by Rex Burns
“Mr. Alquist? He was in the Special Section. I don’t know him very well, but he seemed like a nice man.”
Wager took a soft, deep breath like a man slipping into ice water. “How about somebody else: Dominick Scorvelli? Did your grandfather ever mention his name?”
“No. All we really talked about was my job and how I was doing and so on. Gramps was real interested in me and my work, and that’s what we talked about. He’s a swell old man, and I’m glad I got to know him.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
After he hung up, Wager spent a long time sitting and thinking. Gradually, the hot sunshine moved across his carpet to sweep toward the apartment’s door. Wager noted it, and knew what it meant, but he was still reluctantly fitting together what bits and pieces were left, turning his facts from one side to another, linking possibilities into categories of most and least likely. And the picture that he kept building was the one he least wanted to see. But it was the only one that explained a lot of things.
The sunlight burned fully through the balcony doors against his legs and finally nudged him to his feet. But the heat was not strong enough to thaw the chill that had started to spread through his chest when Jeannette told him that she worked for Information Resources Corporation.
Sixteen
UNDER THE WEIGHT of the mid-afternoon sun, upper Larimer Street was empty. The only other time of day when fewer people dotted the sidewalks was just before dawn, as night’s clamor of music and voices thinned to an occasional cry or the scuff of a weary shoe searching out a hole for sleeping. Even the automobile traffic was light and unhurried as Wager steered his Trans Am against the curb a block above Tony-O’s small house. He walked through the familiar litter of the narrow alley that ran past private parking lots, shuttered delivery doors, and the occasional sagging garage that marked the surviving homes. Halfway down the alley, he found the one belonging to Tony-O’s house; like the others, it seemed too narrow for cars built after 1945, but he cupped his hand to shield the glare from a small pane in the web-hung window of the padlocked door. The bulk of an automobile was jammed into the gloom of the shed, but it was too dim to make out the model. Glancing up and down the sun-filled alley, Wager quickly fitted the rippled blade of his pick into the old padlock and nudged the tumblers into place. A moment later it sprang loose with a tiny squeak. He swung one of the heavy wooden doors partially open, its rusty hinges chattering, to let the sunlight glint off the old-fashioned angles and chrome of a 1959 Buick Le Sabre. The wide fins of the rear deck spread out over the wheels like a billowing cape or the half-lifted wings of a beetle; leaning his weight on the tip of one, he pressed gently, and a raw groan came from some greaseless joint beneath the heavy car. So Whistles had been right after all, it was a car that squeaked, a car with “wings.” And Wager, too, had been right: it was a car that Tony-O had access to. Noting the license number, he relocked the wooden doors and walked slowly up the alley to his Trans Am. He radioed for a license check, and the answer came back quickly: “Registered to George Foster, 2263 Larimer Street, City-County Denver.”
“Ten-four.”
He cruised past the front of the house, debating; but instead of stopping, he first went another two blocks to an empty telephone booth and called Chief Doyle. His wife answered and said, “He’ll be right here,” and then the Bulldog, voice guarding his Sunday afternoon, was on the line. “What is it, Wager?”
“I need to know what kind of new business Dominick is setting up.”
“I told you to drop that.”
“It’s important, Chief. It has a direct bearing on the Frank Covino shooting.”
“You got a suspect?”
“I’m pretty sure,” said Wager cautiously. “But I don’t have anything yet that will justify a warrant.”
“‘Pretty sure’ doesn’t buy it, Wager. You bring me something definite and I might rethink my position. As it stands now, things are the same—you will stay the hell away from sensitive areas. You understand that?”
“Yessir.”
“Then, by God, do it!”
But Wager didn’t. When you were this close, you wanted it all. You wanted every possibility checked and accounted for. You wanted to dig your fingers down into the muck as far as you could reach and work out every root of the thing, pulling it into the light until the whole tangled wad lay exposed and drying in the sun. He slid two dimes into the slot and called Sonnenberg. The inspector himself answered, in his crisp manner, and did not seem overjoyed to hear Wager’s name or what he wanted.
