by Rex Burns
Driving slowly on Downing to the Colfax light, he turned west, keeping in the right lane to glance along sidewalks already filling with summer crowds of shaggy transients and with night people lured from their close rooms and converted garages on the side streets to this glow of lights and restless motion. Especially the motion. It was the same thing that had drawn Wager out of the silence of his apartment, and as he eased his Trans Am along the trash-littered curbing he felt a kind of kinship with the quick-eyed movement of the street people who wandered looking for the action, watching for the fuzz, seeking what was going down, man. It beat hell out of staring at the four walls of a rented room and listening to the echo of your own breathing.
On Broadway, the character of the sidewalks changed abruptly from the topless bars and porno shops and nude photography studios to the ground floors of office towers that seemed to be faced with the same polished stone and vertical strips of aluminum. Inside, the foyers were dimly lit and empty, and even the banks of elevator lights were off. Here the few pedestrians were tourists and conventioneers who, crossing from one downtown hotel to another, had made a wrong turn and were groping their way back to the sheltering arcades of the Brown Palace or the Continental. Wager saw an occasional face that he recognized working the tourists, one of them being “Hey You” Jones, the demented and half-crippled Negro whose outstretched palm and “Hey you got a quarter?” drifted from street to street like a piece of blowing newspaper. Two or three blocks up Broadway, the sidewalks changed again, darker and lined with store windows papered over and painted with signs saying “Lease” or “For Rent—Easy Terms.” Here the curbs formed triangular corners, and wedge-shaped taverns drew customers from the aging apartments and converted sanitariums just behind Broadway. The few trees in tiny, three-sided parks cast uneasy shadows over the figures on the grass, smoking, talking, passing wine bottles back and forth. Wager reached upper Larimer and parked on Twenty-fifth, locking his car and pausing to smell the odor of frying grease and spiced meat that drifted from one of the drooping houses between stubby office buildings and wholesale businesses. If a person looked hard enough, he could see the remnants of a neighborhood still here, stretched thin by the increasing distances between homes. Just how long it could last, and who—besides the old people clinging to the small houses with their cheap rent and low taxes—would care when it was gone, Wager didn’t know. But right now, even with the torn and sagging screen doors, the pale glimmer of unpainted and warping boards at the porch edges, there was more life, more humanity to watch and to talk about, than in all twenty stories and two hundred units of his own apartment tower. Despite the violence and noise, despite the drunks pissing in the front yards or retching against doors or window screens, this was a place where life was not a television set, and because of that the residents struggled to remain.
As he strolled toward Little Juarez, his mind was divided between the present—this stretch of Larimer with its dim glow of lights behind pulled roller blinds—and the past: memories of his old neighborhood before the “developers” turned under the homes to turn up a profit. For the first time in a week, he was not really looking for anyone, did not give a damn about Scorvelli or the Covinos or Sonnenberg or Doyle. He merely walked and felt the loosening muscles in his neck and shoulders tell him that at last he was slowly relaxing.
But someone saw him.
“Wager!”
The call came from one of three small houses wedged between brick buildings across the street, and he saw Tony-O’s figure stiffly erect even as he sat on a tiny front porch that only had room for two rusty patio chairs. Another figure sat beside him, and Wager crossed between the automobile traffic to the sidewalk that ran a scant four feet from the edge of the low wooden porch. “Is this where you live, Tony-O?”
“Yeah. I rent a room in back from George, here.”
George, a thick-bodied man in railroad overalls, nodded without speaking or changing the gentle bounce of his metal chair.
“What’s this crap I read in the paper about you cops giving up on Scorvelli?”
Wager started to say he hadn’t given up on anybody. But it wasn’t true. “No evidence.”
“What about that tip I handed you? Hell, I told you about that Frank Covino!”
