Farnsworth Score (3 page)

“Did Chandler live up there?”

“Yeah. He rented a cabin just west of town. It took him a few months, but he got in with this guy Goldberg, who’s a buddy of Farnsworth’s. Then he started buying, and after a few more months he was able to call me in for a deal big enough so that only Farnsworth could cover it.”

Wager sipped his beer. He’d have to come up with something different; Farnsworth wouldn’t buy the same package twice. “What about known associates?”

“He’s shacked up with this Chicano cunt. Ramona. I think her last name’s Alcala or Alka-Seltzer or some shit like that. And, let’s see, there’s Goldberg and Charlie Flint and Johnny Lewis and a couple others whose first names I heard, but that’s all. Chandler can fill you in better than me. Why don’t you talk to him?”

“I will,” said Wager. “What’s Farnsworth’s supply?”

Rietman shook his head and finished the drink; Wager ordered another. “I don’t know. But we only had to wait a day for a couple pounds, so he must either have one hell of a stash or some goddam good connections.”

“Goldberg, Flint, and Lewis—they’re the bagmen?”

“Naw, Gabe. Like I said, they don’t have an organization. Those dudes will handle up to half a kilo. Anything bigger, they turn over to Farnsworth. That’s how Chandler got to him, anyway.”

“I see.” He sipped at his now warm beer. “What’s your story of the bust?”

Rietman cracked an ice cube between his teeth. “It was a good fucking test. I know it was a good test. But do you think that son of a bitch Sonnenberg listened to me?”

“Why?”

Two little white spots appeared at the sides of Rietman’s narrow nose. “Why? Ask him—how the hell do I know! I told him I’d take a fucking lie-detector test, and the son of a bitch said it wouldn’t mean a thing.”

The tourists were looking nervously at Rietman. Wager motioned to Rosie for the check.

“Sonnenberg don’t think the case is closed or he wouldn’t be interested.”

“Well, fuck him. It’s closed as far as I’m concerned, and so’s Sonnenberg and the whole goddam division.”

“Everybody gets shit on sometime, Mark. You wait awhile and pretty soon you’re on top again.”

“Yeah! I’m not everybody.” He set the glass down slowly. “I’ll bet Sonnenberg sent you down here to try and trip me up.”

“He sent me down to find out about Farnsworth.”

“I’ll bet!”

Wager smiled slightly to hide his disgust. “Believe what you want to, Rietman.” He stood and covered the check with a bill. “We’ll see you later.”

“Like hell you will.”

I
T TOOK
W
AGER
until noon the next day to find out that Chandler had been transferred by D.E.A. back to Detroit.

“Well, Detective Wager,” said the slow voice at the other end of the line, “there wasn’t no need for him to stay, now, was there? What all did you want with him?”

“Inspector Sonnenberg’s looking into the Rietman thing.”

“I reckon he should. Your man spilled a lot of our time and money.”

He let it pass. “Do you have a number in Detroit where Chandler can be reached?”

“Hold on a minute.” The voice came back: “This here’s the regional office: area 313 494-9062. They can put you in touch with him.”

“Thanks.” He hung up and dialed the
WATS
operator, giving her the number. She told him she did not know how long it would take to place the call. Wager poured another cup of bitter coffee from the thermos pitcher and turned to copies of the D.E.A. files that Billy had sent over that morning. There were two Xerox pages on Farnsworth and Goldberg, but no sheets on the other names mentioned by Rietman. He called D.P.D. for any information they might have on Farnsworth, Richard Allen; Alacala, Ramona; Goldberg, Jacob Meyer; Flint, Charles (x), a.k.a. Charlie; Lewis, John (x). The person in records said she would call back.

“All set on the truck, Gabe.” He looked up to see Johnston smiling at him. “It’s in your name over at the Larimer Street garage.” The sergeant waited.

“That’s fine, Ed.”

“I—ah—had them do something special.”

Wager did not like people doing something special unless he told them to do something special. “Like what?”

“You’ll see. You’ll like it.”

He did not enjoy surprises, either. “Like what, Ed?”

“It’s a little extra touch, a little more—you know—realism, like I used to do when I went under. Hey, I kind of wish it was me coming off the bench instead of you. It’s been a long time.”

That’s all he needed: surprises from a nostalgia freak. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

The sergeant laughed and slapped a hand on Wager’s shoulder. “There can be good times, if you follow the right game plan!”

“I’ll try to do that.”

