Strip Search (15 page)

“That’s panama suit, Wager. Not plantation. And I wear it because it’s cool!”

“Right.” Wager got into the car and sniffed at the smell of new leather. “Aim me at him, Willy. The night is young and I’m so beautiful.”

The car pulled away from the curb with only the slightest whisper from the engine, and a pensive Fat Willy steering lightly. Finally, he said, “You even make jokes. Not very goddamn good ones, but it is a Wager I don’t recognize. Which,” he added, “is fine with me.”

He hoped a lot of other people would have the same response. “Who do we meet first?”

“This here ‘cutout.’ A kid name of Meldon. He sometimes buys from McAfee, but I own him.”

“Does he know me?”

“She-it, Wager. Just because somebody been asking about you, you think you’re a picture in People magazine or something. You got a press agent, too? There’s a hell of a lot of people don’t know who you are, and a lot more don’t care!”

“What’d you tell him?”

“I just told him you had business with McAfee and told him to set it up.”

That would do. McAfee would suspect that Wager was a narc and go through a series of wriggles and twists to get Wager to spill it. But since he wasn’t trying to build a case against McAfee, Wager had a lot more latitude to convince him that he wasn’t a cop. Ironically, the tight spots in this little maneuver would come from his fellow policemen; the legitimate undercover people would scream all the way to the department chief if they caught Wager on their turf, and there would be no way Max or Doyle or even the Little Lord Jesus could protect him if that happened.

Willy let Wager out of the car at a quiet residential corner just down from a half-block of neighborhood stores. Lights here and there behind pulled shades glowed yellow, and in someone’s backyard a dog brayed once—deep, eager, and hungry. “Wait here,” he said, and the long car slid away like an ocean liner. The only sound was the hiss of its fat tires. When it glimmered out of sight, a slender black youth sauntered down the steps from a shadowy front porch.

“Come on.”

Wordless, Wager followed Meldon toward the stores and their little island of light.

“Little Ray, he wasn’t too eager to meet you, man. I had to tell him it was something really important.”

“I appreciate it.”

“That’s nice. But if Fat Willy hadn’t asked me as a special favor …”

“Fat Willy’s a good man to do favors for.”

“Yeah, well, neither one of us is a good man to cross. You get my meaning?”

Wager did not answer and Meldon was content to take that for agreement.

“He’s in here.” Meldon turned into one of the stores. A white false front rose squarely against the night sky and on it large, black script, painted by a wavering hand, read A
LLEN’S
R
IBS
. A screen door opened to a small restaurant, brightly lit and filled with Formica tables whose chrome legs had long since been scratched to rust. A short line of blacks stood in front of the order counter and looked curiously at Wager. From one or two of the small tables where people sat chewing on sauce-smothered ribs came flat, hostile glances. Meldon led him through a small arch into an adjoining room, this one half-filled with customers in secondhand booths of assorted styles. In the last one, facing the room and looking out of place among the glistening black faces, sat a lone white. Meldon stood aside to let Wager slip into the booth first, then he perched on the edge of the unpadded bench.

“This here’s him. He ain’t said much.”

Little Ray stayed busy with his food. He wore denim overalls and a military green T-shirt. He had a red bandanna tied above his ears that clutched his curly dark hair into a tall spray. When he moved his head, it swayed like something crawling through grass. “Okay, Meldon. Business is business, right?”

Meldon’s eyes flicked from Little Ray to Wager and back, then he shrugged and slid out of the booth. Little Ray nipped the meat off a dripping bone and chewed slowly, his gaze anchored on something over Wager’s shoulder.

“Hottest fucking ribs in Denver,” he said to the seat back. He set down a slender white bone and picked up another, with its meat vague under the dark red sauce. This time he looked over Wager’s other shoulder.

Wager watched him gnaw through half-a-dozen. The waitress, a smiling girl with cornrowed hair, brought him coffee. Little Ray wiped his mouth and fingers on the oversized paper napkin and sipped at the plastic glass of Sprite. Then he finally looked at Wager. “So what’s your business with me?”

“It’s not mine. It’s the people I represent.”

The man’s face stayed still, but something changed in his eyes. “Like who?”

“Some people from out of town. They asked me to look around for somebody they could invest in.”