He wondered at the note of anger in the old man’s voice. Tony-O’s information had been offhand; at the time, he hadn’t seemed to care if Wager used it or not. Yet now he was angry. Perhaps it was an old man’s pique at having his word rejected; perhaps it was something else—Wager vaguely remembered something else … His thoughts, like the muscles of his neck, began again to clench. He remembered something that he should have paid more attention to: an attitude … a note in the voice … a tiny question in his mind. He tried to recall and at the same time mask his thoughts with a casual voice. “We checked it out. We couldn’t corroborate anything you told us, Tony.”
The erect shape remained wordless and accusing. From somewhere farther down Larimer, a hoarse voice whooped and a bottle shattered, followed by the frantic bark of a large dog. “But I told you what that Chavez guy said. You can work on Scorvelli with that.”
“We haven’t been able to find Chavez. And from you, it’s just hearsay evidence—not enough to support holding Scorvelli. If you know where to find Chavez, then tell me and I’ll go after him.”
Tony-O’s wrinkled face dipped in the flash of passing headlights. “All I know is L.A. He didn’t give me his goddamned address and telephone number, Wager.”
That was it—Wager remembered it now: he had asked Tony-O before about someone else who might know Chavez, and Tony-O had answered “no” a shade too quickly. In itself, nothing notable—just a feeling that the old man wasn’t giving Wager all that he knew. And now the realization that Tony-O was eager to see Wager land on Scorvelli and disappointed that he had not. With chagrin, Wager realized the obvious—that Chavez, with good reason, might be afraid. Especially if he was still in Denver. “Have you heard anything else that might help? Anything on the brother down in Cañon City?”
“Naw. I ain’t been listening.” The anger was gone and now Tony-O’s voice held threads of boredom and sullenness. “Why in hell should I, when you people don’t use nothing I give you?”
“If you get us something we can take into court, Tony-O, we’ll use it.”
“I bet you will.”
Wager, still feeling the air between him and the rigid old man, said it again: “You get us something we can use, Tony, and we will.”
Tony-O no longer answered. George, his chair squeaking rustily, bounced in gentle rhythm and watched the street life flow back and forth just beyond the edge of the porch.
No longer walking without purpose, Wager quickly crossed Larimer Street toward the half-lit sign in the next block: “—NOLO’S.” The round-faced bartender with the drooping mustache recognized him with a cautious nod and wandered down from the small group of men clustered at the far end of the bar. They looked like the same ones who’d been there the night before, still in the same positions, still falling into the same silence when a stranger walked in.
“Look.” Zapata tapped a stubby finger on the scrap of paper taped to the post beside the cash register. “I gave Whistles a dollar last night. The damned loco didn’t know what to do with it, but he was happy enough to wet his pants. He thinks I’ve hired him now like for a real job, you know? I’ll never get rid of the son of a bitch now.”
Wager took one of his business cards from his wallet and slipped it across the bar. “When that runs out, give me a call.” He put a five-dollar bill beside it. “How about some phone change and a beer?”
“Mexican or Yankee?”
“You really sell much Mexican beer?”
Zapata shook his head. “Once in a while to some borracho. Hell, who can afford it? You want a draw? All I got’s Schlitz—no Coors.”
“Draw.” He paid his quarter and took the small, cold glass and the handful of coins over to the wall telephone in the ro
om’s dim corner. The first number he dialed was Fat Willy’s.
“Hey, I been waiting to hear from you, my man.” Wager could almost see the fat man squeeze himself into the corner telephone booth of the bar that was his office. “You owe me a little something and I ain’t seen you. Why is it I never see the people that owes me, but I always see the ones that wants?”
“I’ve put in a request for the funds, Fat Willy.”
“A re-quest! How the hell long is a request supposed to take? I got expenses, man!”
“I’ll know next week. Right now, I want you to listen up on somebody else.”
“I will put in a fucking re-quest and let you know next week!”
“I want what you can pick up on Tony Ojala—Tony-O.”
Curiosity drove the sarcasm from Fat Willy’s voice. “That’s the old man who’s all over Larimer? The dude who looks like a broke-off match stick?”
