Private Eye Four-Pack, page 53
“You’re too hard on yourself. Something we can’t afford with people like Willie Boy Roberts. You can’t play fair with these guys. You’re not Gary Cooper, and this ain’t the movies. Sooner or later you get your armor smudged.” His voice became low and strained. Something inside him, long buried, had extinguished the sparkle in his eyes. “I know. You can want it to be just and true. But you play by the rules and the pukes bend ’em. Hell, sometimes the good guys bend ’em. Hard to tell the difference sometimes. Can’t keep up if you don’t give ’em what they deserve once in a while.”
I picked up my chocolate shake. Didn’t taste like it did when I was a kid.
Chick said, “That’s why you quit playing football, wasn’t it?”
I swished the straw around in the ice cream. “Part of it, maybe.”
He smoked his cigarette, and I brushed dust from the hood of the Camaro off my jacket sleeve. He looked down the street.
He said, “The errors of a wise man make the rules for a fool.”
“Shakespeare again?”
“J. Robbie Robertson.”
“Oh.”
“The white hat shit don’t play in the sewer, Wyatt. If you’re gonna play it that way, then leave it alone. Go home.”
“Too late for that,” I said.
“What I figured,” he said.
TWENTY-TWO
Frankie Crisp arrived fashionably late. He was driving a blood-red Trans-Am financed by the youth of Paradise County. Crisp pulled across two parking slots, squealing his brakes, his stereo rumbling from within the sanctuary of crimson paint and tinted glass. The vanity plate, CRISPY 1, gave him away.
“Subtle, isn’t he?” said Chick.
“Maybe ‘I’m a lowlife drug dealer’ wouldn’t fit on the license plate,” I said. Crisp rolled down a tinted window to talk to the carhop, the same one who’d waited on us. We opened our doors and strolled over to his car. As we neared, the carhop looked at us. I smelled raw gasoline and hot grease in the air.
“You two again?” the girl said. “Now what?”
“We’re gonna clean up this one-horse town, little missy,” Chick said.
She smiled and walked past us, bounced up onto the walkway and back into the restaurant. Back to her short orders and hamburger daydreams.
We walked up to the Trans-Am. Chick knocked on the top of the car and said, “Hey, Frankie, what’s happening?”
Frankie looked up. I saw the faint snatches of yellow-green under his left eye and lower lip, a fading reminder not to sell drugs to Cal Simmons’s sister. Frankie was a better-looking guy than I’d expected. Like Rob Lowe, only creepier. Longish, wispy hair. Crucifix earring dangling from an ear. He was dressed expensively, if not well. Rolex watch, leather bomber jacket, and a big diamond on a pinkie ring. Who says crime doesn’t pay? Fast Eddie, whoever he was, had to know what was going on at his drive-in, which is part of the problem. We look the other way. Rationalize. Not our problem. Maybe Frankie made a contribution to the Fast Eddie slow-pitch softball team. Knew there was something wrong with the shake. Shame, too, because the place looked great. And it wasn’t another McDonald’s. Or Hardee’s. Or Burger King…
“The fuck’re you guys?” he said. Does everybody talk that way anymore? It lacks poetry. I don’t like it. His voice was high-pitched and didn’t fit his face.
“FBI,” Chick said, in a monotone. “Special Agent Parker and this is Special Agent Longbaugh. Please step out of your vehicle, sir. We’d like to ask some questions, if we could.”
“I ain’t done nothing,” Crisp said, his eyes shifting from Chick to me, then back to Chick. “I don’t know nothing, either.” Probably the understatement of the year. He started to open the door, then hesitated. I saw expensive cowboy boots with silver-filigreed toes. “Hey! I wanta see a shield, man.”
Chick reached into his back pocket, flipped open his wallet, and there was a photostat with the letters FBI printed against the seal. It was Chick’s picture. Now, where did he get that?
“Oh. Okay,” Frankie said, chuckling nervously. He was our friend now, just another misunderstood guy who sold dope to the teenyboppers. “You don’t dress like feds.” He got out of the car.
“Television,” said Chick. “Portrays us like that. Actually helpful in undercover situations.” Frankie nodded his head. He seemed to understand. “We’ve talked to some people. Understand you sold controlled substances to a…” Chick paused, checked his wallet as if looking for her name. “…Let’s see…yes, a Christa Simmons.” He snapped the wallet shut. “Is that correct, Mr. Crisp?”
