Farnsworth Score (16 page)

Sergeant Johnston had been figuring on his notepaper. His was white and said “From the Desk of Detective Sergeant Johnston.” “That’s a hell of a lot of money per weapon!”

“You got a monopoly, Ed,” Wager said. “And the buyer don’t have embarrassing questions. Especially about the rocket launchers and automatic weapons.”

“If you want to bring the price down a bit, Sergeant, go ahead. The main thing is to set a deal with Farnsworth.”

Back in his cubicle, Sergeant Johnston sighed. “I hope I don’t fumble the goddam ball, Gabe. It’s been a long time since I had to play the role.”

“Just be yourself, Ed.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You’re a sergeant, be a sergeant.”

“But I’m supposed to be a crooked sergeant!”

“Businessman, Ed. These people don’t deal with crooks, they deal with businessmen. Just like they don’t sell dope or run guns—they service the needs of society. And, Ed, these young folks aren’t criminals; they’re heroes of Aztlan, persecuted members of a counterculture striking a blow for the freedom of their downtrodden brothers.”

“Oh. Well, maybe I can handle that.”

W
AGER CALLED FROM
the office. The first meeting was arranged for the following afternoon.

“You’re sure this sergeant’s legitimate, Gabe?”

“It’s my ass, too, if it doesn’t work, Dick. You look him over and see if he doesn’t look like every sergeant you’ve ever met.”

“I never met any. But we’ll talk to him and see how things sound.”

“When can we get together? He wants to move quick.”

“What’s the rush?”

“He’s nervous.”

“Bad enough to fink?”

“Naw, just nervous. Hell, he’ll be stealing half the goddam armory.”

“Right. Let’s meet in Left Hand Canyon. You know that little picnic area about three miles up Left Hand Creek?”

“Right side of the road?”

“That’s the place. At two.”

Sergeant Johnston said little on the drive up through Boulder and over the rolling highway that ran like a seam where the prairie met the mountains. The mouth of the canyon was marked by a restaurant, sprawling like a large ranch house and unlikely with its parking lot and sign in the emptiness of short grass and sloping foothills. Wager turned west on a bumpy tar road that followed the twists and angles of the narrowing valley.

“Why do they call this place Left Hand?”

“It was named after an Indian chief—Niwot. That means ‘left hand’ in Arapahoe.” Or so a tourist guide had told him.

“Do you talk Indian, too?”

“Sure. All Hispanos do. It’s part of our colorful heritage.”

“Oh.”

The walls of the canyon steepened into red cliffs, and the small pastures gave way to stands of leafless aspen and snow-dotted spruce and cedar. They crossed the small creek several times, and finally, at a wide curve, saw the tilting portable outhouses of the picnic area. They were painted pale green like the O.C.D. office walls, and Wager half wondered what paint salesman had a brother-in-law in the state purchasing office.

Johnston craned his neck. “The place is empty. Maybe they chickened out.”

Gabe eased the Duster over the road’s rough shoulder and down one of the several dirt tracks that twisted toward vandalized concrete tables and benches. The tires crackled over splintered beer bottles and past garbage-strewn ashes of old fires half hidden by windblown snow. “Let’s give them time.”

At ten after the hour, Baca’s van, flying its red-and-black flag, coasted down the canyon and swerved toward them. It halted about twenty feet away. No one got out.

“What are they waiting for?”

“Us—we’re supposed to come to them.”

“Jesus. Well, let’s get the crap over with.”

Wager led him to the van. Baca nodded and seemed to sit the way he walked: wagging slightly from side to side with the inflated self-importance that grated on Wager. Farnsworth was not in the vehicle.

“El Taco here tells me you got something to sell.”

Ed studied Baca in turn. “If the price is right.”

“How much stuff you got and how much you asking?”

Ed told him.

Baca spat out the window near Wager’s feet and shook his head. “We’ll take ten M-16’s. If we like them, we’ll come back for the rest.”

Wager hoped that Johnston would say the right thing. The bastard better say the right thing.

“It’s a one-shot deal. All or nothing.”

“You’re asking for a lot of bread, Red.”

“It’s a lot of risk and I’m only taking it once. This is my retirement fund.”

Baca started the van, and it wasn’t until he spoke that Wager slowly let out his breath. “I got to talk that over; we’ll see you tonight, Gabe.”

They let the shiny blue van slide out of sight up the canyon before turning back toward Denver.