“That’s him. I want to know where he goes and who he talks to.”
“Hooeee. That old man’s everywhere and nowhere; he talks to everybody and nobody.”
“I want to know if he’s been talking to somebody named Bernie Chavez, a man about the same age.”
“Come on, Wager—get yourself a spic for that. I couldn’t tell this Bernie Chavez from Pancho Villa. All you brownies look alike to me.”
“There might be something in it for you.”
“Yeah—another goddam re-quest. Count me out, Wager. Until I get the bread from that last little favor I done you, I ain’t doing no more.”
“You’re going to want something from me sometime, Willy. Maybe soon.”
“Yeah, maybe so. But right now you owe me. When the account is balanced, then I will worry about owing you. And hey, I see where you backed off the Scorvellis. What’s the matter, them wop boys too tough for you?”
“No evidence,” said Wager, and hung up. The next number was one he had not yet memorized, and he dialed it carefully. A woman’s voice answered hurriedly on the third ring.
“Can I talk to Jesus, please?” asked Wager.
She held the telephone a few seconds without replying. “Who’s this? Who wants him?”
“Gabe Wager.”
“Oh! Sure—just a minute.”
The relief in the woman’s voice made it almost happy. This time it wasn’t another of Jesus’s suspect friends dragging him into one more scheme that would someday land her husband in the clink; instead, it was a cop, somebody on the right side of the law, who would help keep her husband on the straight and narrow. Wager rinsed his mouth with beer.
“Gabe?” The voice sounded sleepy and slightly drunk. “You called late. Scared hell out of my woman.”
“Sorry, Jesus. I didn’t think what time it was. I need a little help with—”
“Say, hombre, it’s good you called!” Jesus was waking up. “I been trying to get you, but them people at headquarters, they wouldn’t give me your home phone, you know? They kept telling me to call back Monday. I told them it was real important, but it’s like they don’t know who I am. Maybe you better straighten them out or give me your number for emergencies, man.”
Wager did the latter, repeating the number when the man on the other end of the line finally located a pencil. “Why’d you want me?” he asked Jesus.
“Because I got some information! You asked me to listen around for certain names, right?”
“What kind of information?”
“Good stuff, hombre. I got it from a guy I know who’s just out of Cañon City. Got out yesterday. He was in the same cell block as that Covino dude.”
“What did he tell you?”
“He says that somebody from the Scorvelli organization came down to visit Covino just before he was shivved.”
“Did he know who Covino’s visitor was?”
“Nope. But he was working as a trusty and he saw Covino’s visitor. He knew the guy from before, and later Covino as much as told him it was a Scorvelli messenger.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“You’ll cover for me, right? Like before?”
“Trust me, Jesus; I’ll say I got his name from Cañon City.”
“O.K., that sounds decent. It’s Ken Espinosa; I forget what he was up for. I think he’s got a room down at the Binghamton.”
“Did Espinosa mention anything about the knifing? About why Covino was killed?”
“He said what everybody else says—Covino got it in a fight with Uhuru.”
“Nothing about a hit on Covino?”
“No. Hey, you think Covino was set up that way? You think somebody knew he was with Scorvelli and wanted to get rid of him?”
“Anything’s possible, Jesus.” At least, it seemed that way so far. “There’s another thing I need some help with.”
“You’ve come to the man who can do things, Wager.”
“I know that, Jesus—por supuesto. What I want you to do is keep an eye on Tony-O. You know him?”
“That old guy? Sure, I see him around all the time. But what the hell’s he got to do with anything?”
“He may be a lead to somebody I’m looking for—a Bernie Chavez, about the same age as Tony-O.”
The line was briefly silent. “The only Bernie Chavez I know’s about my age.”
“It’s this old Bernie Chavez I’m after. He might tie a tail to some of those very important people.” Wager gave Jesus Tony-O’s address.
“Hijole! This thing really is big time, ain’t it? But the papers said you weren’t laying anything on Scorvelli.”