Little Ray smiled and swirled his glass and watched the bubbles stick to its sides. “You don’t look like a broker to me.”

“That’s the way my associates want it.”

“Uh huh. And maybe I’m not interested in what your associates want. Maybe I like things the way they are.”

“Nothing stays the same, right? And everybody wants more,” said Wager. “I’m talking a very profitable arrangement for the right person.”

“Sure. That’s why you come to somebody like me. I’m so important you can’t do without me.”

“The people I represent want somebody who’s not already tied to the action in Denver. An independent.” The girl came to clear the plates and ask Wager if he wanted more coffee. He shook his head and when she was out of hearing, said, “These people want to set up operations here. It’s a growth area. The whole Sun Belt’s a growth area, and Denver’s hot now.” Wager gazed steadily at the man’s flat eyes. “I’ve been looking around for somebody the cops aren’t on to yet—somebody able to handle his own organization and still hungry enough to hustle.”

“And you think I’m that somebody. And all I got to do to prove it is sell you an ounce or two and then you flash your badge and say ‘Guess who.’ Come on, this horseshit went out with Little Caesar.”

“I looked at a lot of people,” Wager went on, as if the man hadn’t spoken. “I like the way you operate and I like your market—the clubs and skin houses. I think you could expand that real quick with the right support.”

A hint of unsureness crossed Little Ray’s eyes. Wager wasn’t talking of buying from him—which was the usual narc trip—but of selling to him. “I got all I need right now.”

“I checked out Curtis and Sugar, but I don’t think they can handle the kind of volume my associates have in mind.”

“Volume? That much volume?”

“In a month, maybe six weeks, we can push prices to the bottom. When people like Curtis and Sugar see their profit squeezed out, they’ll move on. Or they can work for us. Us and whoever’s in with us.”

Little Ray gazed at the vision of a price war that would wipe out the small independents. “That would take a shit pot full of money.”

“My associates look at it as a short-term investment. Right now, the market around here is unorganized. We want to bring in a little stability. And we want to do it with the right people. You do it right from the ground up, you save yourself a hell of a lot of headaches later on.”

The man reached a finger to scratch delicately beneath the headband. “I still think you’re shitting me. You come in here and hand me this line and expect me to roll over.” His hair wagged when he shook his head. “If you’ve got any associates—which I doubt—you tell them words ain’t enough. I didn’t get into this business to be suckered, my Chicano friend.”

“I’m not Chicano, Little Ray. I’m Cuban. And I’ll spell out the deal.” Wager counted the points, starting with his little finger. “One, a steady supply of quality goods—a full range, once you got your market set up. Two, an exclusive franchise to the territory. No competition, and that’s guaranteed. Three, the district manager doesn’t go on the street; he supervises, but he puts distance between him and the street.” Wager smiled. “That’s for our protection as well as yours. Four, if you ever need it, the best political and legal assistance money can buy.” He let that soak in and then held up a thumb. “There’s a fifth point: you get asked once to join us. If you do, you’re with us. If you don’t—no problem. Nothing’s going to happen to you. We’ll just find somebody else who wants more money than he knows what to do with, and after awhile you’ll move on.”

“You’re full of horseshit. If you were that big, you’d bring your own people in.”

“We’ve started that. From Miami and LA. I’m one of them. But what we need is a district manager who knows the local territory and personnel. It saves a lot of time and makes for a nice, quiet transition.”

“Horseshit.” But he said it less certainly.

“Take some time to think it over. Ask around. Find out what’s going down in LA now.” He smiled again. “Ask about the Cubans—the Flotilla people—the ones Castro sent to the Land of Opportunity. Don’t make a hasty decision one way or the other. Anybody comes in with us, we want them to be sure. It’s what you might call a lifetime commitment.”

Little Ray did not answer Wager’s smile or nod goodbye. He sat there trying to be absolutely certain that this scruffy-looking Hispano was so full of crap that his eyes had turned brown. But Wager could see the man’s doubt. Latinos … Cubans, Colombians—they were all over the drug scene now. Miami, Los Angeles, New York … And they were organized. And very rich. And very mean … There were so many stories murmured on the street, so many whispered rumors. …

Wager closed the shop’s screen door behind him and took a deep breath of cool night air. It had been, he thought, a good exit line. And now how in the hell was he going to get home?

