by Rex Burns
“The City and County of Denver against Labelle Browne: charges, illegal possession of narcotics, illegal possession of narcotics with intent to sell, illegal possession of a dangerous fire-arm. …
Labelle, ushered from the jury box to stand before the high paneled wall of the judge’s bench, looked small between the bailiff and the public defender. The judge droned the penalties in a voice just loud enough to be heard by Wager; then he asked for the plea. The defender answered for her. The judge leaned forward a little to look directly down at the woman. “Do you understand the consequences of your plea?”
“She does, Your Honor.”
“Let her answer for herself, counselor. Do you understand the consequences of your plea?”
“Yeah, Judge, I do.”
“Knowing the consequences of your plea, do you persist in it?”
Labelle was silent until the defender smiled and asked, “Would you please rephrase the question, Your Honor?”
“I suppose I’d better. Miss Browne, if you plead guilty, you know you’re going to jail, and you might go for as long as fifteen years. Do you still want to plead guilty?”
“Yas, suh, Your Honor.”
“All right—record the plea. Any character witnesses or special circumstances you wish to bring forth at this time?”
“Not at this time, sir.”
“Is the arresting officer present?”
Wager stood. “Here, sir.”
“Would you approach the bench, please?”
He stood at the base of the oak panels and gazed up at the judge, who seemed miles beyond. Strange, even after so many times spent looking over that distance to a judge’s face, the gap still seemed as far.
“Unless counsel has objection, I’d like to ask the arresting officer about the defendant’s behavior at time of arrest.” Judge McCormick had some psychological theory about behavior at time of arrest that no one had ever figured out. But the DA’s office told Wager to be here to answer the judge’s questions, and here he stood.
“No objections, Your Honor.”
“Let the record so state. Well, Detective Wager, how did the defendant behave?”
He glanced at Labelle, who stood, eyes down, collecting all emotion in tense fists at her sides. “She didn’t resist arrest, Your Honor.”
“And has she been cooperative since?”
“No, sir.”
“I see.” He leafed through the pages of Labelle’s file and glanced up. “Thank you, Detective Wager, that’s all.”
“Yes, sir.” Wager pushed through the low gate into the spectator’s area and to his seat. The judge, after a few moments of consulting his calendar, set sentencing for two weeks away, tapped his gavel, and Labelle was hustled off by the warden. The bailiff was charged to call the next name; Wager left as prosecution and defense closed the old file and shuffled the new one in preparation for another case.
In the echoing hall outside the courtroom, Wager paused to read through his notebook on Alvarez, hunting for dangling threads. It was time to lean on Leonard; things had been too slow and that little bastard should have something by now. And the New Mexico and El Reno authorities had to be called again, and maybe El Paso had stopped stalling and sent the file up on Valdez. Francisco X. Martinez. Diana Lucero. More names, more threads. And Masters—maybe Masters finally got something from Annie about her supplier. Most of it could be done by phone, and then he’d better start cruising.
At his desk, he picked up the phone and began with Masters. The MEG detective answered with his official voice.
“This is Gabe, Charlie. Did Annie give you anything on her supplier?”
“Naw. She still claims she doesn’t know the dude. But she did come up with an address where they picked the stuff up.”
“Are you going to come down on it?”
“If I ever get the goddam time, man. I’m supposed to be working up in Boulder again this week. You want to run a raid on this address?”
“Will Annie talk to me about it first?”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t raid anybody unless you go along or unless she tells me personally. It’s an extension of the double-hearsay rule.”
“Shit! Well, Annie’s not about to open up to anyone else, and I’m hauling my ass up to Boulder as soon as I can.”
“Give me the number anyway. I’d like to eyeball the place.”
“Right. Hang on.” The receiver clattered onto the desk top and Wager waited a few moments. Suzy brought him a fresh pot of coffee and he nodded thanks. “Here it is, 1712 Clarkson. Basement apartment, no number.”
He repeated the address. “By the way, tell Annie that her girl friend will probably get eight to ten.”
