The Alvarez Journal: A Gabe Wager Novel

by Rex Burns

  “If you heard about it, what do you need me for?”

  “Because we heard about it too late, Frankie-baby. Where’s the cut?”

  The brown eyes slid away from Wager to Denby. “Who’s this guy?”

  “Detective Denby. He works with me.” Wager still couldn’t manage to call him his partner. “Where’s the cut?”

  Martinez swallowed some beer. “It’s over with. They did it early this morning. But I really didn’t know nothing about it until …”

  “Until what?”

  “Until I got a call to set up a delivery.”

  “What time this morning?”

  “They called me about ten or eleven. They must have started the cut about four in the morning.”

  “You’ve let me down on two things now, Frankie: the cut and your deliveries. If we can’t trust each other, we don’t owe each other anything.”

  “I didn’t have a chance! I just now got back; I was gonna call you now!”

  “Where was your delivery?”

  “At my drop—the place over on Virginia Avenue. But you said you wouldn’t work that one. You said you’d cover me!”

  “Since you didn’t call us, we’ll do what we have to.”

  The round face turned a yellow-green color and he tried once or twice to stand, but his knees would not work. “For God’s sake, don’t sell me out, Wager. I gave you a lot of information last time and you said you owed me. You said you really owed me!”

  Wager stood and drained his beer, belching slightly. “Gee whiz, we did say that, didn’t we?” Squeezing the can flat, he bent it over his thumb and set it rocking by the telephone; then he leaned over and stared flatly into Martinez’s eyes, no longer hiding his contempt. “All right, Frankie, we won’t do anything with your drop this time. But it makes us even, you son of a bitch, and you better produce from now on, because right now I don’t owe you a goddamned thing.”

  Martinez licked at his lips and swallowed. “Yeah. Right. Thanks a lot, Wager.”

  “You will tell me ahead of time when Rafael’s making another run.”

  “I’ll try. I sure will try!”

  Wager smiled. “If Alvarez leaves town without me hearing about it first, you’d better leave, too, comprendes tú?”

  For the first time, anger hardened through the fear in Francisco’s eyes; and it made Wager almost laugh at the petty little things that mattered to scum who had sold away honesty and courage and loyalty: Francisco felt insulted by the familiar form of the verb. “Thanks for the beer.”

  In the car, Denby cleared his throat. “You sure leaned on him!”

  “‘Let them hate as long as they fear.’”

  “Who said that?”

  “Hitler or Nero or somebody. Maybe Mayor Daley.”

  “You think he’ll tip us on Rafael?”

  “If he doesn’t, he’s a dead man. I wasn’t pulling him through the grease on that. And he knows it.”

  “Man, someday one of those dudes is going to try and waste you.”

  “It beats watching TV. Go over your notes for this morning again.”

  Denby flipped through his small notebook and reread the entries on arrivals. “They all came in around eleven-thirty; Rafael was first, and then Henry and Anthony. Then Robbins and his accomplice at one-five. They were still there when I was relieved. What about last night? What did you see?”

  “Not e-goddamned-nough. They closed up just after two and Rafael went home; and I must have really blown it. They probably set up the cut and then went home and pretended to go to bed. Then they sneaked out to wherever and did it early this morning.”

  “They know we’re on to them?”

  “They have to suppose so. And maybe they’ve seen us hanging around the Rare Things.” Or Fuzzy Valdez tipped them about Billy. Or maybe even Francisco—no, not him. He’d have too much explaining to do. Maybe it was routine security and that’s what they do every time. Maybe. Too many maybes. What was certain was that Wager didn’t have enough man power to do the job without screwing it up; it was time for some real support or the whole thing would be lost.

  “Where are we headed?”

  “I think it’s time to pull back until we can do things right.”

  “You mean just let the deal go through?”

  “There’ll be another time.”

