Endangered Species (17 page)

“What would he be doing in Steamboat Springs?”

The man shook his head. “Last I heard, he was still in Encinitas. Tillotson didn’t tell me anything different in her last report.” He added, “She did say that King once called Pipkin their special-weapons expert. He knows a lot of chemistry and physics, she said.”

Chemistry and physics. Wager recalled a little something that made his expensive fish suddenly taste like mud. “One of the people who recognized King—a news vendor—said one of King’s visitors made a joke about the Rocky Mountain Arsenal.”

Mallory, too, stopped chewing. “What kind of joke?”

Wager told him.

“They’ve moved most of that stuff to Utah. But not all.” He stared into space for a moment, then his eyes returned to Wager, worried. “My God—something at the arsenal would be a ‘real headline grabber.’ All over the world.”

“Another witness said King was worried about his car and high altitude.” Wager told Mallory what the used car salesman remembered.

“King said that? High altitude?”

“That could be almost anywhere in the state.”

“But he’d have to drive over a high pass to get to Steamboat, right?”

“A couple. Ten, eleven thousand feet.”

Wiping his mouth, the agent signaled for the check. “You have jurisdiction in Steamboat?”

“I can get it. It’ll take some time, but Routt County’s been pretty easy to work with.” Unlike one of the other mountain counties, where rumor had it the sheriff owed the local dope dealers more than he owed the law.

“We’d better get up there.”

“It’s a good four-hour drive. One way.”

“Maybe Bunting can get us a plane. Son of a bitch owes me something after what he pulled.”

9/24

1402

T
HEY SPLIT THE
check—Mallory’s per diem went only so far—and the FBI man said he would call as soon as he’d arranged for an airplane. Wager went back to his desk and his telephone. Max came in as Wager was giving Sheila Riggs’s number another try.

“Fullerton’s got a lead on Roy Quintana, Gabe.”

He hung up on the still-unanswered ringing. “Where is he?”

“Not him. A cousin he hangs around with—Eddie Barela.” He showed Wager a thin police folder. “Did some time in Buena Vista for car theft. Works at a rendering plant out in Commerce City. Want to come along?”

Max wanted him to, and he wasn’t doing a damn bit of good sitting and waiting restlessly for Mallory. “Why not?”

The plant was a collection of Butler buildings, whose tin roofs shimmered in the hot afternoon sun. Cars were already starting to leave the employee parking lot as the shift foreman led Max and Wager down the shaded side of one of the buildings toward the changing room.

“Barela in trouble?” The stocky man squared a dirty gimme cap on his head. Its logo read
MOPAR.

“No,” said Max. “We just want to ask him about somebody he knows.”

The foreman nodded. From under the cap a sweaty tangle of long graying hair lifted, then fell on his tanned and seamed neck. The lines on his face were engraved too, as if his eyes and nose were permanently pinched against the thick, rank smell of bloody hides and boiling flesh. “He’s a good worker. Hate to see him go.”

“We’re not taking him anywhere,” said Max.

“You hire a lot of ex-cons?” Wager asked.

“Goddamn right. And a lot work out too. A few don’t.” He glanced at Wager and then, narrow eyes flat, away again. “I’m one.”

“I guess you worked out.”

“I guess I did.” He opened a door bearing the sign
EMPLOYEES ONLY
and leaned in. “Barela? Barela here?”

The foreman had told them that work started early at the plant, and the shift ended at three. Through the half-open door, Wager could see a dozen men, Hispanic, Black, Anglo, changing in front of lockers that held their street clothes and hard hats. The murmur of tired voices in Spanish and English was punctuated by occasional laughter. Splattered, crusty overalls intensified the odor, and a liquid film made the concrete floor sticky.

“Anybody seen Barela?”

“He punched out, Otis. Got a league game starts four o’clock.”

The foreman shrugged. “I guess I can’t help you, gents.”

Wager stepped past the foreman so he could see the man who had replied. “Where’s it at?”

The answer was sudden silence and a lot of expressionless stares from people of all colors who didn’t like cops. The one who had spoken, a young Hispanic, looked uncomfortable.

The smile on Wager’s lips didn’t make it to his voice. “What kind of league and where is it?”

The young man looked around; no one looked back. Finally, he muttered, “Metro Mexican League—they play at Montbello High School.”

“Thanks. Have a good day.”

Back in the car and heading east on I-70, Max asked, “What the hell’s the Metro Mexican League?”

Wager didn’t know too much about it. “Local amateur ball teams. It’s been around awhile—mostly players from Mexico.”

