Farnsworth Score (6 page)

“You collecting overtime, Rog?”

The younger man looked startled, “Holy Moly! I didn’t recognize you for a minute, Gabe.” He fingered his own chin. “You look like goddam Pancho Villa or somebody. Say, are you on assignment? That Western Slope thing?”

“Yes.” He picked up the Flint and two Lewis folders from his “in” box where Johnston had left them. “Are things busy?”

“Your C.I. Doc set up a deal on grass. He claims he knows some dude who can get it by the ton. We’re meeting in a little while.”

“Don’t let him pull you through the grease.”

Hansen shrugged. “It’s all got to be looked at. This Western Slope thing you’re on, is it really big?”

Wager said no. He didn’t like such questions, even from a fellow officer, unless they dealt with specific suspects. General questions sounded plain nosy, and a cop should have enough work of his own without sticking his nose into someone else’s. Leafing through the slim folders, he began making notes. Charles James Flint. Traffic citations only; Wager took down his driver’s license number and address: 103 Main Street, Nederland. An art freak, Chandler had said. What the hell did Wager know about art? The Lewis jackets were criminal entries; the closed faces gazed out of the small photographs with their inch markers down the left side. The single entry—possession of less than an ounce—was the John Lewis he wanted: 5’ 10”, brown hair, slender build. Route 1, Nederland. The face in the color photograph was too young to have a beard, though a scattering of hairs tried to pass for one among the pimply blotches on his jaw.

“Oh, Gabe?”

He looked up.

“Fat Willy is really pissed at being handed over to me.”

“Didn’t he show up for the Five Points meet?”

“Yeah, but he sure didn’t like it.”

“Tough. Just keep him on a tight leash—he always needs money.”

“Will do.”

Suzy had left a few messages for him. Near the top of the pile was a note from Sonnenberg: “Gabe—Boulder S.O. wants you to check in with the Nederland marshal’s office when you get there. Jurisdiction. W.S.” Jesus Christ—maybe he should check in with Farnsworth, too. Two C.I.s left calls; Wager noted “Give to Ashcroft” on the slips of paper and stuck them under the roller of Suzy’s typewriter. Ashcroft could use some overtime money, too, if he ever got a vacation to spend it. The rest of the paperwork was routine crap and could wait until he came back. He was always a little cynically surprised at how quickly much of the paperwork lost its importance when it sat for a week or so. Near the bottom of the pile was a message from Colorado Springs: “Vital you call back,” with a number. It was two days old. He dialed; on the fifth ring, a man’s hoarse whisper said “Hello?”

“This is Gabe.”

A moment of silence. “No, there ain’t no Fred here.” Someone was with him; he would call back when he could. Wager said the office number and hung up. Hansen finished his scribbling and logged out on the acetate name chart under the column headed “On Pager.” Gabe waved a hand good night and looked up the Nederland marshal’s office in the law enforcement directory.

“Is this Marshal Farrell?”

“It is.” He sounded like a young man trying to make his voice lower, possibly a patrolman with just a year or two of experience who could be hired cheaply. Maybe even a civilian who always wanted to be a cop and could be hired even cheaper.

“This is Detective Wager down in Denver with the O.C.D. Marshal Farrell, we’ve got a case that’s going to involve some undercover work in your township. We’ll have at least one man working up there for a while.”

“Wager, is it? What’s the nature of the case, Detective Wager?”

“Narcotics.”

“Yep, I figured. We do have problems along them lines, that’s for sure. You want to tell me your man’s name?”

“We don’t know yet, Marshal. He’ll be coming in from out of state.”

“How about D.E.A.? They gonna come back, too?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long’s your operation going to last?”

“Well, you know how these things go. It might be a while.”

“Yep. Well, you tell him to get in touch with me if he needs my help. I’m damned glad to know somebody’s coming up here.”

Wager thought the relief sounded genuine. “I’ll do that, Marshal.”

He scrawled a quick message on the bottom of Sonnenberg’s note and put it in the inspector’s box: “Done, Wager.” Then he headed for the firing range; it would be empty at this time of day, and the stifling inaction of the long week made him hungry for the sound and smell of gunpowder. Strange how popping a few caps was almost as good as exercise for blowing the cobwebs out of the system; it was satisfying to feel the butt of the pistol thump against his arm, to see the shreds of cardboard spray out behind the target right where the notch and blade of the sight had rested. Very simple, very direct, very satisfying. Tomorrow, he would make the first run up to Nederland.