  Denby was silent as they drove up to Billy’s empty car parked down the street from the store; after double-parking beside it for a minute or two, they pulled around the corner and waited. A few moments later, Billy walked up to them. “You called?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Not much. Spider and the other black came out around three and headed east on Thirty-eighth. I got some pictures of them. Nothing since then.”

  “They held the cut this morning. I screwed up and they got away from me after I thought they went to bed.”

  “Are they on to our surveillance? Jesus, I could swear nobody spotted me.”

  Wager shrugged. “I don’t know. But let’s back off until we get the right kind of support. We don’t want to spook the bastards.”

  Billy looked down between the car and curb and spit thoughtfully. “You don’t think we’ve got enough now?”

  “Add it up the way a jury of civilians would see it.”

  He nodded. “I guess you’re right. Goddamn, we’re so close!”

  “We still have the phone tap and some addresses.” And Rafael’s machismo; it wouldn’t be long. “Let’s do this: Denby, you go sit on the Clarkson address where Labelle picked up her stuff; Billy, move over to the Kipling Street apartment—maybe it’ll help you improve your image. I’ll take a look at Francisco’s drop on Virginia Avenue. No busts—let’s just see if we can tie the Alvarez family to some convicted dealers.”

  “You told Martinez you wouldn’t use his place,” said Denby.

  “We don’t owe that bastard anything.”

  Billington grinned at Denby. “That’s his colorful Chicano heritage coming out: the Inquisition, Aztec sacrifices, conquistadors, a few peon slaughters.”

  “Don’t forget the grape boycott.”

  “The crowning glory! How long do you want us on these places?”

  “Let’s give it until midnight, maybe one o’clock. If they have the buyers lined up, they might be moving the stuff fast. Maybe we’ll have some luck. If not, we’ll get a night’s sleep for once.”

  “Right. See you tomorrow.”

  Wager drove Denby to the unit’s parking lot. Instead of going to his car, Denby fit his key into the glass door of the nearby building. “I better call the wife,” he said to Wager; “she was expecting me.”

  Wager nodded. “See you tomorrow.”

  The apartment on Virginia Street was one of ten, five up and five down, in a pink stucco building that looked more like a cheap motel than an apartment house. Number 5 was the last on the bottom row. Anyone inside could see the entry to the parking area out back. Wager turned around in the street and drove up a small hill to a gas station where he filled the car while he studied the darkening neighborhood. The glare of Federal Boulevard blotted the eastern sky, but here, away from the main artery, the evening had that quiet feel of a neighborhood settling down to supper. One by one, rows of streetlights silently flicked on, the older ones dull yellow bulbs, the newer ones orange gleams that seemed to make the shadows thicker. Lights glowed in the windows of several of the pink apartments, but number 5 remained dark. After cruising two or three times around the block, he finally settled on a space at the end of a weedy half-block and sank down on the seat to watch and listen to the radio traffic of District 4. At ten o’clock, the gas station closed; Wager gave it another half-hour and then pulled into the shadow of the gas-station office. From the low ridge, he could better see Apartment 5 and the driveway. At 11:10, a metallic brown Duster with wide slicks nosed into the driveway beside the apartment, then turned to park by the back door. Wager focused the glasses on the license plate, catching Colorado AR 3 before
the light went out. A moment later, the apartment lights flashed on and a dark figure pulled down the roller shade at the window. Wager noted the time and the man: Roland Robbins. A second shadow, shorter, moved across the shade covering the kitchen window; then the dull glow remained unbroken. The meet took ten minutes; when the lights turned off, Wager started his car and waited, swinging in behind the Duster as it paused at a stop sign before turning toward Federal. He called in the license number, and by the time he was in the boulevard traffic the answer came back: “Robbins, Roland Griffin, 2615 Clermont, Denver. No warrants. He does have a DPD number.”

