by Rex Burns
After a while he stretched, mildly surprised at the darkness in the room that made the telephone dial too dim to read; turning on the small fluorescent desk light, he called Billy. The duty watch said he had gone for the day. “Do you want his home number?”
“No, thanks. I’ll call in the morning.” He wouldn’t need help on the Kalamath Street address anyway.
He tried Ray’s number; the old man didn’t answer. On a hunch, he picked Willy’s number out of his coded list of CIs. A man’s voice said the name of the bar.
“Is Fat Willy around?”
“Ill ask. Who wants him?”
“Gabe.”
In a few moments, Willy’s voice wheezed over the line: “Man, I just as soon do the calling.”
Wager could picture the linen-suited figure tipping his wide hat to hide his mouth from the bar’s other customers.
“I need some information.”
“You always do, man. What’s in it for me?”
“A letter of appreciation from the mayor.”
“Come on, man. My time’s worth a lot. What you want and what you giving for it?”
“Meet me at the Frontier in an hour.”
“Right.”
He tried Ray one more time, but there was still no answer; then he drove to the Frontier. Rosy, showing a long day, managed to smile hello. Wager ordered burritos and a salad, then ate a slow meal and watched the crowd drift through, that unsettled mixture of fresh after-supper arrivals and tired and slightly fuzzy customers who had drunk through the dinner hour. Willy came in around seven-thirty.
“Drink, Willy?”
“Vodka and Seven.” He patted a handkerchief at his face with that surprising delicacy some big men have.
Wager waited until Rosy brought it. “What do you know about Spider Robbins?”
A slow, wide grin started across Willy’s dark face. “I know I don’t want to mess with that mother. He is the original Bad Dude.”
“I hear he’s tied to a big operation.”
“No shit? Well, you know, he’s always got something going. A little this, a little that.” Willy shrugged. “I ain’t paid much attention to him.”
“How about starting to?”
“Hunh-uh! I don’t want nothing to do with him.”
“It’s a big operation, Willy.”
“How big is big for me?”
“I can go as high as five hundred for the right information.”
The lids dropped slightly over Willy’s brown eyes and he tipped his face to his drink, the hat brim revealing only the folded flesh under his chin. “I’m interested. What kind of information?”
“Where and when does he get his stuff?”
“No way, man. That’s the kind of questions that’ll get me wasted. No deal.”
Wager ordered another Vodka and Seven, and another mug of dark beer for himself; he nursed it through Willy’s second and third drink as they talked of Pat and Mike. Then he came back to the point. “How about this? Get me the addresses that Spider goes to for the next week or so. He’s due to get a shipment soon and I want to know his route.”
“You don’t want much, do you?”
“It’s not Spider I’m after.”
“I do believe you!”
Wager smiled. “Not this time, anyway.”
“You want to know who’s supplying him?”
“I know who. What I need are the connections—the chain of evidence.”
Willy gazed at his empty drink and Wager ordered another for him. “I’ll give you two fifty for the information; five hundred if it pays off.”
“Shee-it! It’s worth a thousand just to tail that mother for a week. I mean, he ain’t no dummy.”
“Neither are you, Willy.” He unfolded the bills. “We’ll call it five hundred. Here’s half now, half at the end of the week.”
“All’s you want is the addresses—you don’t want no names of nobody?”
Wager nodded. He could bargain for names later if he needed them.
The Negro drained his glass and stood, showing no effects of the drinks. The money disappeared and so did Willy. Wager finished his beer and left a larger tip than usual for Rosy.
He parked in a dark section of the block just down from the Kalamath Street address and noted the time in his book. Henry Alvarez’s Le Mans crowded the driveway beside the small house, and Wager, his stomach gassy from the beer, settled down to watch. He wasn’t sure why, but the restless feeling of something uncompleted had led him here. Perhaps because it was the one address in the journal that he hadn’t yet studied—a small peripheral piece of the puzzle that most likely wouldn’t mean anything, but a loose piece nonetheless. At about nine-thirty, Anthony’s Mach-1 rumbled past and nosed in behind Henry’s car. The young man went in alone without knocking, and Wager waited and watched. At eleven, the lights of the house went off except for a small bathroom window beside the driveway. Then that light went off, too. Wager noted it and, with a mental kick to his own butt, radioed in, “Any DPD file on Lucero, Anthony, probable address 3422 Kalamath, Denver.” Rafael had called him his sister’s boy—Wager heard him say it, but had let it go past.