He straightened the rear-view mirror and set the leather hat square over his eyes, tugged the turquoise-and-silver necklace a bit higher so it could be seen through his collar. Everything except the patchouli oil, and he’d be damned or dead before he splashed that crap in his armpits.

The road curved past an azure pond of water that set off the white and gray of the ragged Indian Peaks; then a series of switchbacks led through heavy pine forests down to the wide, shallow valley of the town site. A few midday clouds were gathering into what would become the thunderstorms of late afternoon, while above them the sky held the cold, almost brittle blue of high altitude. It was all too lovely, too clean. Somehow it made the reason for his trip all the more obscene.

W
AGER WENT UP
to Nederland three or four times the first week to drink a slow beer at each of the town’s few bars, to be seen strolling like a tourist from the sagging old grocery store to the glass-and-plastic hamburger stand, to the log-fronted hardware store and the brick post office, where a line of chatting hippies stood waiting for food stamps. When a week had passed with only a cautious nod from a bartender or two, Gabe visited the Indian Peaks Gallery.

“May I help you?” Behind a small desk in the entry alcove of the old frame house sat Charles Flint, red hair and beard fanning out to surround his pale blue eyes. Wager recognized him from the D.P.D. jacket, though he looked a little heavier than his description noted.

“I’m looking for some nice photographs.” He tried to sound comfortable as he gazed at lavender macramé hangings, square canvases of glossy colors running over each other, a series of rusty gears welded roughly together and priced at $350.

“Anything in particular?”

“Well, mountains and trees.”

Flint’s whiskers moved in what Wager thought was a smile. “You might find something of interest in that room.” He pointed at what used to be the parlor of the narrow house. “Please take a look around; if you need anything, just ask.”

“Thanks.” He made himself grin back.

Wager did have mountains and trees in mind: that large photograph of the Maroon Belles, the one with the lake in the foreground framed by spruce and golden aspens, the three triangular peaks dark red against a clear blue sky. It was a familiar picture, one he always liked. Some versions that he had seen even had small flowers painted into the grass of the foreground. That made it even prettier.

Instead, he found the walls of the empty room hung with small pictures in wide paper frames: a single daisy against an out-of-focus background that could have been mountains; a naked leg curled beside a rough boulder; a close-up of a weathered barn door. Wager knew what he liked, and this wasn’t it; a picture should show something and not just a piece of it. He guessed that the guy who took it was stoned or maybe you had to be stoned to like it. Slowly walking through the rooms, he let Flint hear the gentle creak of the old floorboards, the meditative scuff of a slow-moving heel. And Wager heard something, too: in his mind he heard his father’s laughing voice when facing some puzzlement from the Hispano world: “
Estoy como perro en barrio ajeno
.” Though Wager’s smile had a different twist from his father’s, he also felt that way: like a dog in a foreign neighborhood. After a long twenty minutes, he wandered back to Flint’s desk.

“Find something?” The red-haired face looked up from a sheaf of papers; he was only a struggling businessman trying to make an honest buck.

“Well … those are pretty good, all right. But I kind of wanted a big picture. A lot of mountains with maybe a lake in front. You’ve seen that one of the Maroon Belles?”

In the still air, Flint’s fingernails rasped on the creased neck beneath his beard. “Who hasn’t?” He shook his head. “Perhaps you can try the gallery down the block. Or maybe Woolworth’s in Denver—the basement store. They might have the selection you’re looking for.”

“Yeah—I live in Denver. I just wanted something that would bring the mountains into my living room.” He made himself smile again.

“We do have some selections that aren’t displayed—let me get them.”

He watched Flint unfold from the desk chair and disappear into another small room; drawers slid open and shut, and a few minutes later he came back with an armful of cardboard frames.

“I tend to specialize in expressionistic photography; however, some of these are exceptionally good and perhaps you’ll find just the mood you want.” He set them on a low table beneath a stringy potted plant, hanging from the ceiling in a woven net, priced at $25. “Now here’s one that captures the isolated individual against the mystery of darkness.” He held up a photograph that, if you looked closely, was in color: a single dead tree standing whitely against the almost black of solid forest. It had neither water nor sky.