“I went over that with you and with Doyle, Wager. I had hoped we’d reached a very clear understanding. I had also hoped Chief Doyle told you to back off.”
“He did,” said Wager. “I’m doing this on my own, and I’m not going near Dominick. What I need is verification for the suspect’s motive.” He added something else before Sonnenberg could say no. “And I’m willing to trade.”
“Trade what?”
“The name of the man with Dominick when we busted him at the Lake Como last week.”
“A man? You should have told me about that before, Wager. It was your duty to tell me then.”
“I was ordered to keep my mouth shut about the whole case, Inspector. So I did.” Besides, Wager hadn’t wanted anything at the time.
“Wager …”
He spoke slowly and clearly. “Is Dominick planning to take over the Information Resources Corporation?”
“Where in hell did you hear that!” Sonnenberg used one of his rare swear words, and Wager had his verification. “You will tell me, you hear? Just exactly where did you get that information, Wager?”
“While chasing down a suspect on the Covino case.”
“That better not be Dominick Scorvelli!”
“It’s not. It’s somebody who’s trying to set up his own network in the company. It’s somebody who got wind of Dominick’s idea, and liked it, and decided to move in first. I think he killed Frank Covino and tried to lead us to Dominick, so the Scorvelli organization would be under too much pressure to raise the capital it needs to buy into Information Resources.”
“My God …” Sonnenberg’s voice dropped to a tense and level note. “Exactly what have you run across, Wager?”
“Nothing to go into court with. But I know what I’m talking about.”
“Yes. You would. I have a lot of respect for your work.” The voice died away, and Wager, glancing at his watch, dropped another coin into the telephone. Sonnenberg’s voice came back with a weight of weariness. “How much do you think Dominick knows of this?”
“I don’t think he knows too much yet. Maybe nothing.”
“Oh?”
“The suspect is trying to penetrate the company, not buy it out; he can’t afford anything like that right now. He just sees a way to make a lot of money with very little invested—provided he can push Dominick out of the picture somehow. If Dominick stays in, the suspect is going to have real problems; he doesn’t have the muscle to protect his people at all. If Dominick ever gets a hint of what’s going on, he’ll pick the suspect’s people out of that company like raisins out of a pudding.”
“I see.” A pause. “This suspect is still pursuing that plan of action?”
“Well … he’s still alive.”
“Ah. Of course.” The silence at the other end of the line meant that Sonnenberg’s operation, too, was still alive. “If Scorvelli does get frightened away from that company, it could mean months—even years—before he again tried anything as ambitious.”
“Yessir.”
“Our man could lose his opportunity. Our whole operation would be wiped out. But if Dominick doesn’t find out about the activities of your suspect …” Sonnenberg shifted from thought to action. “How soon are you going to arrest Covino’s murderer? Can you keep the suspect’s motive out of it? Let me know immediately the name of the prosecutor on the case!”
“It’s not that easy, Inspector.” Wager didn’t want to sound antagonistic
; just factual. “All the evidence I have is circumstantial. And weak.”
“You mean that if you go to court, you will need a strong argument on his motive?”
“Yessir, that’s it.”
“We can’t do that, Gabe.” Sonnenberg’s voice rose with urgency. “I know it’s asking a lot, but we can’t have that. If you can get the evidence without opening up the question of motive, for God’s sake do it. If you can’t, you’ll just have to sit tight. We’ll have to hold our breath and hope that your suspect doesn’t scare off Dominick before he makes his move and puts our man in. I know it sounds rotten, Gabe, but there’s too much at stake. There’s much more at stake than one unsolved murder.”
And for Wager himself, more than Sonnenberg knew. “I’ll do what I can.”
“I knew you’d see it that way, Gabe! Thanks. Say, who was the man at the Lake Como when you arrested Dominick?”
“Vittorio Galente.”
Sonnenberg half laughed with relief. “That we already knew!”
“I figure he’s the bankroller from Chicago, right?”
