by Rex Burns
He finished dinner a bit before six and called ahead to Denby as he neared the Thirty-eighth Street intersection.
“I’ll be there in five. Let’s meet at … Thirty-ninth and Utica.”
“Roger.”
Denby’s Fury III was already at the corner when he turned off Thirty-eighth. Wager parked behind him and slid into the rider’s seat; the car smelled of cardboard-wrapped hamburgers. “Any action?”
“Not a thing. The place looks like it’s closed. Anything from Billy yet?”
“Not yet. He’s probably just getting set up; we might hear in a couple of days. Where were you parked?”
“Across from the bar. I couldn’t see the back, but I could watch the entry to the alley.”
“Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“What time?”
Denby should have figured it out: half of twenty-four was twelve. “Six.”
“Jesus. Well, six it is.”
He watched the Fury wheel around the corner into evening traffic, and then made one pass down the alley before picking a slot at the opposite end of the street from Denby’s former position. Anthony’s Mach-1 was parked behind the Rare Things; the Texas car belonging to Fuzzy Valdez was gone. That was probably the one Rafael drove down to El Paso this time. Noting it in his book, he sank down against the seat and began the night’s watch.
In the gray dimness of morning, he saw Denby’s car, almost alone, coming down Thirty-eighth. His radio popped with the detective’s voice: “Meet you at the same place.” This time, Denby slid into the car. “Anything?”
Wager shook his head. “A couple of people came in at ten-thirty-two and then everybody went home at eleven-five.” He tried to cover a yawn.
“See you this evening.”
“Six.”
The alarm roused him at two, and that told him how tired he was—usually he woke up ten minutes before it went off. He shaved and arrived at the office a little after three. Suzy was on some errand, but a note anchored on his desk by the unused ashtray said, “Call Agent Hartnoll, customs. Urgent.”
“Gabe here, Howie. I got your message.”
“And I got a call from the El Paso authorities. It seems somebody’s put a tail on Fuzzy Valdez.”
“Qué más? What’s that have to do with me?”
“Valdez doesn’t like it and neither do the El Paso people. If Valdez looks hot, it’ll scare away all his contacts.”
“El Paso’s a little out of my jurisdiction, Howie.”
“The tail is Billington, from the Denver DEA office. Our people made damn sure who it was.”
“I’ll be darned! I wonder what old Billy’s doing down there!”
“Goddam it, Wager, he’s working with you on something and you know it! I called the DEA people and they said he was TAD to your division.”
“That’s right. And the only reason he’s down there is because we did not get the help we needed from your people.”
“Look, Gabe, I’ll help you all I can. You know that. But Valdez is a sensitive issue and he’s out of my hands. El Paso is strung out because Billington’s nosing around down there, and they’re really leaning on me about it. Gabe, will you do me a favor and call him off?”
With any luck at all, Billy would be finished by now. “I’ll think about it. But you’re going to owe me one, and by God I’m going to collect on it.”
“I’ll pay, I’ll pay.”
“Billy’s due to call in soon. I’ll see what he’s got.”
“Thanks a lot, Gabe. I really mean that.”
But Billy had not called by five; Wager told the duty watch where to find him and left to relieve Denby. After a quick supper, he radioed ahead: “Anything?”
“Negative.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“Roger.”
Denby passed in his car with a tired wave of the hand as Wager took up his position.
Just before eight, Wager’s call number came over the radio. The duty watch gave him an El Paso telephone number to call, and Wager drove the three or four blocks to a pay phone. He used the division’s credit number and noted the time and call in his book. Billy’s voice came faintly over the wire: “I located him. I’ve got an idea of where he operates here and across the border. He has a residence on both sides.”
“Did Rafael show up?”
“I didn’t see him, but Valdez was driving the car with the Texas plates, CVM 389. Wasn’t that the one behind the Rare Things?”
“Yeah. That’s good. Listen, El Paso customs people found out about you and they’ve been raising holy hell. Come on back and we’ll pull things together tomorrow.”
“I thought Valdez spotted me; it’s tough to trail somebody in a town you don’t know. Crap. I’ll get the ten-o’clock flight and be at your office in the morning.”
“Make it around noon—I’ll be on duty all night.”
“Will do.”
He stopped under a giant neon cowboy hat and picked up two roast-beef sandwiches and a carton of coffee, then drove back to the Rare Things and ate and watched. At 12:25, things began to happen: Rafael’s Firebird turned in to the alley behind the store, followed shortly by brother Henry’s Le Mans; Alvarez might have come back on the same flight as Billy, the 10 P.M. Which meant that the heroin was on its way and the family was gathering to start operations. Wager cursed Ma Bell and waited. At 12:30, Billy’s voice came over the radio: “I’m back. I thought I saw Rafael at the airport, but I’m not sure. I thought I’d let you know, though.”
“He drove up about five minutes ago. You maybe had the same flight.”
“I had the tourist section; bastard probably went first class. You want me to come by?”