  He followed the Duster north through the pulsing neon of the boulevard, then east on Colfax to Capitol Hill. It paused near Tremont to let the rider out, and Wager nodded to himself when he saw the familiar tan topcoat; Martinez walked quickly toward the Silver Lode Bar and Robbins continued east on Colfax to turn north on Clermont. Wager stayed with him until he saw the Duster pull into the narrow driveway beside 2615. He slowly passed the single-story brick house, watching from the corner of his eye as the tall, gangly Negro, still sitting in the car, waited. Wager turned right around the block and came back down Twenty-sixth to park at the curb with the house just in sight. The Duster was empty now, the porch light glowing whitely over the small landing at the front of the house. Robbins would spend the night cutting the dope again and measuring it into balloons for street sales. And tomorrow they would be all over East High and Manual. And even the nearby junior high schools: Smiley, Gove, Cole. On the map in his head, Wager could see the schools marked in orange and forming a neat circle around Robbins’ house; and he remembered the sneering grin on Robbins’ face when the pusher walked, free, out of the station. He could be nailed right this minute: neither the toilet of his house nor the toilet of his throat would be big enough to get rid of all the dope this time. He could be nailed right now. But he wouldn’t be. Wager sighed and started the car and pulled into the slow traffic of the street: Alvarez was the bigger target.

  He came into the office early enough to surprise Suzy. “Has Denby or Billington come in yet?”

  “No. Do you want me to call them?”

  He shook his head. “If they’re not in by ten, give them a call.” He dialed Masters; a voice he didn’t recognize told him that the detective wasn’t in yet and asked if there was a message.

  “Just tell him Spider Robbins got a shipment.”

  “Will do.”

  He dialed another number. It was answered in half a ring: “Otero.”

  “This is Gabe, Phil. Do you have anything yet?”

  “We’re just getting the tape now. You want to come over and hear it?”

  “I’m on my way.” He left word for Billington and Denby that he would be back at ten-thirty; they were to wait for him.

  In the small, windowless room that served as a laboratory, Phil Otero sat behind his collection of tape decks, speakers, and amplifiers. “There’s the one we picked up this morning. Just let me finish logging it in.” He completed the evidence tag and copied the serial numbers into the record. “OK, let’s run it.”

  They listened to the clicking of the pen register, Otero slowing it down to be certain of the number: 632-6081. After the rattle of the bell, a voice, flattened through the telephone wires and the recorder, answered hello.

  “I just got in from El Paso. You ready?”

  “Any time. What you got?”

  “The usual.”

  “You want the money at the same place as last time?”

  “No—another place. Put it in some envelopes and leave it in the mailbox at 4710 Kipling, Apartment 58. By midnight.”

  Otero mumbled, “We got a federal case.”

  “OK—4710 Kipling, Apartment 58. Where do I pick it up?”

  “I’ll call you when we’ve got the money.”

  The tape clicked silent as Alvarez hung up, then clicked on again with the next series of numbers: “I just got in from El Paso. You ready?” The voice was slightly different from the first —possibly Henry’s.

  “Why not, man? I got a lot of hungries.”

  “That’s Spider Robbins,” said Wager.

  “How much?”

  “The same.”

  “Put the money in some envelopes and leave it in the mailbox at 675 Julian Street.”

  “No way, man. I bring it by the store like always. Half in front and half when I get the stuff.”

  The line paused in silence, then hissed open with the sound that comes when a hand is lifted from the mouthpiece. “OK, noon tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  There were four more calls, all with the same pattern. Wager had Phil replay the tape in slow speed to double-check the phone numbers.

  “There’s no mention of heroin anywhere. It won’t be worth much in court, Gabe.”

  And so far they had no evidence of heroin dealing at any of the addresses mentioned on the tapes. “Can you make a copy for me?”

  “No problem. You want it now?”

  “I’d like to take it with me.”

  At the office, Suzy had two messages for him, the first from Denver General about Ray. He called the extension she gave him. “This is Detective Wager. I have a message to call you about a patient, Ray Sauer.”

  “Oh, yes.” The nurse’s voice reported facts with just enough respect for the injured and dying. “Mr. Sauer slipped into a coma this morning at five-thirty, and passed away at eight-twelve. His injuries were terminal.”

