Farnsworth Score (8 page)

From the back seat, Wager saw the muscles in Sergeant Johnston’s neck tense; and despite the smile in his own mind at the sergeant’s fear, he had to force himself to look relaxed for Mrs. Nelson. She was wide-eyed enough without seeing anxiety in him. If he had been driving, he would have been relaxed; but, like a lot of trained drivers, he never trusted anyone else behind the wheel, and that unease was compounded by an embarrassment that came with hearing the inspector chatter like an excited rookie. An inspector’s place was at his desk where he gave orders, asked hard questions, and kept the politicians off your back. Excitement just wasn’t professional.

The D.E.A. had not yet made it to the rendezvous; and during the half-hour they had to wait, the inspector asked twice, “Where are they?” and Sergeant Johnston answered twice, “I don’t know, sir.” It was a stupid question and a stupid answer, and everybody, including Mrs. Nelson, knew it. Wager began to wish he hadn’t come along. At last, a car whose absence of color or ornament marked it as official twisted down the off-ramp and pulled into the parking area behind a gas station where they sat. One of two men stepped out of the car. Wager didn’t recognize either agent, though Sonnenberg did: “That’s Petersen, assistant to the regional director. It looks as if they wanted to have seniority over us. It’ll make him overjoyed to see me.” Sonnenberg got out and shook hands. Wager, Johnston, and the lab tech waited while the men smiled at each other and then Sonnenberg introduced them to Petersen. Finally all the preliminaries were over.

“We’ve got the warrant, Inspector Sonnenberg. Do you want to follow us over?”

“Sergeant Johnston knows the town. Why don’t we lead, Agent Petersen?”

Only the slightest hesitation. “Fine, Inspector.” D.E.A. was cooperating amicably with local agencies.

Johnston, a map of Colorado Springs spread on his knees, guided the inspector east to Academy Boulevard and then south toward the municipal airport. They entered one of those light-industrial areas made up of sprawling one-story buildings and fenced storage yards. This late in the afternoon, the streets were drained of cars, and only an occasional tiny home not yet bought for business purposes brought any life to the area. Sonnenberg swung once around an almost windowless cinder-block building squatting on a corner. A chain-link fence marked the bare back yard; a black-and-white sign over the door said, “
PETROLEUM CHEMICAL SUPPLY
.” The inspector keyed his transmitter: “Can you cover the rear of the building? I’ll put one of my people on the yard side and one on the street side.”

Wager felt better; the silly excitement of the ride down had been replaced by the calm, slow voice that came when the inspector was really concentrating on a case.

“My man will be back there. I’ll see you at the front door.”

Petersen would be amicable, but he wouldn’t surrender. The D.E.A. vehicle turned out of sight. Sonnenberg glanced at Wager. “You cover this side. Ed, you take the yard side. Mrs. Nelson, you just sit tight in the car.”

Wager nodded and slid out of the vehicle. This wall of the gray building had only two windows, both closed and high off the ground. He placed himself at the corner nearest the front door in case the inspector and Petersen needed a quick backup; the D.E.A. vehicle returned and the two cars swung quickly into the shallow parking area at the building’s front. “Check in” came over his radio, and he waited his turn: “Two-one-two, set.”

“Going in.”

The slam of the car doors was followed by quick steps in the gravel, making Wager aware of just how quiet the buildings and yards were. He rested his hand on the familiar .45 Star tucked out of sight under the tail of his sport coat and waited.

The inspector’s voice popped on the radio. “The front door’s locked and barred. Ed, do you or Gabe have access?”

“There’s a door over here,” said Johnston. “It’s got a window I can knock out.”

“Let me get around to cover you.”

“Ten-four.”

The shatter of glass, followed by more long minutes of silence. Finally, Sonnenberg radioed, “It’s empty. We’ll see you at the front door.”

Johnston let them in; a sharp chemical smell stung deep into Wager’s sinuses, and his shoes crackled loudly on the almost vacant concrete floor.

“I think we’ve got something!” The inspector’s voice bounced around a fiberboard partition along one wall. “Ed, get the technician in here.”

The sergeant brought her in; the embarrassment was gone and she walked quickly, leaning against the heavy pull of the toolbox. “This way, ma’am; I think we really scored.”