“Thanks for calling, Gabe; and thanks again for your cooperation.” The line clicked dead.
Wager had a quiet beer and then another in a cool and almost empty tavern near the lower edge of Little Juarez. Slowly turning one page after another of his green notebook, he reshuffled the thoughts associated with the entries, and then he redealt them, and they still came out the same. While he read and thought, customers began to mosey in one by one, rubbing sleep from crusted lids or eying the bartender hopefully for a free one to get them started for the day. Siesta time was ending; Wager drained his glass and set a bill beside it and nodded good-bye to the bartender, who tried to yawn and smile thanks at the same time. Out on the open sidewalk, the heat seemed worse, and Wager felt a film of beer sweat spring out across his back before the hot breeze evaporated it with a single gust. He walked up to Tony-O’s house and found him and George in the dark shade of the porch, each holding a glass of iced tea.
“Buenas tardes, Jefe.”
The old man’s head bobbed curtly. “Here’s the man who calls me Jefe, but who sets dogs at my heels.”
Wager sat on the edge of the porch and leaned against the cracked paint of the wooden roof post. “A good liar keeps as close to the truth as possible, Jefe. And you are very, very good. But you gave me more truth than you should have.”
Tony-O’s reaction was not anger but sudden caution. He held his tongue and waited, and so did Wager, listening to the rhythmic squeak of George’s metal chair.
“I called your granddaughter.”
At last he said, “I asked you not to do that. You promised me you wouldn’t drag my granddaughter into this, Wager.”
“I was looking for Bernie Chavez, Tony-O. But I didn’t find him. I don’t think I ever will. I did find out where your granddaughter worked, though.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that I began to wonder why you put me on Scorvelli. Meaning that I found out. Meaning that I know how you did it. You had a beer with me, and you told me about Frank Covino; then you went looking for that kid.” He tried to keep his voice calm; he tried and almost prevented the anger from quivering his words. “You gave him some story—a friend in trouble, maybe something about his brother—to get him over to that warehouse. Then you wasted him. As easy as that, you wasted him.” Wager cleared the cramped feeling in his chest with a deep breath. “You used the both of us, Jefe. You used that boy for bait. And you used me for a hound.”
Tony-O squinted against the hot glare at Wager, the wrinkles of his face a net of lines that seemed on the verge of smiling or frowning, of looking stern, or kindly, or calm. But no definite expression came through. “You going to serve a warrant?”
Wager said nothing.
Tony-O’s mouth stretched into a tight smile. “You can’t do that, can you, Wager? If you had any evidence, you wouldn’t be sitting here talking about it. You got nothing but guesses—and they’re all wrong. Every goddamned one of them I deny, and you just try to prove any different! I know you, Wager; I know you inside and out, and like they say, it’s not the size of your tool, it’s how you use it. Buenas tardes, hijo mio—you’re trespassing on my porch!”
In the near distance over the awakening rush of late-afternoon traffic, a fire siren wailed into a high note. George stopped bouncing and cocked his head. “Station Five!” he said. “There goes Station Five.”
Seventeen
POLLY AXTON’S NICE dinner was a disaster. The four of them sat at a small, candlelit table, Max and his wife, Wager, and—across from him—a girl named Kathy. In her late twenties, she was, as Polly had whispered to Wager when he arrived, a very sweet girl. And, Wager had to admit, she was. A bit smaller in the chest than he liked them, though she had a nicely proportioned body and, as if measured to fit, was an inch or so shorter than Wager himself. Her face had regular features that, with a smile, were almost pretty. If she was looking for a husband, she didn’t seem anxious about it; in those moments when a repeated question or remark from Polly pulled Wager from one of his long silences, he found Kathy half smiling at him as if he were another person caught in a summer shower without an umbrella.
