look while you’re moving that crap out of the state.”

He let Bruce off in the pines at the south edge of town. “I want to walk from here, man,” Bruce said. “I don’t want no more to do with you.”

“That makes us both happy. You haul your tail by tomorrow night.”

“Right on, pig. And, say, good luck with that Larry son of a bitch. I really mean that.”

It was after one when he reached the Denver city limits, and there was nothing he could do until morning. He was tired; his eyes stung from the headlights bursting in the dirt of his windshield, and he had that dull headache that comes with hunger and weariness. In his apartment, he rummaged through the refrigerator for the makings of a Marine Corps omelet, and when all the odds and ends had been chopped and tossed into the simmering pool of egg, he opened the last beer. So Larry had a pipeline. What the hell connection was there between Larry and Rietman? Larry was Hansen’s snitch, although that wouldn’t keep him and Rietman apart. And Rietman had known that the O.C.D. was putting an agent in Nederland; Wager himself had told him. He folded the egg into a thick roll, carefully tucking the edges against spilling the vegetables and meat and cheese from the bed of yellow. Then he chewed with his mind as well as with his mouth: Rietman would not have had to tell Larry about the agent, since Larry had been the initial contact for Wager. But the time of the bust was something else; someone else had to tell Larry that they were getting close to Farnsworth. Wager had told Rietman there in the drive-in; he had wanted to see what the reaction would be—to give Rietman a chance. And what had happened? Either everything or nothing; for the life of him, Wager did not know if Rietman had been lying.

After washing the dishes and finally stretching out on his bed, Wager closed his eyes and went over the memories again; and despite the relief his body felt at lying flat and motionless, his mind would not rest. He should have known it wouldn’t. Larry was the key right now, and by the Lord’s crown wouldn’t he like to have him for five minutes! Wager felt his body clenching and forced himself to breathe deeply, slowly, telling himself that the undercover act was over—he could relax now. Beneath his closed eyelids, he felt the graininess squeeze weary moisture from his eyes. It had not been the best bust in the world. He could still see the ragged blossom of orange fire spraying toward him, feel the whip of burning powder across his face, even hear … No, he hadn’t heard anything then. Strange. But now it seemed he could hear the sizzle of the round past his ear. And see his own gun so slow to lift, to turn, to fire. He caught his muscles drawing up again and spread himself over the bed to let his flesh sag loosely. Maybe he should take up yoga. Maybe he should take a vacation. Maybe, like Lorraine had said, he was a little nuts. Crap. It had been a lousy bust and there was a rotten cop somewhere. And Larry was the key. Larry—the name jiggled something; Wager clicked on the lamp and padded across the rug to the little notebook in the hip pocket of his pants hanging on the doorknob. He hoped the faint memory was wrong; he hoped that the only possible link he knew between Larry and any other cop was Hansen or Rietman. But there on an almost empty page of his notebook was an entry made six months ago: Larry Ginsdale, Oscar Pitkin, and Billington’s initials after them. Billy had asked Gabe if he had heard of them; two heads from California who had begun dealing in large quantities of coke. It might not even be the same Larry. There were a lot of Larrys. Even if it was, it couldn’t mean anything. Billington had been his partner, and a man learned all there was about his partner. Billy just wouldn’t do it.

The restless turning had finally rolled into a blackness that was more like passing out than sleep, and it took the alarm to pull him out of the dark. Coffee was enough for breakfast; however, he soaked in a hot shower and took his time to shave off his beard. The newly exposed flesh was pale and soft, and the razor kept snagging in tiny cuts. But the clean feeling was worth the shreds of toilet paper stuck here and there to little bloody dots. And the shaving took his mind off the worries that had filled it the night before. He slid behind the wheel of his familiar car and automatically clicked on the police radio. The routine queries and replies began to weave him back into the familiar fabric of police routine, and by the time he arrived at the O.C.D. parking lot, he felt better; he felt like Gabe Wager, cop.

Mrs. Gutierrez smiled as she pressed the “open” buzzer. “My, you look happy today, Detective Wager.”

“I feel clean.”

She was puzzled. “Clean? Oh—you shaved! Too bad; I kind of liked your beard.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sergeant Johnston was not yet in his cubicle. Wager went to his desk for the morning’s first thermos of coffee and the stack of paperwork still unfinished from last night’s business. Keeping an ear open for the sound of Johnston’s voice, he burrowed into the arresting officer’s report. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad bust after all. In fact, the more he studied it in the morning light, the better it looked.

Suzy came in with the pile of morning mail. “Gabe, were you in on that big bust last night?”

“Yes.”

“Everybody’s saying it’s the biggest the O.C.D.’s ever had. There’s a reporter, Gargan, who’s been calling for you since I came in.”

“Tell him I’m in a meeting. Has Johnston come in yet?”

“I think he’s in the inspector’s office.”

Wager walked the few steps down the narrow hall to Sonnenberg’s door; it was closed. He went back to his desk and tried to concentrate on completing the arrest report. Finally he heard the inspector’s door open.

“Ed, can I see you?”

“Come in—I want to see you, too.” Johnston sat on the cushioned swivel chair behind his desk and propped his feet on one of the pulled-out drawers. “Wow—I’m still tired from last night. My back! Say, thanks again, Gabe. I really didn’t know what that bastard was up to when you yelled.” The balding head bobbed on the end of its tilted neck. “The inspector’s really happy with most of the case.”

“Most of it? I thought he’d be pretty God damned happy with all of it.”

“Sure, we got them on the important stuff. But he’s still worried about entrapment. He thinks the defense is going to try to blitz that one at the advisement.”

“The defense always tries everything.”

“Well, the inspector wants Farnsworth real bad, that’s all. He sees this as our chance to bid for a statewide narcotics agency, and he’s uptight about it. The advisement’s set for this afternoon. How soon can we huddle with the D.A.’s office?”

“Any time. But we’ve got other business, too.”

Johnston’s watery eyes narrowed. “You have something new on that?”

He told him what Bruce the Juice had said.

“Have you talked to Hansen about Larry?”

“No. I’d like to get to him without Hansen or anybody else knowing. Maybe it’s Rietman, maybe not. Maybe Rietman wasn’t working alone.”

“God almighty! That’s a shitty feeling!”

“Let me have Larry’s number and address.”

“Oh, yeah.” He unlocked the security drawer that held the files on the agents’ confidential informants. “Here.” He wrote the information on his memo from the desk of.

“You certain this is the right name?”

Johnston double-checked. “Yep—Larry Ginsdale.”

“Does Hansen also list a C.I. named Oscar Pitkin?”

“Here’s an Oscar. No last name, though.”

Anybody could have got to the snitches; it didn’t mean a thing that their names were tied to Billy. “Has Baca made bail yet?”

“No. His was set high because of the assault charge.”

“Who has the case?”

“Kolagny.”

That was good; with his four years as an assistant D.A., Kolagny was the unit’s most experienced prosecutor. In another year or two, he would move to private practice where the money was; then the unit would have to start training another lawyer. “Who does Farnsworth have?”