The reply came ten minutes later: “One count of assault and battery, 30 September ‘69; suspended sentence—no subsequent arrests or convictions.”
“Anything on that charge?”
“Filed by Mrs. Maurice Williams, 3:42 P.M., 17 September, East High School. No aggravating circumstances.”
“Ten-four.” Anthony Lucero, son of Diana Lucero, nephew to two uncles: Henry and Rafael. And Diana kept house for brother Henry and son Anthony. Wager, settling another fact in the journal, started home. He was pulling into the parking place behind his apartment when his call number came over the radio.
“This is two-one-two.”
“Someone at Denver General is asking for you.”
“Ten-four.”
Denver General was a familiar drive, and he knew where to look for a close parking place. At the night desk, a crisp nurse, whose skin looked dried out from too much antiseptic, nodded and told him the ward number.
The ward nurse was waiting for him. “Detective Wager?”
“Yes.”
“He’s in room 612. Please don’t stay more than five minutes; he’s already been questioned by one policeman.” In the silence of the dim corridor, their two low voices were the only sound.
“Who is it?”
“You don’t know?”
“Nobody told me.”
“Raymond Sauer. He was found beaten up, apparently a robbery.”
Wager nodded and looked for room 612. Ray lay under an oxygen tent, the faint hiss of the gas the only sound. The other bed in the room was empty. In the faint night light, Ray’s flesh was almost the color of the sheet. Both eyes were swollen dark blobs, and his head was wrapped in bandages.
“Ray? It’s Gabe.”
A small moan as the old man’s head turned slightly. Wager had to lean against the cold plastic tent to hear: “Can’t see you.”
“Who did it?”
Slight wag of the head and another moan: “Two kids.”
“Where?”
“Waiting for me.”
“Did they say anything?”
Head wagged.
“Did they take anything?”
“Not off me.” A sigh that passed for a smile. “What’s to take?”
“Did you get anything on Alvarez?”
He waited while beneath the bandage the old man’s forehead wrinkled with effort. “Nothing.” He stopped for a breath that turned into a rumbling cough which jerked his head against the pillow. It was two or three minutes before he could speak again: “Hurts.”
Wager waited.
“Asked around. Nothing. Robbins’ stuff is good, but no info.”
“He never talked about his supplier or his meets?”
“No—wanted to keep his turf.” The old man struggled against another cough, lost, and groaned loudly as his head was wagg
led.
The nurse stuck her head in the door. “Two minutes.”
Ray gasped, “Smack … from Robbins. My room … under second drawer … yours.”
“OK, Ray. I’ll get it. You rest up now.” In the corridor, he asked the nurse, “How bad is he?” She shook her head. “He’s an old man. The doctor was surprised he was still alive.”
CHAPTER 10
THE HOTEL RAY lived in reminded Wager of Leonard’s. There was the same tiny lobby with chairs that were badly stuffed and worse used, the same dusty odor imprisoned by sealed windows and clanking steam heat, the same hall carpets that looked as if they could never have been new. Only the name was different. Wager found the night clerk scrubbing with a brush and a bucket of water at the carpet and wall outside Ray’s room.
“Jeez, another detective? Organized Crime Division?” The thick glasses made the clerk’s pale eyes look even wider.
“I’d like to look at his room.”
“Well … I guess if you’re a cop. … What’s old Ray got to do with organized crime?” He twisted a passkey back and forth until the latch gave. “Never mind—I don’t want to know!”
“Were you on duty when it happened?”
