Angle of Attack (24 page)

“I’ve put in a request for the funds, Fat Willy.”

“A re-quest! How the hell long is a request supposed to take? I got expenses, man!”

“I’ll know next week. Right now, I want you to listen up on somebody else.”

“I will put in a fucking re-quest and let you know next week!”

“I want what you can pick up on Tony Ojala—Tony-O.”

Curiosity drove the sarcasm from Fat Willy’s voice. “That’s the old man who’s all over Larimer? The dude who looks like a broke-off match stick?”

“That’s him. I want to know where he goes and who he talks to.”

“Hooeee. That old man’s everywhere and nowhere; he talks to everybody and nobody.”

“I want to know if he’s been talking to somebody named Bernie Chavez, a man about the same age.”

“Come on, Wager—get yourself a spic for that. I couldn’t tell this Bernie Chavez from Pancho Villa. All you brownies look alike to me.”

“There might be something in it for you.”

“Yeah—another goddam re-quest. Count me out, Wager. Until I get the bread from that last little favor I done you, I ain’t doing no more.”

“You’re going to want something from me sometime, Willy. Maybe soon.”

“Yeah, maybe so. But right now
you
owe
me
. When the account is balanced, then I will worry about owing you. And hey, I see where you backed off the Scorvellis. What’s the matter, them wop boys too tough for you?”

“No evidence,” said Wager, and hung up. The next number was one he had not yet memorized, and he dialed it carefully. A woman’s voice answered hurriedly on the third ring.

“Can I talk to Jesus, please?” asked Wager.

She held the telephone a few seconds without replying. “Who’s this? Who wants him?”

“Gabe Wager.”

“Oh! Sure—just a minute.”

The relief in the woman’s voice made it almost happy. This time it wasn’t another of Jesus’s suspect friends dragging him into one more scheme that would someday land her husband in the clink; instead, it was a cop, somebody on the right side of the law, who would help keep her husband on the straight and narrow. Wager rinsed his mouth with beer.

“Gabe?” The voice sounded sleepy and slightly drunk. “You called late. Scared hell out of my woman.”

“Sorry, Jesus. I didn’t think what time it was. I need a little help with—”

“Say,
hombre
, it’s good you called!” Jesus was waking up. “I been trying to get you, but them people at headquarters, they wouldn’t give me your home phone, you know? They kept telling me to call back Monday. I told them it was real important, but it’s like they don’t know who I am. Maybe you better straighten them out or give me your number for emergencies, man.”

Wager did the latter, repeating the number when the man on the other end of the line finally located a pencil. “Why’d you want me?” he asked Jesus.

“Because I got some information! You asked me to listen around for certain names, right?”

“What kind of information?”

“Good stuff,
hombre
. I got it from a guy I know who’s just out of Cañon City. Got out yesterday. He was in the same cell block as that Covino dude.”

“What did he tell you?”

“He says that somebody from the Scorvelli organization came down to visit Covino just before he was shivved.”

“Did he know who Covino’s visitor was?”

“Nope. But he was working as a trusty and he saw Covino’s visitor. He knew the guy from before, and later Covino as much as told him it was a Scorvelli messenger.”

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“You’ll cover for me, right? Like before?”

“Trust me, Jesus; I’ll say I got his name from Cañon City.”

“O.K., that sounds decent. It’s Ken Espinosa; I forget what he was up for. I think he’s got a room down at the Binghamton.”

“Did Espinosa mention anything about the knifing? About why Covino was killed?”

“He said what everybody else says—Covino got it in a fight with Uhuru.”

“Nothing about a hit on Covino?”

“No. Hey, you think Covino was set up that way? You think somebody knew he was with Scorvelli and wanted to get rid of him?”

“Anything’s possible, Jesus.” At least, it seemed that way so far. “There’s another thing I need some help with.”

“You’ve come to the man who can do things, Wager.”

“I know that, Jesus—
por supuesto
. What I want you to do is keep an eye on Tony-O. You know him?”

“That old guy? Sure, I see him around all the time. But what the hell’s he got to do with anything?”

“He may be a lead to somebody I’m looking for—a Bernie Chavez, about the same age as Tony-O.”