“Haw! Good old Gabe!”

The telephone rang; Suzy called to him, “It’s D.P.D. on some makes you requested. Are you in?”

“Yes.” He picked up his receiver. “This is Detective Wager.”

The brisk female voice from records said, “We have nothing on Farnsworth, Richard Allen; we do have one notation on Alcala, Ramona, arrested in 1965 for shoplifting, guilty plea with suspended sentence. No further arrests. Goldberg, Jacob Meyer, is a negative; Flint, Charles, has three moving violations—two for speeding, one for careless driving. Last entry, June, 1974. We have four Lewis, John, Johnnys, or Jonathans. Do you know his age or place of birth?”

“Probably early to mid-twenties.”

“Then we have two. One has a long record, mostly crimes against persons; the other has one entry for possession of less than an ounce.”

On a hunch, he asked, “How old was Alcala when she was arrested?”

A slight delay. “Birth date, 21 February 1927.”

That made her forty-nine—too old for his suspect. “And Flint?”

“Born 17 August 1950.”

“Thanks. Could I get copies of the Flint and both Lewis jackets?”

“I’ll send them over. Do you want us to query the Crime Information Center?”

“Let me get better descriptions of the suspects. I’ll be back to you later.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sounds like you’re getting in there, Gabe. Keep driving for that goal line.” Johnston gave a little punch in the air, and Wager wished the Broncos had never come to Denver.

“Has Sonnenberg contacted the Boulder sheriff’s office yet?”

“I don’t know—I’ll find out.”

“Suzy,” he said as soon as the sergeant was out of sight, “I’m going over to the custodian’s office. If Detroit D.E.A. calls, I’m trying to get in touch with Agent Chandler, who was just out here on special assignment. Find out how I can reach him as soon as possible.”

He ducked down the pale green corridor and through the door whose buzzer rattled loudly whenever it was opened. On the tiny landing, Mrs. Gutierrez, unit security person, smiled out at him through the Plexiglas window, her voice muffled by the baffles mounted over the window’s speak hole. “Have a good day, Detective Wager.”

He waved at her smile and graying hair and thumped down the worn stairs before Johnston could call him back for another pep talk.

The D.P.D. custodian’s office was in the rear of the Main Police Headquarters, a concrete building just south of the convention complex. It stood foursquare, four stories, and was crowned with a large red-and-white antenna; the new justice complex, which should have been completed by now, was several blocks away, a cluster of raw concrete pillars sprouting reinforcing rods. Meanwhile, D.P.D. made do—as usual— with overcrowded space and a parking lot so jammed with official vehicles and unmarked cars that he had to wait ten minutes before a patrol car bounced through the gate and gave him space to park.

The property locker of the custodian’s office was run by a civilian Caucasian female, mid-twenties, brown eyes, dark hair longer than allowed for non-civilian personnel and serving to draw attention to a face that was passably good-looking. The identification card clipped above a nice full breast read, Miller, Elizabeth M. Wager rested his own I.D. on the shelf of the half-door.

“I’d like to see the custodial reports on D.E.A.-6, file number 31942, Farnsworth, Richard Allen.”

“Yes, sir. Would you sign a check-out form please?”

Wager looked at the small pad of yellow mimeographed paper. “This is something new?”

“Yes, sir. For better security.” She bent to pull the file from a cabinet and Wager admired her legs: slender and firm and straight. With a little better face, she really would be nice. She laid the file on the shelf and watched him with eyes made larger and darker by a faint touch of eye shadow.

He found an almost quiet corner of the busy corridor and leaned against a wall to study the laboratory analysis and custody sheet. The suspect material had been checked into property with a request for analysis at 10:38
P.M
. by Rietman, initialed by the night clerk, W.G., then checked out again at 1:07
P.M
. the following day by A.D. That would be Archie Douglas, the chief technician at the lab. At 4:13
P.M.
it was checked back in by E.M., with a copy of the lab report: 96% lactose, 3% inert matter, 1% cocaine trace. That was all— traces don’t make cases. Out of habit, he copied the facts into his small wire-bound notebook and took the papers back to the property room.

“Thanks, miss.”

She dropped the manila folder back into the drawer.

“Do you know who ‘W.G.’s is? He was on duty last Thursday night.”

“Wilma Green. She’s a uniformed officer.”

“Thanks again.” Wager filled in the blank spot on his page and smiled good-bye to Miss Miller. She did not smile back; to hell with her.

