Free Farnsworth Score by Rex Burns Page B

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.”

CHAPTER 5
    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