The line was briefly silent. “The only Bernie Chavez I know’s about my age.”

“It’s this old Bernie Chavez I’m after. He might tie a tail to some of those very important people.” Wager gave Jesus Tony-O’s address.

“
Hijole!
This thing really is big time, ain’t it? But the papers said you weren’t laying anything on Scorvelli.”

Gargan would wriggle and pee like a scratched puppy if he knew how many people had read that story. “Don’t believe everything in the papers, and don’t let Tony-O know you’re behind him.”

“Hey, don’t worry about that—I’m no
bembo
!”

The third call was to Records. Police Person Fabrizio—she of the slender legs and large breasts—took Wager’s request for information on Espinosa, Kenneth, and came back on the line in less than two minutes. “The subject was released on parole yesterday, Detective Wager,” said her very nice voice. “He lists an address at the Binghamton Hotel, 2105 Larimer. His employer will be Greenland Sod Farms in Aurora. Do you want his parole officer’s name and number?”

“This is enough. Thanks.”

The Binghamton was nearby, a decaying red-brick warren of foul-smelling rooms inhabited by drifters and old people who couldn’t afford more than eight dollars a week. Once a month, when the oldsters received their social security checks, the building rustled busily with muggers and thieves and muffled and hopeless cries for help. The assault and homicide sections knew it well.

In the cramped lobby, a black-and-white television set high in the corner flipped its grainy picture endlessly, but no one sat on the single broken sofa to watch it, nor was a clerk on duty behind the short and dusty counter. Wager reached under the wooden shelf with its circular blisters from old glasses and pulled out the register to read down the spotted paper for Espinosa’s name. He found it listed with room 32. There was no elevator to the third floor; he groped his way up the creaking stairs, stepping into some mushy stench near the landing. A single bulb locked in its safety grate lit the hall. The metal numbers had long ago been pried off the doors, but he found Espinosa’s room, the “32” scratched into the wood by a knife or screwdriver. He knocked.

A low voice came from just beyond the dark panel. “Who’s there?”

“Detective Wager, D.P.D. I want to talk to you.”

After several seconds of cautious silence, first one lock, then another rattled open and the door swung back an inch or so. “You got your I.D.?”

Wager showed his badge. “You’re Ken Espinosa?”

The door opened wider to reveal a middle-aged man with close-cropped graying hair, and a pale and weary face that was almost twice as long as it was wide. He had high cheekbones and a hooked nose, and his dark eyes never seemed to rest long on one spot. “Yes,” he said softly. “What you want with me?”

“I understand you were in the same cell block as Gerald Covino. I’d like to ask you some questions about him.”

“Who told you that?”

“I checked with Cañon City. I’ve been waiting for someone to get out who could tell me something about Covino. Can I come in?”

Espinosa stepped aside to let Wager enter; he leaned against the warped door to work the locks back into place, then finished buttoning his shirt. “This dump didn’t used to be so bad,” he said in a quiet drawl. “I’ve never seen so many guns around since the goddam army. Of course, I can’t have one—I’m a parolee.”

Wager glanced around the tiny cubicle with its sagging bed and peeling chest of drawers. A paintless rod under a shelf served as a closet, and even if the single dusty window could be opened, the smell of stale urine would never be gone from the room; it came from a corner where the wallpaper had been washed away, leaving a patch of dark and rotting wood.

Espinosa followed his glance. “It’s still better than Cañon City,” he said. Then, “Wager. I’ve heard of you. You’re a narc, right?”

“I’m in homicide now. Cigarette?” He held out the pack and Espinosa took one, lighting it slowly and then cupping it, prison style, between fingers that were as fleshless as his nose. “They already got the dude that did it to Covino. A black guy.”

“How well did you know Covino?”

Something like a smile twisted Espinosa’s lips. “You could call us next-door neighbors.”

“Did you talk with him much?”

“Some. Nothing heavy. He was doing his time and I was doing mine.”

Espinosa’s sparring was automatic; without some kind of trade, he wasn’t going to reveal much—not because he was worried or afraid, but simply because that was the way things were done in places where information was currency.

“We think Covino was killed on orders from the outside,” said Wager. “His brother was killed, too. Did he get many visitors?”