The working part of the laboratory was set on a long bench blocked from any accidental view through the windows. Spaced along the shelf were five glass beakers the size of basketballs; scattered here and there and stoppered with corks or covered with aluminum foil were smaller jars and beakers, all of which held liquids or powders. Among the scattered work gloves, paper towels, glass tubes, and stirring rods, hoses and clips led from one container to another.

“Sweet Jesus,” said Petersen. “I’ve never seen a lab this big!”

The technician studied the setup and then busily drew a sample from the last beaker filled with thick white powder; the liquid reagent slid into the test tube and she swirled it slightly, lifting the glass against the overhead light. “It colors, Inspector.”

“Ex-cel-lent! Is it MDA?”

“It’s of that family. I’ll have to run laboratory tests to determine the exact composition. But it’s enough for presumptive positive.”

“I’d like to send some down to our Dallas lab, too,” said Petersen.

“We got plenty,” said Johnston.

“Do you know what this stuff sells for?” The other D.E.A. man scratched in the clipped hair of his head and stared at the beaker. “On the street, it’s three dollars a dose; and you figure maybe ten thousand doses to an ounce of pure powder. And there must be thirty pounds of shit—pardon me, ma’am—stuff in that one jug!”

Wager stared. Even wholesale, this shelf of goodies ran almost $200,000. And this was just one shipment. Of how many? “How long does it take to turn out a jar of the stuff?”

Mrs. Nelson glanced up from the evidence label she was filling in. “The way the process is set up, they can turn out thirty pounds every twelve hours.” She pointed her pencil at two other beakers filled with opaque liquid. “That’s going through the final stage now. After desiccation, each flask should produce about ten pounds of powder.”

Two hundred thousand dollars every twelve hours! “Wow,” said Wager, and he meant it. “That’s almost a day’s pay for an honest cop. And all tax-free.”

“There’s a tax,” said Sonnenberg. “I aim to tax these people ten or fifteen years. Agent Petersen, can you have your local man get out a John Doe warrant for the owners and/or operators of this establishment?”

“You bet I can.” He strode quickly to his car and its radio.

“By gosh, Gabe.” The inspector lit a fresh cigar, the odor of its tobacco resting sluggishly on the sharper chemical smell. “You’ve got your hands on a good C.I.—let’s give him top pay.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, thinking of Bruce the Juice and Larry. “I wish I had more like him.”

T
HE MEET WITH
Bruce the Juice took place in Boulder’s Chautauqua Park. It was the kind of area where the dark and narrow roads were lined with cars whose occupants—neckers, underage beer drinkers, dope dealers—could see any trouble coming across the grassy moonlit lawns. Larry was still sulking, but at least the whiskey smell was gone.

“I don’t know you after this, Officer Gabe whatever-your-name-is.”

“Don’t get my hopes up.”

“I just plain don’t like you, you know what I mean?”

“Tough shit.”

The conversation faltered.

Through the darkness, the tilting slabs of the giant Flatiron Rocks could scarcely be made out, but their weight loomed just beyond the trees as one might feel a wall in a black room.

Floating on the warm night air that began to lift from the prairie to wash against the Front Range came the tinny voices of the park’s summer movie series, the steady rustle of distant traffic from the valley below, the pulsing howl of a faraway siren. From one of the shadowy cars that had slid past and parked ten or fifteen minutes ago, a dim figure emerged and walked slowly toward them.

“That looks like him. Yeah, that’s him.”

“Just take it easy, Larry. Just play it natural.”

“Yeah. With you around.”

The shadow leaned to Larry’s window. “That you, man?”

“You know it. This here’s Gabe.”

“Hey, man.”

Wager grunted, “Get in—we been waiting.”

“Yeah, well, can’t be too careful, man.”

“You have the stuff?”

“Not on me. But I can have it here in a half-hour. Where’s the front money?”

“Larry didn’t tell me nothing about fronting—just a straight deal.”

“It’s my thing with new people, man. I’m very big on security.”

Wager hesitated; there was a dealer’s saying, “Never front the coin until you got the crap,” and anyone in the business would know the truth of that. But he’d waited a long time for this contact. He slowly peeled five twenties from the roll of bills, letting Bruce see the size of the wad of money. “I’ll front half.”

The shadow’s arm reached across the seat back. “Cool.”

Wager held a corner of the bills before letting them go. “I know you’re not going to rip me off—it ain’t worth losing a good customer for just a hundred bucks.”

“Right, man—it ain’t that much of a deal.”