Gargan would wriggle and pee like a scratched puppy if he knew how many people had read that story. “Don’t believe everything in the papers, and don’t let Tony-O know you’re behind him.”
“Hey, don’t worry about that—I’m no bembo!”
The third call was to Records. Police Person Fabrizio—she of the slender legs and large breasts—took Wager’s request for information on Espinosa, Kenneth, and came back on the line in less than two minutes. “The subject was released on parole yesterday, Detective Wager,” said her very nice voice. “He lists an address at the Binghamton Hotel, 2105 Larimer. His employer will be Greenland Sod Farms in Aurora. Do you want his parole officer’s name and number?”
“This is enough. Thanks.”
The Binghamton was nearby, a decaying red-brick warren of foul-smelling rooms inhabited by drifters and old people who couldn’t afford more than eight dollars a week. Once a month, when the oldsters received their social security checks, the building rustled busily with muggers and thieves and muffled and hopeless cries for help. The assault and homicide sections knew it well.
In the cramped lobby, a black-and-white television set high in the corner flipped its grainy picture endlessly, but no one sat on the single broken sofa to watch it, nor was a clerk on duty behind the short and dusty counter. Wager reached under the wooden shelf with its circular blisters from old glasses and pulled out the register to read down the spotted paper for Espinosa’s name. He found it listed with room 32. There was no elevator to the third floor; he groped his way up the creaking stairs, stepping into some mushy stench near the landing. A single bulb locked in its safety grate lit the hall. The metal numbers had long ago been pried off the doors, but he found Espinosa’s room, the “32” scratched into the wood by a knife or screwdriver. He knocked.
A low voice came from just beyond the dark panel. “Who’s there?”
“Detective Wager, D.P.D. I want to talk to you.”
After several seconds of cautious silence, first one lock, then another rattled open and the door swung back an inch or so. “You got your I.D.?”
Wager showed his badge. “You’re Ken Espinosa?”
The door opened wider to reveal a middle-aged man with close-cropped graying hair, and a pale and weary face that was almost twice as long as it was wide. He had high cheekbones and a hooked nose, and his dark eyes never seemed to rest long on one spot. “Yes,” he said softly. “What you want with me?”
“I understand you were in the same cell block as Gerald Covino. I’d like to ask you some questions about him.”
“Who told you that?”
“I checked with Cañon City. I’ve been waiting for someone to get out who could tell me something about Covino. Can I come in?”
Espinosa stepped aside to let Wager enter; he leaned against the warped door to work the locks back into place, then finished buttoning his shirt. “This dump didn’t used to be so bad,” he said in a quiet drawl. “I’ve never seen so many guns around since the goddam army. Of course, I can’t have one—I’m a parolee.”
Wager glanced around the tiny cubicle with its sagging bed and peeling chest of drawers. A paintless rod under a shelf served as a closet, and even if the single dusty window could be opened, the smell of stale urine would never be gone from the room; it came from a corner where the wallpaper had been washed away, leaving a patch of dark and rotting wood.
Espinosa followed his glance. “It’s still better than Cañon City,” he said. Then, “Wager. I’ve heard of you. You’re a narc, right?”
“I’m in homicide now. Cigarette?” He held out the pack and Espinosa took one, lighting it slowly and then cupping it, prison style, between fingers that were as fleshless as his nose. “They already got the dude that did it to Covino. A black guy.”
“How well did you know Covino?”
Something like a smile twisted Espinosa’s lips. “You could call us next-door neighbors.”
“Did you talk with him much?”
“Some. Nothing heavy. He was doing his time and I was doing mine.”
Espinosa’s sparring was automatic; without some kind of trade, he wasn’t going to reveal much—not because he was worried or afraid, but simply because that was the way things were done in places where information was currency.
“We think Covino was killed on orders from the outside,” said Wager. “His brother was killed, too. Did he get many visitors?”
“Killed on orders?” Espinosa mulled that over for a while. Then he said, “I don’t know how many visitors he had. I just heard about one.”