“Hunh-unh. No way, man,” he said, shaking his head. The earring slapped against his neck. “Did not happen, man. Her brother, he’s a deputy, come up and starts doing a Sugar Ray Leonard number on me. Didn’t know what he was talking about. He is not a right dude. Got stuff loose in his head or something. I don’t do drugs, man. Just say no, huh?”
“You won’t mind, then, if we check you and your vehicle for drugs, or…” Chick looked into the Pontiac. There was an Arturo Fuente cigar box on the passenger seat. “…or for ill-gotten gains. You smoke cigars, Frankie? My partner here smokes a good cigar now and then. That a good brand, Longbaugh?”
“One of the best,” I said. “Certainly one of the most expensive.”
“Gee,” said Chick. “Wonder what they’ll cost him? You familiar with the RICO Act, Frankie?” Frankie shook his head. “It says any money that can’t be accounted for is subject to seizure by law enforcement officers. That connect for you?”
Frankie wet his lips with his tongue. “You got a search warrant?” He was going for defiant but fell short. Nervous eyes.
“Over in the car, Frankie,” Chick said. “Judge signed it this morning. You’re not well liked around here. Lots of guys dumping on you, junior. So if you’ll just step aside, we can clear you of all wrongdoing. We didn’t want to do it this way, but—”
“Hey, c’mon, man,” Frankie said. “No reason for that. C’mon. Chill a little. Let me buy you a Coke or—”
“You attempting to bribe a federal officer?”
“What? With a Coke? No! Hey…look.” He spread his arms, showing his palms. “I ain’t nobody. Whadda you want with me, huh?”
“We don’t want you,” Chick said. “We want information. A lot of it. And fast.”
“What kinds?” Frankie said, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. But he looked relieved, which made me wonder how much product he kept in the car, how much dirty money was in the cigar box. Chick looked around the parking lot, conspiratorially, then leaned toward Crisp.
“Who’s your source?”
Frankie’s eyes grew. He looked like a cartoon character with a big firecracker in its hands. “No way. I’m not dropping a dime on nobody.” He reached into the pocket of the bomber jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. His hand trembled. Camel Lights. Everybody smoking low tar and nicotine. Hedging their bet. Never had any desire to smoke them myself, but it seems like you might as well smoke the real thing if you’re going to poison yourself anyway. “I ain’t no snitch. Fuck that noise.”
Chick looked at me and said, “And they say there’s no honor among thieves.” He looked back to Crisp. “Well, Frankie, I admire you. You’re willing to take the fall to spare your source. That’s kind of touching. Drug dealing. Conspiracy. Homicide.”
“Hey! I got nothin’ to do with clipping the badge. Wasn’t me, man. They already got somebody for that.” His mouth snapped shut when he realized what he had done. He wished he could take it back. You could see it in his eyes.
“How did you know that, Frankie? That information hasn’t been released.”
“Street talk. You know. Gets around quick.”
“Street talk, Frankie? This is Hickville, not Detroit. I’ll ask again. Who is your source?”
“Man, what I gotta tell you? I don’t shuffle no flake.”
“That’s not what we hear from Killian.”
“That fuck? He’s a raging crank freak. Overamped all the time. You can’t believe him.” He knew him, then.
“Killian’s dead, Frankie. Somebody unplugged him.”
Frankie looked sick, rubbed a hand across his mouth. “Shit, man.”
“One more time, then we’re laying paper on you. Tell me who supplies you.”
“Can’t do it. They’ll croak my ass.”
“And we’ll just fry it,” said Chick. “You’ll do okay in the pen, though. Good-lookin’ kid like you. The cons up at Jeff City’ll love your act. Have it made. Big guys with tattoos and spoon shivs fighting over your tender cheeks. Gotta be careful in the shower, though. Watch it when you bend over to pick up the soap. Somebody might give you a free ride home.”
Frankie was, by now, shaking like a palsied rodent. The smoke trail from his cigarette wavered as he held it. “You ain’t scaring me, man.”