“How’d I do?”

“Real good, Ed. You said the right thing.”

“You don’t think I scared him off?”

“You said the right thing.”

“You’re really sure? The inspector would flip if I pushed Baca out of bounds.”

“Ed, it’s Baca’s ball on his own ten-yard line, third and fifteen, last of the fourth, and he’s down by six. If he wants to score, he’s got to pass and you know it. It’s your game plan, Ed.”

The sergeant looked at him with surprise. “I didn’t know you liked football!”

“I think it’s a lousy game.”

“I don’t like what’s going down—it’s too much too fast.”

“I can relate to that, Manny, I really can. But the sergeant’s got a point—it’s a one-shot deal.” Farnsworth poured another cup of coffee from the dented aluminum pot that sat warming on top of the cabin stove. “What’d he say to you on the way back, Gabe?”

“There wasn’t much to say. He wants to deal, and I think he’ll come down a little. But he’s only going to try it once. That’s government property he’ll be copping; and when it gets ripped off, this whole goddam state’s going to be crawling with feds.”

“I wonder how he’s going to do it?”

“He says he’s got a plan. Maybe he’s not as dumb as he looks.”

“Do you really want this?” Ramona broke her silence.

“Sure! Don’t you? It’s a chance to do something really important for the people,” said Farnsworth.

“We can really get in over our heads, too. Manny’s right for being worried. A lot can go wrong.”

Gabe nodded. “That’s true, Ramona. If you think it’s too big, we shouldn’t get in it. Maybe we shouldn’t try to swim in water that’s too deep.”

“Are you a chicken taco now, Villanueva?” said Baca.

“I’m just saying that maybe you’d better listen to Ramona. She may be right. For a lot of people, this deal is too big.”

“It ain’t for me and Dick; we can handle any deal. What I don’t like is the idea of maybe getting ripped off by this
cabrón
that we don’t even know nothing about. We’ll have a shit-pot load of dope, and all we know about this sergeant is what you told us.”

“If that ain’t good enough, Manny, you know where to shove it.”

“Come on, you two! Cut out the
macho
crap and let’s get serious. We got business to talk. Do we want this or not?”

“Ramona’s making your decisions. Ask her.”

“She’s not making my decisions,” said Farnsworth. “I am.”

“Piss on it,” said Baca. “But if something goes wrong, baby, I’ll know who to blame.” He gave Wager the hard eye.

“O.K., Gabe, good work!” When Sonnenberg was most excited, his voice drawled and his eyes gathered light just like the pale gray cigar smoke swirling past the window. “When do we move?”

“Let’s not rush it—they’re as nervous as whores in church. I said I’d talk with the sergeant and call back this morning.”

The inspector raised his eyebrows at Johnston, who shrugged. “This weekend, sir?”

“Better make it a weekday. If you’re with a Reserve unit, the weapons will be used on weekends,” said Wager.

“Right. Let’s say Monday night. That will give me and Ed time to inventory all those weapons.”

“Yes, sir. Can I use your phone? Mine’s an extension.”

He handed Wager the red telephone. “This one’s secure.”

There were two places on earth where a cop felt safe enough to relax; one was at home, the other was in his unit headquarters. Now there was only one, thanks to Rietman. Wager dialed Farnsworth’s number. Sonnenberg and Johnston listened. Peter answered and said “Hello” over and over until Ramona took the receiver. “This is Gabe. Tell Dick it’s on for Monday night. I’ll be at the Timber Line this Sunday around eight.”

“Yes.”

That was all. Gabe handed the telephone back to the inspector. Sergeant Johnston sighed and clapped his palms to his knees and stood. “There’s the kickoff.”

Twilight now came around four-thirty, but the south walls of the valleys were never in sun this late in the year, and even in the dark Wager could see the old snow pooled under the pines and cedars at the left of the highway. He slowed when the Duster tilted over the head of Boulder Canyon at Barker Reservoir. Behind the concrete dam and its row of steely fluorescent lamps, a wrinkled expanse of wind-drifted ice had settled in to wait for spring thaw. At the far end of the gray- and-white flatness huddled the twinkling cluster of soft lights that was Nederland. The voice on the car radio compared the spirit of the coming bicentennial celebration with the spirit of Christmas, and then reminded its listeners that there were only thirty shopping days left. Natividad? Little Pedro had already been talking about Santa Claus, and old Uncle Gabe was really going to bring him a surprise. Merry Christmas, kid, your old man’s in the clink. Well, screw it; it wasn’t his fault that Pedrocito’s old man was a pusher. It was Farnsworth’s own choice, and Wager was damned if he felt like taking any of the blame that belonged on Farnsworth’s head. It had been his and Ramona’s choice and they knew the risks. It was just too bad that the kid shared the risk but had none of the choice. Sins of the fathers. And the mothers—the women had equal rights. So many kids learned how risky life was before they learned that they had any choice; and so many never discovered that they had a choice. But Farnsworth and his wife had chosen. And they had chosen for little Peter, too.