“Softball?”

Wager shook his head. “Hardball.”

The baseball diamond was set off from the rest of the high school’s playing fields by a tall mesh fence. Max and Wager walked across the lawn that surrounded the parking lot. The brick school’s long windowless wall looked like a high-tech factory and already had an empty, after-hours feel about it. On the running track, a cluster of athletes stretched and sprinted; the sound of a football coach’s angry voice carried from beyond a blocking sled in the middle of an open field. At the baseball diamond, the freshly dragged dirt of the infield held a noisy team in green and yellow; a team in white with blue pinstripes was at bat. A small crowd was scattered over the open bleachers behind the backstop. It seemed to be made up of friends and family who knew the players by first names. Shouts, hoots, and cheers marked a hard swing.

“That’s a pretty good pitcher,” said Max.

Across the flat green of the fenceless outfield and the park space beyond, a line of distant roofs and trees marked a residential avenue. Max and Wager watched another fastball pop dust from the catcher’s mitt; the umpire straightened and glanced at his counter before calling, “Two and two.”

A chorus of hoots and whistles followed the call, and a woman’s voice from the far bleachers jabbed through the noise. “
Era un
strike, man! You
no tiene
eyes!”

“What team’s Barela on?”

Wager should have asked the kid at the rendering plant, and he was irritated at himself that he didn’t. “I’ll take the green. You take the white.”

A stocky, uniformed man stood at the entrance to the fenced dugout and studied his clipboard. Across the yellow shirt, green script spelled
LOS AMIGOS
. The weight of his stomach rolled down the elastic band at the top of the green baseball pants.

“Sus jugadores son de México?”

The dark face looked up, surprised. “
Sí, la mayoría
.
De Jalisco
.
Algunos, no
.” The stocky man bobbed his chin at a black kid and an Anglo sitting on the bench. The pitcher, too, was an Anglo. “
Quiere jugar
?” The brown eyes measured Wager’s shoulders.

“No. Busco a Eddie Barela. ‘Stá ‘quí ?”

“
Sí
—
es
lef’ fiel’.”

The batter swung again, wood cracking hard. The ball was a blur along the third base line. The infielder dove, stretched flat, to spear the ball with his glove and smack hard in the dirt. He rolled once and rose in triumph, the ball pinched in the tip of his glove.

“Ah—
magnífico! Buenobueno!
OK Pitano!” The manager grinned widely at Wager. “
Como un profesional
,
no
?”

“
Por supuesto
.” It was a good play, as good as any Wager had seen on television. Whether the third baseman could do it every time, like the pros were paid to do, was another thing; but it was a good play. The uniforms jogged in through the applause and shouts of the stands. Wager caught Max’s eye and gestured; the large man squeezed past the corner of a tamale vendor, whose pickup truck with its aluminum camper had been pulled close behind the stands and who turned from watching the last play to chatter excitedly at his cluster of waiting customers.

“He’s coming in from left field.”

“That’s a hot third baseman! How many teams in this league?”

Wager shrugged. “I’m not sure—it doesn’t get much news. Most on this team are from Jalisco.”

Max looked at the green uniforms. “That’s where the Tapatío gang’s from, right?”

“So they claim. Their fathers or grandfathers anyway.”

“
Queremos
runs, man! Get a hit, man!”

The players filed into the dugout, drinking thirstily from squeeze bottles, and settled on the bench. Wager moved down the fence in back of the dugout until he stood behind Eddie Barela.

The man, in his early twenties, glanced over his shoulder without recognition, then back at the game, where an Amigos batter dug a cleated shoe into the clay at the plate. “
Debe un
hit, Jaime!”

The same woman’s harsh voice carried across the field: “
Si no eres un hombre
,
venga al rancho y te hacemos un hombre!
”

Laughter answered from both bleachers.

“What’s that about?” Wager asked Barela.

The grinning man half-turned to answer. “That’s
una ranchera
. You know the El Rancho Bar? They sponsor that club.” He wiggled his little finger. “She works at the club, you know?”

“Una fichera?”

Barela shrugged a careless affirmative. “They come out to the games, get pretty raunchy sometimes. Raunchy Rancheras, we call them.”

The first pitch was a sharp curve that broke wide. Cheers from the Amigos, whistles and catcalls from the other side.

“Got a couple minutes, Eddie?” Wager cupped his shield in his hand so only the young man could see it. “Denver police.”

His brown eyes tightened, and the grin went away. “What for?”