“Sure I am, Frankie. I’m scaring you with the damn truth. You’re going down. I got a bureau chief breathing fire down my neck, and I’m going to throw him somebody. You’re as good as I got, now that Killian’s gone and Dexter’s on the lam. You’re dirty, anyway. I open that cigar box I’ll bet I don’t find cigars. What do you think? But there is a way out.” Chick paused to let Frankie consider the way out. Frankie swallowed and leaned closer. Chick continued. “A way out of prison and a way to protect you from the people that helped you plant the marijuana.”
Crisp looked perplexed. He stopped trembling, leaned away from us, and turned his head sideways to look at us. “Marijuana?” He looked offended, as if we’d just offered a light beer to a wine connoisseur. “I look like the department of agriculture? That’s husbandry work, man. Fucking farmers grow that shit.” He chuckled. “Man, I may do a number now and then, socially. I even sell a lid or two, now and then, for a favored customer. But no volume work. Grass planter? Me? That’s a hoot.”
Chick played it off. Calm. Implacable. “So where do you get your other stuff?”
“What other stuff?” The cocky look was back. He drew on his cigarette, letting the smoke roll from his mouth, slowly.
“You know. Crack, blow…” Chick hesitated before he hit him with, “dreamsicle.”
The cigarette was halfway back to Crisp’s mouth when it just stopped, suspended in midmotion. His facial muscles went slack before he could recover. “What’s that?”
“Too late, Frankie. Too late to pretend you don’t know, too late to say you do. Too late to save your ass. Too late for everything.” Chick gave me a bored look, as if he were tired of arresting low-echelon criminals. “Get the warrant, Harry, and let’s get this over with.” Without hesitation I started for the Bronco, playing the part, though if he didn’t buy it I had no idea what our next move would be.
“No! Wait. Please,” said Frankie. I kept walking. “I’ll tell you some stuff.” I stopped and turned around. “But not here. They got this big guy, he’ll tear me to pieces. They’re not anybody to be fuckin’ with. They’re hooked up with some connected guys.”
“Right here,” Chick said. “Right now. I’m out of patience. One more try and then we check the car and you go directly to jail, do not pass go, and do not collect two hundred dollars. Capisce? I’ll give you some names, and you nod your head if they’re involved. You won’t have to say anything. You’ll just be confirming, not pointing the finger at anybody. We’ll leave you out of it, get you some protection. High-level stuff. New identity. Guarantee you’ll never have to testify, but you have to promise never to deal drugs in Paradise County again. You’ll have to move. Deal?”
Frankie nodded. Chick smiled, then said, “Sheriff Baxter?” Frankie shook his head. Negative. I thought it odd that Chick started with Baxter.
“A little guy named Luke?”
Nod.
“Alan Winston?”
Frankie shrugged. Screwed up his face.
“You’re not sure?”
Nod.
“But he may be involved?”
Nod.
“Sultan Cugat?”
Crisp swallowed, looked around, then nodded, slightly.
“Willie Boy Roberts?”
He paled and his mouth worked like a beached fish’s. A pink tongue licked his upper lip. Shook his head no.
“Don’t lie to me, Crisp,” said Chick. “Cugat keeps the troops in line, right?” Crisp nodded. “Cugat works for Roberts, right?” We already knew the answer, but Frankie hesitated. He was genuinely frightened. “I’m not asking if he is your boss, I’m asking if Cugat works for him. Does Cugat work for Roberts?”
He nodded.
Chick patted him on the shoulder. He had him back on track. Chick was working him, setting him up, asking questions with known answers to see if he would lie, then calling him on it so he could ask the questions we didn’t know the answers to. “You’re all right, Crispy. Almost there.”
“You said—”
“Don’t interrupt. We’re gonna let you slide. But if you know anything else, you better spill now, because if you don’t, I’ll be right back and you’ll go down with the rest. Not to mention the fact I’ll let it be known you copped on Roberts.” Chick smiled.
“Fuckin’ shitass fed,” Frankie said. “Shoulda known I couldn’t—” Chick reached out with his hand and put it over Frankie’s mouth.