“When ain’t I on duty! I was watching Johnny Carson and I hear a yelp-like, and then nothing. So I figured it wasn’t nothing until here comes a thump and I think maybe somebody fell on the stairs. We got lots of old-timers who room here, and they’re always falling down or dropping dead or something. So up I go—I’m pretty good at the first-aid crap by now—and I get to the second floor and I hear a bunch of scuffling and cussing and more thumping; and I look over the top step and here’s these two Chicano kids kicking the shit out of old Ray. Only I didn’t know it was Ray then—I couldn’t tell who it was all doubled up on the floor and holding his arms over his head like this.”
“Did you recognize them?”
“Naw, they had these stockings on their heads so you couldn’t see too good what they were like.”
“How’d you know they were Chicano?”
The clerk peered at Wager and smiled knowingly. “The other detective, the Italian guy, he didn’t ask that.”
“I’m asking.”
“Yeah. Well, they looked Chicano. Anyway, I yelled, ‘Hey, what’s going on,’ and the two dudes cut out down the hall and out the fire escape. Jeez, I must of been nuts—what if those guys had come after me?” He waited for Wager to say what a brave thing he had done.
“You did a brave thing.”
“Yeah, that’s what the other detective said, too. Well, I wasn’t much thinking about it, you know? Just reflexes. I guess I was lucky.”
“What’s the name of the detective who was here earlier?”
The clerk dug into his shirt pocket and took out a business card. “Cappiello—Crimes Against Persons Division.”
Wager looked through the narrow room and closet, finding no sign of forced entry. The only drawers were in a combination bureau-and-desk crammed across from the bed. “Ray’s door was locked when you got to him?”
“Yeah, the key was in the lock, but Ray didn’t get a chance to open it. Say, was Ray working for you? Was he an informant?”
“No. I never met him. Any idea why they’d beat him up?”
“Robbery, maybe. Or just kicks. Hell, it happens all the time around here. Sometimes in broad daylight, but never inside the hotel here before. But these old geezers can’t afford no place else.”
Wager casually opened the drawers, rummaging with one hand through the clothes, old letters, and stray yellowed photographs, while his other hand slipped beneath the drawer. He felt the clerk’s eyes following him. “Did you chase the assailants to the fire escape?”
“Hell, no! I mean, there’s old Ray bleeding all over the carpet and sounding like he’s choking to death, you know. So I ran down and called the cops and a meat wagon, and then came up and tried to help the old guy.”
Under the second drawer he felt the small bundle taped to the grainy wood; closing the drawer halfway, he opened the bottom drawer and thrust his hands deep into it, peeling off the stash above and palming it.
“You looking for something special?”
“Just looking for possible motives. Routine. Was the fire-escape window unlocked?”
“It ain’t supposed to be, but I guess it was. I can’t look after every little thing around here all the time.”
“Did anyone in the next rooms see or hear anything?”
“I don’t think so. The Italian guy and some cops asked around, though.”
Wager closed the bureau and walked casually around the small room once more. “Show me the fire escape.” He slipped the balloons into his pocket as he followed the clerk to the end of the hall. The large sash window had a swivel lock and no screen; it was a simple matter to slip it open with a knife blade. The metal ladder of the fire escape dropped into a narrow dark alley. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing. Hey, if anybody’s in the lobby, tell them I’ll be down in a few minutes. I got to get the blood off while it’s still wet. If that shit dries, it’ll never come off.”
Wager used the lobby pay phone to call the Crimes Against Persons Division. Detective Cappiello was waiting for him with a cup of coffee when he arrived.
“Not a lead, Gabe. The other roomers heard some noises but nobody opened their door. They were afraid to. Why are you in on it?”
“He was one of my snitches.”
“I thought so when he asked for you. Can you give me anything?”
“He was trying to get information on a heroin setup.” Wager showed him the stash from Ray’s drawer and asked for an evidence bag. Filling out the lines, he told Cappiello about Robbins. “The old man didn’t want to be caught with this crap in his room.”
“That explains why they took time to beat him instead of just knocking him down and robbing him. I thought it might be a thrill beating.”
“Entry through the fire escape?”
“Yeah. There’s knife scratches, but no prints.”