His first call after work the following evening was to Doc.

“I ain’t heard nothing, Gabe. Not one thing. Whoever wasted those girls, if they’re still around, they’re not saying nothing. Amateurs, they’d be bragging; no talk, they must be pros.”

“You’re right, Doc.” Wager interrupted the man’s nervous, cryptic speech. “But stay with it. And I’d like you to put something out. I want you to say you’ve heard organized crime is moving into the area.”

“Jesus, it’s already here—the Scorvellis.”

“This is a new bunch from LA; say they’re Colombians, Puerto Ricans, whatever. They want to organize the dope sales along the strip. You don’t know their names and you don’t know who’s in it; all you hear is they’re big. Can you do that for me?”

“Sure. No sweat. Something like that, you whisper it once, and it spreads faster than the clap.” He asked, “Is it true?”

“It might be.”

“Jesus. I guess it was only a matter of time, right?”

“Right—Denver’s growing up. One more thing: I hear someone’s asking around about me. If you hear who it is, let me know.”

“Jesus! That don’t sound good, Gabe. In fact, it makes me nervous.”

“It happens all the time. I just want to know who the players are.”

“You’re pretty goddamn cool about it.” The line was silent as Doc tried to figure what it might mean for him. “Well, I don’t like getting near something like that. I’m kind of out on a limb, you know? But if something comes my way, I’ll tell you. For old times’ sake.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

Wager’s second call was to Vice and Narcotics. He requested that officers Moffett or Nolan telephone him. Very important. When, in about twenty minutes, Moffett called, Wager set up a meet on the south side of town well away from Colfax.

“Is this about the van?” asked Nolan. The two Vice detectives sat in their conspicuously unmarked car with the police band turned to a low crackle. Moffett smoked a filter cigarette that filled the cab with a musty odor.

“No. Do you know a couple small-time pushers named Curtis Evans and Sugar Watney?”

“Oh, sure. We’ve popped them a couple times. But what’s the use? They’re out again faster than we can finish the paperwork on them. At least this way, we know who’s doing what.”

“Any chance of you hassling them for me?”

There was a meditative silence before Nolan finally said, “I suppose we could. For what reason?”

Wager had noticed that about Nolan: some people said “Why?” He said “For what reason?” Some said “Because”; Nolan said “Due to the fact that.” Wager figured it gave the man an extra moment or two to think before he had to commit himself to a verb. But in this case, he could understand Nolan’s caution; Wager was asking the two detectives to upset that precarious balance between the scuttling figures that make up the action and the watching eyes of the law hanging over them. “I’m trying to flush out some information on a couple homicides. If I can make my man think he’s being squeezed, then maybe he’ll want to cover himself on the heavier rap.” That was close enough to the truth, and it omitted nicely the figure in the flat leather hat who was entrapping Little Ray.

“How much hassling you want?” asked Moffett.

That question meant “How much paperwork?” and Wager had to admit that he was asking for a lot. “If you can hold them on a seventy-two, I’d appreciate it.”

Moffett stubbed out his cigarette and tossed the filter through the window. “I guess. They’re known dealers, so that’s no problem. As long as we don’t have to file on them. What the hell, we might need a favor someday.”

Which was how a lot of police work got done.

The move was set for Friday night. Wager wanted it done a certain way, and the Vice dicks had a pretty good picture of the suspects’ routines. Besides, Friday night gave Evans and Watney a holiday weekend on ice—their lawyers couldn’t get a friendly judge to sign a writ before the key finished turning behind them.

Wager’s wide-brimmed hat shaded his face under the rows of white bulbs in the Cinnamon Club’s marquee. He studied the photographs tacked on the red velvet of the display case, especially Annette in her feathered publicity pose. Maybe Sheldon hadn’t seen that the picture was still up; or maybe he thought of it as another shrine. Most likely the picture hung there forgotten, like her file in the Open drawer.

“Mister, can I have your loose change? God, I’m hungry, mister. Mister?” A whining voice hung at his elbow and Wager turned to see the resident wino, his grimy hand upturned in a frayed and oversized coat sleeve. “Please, mister? Just your loose change?”