As the candles grew shorter and the dinner grew longer, Polly’s conversation went through three stages; and the casserole, something she was very proud of, cooled on the plate in front of a brooding Wager. First she spoke with quick excitement and eagerness about Kathy’s fascinating job as a trade journal editor and about Wager’s fascinating career in the organized crime unit. Then she began asking questions concerning the things Wager and Kathy might talk together about—hiking, music, books, sports. Neither was interested in a comparison of classical versus popular bagpipe music, and for some perverse reason Max didn’t want to pursue that topic, either. Finally, she lapsed into an apologetic and forced chatter with Kathy and her husband, which was ended only when Kathy said, “I’ll help you clear the table,” and the two of them disappeared into the kitchen with the relief of nervous laughter.
Max, completely unaware of his wife’s anxiety, stretched and pushed back from the table as he stifled a yawn and led Wager into the living room for an after-dinner drink. From some far corner of the house, a television set murmured, and Axton’s daughter, hands full of dirty paper plates, peeked shyly into the living room on her way to the kitchen. Axton handed Wager a small glass of Drambuie and poured one for himself. “Nice girl, Kathy—a cousin of one of Polly’s friends at church.”
“Things have fallen into place on the Frank Covino murder,” said Wager.
Axton stopped pouring. “You found Bernie Chavez?”
“There is no Bernie Chavez.”
Max turned back to the bar and slowly plinked ice cubes into a glass for his wife. “Then where did Tony-O get the information he gave you?”
Wager didn’t reply immediately; instead, he touched his lips to the liqueur. Then, as if repeating something he had recently read and still could not quite believe, he placed each word precisely, like chips of glass in a mosaic, and told Max all about it.
Max considered for a long time before he finally spoke. “This Arnie Alquist—the one who worked for Information Resources. He was going to be Tony-O’s plant in the confidential section?”
“Yes. I figure he and Tom Nihisi came up with the idea. But they needed someone with marketing contacts, so Nihisi went to Tony-O. Or else Tony-O ran across Nihisi God-knows-where and found out about Alquist at about the same time that he learned about Dominick and Information Resources; the old man knows a lot of different people, and they all talk to him. Either way, things fell together for him, and Tony-O saw a chance to get back on top.”
Axton whistled in a quiet, ragged way between his teeth. “And that’s why Tony-O told you about Frank—he’d heard just enough somewhere to link Covino to the Marco Scorvelli killing. But Gerald was in jail and he couldn’t get to him, so he had to settle for that poor son of a bitch Frank.”<
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“Maybe he thought Frank really did it. Whichever, his purpose was to aim me at Dominick.”
“He sure did it. We ran after him.” Axton’s large head wagged slowly from side to side. “Lord God, did we run after him!”
Wager gazed through the half-pulled drapes of the living room’s picture window toward the night beyond. From the kitchen, Polly’s high-pitched voice had gradually dropped to a calmer murmur and there were occasional giggles of woman laughter as she and Kathy talked and cleaned dishes. Tony-O had told Wager he could read him like a book, and the old man was right; he gave Wager just enough to start him off, then sat back to watch a real professional go to work. A cop who took a lot of pride in doing things the right way—who spent his life tracing out leads that other cops would ignore. Which is what made a few other cops only almost as good as Wager—and what made Wager think it was all worth the effort. Tony-O had used that. That, and the old times. Remember the old days, a little sympathy for the old jefe; how about a beer at the old Frontier and a stroll down memory lane. Used. No better than one of his own goddamned snitches; no better than Fat Willy or fawning Jesus.
The window glass threw back Wager’s dark outline against the bright reflection of the living room, and at the same time, his shadow let in the dim outside lights, revealed the dark behind the mirrored room. A paradox of light where there should be darkness, dark where there should be light. And the paradox that he had done his best work for the wrong reason—and only through accident had discovered it. If that was fate, then it was far more malignant than he had imagined, going beyond the distortion of external values—his marriage, his family, his history—which he had already given up on, to attack the only value that remained, the internal one that structured his relation with himself: his sense of serving well.
Axton had been whistling again, the tiny wavering tune noticeable only when he stopped. “Let’s go get that bastard, Gabe. Let’s go get him right now.”