Masters whistled into the phone. “That’s more than I thought she’d get. Who was the judge?”
“McCormick.”
“He don’t take no shit. He ask you if she’d cooperated?”
“Yeah. I had to say no.”
“Right on, brother! That’s one less piece of shit floating around.”
“You know it.”
“Be cool, brother.”
His next call was to Farmington, New Mexico; the WATS operator said she would call back when the line was clear. He fiddled briefly with the coffee, then dialed Leonard’s number. It rang twelve or fifteen times before he hung up. Leonard was probably listening to it ring, probably guessed who it was, and was sitting there with that sick little sneer that passed for a smile. Wager would have to go by and drag him out of his hole and come down on him. Which really wasn’t unpleasant: he knew exactly what snarls and whines would be squeezed out, and he had to admit to satisfaction in watching his own games play out the way he knew they would.
The phone rang and Suzy answered it; Wager, waiting for the Farmington call, grabbed the receiver when she nodded. But it wasn’t New Mexico—a twangy Texas voice answered Wager’s hello: “This here’s Assistant Warden John Short from El Reno. I got you a little information on the Alvarez brothers.”
“Fine.”
The voice drawled through the federal prisoner numbers, dates of incarceration, and rehabilitation reports, then came to what Wager was listening for: “We don’t have much on their associates while in prison, but here’s their cellmates: Felix (none) Martinez, aka Happy, number 2317652; possession and manslaughter; residence at time of arrest, El Paso, Texas; currently in El Reno prison. Pedro Gonzales Moreno, aka Pete Mitchell, number 2329745; possession and selling; residence at time of arrest, El Paso, Texas; paroled 23 December 1971. Edward David Hart, aka Eddie, number 2319649; possession and transporting; residence at time of arrest, Fabens, Texas; paroled 26 June 1973.”
“Where’s Fabens, Texas?”
“A little town just east of El Paso—more dogs than people, and more fleas than dogs.” Short read two or three more names, and Wager recorded them and thanked him. Then he stared out the window as the names collected around what he knew and what he guessed. Eddie Hart, the source of the Seattle tip; that explained why Hart didn’t have his facts straight—he just heard cell talk. Three addresses in or near El Paso; that would be the Mexican connection. He called customs again and asked for Agent Hartnoll.
“Howie, have you ever heard of Edward David Hart, or Felix Martinez, aka Happy, or Pedro Gonzales Moreno, aka Pete Mitchell? They’re from the El Paso area.”
“Moreno—I was in on his bust. Felix was sent up before I got there. I never ran across Hart.”
“They were the Alvarez brothers’ cellmates in El Reno.”
A few seconds of silence. “That’s the link to Fuzzy Valdez, then.”
“How’s that?”
“Fuzzy tipped us off on Moreno. They’re cousins by marriage or something.”
“Valdez snitched on his own cousin?”
“Moreno’ll never know. Hell, he wouldn’t believe it now if you told him. We did a good job covering Fuzzy. In fact, Fuzzy and Moreno own a tourist shop together in Juarez”—Hartnoll laughed—”Fuzzy used t
he snitch money to buy the shop, and brought Moreno in when he got out of prison. Moreno thinks Fuzzy’s God.”
“His own cousin!”
“That’s what I mean about Fuzzy; we don’t want to lose anybody who’d snitch on his own cousin.”
“I wonder if we could work something out on Valdez.”
“Not without the El Paso authorities’ OK. And you won’t get that unless you’ve got a hell of a lot more evidence than a possibly borrowed car.”
“And I can’t get the evidence without the OK.”
“If you do get something more, I’ll help you as much as I can.”
“What about the file on Valdez that I asked for?”
“All I can tell you is what they tell me—they’re working on it.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Howie.”
Wager scraped the pencil on his notebook and started another cup of coffee, cut it in half with powdered milk as he felt the case begin to pile up like acid in his stomach—the familiar impatient feeling that came when things were beginning to click but not yet fast enough; when, with a little help or a small break, he could nail together a coffin-tight case that even the DA’s office couldn’t blow. But the break didn’t come; the help wasn’t offered. “Suzy, is Denby going to be in today?”