“Shhhh. Shhhh,” he hissed, shaking his head. “Watch your mouth. See, you’re stupid. You confirmed Roberts just now. Thanks. It’s a pleasure doing business with a bright guy like you. Something else. I don’t like drug dealers much. But I’ll keep my word. You’re gonna walk. You just better not be holding out on me. We’re going to drop the net, and I want to be able to report to my superiors that you were cooperative and that we’ll be justified in letting you fly. Blink if you understand.” Frankie blinked, and Chick removed his hand.
“Okay, okay,” Frankie said, breathing as if he’d just remembered how. “I got something.”
“Well?”
“They found out about your undercover agent. The one inside Starr Industries.”
I remembered Morrison mentioning an inside man.
“When did they find out?” asked Chick.
“This morning. Caught her trying to call out on—”
“Wait,” I said, interrupting. “You said her.”
“Yeah. Good-lookin’ piece, too. Pretty smart of you guys using a gash and sticking her under Willie Boy’s nose like that. Funny name, though. Tempest something…”
TWENTY-THREE
Chick told Frankie Crisp to drive to Springfield and check into a motel and stay there for one week until Chick contacted him. Then Chick relieved him of the cigar box. Frankie protested, but Chick was persuasive. Inside the box, instead of the imported long filler handmades, there was $2,700, cash, in various denominations. Chick let Crisp keep five bills for expenses. He even gave Crisp a receipt.
“Nice touch, huh?” Chick asked me, when we were back in the Bronco. I was anxious to find a phone.
“Where’d you get FBI credentials?”
“Little place outside Boulder. Guy runs a gas station–convenience store. Liquor store in the rear. It’s in the middle of nowhere. Guy makes stuff so good it’ll break your heart. An artiste.”
I drove to the nearest pay phone and dialed Starr Industries. I asked for Tempestt.
“I’m sorry,” said the female voice that answered. “Miss Finestra did not come to work this morning.” I broke the connection and called the number Agent Morrison had given me. He answered on the seventh ring.
“Morrison,” he said.
“This is Storme. Tempestt’s cover is blown. Get her out of there.”
“Who? Tempestt who?”
“Don’t play games, Morrison.” I squeezed the phone. “I know Tempestt is the agent at Starr Industries and so does Roberts.”
“How do I know this is Storme?”
“Okay. I’ll play your silly secret agent games. Candless doesn’t like coffee with caffeine, and he especially doesn’t like it tossed in his face.”
“When did you find out?” Morrison asked, satisfied.
“Ten minutes ago. Dealer named Frankie Crisp just told us. Told us a lot of things. He’s involved with Roberts and maybe Winston.”
“Alan Winston? The attorney?”
“That’s him.”
“That is difficult to believe.”
“I don’t have time to convince you. You’ve got to move and get Tempestt out of there. Now.”
“That’s not possible. The investigation is at a sensitive point and we can’t extricate her.”
“What if they kill her?” I said. He was frightening me. I felt ineffectual, helpless. They probably made her when she helped me. She had come along at just the right moment when Sultan was tattooing me on the bricks. No coincidence. She had been evasive about how she had happened along at that time. She had compromised her assignment and safety to help me. Something Morrison and Candless wouldn’t have done. But something I would now do for her. If I wasn’t too late.
“Agent Taylor was apprised of the risks going in,” Morrison said.
“You ass. We’re talking about her life. You do something or I will personally saw your head off.”
“I appreciate your concern, Storme. I am also concerned for her. But we can’t let them off the hook now by tipping our hand.”
I rapped the receiver against the side of the booth in frustration, then I placed it back against my ear. “Are you listening to me? There’s more. But unless you get her out of there you get nothing.”
“Dammit, Storme,” he said, exploding, which was a departure from his usual calm demeanor. “You have got to quit messing around in this affair. You’re complicating things. Can’t you see that?”
“I don’t care about your investigation. I don’t care about your procedure. I don’t care about protocol. I don’t care about you. The only thing that matters is Tempestt, or Agent Taylor, or whatever her name is.”
“You could end up in front of a federal judge.”
“Make me laugh, Morrison,” I said. “That’s crap and you know it. I spend fifteen seconds in court or jail and I start talking about the witness protection scam with Beauchamps and how he got away from you guys. I talk about dreamsicle. About how you guys have mucked around with this and let an agent be compromised. How you managed to allow the sheriff to get murdered on your watch.”