  “Has Detective Cappiello been notified?”

  “Yes, he has. He asked me to call you.”

  “How about the next of kin?”

  “There was none listed. Do you know of any relatives?”

  “No.” It was Cappiello’s worry now; another unsolved murder.

  The second message was from Fat Willy—call him. Wager put it aside; Willy could wait for the other half of the fee.

  Billington came in. “What’s the word?”

  “Old Ray just died.”

  Billy wagged his head. “He was one of your better snitches.”

  “He was. What did you find out last night?”

  “One piece of action. About midnight, some dude put something in the mailbox. I figured it was a payment.”

  “No one came to get it?”

  “I left at one, like you said. If they came, it was after that.”

  Denby walked in and said good morning and poured himself half a cup of coffee, then scrubbed at his nose with the handkerchief. “I think it’s the coffee I’m allergic to. But I can’t do without it.”

  “Did you come up with anything last night?”

  “Yeah. About eleven-thirty, Anthony’s Mach-1 drove up. But Anthony wasn’t driving. It was some other kid I didn’t recognize. About five eight, slender build, dark complexion. Probably Chicano, but I couldn’t see him too well.”

  “Must be the one we saw paying the rent,” said Billington.

  “What happened?”

  “He went in and turned on the lights. At around midnight, I saw this light blue VW van go around the block about three times.” He read from his notebook, “Colorado RT 4019, registered to: last name, Olssen; first name, Carter; 6214 Newcomb Drive, Arvada, Colorado. No warrants, no DPD number. The driver was alone, a male Caucasian about six foot; slender build, long hair light in color, around twenty-five years old. This guy finally parked down the street and walked back and forth a couple of times and then went up and knocked. He went in at twelve-eighteen and came out at twelve-thirty-two, got into the VW and left. The other guy came out at twelve-fifty and also left. That was it; I came home about one-thirty.”

  Wager gazed out his window as Denby finished his report; the distant branches of the trees were almost invisible against the gray sky. Only their gray blur showed over the low roofs. He sighed and tapped the flat box of the recorder tape. “Suzy, get me something to play this tape on, and find out when the Inspector can see us.”

  Denby asked, “Do you want m
e to tip the Arvada police on the Olssen guy?”

  “Not yet. We don’t want to scare Alvarez by busting all his buyers.”

  “It seems a shame to let the bastard get away with it.”

  “Sure it does. But maybe we can work things next time to get the whole bunch.”

  Billy grinned. “The old Chicano is a dirty plotter.”

  “If we can get the support.” He looked at Denby. “And if we have the patience.”

  Sonnenberg’s office smelled thick with old cigar smoke, and he was carving a notch in another maduro as the detectives entered. His eyebrows bobbed an invitation for Wager to speak.

  “Here’s the first tape, sir. I’d like you to hear it.” He plugged in the machine and threaded it.

  Sonnenberg creaked back in his chair and watched his cigar smoke rise as the voices ran mechanically from the speaker. When it ended, he said, “Is that all?”

  “So far.”

  “No names, no use of the word ‘heroin,’ no way to connect Alvarez and the dope?”

  “Henry rented one of the apartments that was mentioned.”

  “It’s still circumstantial. I hope you do better on the other tapes.”

  “I don’t think we will.”

  “Why not?”

  “I think this is most of the action for this run. I’m hoping he’ll say something about another run.”

  “He better say it in the next twenty-four days.”

  “You don’t think we can get another month?”

  “With this?” A thick ring of cigar smoke. “Judge Weinberg refused to re-date the affidavit. He doesn’t like phone taps.”

  “What about a voice print?” asked Denby. “I read that some guy up at the university has a machine that can identify voices.”

  “It makes no difference whose voice it is; nothing’s said about heroin.”

  Wager gave him the facts of Denby’s and Billington’s surveillance.

  “But none of you actually saw heroin exchanged?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No case.”

  “With a little support, we can get him on the next run. We know how he operates now.”

  “Um. How much is a little?”