“Yeah, let’s talk.”
After a while, a pair of headlights glided up in the rear-view mirror and switched off. Billy opened the door. “Jesus, this thing smells like a dead horse!”
“Call it a dead cow—I hope. You want to put in some overtime?”
“My soul belongs to Jesus, but my body belongs to the state. What do you have from the phone tap?”
Wager told him what had happened.
“Oh, my God.”
“Let’s get what information we can. How about watching the alley, and we’ll see if he leads us to some addresses?”
“We can’t justify a search warrant. If we caught them with the dope shoved up their ass, we couldn’t get it into court.”
“Who said anything about arresting them? They made it home free this time; let’s just see what they do.”
Billy set himself behind the bar and Wager watched from the street side. At 1:55, Billy radioed, “Two men are getting into the Le Mans. You want to follow them?”
“You take it. I’ll wait for Rafael.”
“Roger.”
Wager sank down in the seat and tilted the rear-view mirror to watch the Le Mans, followed at a distance by Billington, disappear down Thirty-eighth. Then he swung around the block to place himself in view of the rear door. Once the door half opened and Anthony poured a glass of something on the ground. Then it closed again and Wager waited. At 2:27, the door opened again and three figures came through as the light went out. Rafael left first, turning right to Thirty-eighth; Wager peered through the bar’s glare but no Firebird passed. He probably turned east on Thirty-eighth. As soon as Anthony’s Mach-1 started, Wager swung through the bar’s parking lot and jammed down on the gas pedal. Ahead were three sets of tail-lights, the second belonging to the Firebird, which Wager followed.
It went straight home.
And left Wager to sit flat and disgusted at the entry to the small cul-de-sac surrounded by ranch-type houses all dark but one. He watched while lights spread one by one through the house, and then one by one turned off to leave it dark with sleep. Hail the returning businessman.
Billy was waiting for him when he came into the office the next day. “I’ve got three addresses from last night. First was the Royal Lodge Apartments at 4710 Kipling, numb
er 58; they both went in for about ten minutes. The second was 675 Julian, where Henry let off the guy who was with him. The third must have been his home, 3422 Kalamath.”
“It is. Did you see Anthony’s car there, too?”
“The Mach-1? No. Does he live there?”
Wager nodded. “Did you get a look at the one with Henry?”
“Too dark. That Kipling address might be a good one to start with.”
“Let’s get legal.” He knocked on Johnston’s doorframe; the sergeant looked up. “We need a duces tecum for an apartment at 4710 Kipling.”
The balding head nodded and he pulled open a desk drawer filled with forms. “You getting somewhere on Alvarez?”
“We want to look at some addresses. And how about seeing if you can get the phone tap re-dated for tomorrow?”
The sergeant paused in filling in the form for subpoena of records. “That might be hard to do.”
“The phone company screwed up on the equipment. It won’t be in operation until tomorrow, and I hate like hell to lose any of that thirty days.”
“I’ll ask. But don’t count on getting it. What’s the ground for suspicion?” He pointed to the form.
“The suspect was followed to that address where he behaved in a suspicious manner. We believe it’s being used for harboring drugs.”
Johnston finished the pages. “I’ll be back in a few minutes with a signature. Have a cup of coffee.”
On the way out 1-70 to the Kipling address, Wager fit Billy into the twenty-four-hour surveillance on the Rare Things. He could relieve Denby at two; Wager would relieve him at ten at night. It was the best they could do until they had more men.
The Royal Lodge Apartments was one of the many new complexes sprouting up at the edge of Denver. The raw brick walls were polka-dotted with used bricks to make them look older, and concrete beams painted brown gave a faintly English touch. The entryway was capped by a gray plastic shield with a helmet and crossed swords; a small copy would look good over Wager’s fireplace. He liked that kind of stuff.
Wager found the manager’s rooms just across the pool from the clubhouse. “Apartment 58? Records?” He was in his late thirties, tall and sandy-haired, and Wager guessed he had a way with some of the single girls and divorcees who lived there.
“We have a subpoena to produce the records.”
“We seldom see anybody in there. Mr., ah”—he glanced at the folder—”Dominico travels a lot.”
Wager copied the lease agreement for one Joseph Dominico, who listed his occupation as salesman at 1543 W. Thirty-eighth; reference, Diana Lucero, 3422 Kalamath. “It’s the same as Francisco’s lease,” said Billington. “Except for the car: Henry’s license number.” He showed the manager a copy of Henry Alvarez’s photograph. “Is this Joseph Dominico?”
“Yes—it sure is! Say, I hope this guy’s not gonna get busted here. I mean, we’re a new place, you know, and we got a image to keep.”
“What kind of image?”
“Well, wholesome singles. Secretaries, teachers, salesmen, junior execs, some college students—you know, the happy-swingers bit.”
“I’ll make a deal with you. Let us have a look at the apartment and we won’t hurt your image.”
“No way, man! Your warrant’s for the records only. I let you in, I could lose my job!”