“Killed on orders?” Espinosa mulled that over for a while. Then he said, “I don’t know how many visitors he had. I just heard about one.”

If there was a single word that Wager could use to describe the man, it would be “tired.” Espinosa was like a tired runner or laborer; he moved with the economy of exhaustion, as if he had just finished a task that drew off the last quiver of energy and left him in that numb state where even saving his own life would bring a groan of effort.

“How about telling me?” Wager asked.

“Why not? This buddy I know—a trusty—told me that just before Covino bought the farm, somebody from the Scorvelli organization came down to see him.”

“Did your buddy know who that somebody was?”

“Nobody important. This friend of mine knew him from somewhere, and he’s what you might call a step-n-fetchit, a burro for the Scorvellis.”

“Did your friend have any idea why somebody like that would be seeing Covino?”

“No. Every once in a while Covino hinted about some kind of connections. He wouldn’t talk too much about them, but you got the idea he had something going for him when he got out. But you hear that all the time; hell, sometimes it turns out to be true.”

“Did Covino say anything after the Scorvelli man came to see him?”

“Nothing you could take to court. He hinted about getting out soon and seemed a little cocky and anxious at the same time—like a short-timer. We figured he was going to be sprung soon, but he got dusted first.”

“Sprung over the wall?”

“Naw, legitimate. Get him a good lawyer, somebody to talk for him at the parole board and tell them he had a job and all. Covino had his good time coming, and they’re hard up for space down there.”

“Did Covino ever say anything about his brother?”

“No. He never talked about his family. Hell, who does? We all heard his brother got blown away, but Covino didn’t say nothing about it. The padre tried to talk to him about it, but he told him to go to hell.”

“That was before or after the visitor from the Scorvellis?”

“Before. I guess his brother’s death made him a little uptight. Like I say, he was more like a short-timer after the visit.”

“Loose enough to start a fight?”

Espinosa thought about that, drawing on the cigarette stub pinched and cupped beneath his palm. Finally, he said with conviction, “No. I didn’t even think about that at the time—people are always getting cut down there. But no, Covino wasn’t one of the crazies. If he thought he was getting out soon, he wouldn’t of screwed that up with a fight. It looks like he really was set up, don’t it? But you’re never going to prove it.”

“Did he ever say anything about his bust? Anything that sounded strange or different?”

Some of the weariness in Espinosa’s eyes faded momentarily as surprise came into them. “You really do know something about Covino, don’t you?”

“Why’s that?”

“Most guys when they get there claim they got finked on or had bad luck—that it wasn’t their fault they got busted. But Covino almost joked about it. I mean, he was pretty pissed at the judge for hitting him an indeterminate on a breaking and entering—that’s pretty heavy, even for a second offense, and Covino really didn’t expect that. But as for the bust itself, he acted like it was a big joke, like it was something he’d put over on somebody else.”

Which he had.

T
HE HORNS AND
rapping exhaust of midmorning traffic woke Wager around ten. Saturday—especially a warm spring Saturday—made the streets on the east edge of Capitol Hill throb with young singles gathering other young singles into young groups for the day’s run to the mountains or the tennis courts or the city parks and reservoirs for Frisbee and beer. Wager leaned on the balcony railing with his first cup of coffee and watched slender, long-legged girls in their jogging shorts and braless tank tops hop into cars or onto bicycles or motorcycles, freed for the weekend from stacks of typing or nurse’s uniforms or airline schedules. He had put down the book about fur trappers and now thumbed through a well-advertised best seller called
It Was Never Me
. The author, someone who spoke of the sixties as “our” generation, had discovered with great surprise that “our” generation no longer made the six o’clock news; but, undaunted, he turned to a compelling and in-depth exploration of “our” generation’s inner space. It was the kind of naïve and childish self-centeredness that tightened Wager’s jaws, but he forced himself through the book, knowing that his disgust would keep away the closer anger of waiting through this day, through tomorrow, through next week, perhaps through a lifetime, before moving closer to Dominick Scorvelli. But wait he did, until just after sunset, when the telephone rang.

“That you?” It was Jesus’s voice, and Wager answered that yes, it was him.