“He’s in court in Boulder on that Louisville bust a couple of months ago.”
“The one where he chased the guys down?”
She nodded. “He didn’t think it would take too long.”
But it would be too long; Wager knocked on Sergeant Johnston’s doorframe. “Ed, we’re starting to get somewhere on the Alvarez case.” He told the sergeant about the call from El Reno and his talk with Hartnoll. “I’d like to have some help from DEA—we’re getting out of our jurisdiction.”
The lanky sergeant unfolded awkwardly from behind his desk and rubbed the thin fuzz on his head. “They do owe us, and it looks like an interstate thing. Let me give a call over there. Maybe somebody’s free now.”
Wager waited while Johnston went through his old-friend routine with the sergeant at the other end of the line. After questions about the wife, health, budget, weather, cost of living, unionization, old friends long departed and some just found, restaurants, and the energy shortage, Johnston finally asked his favor. “That’s fine, George; Billy’s a good man—he used to be with us. Right. Right. He’ll be working with Wager again. Right. We’re all in it together. Right. Real fine, George, and thanks again.” He turned, smiling, to Wager who did his best to look patient. “Wow, that guy likes to talk! But it’s OK, Gabe. Billington’s in court in Boulder right now, but as soon as he’s through he’s joining us.”
“Is that the case Denby’s on?” Knowing damn well that they both knew damn well.
“I do believe it is.”
“How long’s that supposed to last?”
“George didn’t say. It shouldn’t be too long, though. Straight buy and bust, I believe.”
“It’s the one where Denby chased down the suspects and searched their car. It was not a guilty plea. The admissible evidence is going to be pretty thin. It will probably last a week or more.”
Johnston’s smile slowly went away. “Look, Wager, if this Alvarez is as big as you think he is, he’ll stay around for a while —he’s not going anyplace. And your cases aren’t the only ones in this unit. If you get the hots to get something done, get off your ass and do it. Billington and Denby will be available when they’re available and not before. You understand?”
He understood. Wager went back to his desk and stood a few quivering moments to let the anger hiss away in slow breaths: a goddamned desk sergeant telling him to get off his ass! He jammed his radio pack in its holster. “Suzy, I’m waiting for a WATS call for Farmington. When it comes through, ask them about Francisco Xavier Martinez, last address 764 Navajo—about six months to a year ago. I want copies of any records they have on him.” He wrote the name on a memo sheet for her. “I’ll be on the street if anybody wants me.”
Leonard’s address was one of those small brick hotels that never seem to have any business and whose special weekly rates—paid in advance—let it survive on a relatively stable list of lodgers. The dimly lit hallway smelled of dusty steam heat and faint urine, and Wager, as he stood by Leonard’s door and listened, half wondered if the residents ever got used to it. A faint creak came under the door and he knew Leonard waited against the other side, listening for Wager’s footsteps to fade down the worn carpet. Wager spoke just loudly enough to be heard through the peeling wood, “Hello, Leonardo. You’re there and I’m here. Open up.”
The silence behind the door was thicker than an empty room could be. Wager felt his own presence pushing against the dark door and knew that Leonard felt it, too. “Open up, you little bastard, or I’ll give you a lesson in police brutality.”
Another tiny creak, then the gritty scrape of a bolt and lock; the door opened just wide enough for one of Leonard’s brown eyes to peer at Wager. “Oh, it’s you.” He opened it quickly and peeked up and down the hall before locking it behind them.
“What’s this game?” Wager asked.
“It’s all your fault—you set me up and made me ask questions. Now they think I was the one that unloaded the heroin snitch.”
“Who’s they?” Wager’s eyes adjusted to the gloom of the curtained window; the urine smell was stronger, mingled with a sourness of filthy bedding, old grease, and some ripeness he couldn’t quite identify. He shoved aside a curtain and heaved at the paint-encrusted window.