He snapped off the radio and coasted into the twenty-five-mile-an-hour zone near the road junction that was the center of town. Most of the half-dozen stores were closed for the winter, and even the single gas station had shut down on Sunday night. The hamburger stand offered the only light against the shut wooden sides of the boxy stores and sagging garages that showed their backs across empty half-lots ridged with old snow. Wager turned down the narrow side street and crunched through the ice beside a high curb in front of the Timber Line. Baca’s van sat in the crowded parking lot beside the low, log-sided building; inside, the tables were crowded with clusters of weekend skiers, red-faced and loud. Farnsworth and Baca held a table near the crackling fireplace.

“What’s the word, man?”

“It’s all set for tomorrow.”

“Did you get the fucker to cut his price?”

“He says he’ll come down only if the stuff is coke or heroin. He don’t want nothing else.”

“That’s no sweat. What’s his price?”

“A kilo and a half of Mexican horse, or two of coke. Top grade.”

“That son of a bitch didn’t come down much, did he?”

“It’s his watery blue eyes. People with watery blue eyes are always greedy.”

Baca grunted. “The bastard better not get greedy enough to try and rip us off.”

Farnsworth leaned closer to the table, away from the noisy skiers. “We’d better set this up right; we don’t want anything going wrong on this one. We’ll need a truck and we’ll need security.”

“What’s wrong with my van?” Baca asked.

“Too much weight, Manny. I can get Bruce or Jo-Jo to rent us a truck and leave it off at my place tomorrow morning. Gabe, let’s meet the sergeant near Golden. I know a place just east of the Coors plant where it’ll be safe to exchange.”

“You’ll have to show me.”

“Tomorrow afternoon we’ll go down and eyeball the place. It’s got a fence around it—real private—but inside it’s wide open so that sergeant can’t pull any crap.”

“He’ll want to test the dope.”

“He can do that while we look at the merchandise. Manny’ll stay with the dope until the merchandise is transferred.”

Baca tapped Wager’s arm. “Alone. You tell him he comes alone.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Where we gonna hide all that crap, Dick?”

“I got the whole ranch; we’ll just park the truck until Gabe lines up that pilot friend of his.”

“If that fucking sergeant tries anything, I’m gonna waste him.”

Wager asked, as mildly as he could, “You carrying a piece now?”

“I do on a deal this big,” said Baca. “You don’t like it?”

“If you think you need one, then I guess you’d better have it.”

“If it comes time to need one, I sure as hell want it. And I’ll use it.”

Farnsworth hissed them quiet and stood to wave at Bruce the Juice, who stood in the doorway slowly peering around the room.

“Hey, hey—it’s the frito banditos.” Bruce’s words slid into each other. He looked dirtier than Wager remembered, hair sprouting in different directions like a sick cat, a cushion of slow reaction between him and the world.

“Man, are you on something?”

“Oh …” He sank into a chair and smiled at Baca awhile before answering. “Me?”

“Dick, this turd’s not going to do us no good.”

“What are you dropping, Juice?”

The smile turned to Farnsworth. “Just being cool.”

“No good at all,” said Baca again. “Let’s get Flint to do it.”

Farnsworth drained his glass and studied Bruce. “You on downers now, Juice?”

“Cool, cool, cool.”

Farnsworth shook his head. “Flint says he’s out of the action. Him and his old lady’s getting ready to move down to Taos and open up that gallery.”

“He don’t have to do nothing but rent the truck and turn it in when we’re through. Hell, we’re buddies, ain’t we? Let’s go talk to him.”

They looked at Bruce again. “I guess we better. You coming, Gabe?”

“I want to finish my beer. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Hey—” Bruce waved at the space left by Farnsworth and Baca, and then turned slowly after them. “Hey, come here. Something to tell you.”