In his car, Wager radioed Suzy: “Two-one-six?”

“This is two-one-six.”

“Two-one-two. Anything yet from Detroit?”

“Negative.”

“Ten-four.”

Hansen’s call numbers were two-one-four; Wager radioed them, and the detective’s voice came back quickly in reply, “Go ahead, two-one-two.”

“Are you in District 1?”

“Yeah, a few blocks from unit headquarters on Colfax.”

“Meet me there in ten.”

It was back to headquarters whether he wanted it or not. Johnston was waiting. “Hey, Gabe! Here’s the name of your liaison in Boulder—Sergeant Paul Mayhew. He’s with the sheriff’s office, and the inspector says he’s first string.”

“Mayhew in the S.O. Thanks, Ed.”

Ed gave the little punch in the air. “We’ll get the bastards, Gabe.”

Hansen was sitting at his desk; Wager nodded to him. “Did Johnston tell you that you’ll be taking some of my cases?”

Hansen’s eyes rounded. “No. You got a special?”

“Yes. Here’s what I’ve been doing.” He pulled a small deck of contact cards from his own desk and sat on the corner of Hansen’s. “There’s a buy and bust tomorrow afternoon in Cheesman Park. Pinetti’s the contact man—he’s on loan from Crimes Against Persons. Give him a call and let him know you’ll be handling the surveillance. One of my C.I.s says he’s onto something big; he’s always onto something big, but it has to be listened to just in case. That’s Doc. Fat Willy is setting up a dude in the Points. I’ll call them now and say you’re covering for me. Let’s see.… This one may build into something. It’s a lead into Pueblo, and the C.I. thinks it’s tied into Mexican heroin. He’s just on the edge of the action, but the next month or two should tell. The rest of these”—he tapped the cards—“I’ll give to Ashcroft.”

Hansen finished making a few notes and looked up, pulling at the tip of his ragged brown mustache. “How long are you gone for?”

“No idea.”

“Where to?”

“The Western Slope.” If Hansen or anybody else had a need to know more, Ed would tell them. If not, he wouldn’t.

“Jesus. I’ll bet it’s Aspen. That place is dope city any more.”

“The whole Western Slope is unreal.”

“Yeah. Say, have you seen Reitman?”

“Yesterday.”

“I hear he’s pretty sore.”

Wager grunted, “
Me cae gordo.
”

“Boy, I’d be sore, too, if it was me. He claims he ran a good test.”

“That’s what he says. But it’s happened to other people, too.”

“Still, it sure is too bad.” Hansen’s line buzzed.

Wager turned to his own desk to leaf through the little book of coded numbers for his C.I.s. The first one he dialed rang twice before a wheezing, sleepy voice said, “Uh-huh.”

“It’s Gabe, Willy. I’m going out of town for a while. You’ll be working with Hansen. You know him?”

“No, I don’t know him, man. And I don’t dig this shit of you handing me around like I was a motherfucking dog or something. Why don’t you just put my fucking name on the bulletin board down there or something?”

“It can’t be helped, Willy.”

“Say, man, maybe Fat Willy can help it.”

“Hansen’s got all the bread now, Fat Man. If you want some, work with him. If not, wait’ll I get back. It’s up to you.”

In the pause, Wager heard the black’s slow, fleshy breath. “How long you gonna be out of town?”

“A couple months. Maybe more.”

“Jesus Hebrew Christ! I been working with you for three years and now you pull shit like this. You pass me around like that, and people gonna find out who I am. You don’t think nothing of leaving me hanging by the balls, do you?”

Wager didn’t. “It’s part of the job.”

“Yeah! Well, maybe me and this Hansen dude will get along. Maybe I won’t want no more of your shit when you get back!”

“Willy, I’ll bring you a little present.”

“Shee-it!” The line went dead. Wager pictured the huge black figure wheezing and grunting curses as he always did when his routine was changed and the cold breeze of fear went across his sweating back. But he would work for Hansen, Wager knew. The big man was always hungry. And he would work for Wager later, for as long as Wager needed him—or as long as he lasted.

The second number was answered by a woman whose voice Wager did not recognize. “Is Doc there?”

The male voice came on quickly, “Who’s it?”

“It’s Gabe. You got another old lady already?”

“Hey, man, yeah! Really far out! It’s about time you called—hey, I’m really onto it big this time.”

“Right, Doc. Listen …”

The high-pitched voice cut in, “We can get it by the pound, man—I mean really heavy!”