“We could take time to get a warrant. But if we do, it’s a public document, and reporters are really sneaky, dirty guys. There will be no way we can keep your address and the name of the apartments and maybe even your name as manager out of the papers.”
“Is that a threat?”
Wager smiled. “It’s a fact.”
The manager’s fingers scratched through his hair and then brushed it quickly back over the balding spot on his crown. “Aw, hell, come on. But for God’s sake don’t touch nothing.” He led them to the second block of apartments and up a central staircase. It smelled of new carpet and plaster not yet dry. Fifty-eight was one of two doors opening off the small landing at the top. The passkey worked very smoothly.
“Jesus,” said Billy, “nobody ever moved in.”
His voice bounced lightly off the empty walls; Wager, shoes loud despite the carpeting, poked through the other rooms: narrow hall with closet, bedroom one way, bathroom the other. A single roll of toilet paper and a wadded towel in the bathroom; no shower curtain. He joined Billy in the kitchen.
“Looks like they do all their living in here.” A card table and four folding chairs were centered under the ceiling light. Billy finished poking through the cabinets and drawers. “Some TV dinners in the icebox; some beer and mix and a couple of bottles of booze in the cabinets. Just a basic, simple life.”
Wager peered through the shelves above the dishwasher. “What’s this?”
“Looks like a shower curtain.”
“They don’t have one in the bathroom. Do you furnish these with the apartment?”
“No. Renters do their own decorating.”
Billington unfolded it on the card table and rubbed a hand over the stiff creases; a tiny film of powder dusted his fingers. “I’ll bet they cut the stuff on this.”
“Hey, now, the management’s not responsible for what goes on in a leased unit!”
“Who said you were?” Wager finished looking through the drawers; Billington carefully refolded the shower curtain and placed it back on the shelf. They led the manager, still protesting, to the door. “Amigo—only you know we were in here. We want to keep it that way. You won’t have any trouble if this Dominico doesn’t find out about our visit. If he does, we’ll know who told him.”
“I hear you.”
After lunch, Billy went out to the Rare Things; Wager was arguing with the telephone company representative when Denby reported in.
“More trouble?”
He hung up. “Nothing new—just letting them know I’m still around. How’s the action with Rafael?”
“He came in late this morning, followed by Henry and Anthony. Two other people came in around one: Robbins and some guy I didn’t know.”
“Good old Spider—a known trafficker. Anything else?”
“Nothing. They were all there when Billy relieved me. What’s the chances of being issued a camera?”
“Good idea; I should have thought of that before.” He asked Suzy to check out the Pentax and the 1000-millimeter zoom lens. “And get half a dozen rolls of Super Ektachrome—thirty-six exposures.”
“Do you think these guys were picking up the dope?”
Wager shook his head. “Rafael wouldn’t have it at the store. They were probably dropping front money and being told where to pick up their stuff and when.” He gazed out the window and over the trees, which a few weeks ago were alive with sun and greenness; now, with the frost and autumn winds, the leaves had been stripped and only a haze of gray limbs thrust over the low roofs of the old district. He, Rafael, and the others had walked to school on those cold mornings, bundled against the north wind, cutting across the flattened weeds of empty lots, shying stones at cans or cats or each other, and always finding something to laugh at. Somehow it seemed a long time since he had found something to laugh at. “Let’s take the camera out to Billy. Then I think it’s time we visited Martinez.”
CHAPTER 11
THEY HAD TO wait for Martinez; Wager finally spotted the short figure hunched in a tan topcoat and walking quickly through the late afternoon’s pale light.
“Here he comes. You go down there, I’ll take him from behind.” He let Martinez get halfway up the worn steps to the apartment and then slid out of the car. “Hello, Francisco. Long time.”
Martinez twitched and looked over his shoulder, starting back down the steps until he saw Denby standing in the middle of the sidewalk. He stopped, and Wager noted the man’s shoulders rise and fall in a sigh.
“Invite us in, Francisco.”
Wordlessly, he unlocked the inner door and the three went to the apartment. Martinez placed the chain and kept his
coat on; Denby studied the man while Wager, after a quick prowl through the rooms, sat on the Danish Modern couch. “Any beer in the box?”
The Cantinflas mustache jerked once or twice and finally a dry “Yes” came out. Wager brought back three and snapped the rings. They watched the thick foam well out of the holes; the bubbles crackled faintly in the silence.
“You were supposed to call us when Rafael started dealing again.” Wager kept his voice friendly.
“I didn’t know about it until today. I swear I didn’t know about it.”
“But you found out and you still didn’t call. That doesn’t show much concern for law and order.”
“I was gonna call when it was safe! That’s what I was gonna do right now.”
“Sure it was. That’s why you were so glad to see us.”
“I was gonna call! And you wasn’t supposed to come here no more. You said you’d cover me and we’d meet somewhere else.”
“We got lonesome when we didn’t hear from you. And we got a little bitty bit upset when we heard about the deals being arranged.”