“That’s mighty nice, all right.”

“Here’s one that reflects the living light of mountain water.” A blurred tumble of white streaks scarred across sun-glinted water that was slightly out of focus.

“Um-hum,” said Wager.

“And this is one of my favorites, the vastness of forest and sky.” A small clump of pine needles at the end of a crooked branch in sharp silhouette against a clear gray background.

“Say, look, Mr.—?” Wager held out his hand.

“Flint. Charles Flint.” He gave Wager’s fingertips a cool squeeze.

“Gabe Villanueva. I’m really interested in photography, man, but I don’t know nothing about it. I used to live in West Texas, and the only pictures we had were on the post-office walls. What you’re showing me blows my mind, and I’d like to dig it. Maybe we can get a beer and rap a little bit about this?”

The beard folded slightly around Flint’s cheeks. “Perhaps some other time, Mr. Villanueva.”

“Gabe.”

“Gabe. But I spend most of my time here at the gallery. I’ll be happy to talk with you sometime when things aren’t so rushed. But now is the tourist season, you see.”

Wager was genuinely disappointed; he’d have felt more in control sitting in a bar with the comfortable smell of stale beer and frying grease. “Sure, man, I don’t mean to push. It’s just that you’re flashing me things I’ve never seen. Why don’t I buy this one with the tree and take it home and look at it? Maybe I can start seeing what you see in it. Then when things ain’t so busy, we can shoot the shit about art and stuff.”

The red eyebrows rose. “That’s an excellent idea, Gabe!”

“Well, the picture does kind of turn me on. How much?”

Flint looked at the back of the small cardboard square. “Thirty-five.”

He managed to keep smiling. “Fine.” Sergeant Johnston would like a nice arty photograph for his wall. Wager peeled two twenties off the thick roll and felt Flint’s eyes follow it as he stuffed the money back into his jeans. “And I’ll drop by for that rap soon.”

But it couldn’t be too soon; instead, it was back to the bar stools to sip flat suds and wait until, after a while, the big, low-roofed room of the Timber Line Tavern began to feel as familiar as the Frontier down in Denver, bringing that relaxation that comes from rubbing past the same corners again and again. The paneling, the bar stanchions and beams of peeled logs, the fieldstone fireplace in use even on August evenings spoke the idea of mountain cabins and vast pine forests. And that made the waiting almost tolerable.

Chandler had been right about Nederland being closed to outsiders, even during the tourist season. In addition to Flint, Wager had seen half a dozen faces he recognized from mug shots and Chandler’s descriptions; but he couldn’t just step right up and say, “Let’s deal.” In Denver, in Boulder, in a dozen other towns in the state, all he had to do was stop to tie his shoe on a certain corner or in certain parks and some dude would murmur, “Pot? Speed? Hash? How about a little acid?” Up in Aspen, he’d even seen coke dealers splitting a baggie in the middle of the street! Here, Wager had not even been offered a joint. It was as if, after the close one Farnsworth had with Rietman and Chandler, the town’s dealers were paranoid.

He gave it another week of sporadic sitting and gabbing with one bartender after another, until, finally, his patience blistering from hard rubbing, he went back to Denver and began to telephone from his apartment.

“Suzy? Can you get Hansen for me?”

“He’s on pager—are you at home?”

“Yes.”

Hansen called back in ten minutes. “Hey, stranger! How’s things on the Western Slope?”

“Fine, Rog. I need a favor.”

“You’ve got it.”

“Do any of your C.I.s have contacts up in Nederland?”

“Nederland? I thought you were in Aspen?”

“You know how one thing leads to another.”

“Right. Well, I can find out. You don’t want to use your own stable?”

“No. And I don’t want my name on it, either. If you’ve got somebody, let me know and I’ll take it from there.”

The call came the next morning as Wager was frying hash and eggs. “I got two who say they know how to buy from people in Nederland.”

“Just a minute, the hash is burning … O.K., what’s happening?”

“These two say they know a couple people that operate out of Nederland. They’re not regular suppliers and they’re not that big, but they show up with stuff every now and then.”