“What the fuck you doing?”
“Letting in some air. This place smells like a whorehouse crapper on Sunday morning.”
“Well it ain’t my fault. I been too scared to even go down the hall and take a shit!”
So instead he used the sink in the corner. Wager fought down a surge of vomit and stood at the window to breathe. “Who’s they?”
“You know who—the Alvarez family.”
“Give me the story.”
“You told me to get some information on him, so I asked around.” He opened a drawer in the wobbly dresser and pulled out a bottle. “I should have told you to shove it up your ass. I shouldn’t of let you make me do it. Now look what you got me into.” He waved his fist at Wager and held the whiskey bottle up for two, three large gulps. “Jesus, my stomach! I gotta get some protection. Wager, you gotta get me some protection. You got me into this shit, now you gotta get me out.”
“What the hell happened?”
“I’m telling you! I was asking around about Alvarez like you made me do, and this friend of mine comes up and says I better split—that one of Alvarez’s cousins or nephews or something heard I was finking on them for you and he was going to waste me.”
“You don’t have friends. Who told you?”
“I got friends! I got friends, Wager, and you ain’t one of them!”
“Scum like you doesn’t have friends. You’ve got people who know you and people who don’t. That’s all. Now, who gave you the word to split?”
“You son of a bitch, I got friends!”
Wager grinned and waggled a finger at the dim figure. “Come here and look out the window, Leonardo. The sun’s shining, the sky’s blue, there’s people walking up and down without a worry in the world. Cars, bicycles, buses, taxis, everybody has someplace to go. Except you. You have no place and nobody, Leonard. Come on—come on over and look outside. And see how many friends you’ve got; see how many people say ‘Hi, Leonard,’ and see if that sky gets any bluer because you’re looking at it.”
The figure held the bottle and didn’t move from the shadow between the bureau and the unmade bed. “Wager, I hate your guts.”
Still grinning, Wager pushed open another curtain. “Let’s have some people see you. Come on over here, if you think you’ve got friends. Come on!”
Leonard shook his head rapidly. “Close the curtains, you dumb son of a bitch!”
He pushed them further open. “Who gave you the
word?”
“Close the curtains, Wager!”
“Who was it?”
“You son of a bitch, it was Frankie Martinez!”
He closed one set of curtains and went back to the open window to breathe. “Francisco Xavier Martinez—from Farmington?”
“He used to live there, yeah.” Leonard pulled again at the bottle and coughed deeply.
“Why’d he tip you?”
“He owed me one.”
“For what? What the hell did you ever do for anybody?”
“Leave me alone!” The wail rose and fell into a nasal whine and Leonard thumped the whiskey bottle on the gritty bureau top.
“Why’d he owe you?”
“We did time in Santa Fe together. We were … friends.”
“So that’s what you mean when you say you’ve got friends! Well, I’ll be damned, Leonardo-baby!”
“I’m straight now, you bastard. You don’t know what it’s like in that place. If you don’t have friends, you get used. You gotta have a friend so you can look after each other.”
“Sure, Leonard, and you’re such a nice piece. How did Frankie-baby find out about the hit sign?”
Leonard mumbled, “He’s part of the family. He’s a second cousin or something.”
“You two still ass-hole buddies?”
“No! I told you, goddam it, I been straight since I got out!”
“How long’s Frankie been working for Alvarez?”
“I don’t know. A few months, maybe. I didn’t even know he was in town until I saw him on the street.”
“That must have been a sweet surprise.”
Even in the dimness, Leonard’s eyes glittered with wet rage. “Fuck you, Wager!”
“You’re not my type, sweetie.” He counted out fifty dollars and waved the bills at the rigid figure. “Here, shitbird, here’s some of the taxpayers’ money. Now you listen: I’m going to talk to Frankie-baby and I’m going to tell him I got the word from you. If you’ve got any smarts left in that screwed-up skull of yours, you’ll get out of town right now, if not sooner.”