“Was anyone else in the hall before Ray got hit?”
Cappiello checked his notebook. “A lady from 263 said she went to the bathroom and came back two or three minutes before the assault took place.” He followed Wager’s thought: “That means the two hoods knew who they were looking for.”
“Here’s some names, but I’d appreciate your being careful on this.” Wager jotted down the Alvarez family. “One of these people might have sold a wolf ticket on Ray; he probably asked too many questions. I’d appreciate hearing from you if you run across anything.”
“You bet.”
He was in the office by nine the next morning; Denby and Billy sat drinking coffee and waiting for him. He told them about Ray.
“They’ll probably never clear that one up,” said Billy.
Wager nodded and poured himself a cup of coffee from the thermos pitcher; he handed the Valdez folder to Billy. “As far as we know, Rafael’s still in El Paso. How’d you like to go down and see what you can find out about Fuzzy Valdez?”
“And I might see Rafael, too?”
“He doesn’t usually stay more than a couple days. He’s probably on his way back now.”
“Well”—Billy drained his cup—”I’d better get moving.”
“We’ll have your ticket waiting—Frontier Airlines.”
“Right.”
Suzy made the calls to the airline; Wager poured himself another cup of coffee; Denby fidgeted and finally asked, “What do you want me to do?”
Wager spoke as much to himself as to Denby: “He’ll come back and wait until his runner brings the stuff. Then he’ll have the cut and set out his stashes. Then he’ll start dealing. I guess it’s time we started a round-the-clock. Why don’t you sit on the Rare Things until he shows up, and then stay with him. I’ll take care of the night shift.”
“Right!” Denby drained his cup and bustled out the door.
Wager spent the rest of the morning followi
ng up the phone tap; he was appalled to learn finally from a secretary that the first set of equipment had malfunctioned, and the company had had to send to Kansas City for backup equipment. It was due in two days. Wager’s accent grew heavy as he thanked the young lady very much and promised to call back then.
Through the afternoon, he moved restlessly from his desk to the coffee machine and back again. He was in that frame of mind where he distrusted his thoughts because they just seemed to be another means of passing time. Increasingly aware of the irritation Suzy felt at having him roll around underfoot, he felt his own temper grow shorter and shorter as the time stretched longer and longer. He finished all the reports due and even anticipated as many as he could, then sat awhile staring at the rare sight of a clean desk. Suzy brought him one form to initial: a voucher for Billy’s airplane ticket. And then he sat again, listening to the electric clock give its little raw squeak each time the hour hand moved forward. He should be doing something; there should be something to do. But there was only waiting. And coffee. And wondering idly if Denby was right about coffee’s effect on the heart. Not that it made any real difference: the fates would take care of things like that anyway. Finally, around four, he told Suzy he was going to eat before relieving Denby.
“Good.”
“What?”
The sound of his voice made her explain quickly, “You’ve been drinking too much coffee. It’s bad on an empty stomach.”
“I’ll be on duty until six tomorrow morning, and then I’ll check in around three.” He walked slowly across the capitol grounds to the small restaurant that catered to state congressmen when the legislature was in session. The weather had made another change from the dry cold of the last few days, and was now warm and filled with a hazy slanting sunlight that brought the fall migration of sea gulls wheeling at the base of the Front Range. It would be good to be in the hills in this weather, to capture the fleeting warmth of a small meadow tilted on the sunny side of a mountain. Maybe he would take his vacation in the spring; the springtime was almost as nice as these Indian summer days. He watched the afternoon shoppers, tourists, and petitioners walk through the leaves shoaling on the wide lawns surrounding the government buildings. Most of the women wore dark pants suits with wide legs flapping against their heels, but their coats were open to the sunlight and flashed with bright scarves. Like the autumn flowers that huddled in the tundra from the high-country wind. That’s what made Indian summer so nice: the certain feeling that it could not last, that it was some kind of gift before the winter came for good. It was the same thing that made life in general so painful that he preferred not to think about it—if something hurt you, it was easier to ignore it. It really was easier that way.