The door closed after him, and his car turned out through the stone pillars of the park gate. Wager and Larry sat in silence. In twenty minutes, the car swung back and pulled in behind them. Bruce the Juice came to Wager’s window. “Here you go, man—tablets.” He palmed the plastic baggie at Wager, who took his time, snapping a tablet in two and looking carefully at its color under the dash light, touching it with his tongue for any taste. He handed the second roll of twenties to Bruce. “If my customers like it, I’ll be back. I’m very big on customer satisfaction.”

“Cool.”

“You got a telephone?”

“Yeah, 258-4453. Just leave a number and I’ll call you back. That’s my old lady’s phone, and I don’t do business on it.”

Wager would wait a full week before making the call; it was like fishing with a light line: you couldn’t pull too hard or you’d lose it all. On Wednesday, he checked in at the O.C.D. office. Mrs. Gutierrez, at her little window, was worried until he came close enough to be recognized. “My, Detective Wager! You do look different!”

“Yes, ma am.”

And Suzy just giggled and said, “A necklace?”

Wager didn’t think there was much to laugh at. “Is Sergeant Johnston in?”

She nodded and turned quickly back to the typewriter. Which remained suspiciously silent.

“Morning, Ed. Here’s something I been meaning to bring you.” He handed him the photograph of the tree.

He turned it first one way, then another. “What is it?”

“The isolated individual confronting the mystery of darkness. Hang it on your wall.” He pointed to the stretch of plywood spotted with framed diplomas, membership scrolls, certificates, and awards. “Give the place a little class.”

Johnston looked at it again and then handed it back. “I don’t have too much room in here.”

“It’s state property now. I sure hate to just throw it away.”

“State property? What’d it cost you?”

Wager told him.

“Thirty-five bucks!” Johnston looked at it once more. “For that much, we can’t afford to throw it away. Hang it out there by the office door. Your office needs more class than mine, anyway.”

“Maybe I’d better ask Suzy first.”

“Just don’t let the inspector know how much it cost.”

“What’s the latest on the MDA factory?”

“Jesus and Mary, haven’t I seen you since then?” His fingers moved across his freckled scalp and then patted down the limp red hairs. “Say, we really scored—it turns out the John Does were a couple guys the D.E.A.’s been after for three years. They had a factory up near Fort Collins and then moved to Pueblo, and then they moved again before D.E.A. could get a lead on them. The inspector’s really high about getting to them before the feds.”

“That’s fine. All that stuff was for real?”

“You better believe it! When the D.A. down in the Springs saw all the crap we had in our evidence locker, he couldn’t believe his eyes.”

“Since we’re going to court on it, I should pay off the snitch.”

Johnston reached for a voucher. “How much?”

Wager shrugged. “A thousand?”

“Do you think that’s high enough? That was a hell of a big haul.”

“I don’t want to spoil him. Make it fifteen hundred. He’ll be real happy with that.”

“O.K.”

Wager took the fifteen-hundred-dollar voucher and the thirty-five-dollar photograph to his desk and gazed around at the walls cluttered with various official scrolls. If he hung the picture where Johnston wanted, he’d have it in front of him whenever he sat at his desk. But behind his back, on the wall that hid the stairs going up to the attic storage area, there was a good spot. It would be in front of Hansen then. “You got a thumbtack, Suzy?”

“Here. What’s that?”

“A little art. We’re going to have us a little class.”

“Gee, that’s a good one! I didn’t know you were into photography.”

“What’s a good one?”

“The picture—it’s like somebody standing all alone, and night’s coming on.”

Wager studied the print. “You really think so? Why?”

“Well, the white trunk: no leaves, but it’s still standing solidly, almost glowing against the darkness, like it knew what was happening to it, but it’s daring the softer trees to come after it. Did you take it?”

“No, I bought it. It cost thirty-five dollars!”

“Well it’s sure worth it. Maybe I’ll bring in some of my shots sometime. Maybe you’d like to see them.”

“Sure—that sounds good.” He had never wondered what Suzy did when she wasn’t working; all of her family was back in Wisconsin or Michigan or somewhere, and she wasn’t pretty enough to have boyfriends. Not that she was really bad; just that she was like a stretch of flat road—nothing to notice. It was strange to imagine her as an amateur photographer or as anything else other than Suzy, secretary for the Narc Section. “You really think it’s worth thirty-five dollars? I mean it’s just a picture.”