“To talk about your cousin Roy. Talk about Ray Moralez, who got shot. About Flaco Martínez, who did it.”

“Aw, man! I don’t know nothing about that shit.”

The batter popped a high, arcing ball down the first base line. They both watched the outfielder race for it. He stretched and missed, the dropped ball bouncing past him. The batter turned at first and paused, as Barela joined the cheering, “
Andale
, Jaime—all right!”

“Fielder should’ve had that,” said Wager.

Barela’s head wagged, “Yeah, but we’ll take anything they give us!” Then he remembered Wager was a cop. “Look, I don’t know nothing about Ray Moralez or Flaco whoever. That’s gang shit, man. I’m not part of that.”

Max leaned against the fence, his bulk making it creak. “How many teams in this league?”

“Seventeen.” He looked up at the large man. “You play?”

“Used to—high school.” Max watched the pitcher try a pick-off at first. “You’ve got some good players here.”

“Yeah. It’s a tough league—you play with these people, you got to like the game, man. You a cop too, right?”

Max nodded and introduced himself. “Are most of your league players Mexican?”

“Yeah. A lot from Chihuahua, Zacatecas, Aguascalientes. But we got a lot of Chicanos too. Like me—real Yanquis, you know?”

Wager asked, “Your cousin Roy play too?”

Barela shook his head. “He should. He’s got a pretty good arm.”

“When’d you see him last?”

A deep sigh. “You people just don’t quit, do you?”

Wager smiled. “Don’t win any games by giving up.”

The young man looked at Wager as if he’d never thought of it that way. Then he sidled through the narrow dugout gate, and the three men walked to the vacant end of the noisy bleachers. “Roy didn’t have nothing to do with it. That’s what he told me, and I believe him.” Neither Wager nor Max contradicted him, so he went on. “Fights, macho stuff, OK. I mean, he lives in the barrio, you know? You live there, you got to prove yourself. But he’s no
calavera
—none of this
homicidio
crap.”

“Flaco’s not from the barrio,” said Max. “It’ll be a cleaner place for everybody when we get him off the street.”

Wager nodded at Barela’s teammates, who were shouting loudly as another batter stung a single past the pitcher and over second base. “A lot of these people are from Jalisco. Your cousin’s a Gallo. Maybe your teammates have cousins in the Tapatíos. The Gallos and the Tapatíos start killing each other because of this Flaco guy, how you going to feel?”

Max added, “All we want to do is talk to Roy. And all we want to talk about is Flaco. If he doesn’t want to tell us anything, that’s up to him. But we won’t know unless we find him.”

The young man stared at the worn grass. A clutch of children in shorts and tennis shoes ran shouting to swirl around them for a moment and then clatter up the bleacher seats. “OK. Just don’t tell him where you found out, OK?” He waited until both Wager and Max nodded. “He’s got a place over on Caithness. I don’t know the number—second block. Brown brick apartment house—top floor, number eight.” He added, “He’s usually there nights—late, you know.”

Max nodded thanks. “Who’s winning?”

“We got the tying run on second.”

“Buena suerte.”

Wager’s radio called his number as they pulled onto Interstate 70. It was the message he’d told the division receptionist to forward immediately: “Broomfield airport, five-thirty
P.M.
Mallory.”

“Thanks.”

Max looked at his watch. “It’s almost five now. Want me to run you out to Broomfield?”

“Yeah.” Rush hour traffic would make the trip from downtown to the outlying airfield slow. Max swung onto I-270 and headed north in the heavy traffic that looped around the city. “You want me with you when you talk to Roy tonight?”

“I can handle it, Gabe.”

“Didn’t say you couldn’t. But I shouldn’t be too late. I’ll give you a call when I get back.”

9/24

1745

T
HE SMALL TWO
-engine plane spiraled upward to gain altitude before crossing the mountains. Mallory sat up front in the copilot’s seat; Wager had strapped himself into one of the four seats in the cramped cabin. Beneath the wing, the ripple of flat, brown prairie dropped away, mottled by the shadows of puffy clouds, which always built up in late-September afternoons. Almost directly beneath the plane Wager could see the Rocky Flats weapons plant, a heavily fenced rectangle of square buildings and paved streets and vehicle parks. Around it was a wide band of vacant land marked here and there by gullies, an occasional stunted tree, and the twin dirt tracks of vehicle patrol routes. A busy two-lane highway led north to Boulder, where a sprawl of red-tiled roofs surrounded by trees and homes marked the university. Then the plane was over the abrupt foothills and straining hard to gain altitude to cross the Continental Divide.