to lose your license.”
“So talk to my lawyer.”
They both knew it was an empty threat. One hearing had already been dismissed, and the liquor board wasn’t about to start another one so soon; they weren’t worried about a Larimer Street bar whose only neighbors were vacant or closed commercial buildings.
“Besides, I pay my taxes. Which pays your salary.”
“And the city spends ten times your taxes investigating homicides in this place. Any idea who killed him?”
The answer didn’t come from Floyd; he hated cops and didn’t care if Wager saw it. Max put the story together from the other patrons in the bar. They knew the victim only as James; he’d started coming in regularly three, four weeks before, and they thought he crashed at the mission up on Thirty-fourth Street. Yesterday he had an argument with an Anglo kid. Fudd something or other—that’s the only name anybody heard. Tonight this Fudd comes in really steamed, and he and James start shoving at each other. Money, said one of the women; she’d heard Fudd telling James he’d better pay back what he owed. James told him to fuck off, and Fudd cut him. Just like that. James swung at the kid and the kid came up under him with a knife and James went down. The kid ran out.
Max got a description of the suspect and relayed it to the dispatcher. A minute or two later, the description came over Max’s radio pack on an APB to all districts. Now the task was to identify Fudd, his friends, his usual hangouts. And then to track him down.
“You never heard of this Fudd?” Wager asked the bartender.
“You got it, Wager.”
On the way up to the mission, Wager said, “I’m getting sick and tired of Floyd and that place of his.”
“Yeah.” Max pulled into a no parking zone in front of the mission. Half a dozen men lounged against the old red brick of the converted warehouse. As the two men parked and got out, the loungers fell silent and looked away, not meeting the cops’ eyes. “But he’ll never lose his license. Even if he gets cited, his lawyer’ll scream due process for the next ten years.”
Wager nodded.
“Talk to your girlfriend about it, Gabe. See what city council can do.”
“I don’t tell her what to do, she doesn’t tell me what to do.”
“Hey, just a suggestion!” Max added, “I wish me and Francine had that arrangement.”
If the bar had been in a residential area, there would be a chance to pull its license. But in an all-commercial district, the only complainants were the police who had a mess to clean up every few weeks. Besides, the citizens on the licensing board, reluctant to interfere with taxpaying businesses, also liked to keep the Larimer Street bums in their own zone.
The mission’s night manager, a recovered alcoholic whose face showed a lot of old scars and breaks, nodded when Max asked about James Littletree.
“I just heard he got stabbed. You gentlemen are looking for Fudd now?”
“You also hear Fudd did it?”
The thin man nodded again. His voice had a kind of burned-out calmness to it. “That’s what’s on the street. Fudd stays here sometimes too. That’s not his real name. I don’t know what his real name is. It’s just what he’s called.” He added, “He never caused any trouble here. He’s just a kid—kind of slow in the head.”
Wager grunted. “He was fast enough with a knife.”
The manager picked at a callus under one of his twisted fingers. “Wasn’t no need for it. Wasn’t no need for any of it.”
There was no need for a hell of a lot of the things Wager saw, but he wasn’t going to get sentimental about it. He asked the man for a more complete description of the suspect and about the places where he might be. One was the Denargo market area, about a dozen blocks away. There, the Burlington Northern, Rio Grande, and Union Pacific tracks came together and led north into Adams County and points beyond. “He talked a lot about the trains. He knows the routes and
“So talk to my lawyer.”
They both knew it was an empty threat. One hearing had already been dismissed, and the liquor board wasn’t about to start another one so soon; they weren’t worried about a Larimer Street bar whose only neighbors were vacant or closed commercial buildings.
“Besides, I pay my taxes. Which pays your salary.”
“And the city spends ten times your taxes investigating homicides in this place. Any idea who killed him?”
The answer didn’t come from Floyd; he hated cops and didn’t care if Wager saw it. Max put the story together from the other patrons in the bar. They knew the victim only as James; he’d started coming in regularly three, four weeks before, and they thought he crashed at the mission up on Thirty-fourth Street. Yesterday he had an argument with an Anglo kid. Fudd something or other—that’s the only name anybody heard. Tonight this Fudd comes in really steamed, and he and James start shoving at each other. Money, said one of the women; she’d heard Fudd telling James he’d better pay back what he owed. James told him to fuck off, and Fudd cut him. Just like that. James swung at the kid and the kid came up under him with a knife and James went down. The kid ran out.
Max got a description of the suspect and relayed it to the dispatcher. A minute or two later, the description came over Max’s radio pack on an APB to all districts. Now the task was to identify Fudd, his friends, his usual hangouts. And then to track him down.
“You never heard of this Fudd?” Wager asked the bartender.
“You got it, Wager.”
On the way up to the mission, Wager said, “I’m getting sick and tired of Floyd and that place of his.”
“Yeah.” Max pulled into a no parking zone in front of the mission. Half a dozen men lounged against the old red brick of the converted warehouse. As the two men parked and got out, the loungers fell silent and looked away, not meeting the cops’ eyes. “But he’ll never lose his license. Even if he gets cited, his lawyer’ll scream due process for the next ten years.”
Wager nodded.
“Talk to your girlfriend about it, Gabe. See what city council can do.”
“I don’t tell her what to do, she doesn’t tell me what to do.”
“Hey, just a suggestion!” Max added, “I wish me and Francine had that arrangement.”
If the bar had been in a residential area, there would be a chance to pull its license. But in an all-commercial district, the only complainants were the police who had a mess to clean up every few weeks. Besides, the citizens on the licensing board, reluctant to interfere with taxpaying businesses, also liked to keep the Larimer Street bums in their own zone.
The mission’s night manager, a recovered alcoholic whose face showed a lot of old scars and breaks, nodded when Max asked about James Littletree.
“I just heard he got stabbed. You gentlemen are looking for Fudd now?”
“You also hear Fudd did it?”
The thin man nodded again. His voice had a kind of burned-out calmness to it. “That’s what’s on the street. Fudd stays here sometimes too. That’s not his real name. I don’t know what his real name is. It’s just what he’s called.” He added, “He never caused any trouble here. He’s just a kid—kind of slow in the head.”
Wager grunted. “He was fast enough with a knife.”
The manager picked at a callus under one of his twisted fingers. “Wasn’t no need for it. Wasn’t no need for any of it.”
There was no need for a hell of a lot of the things Wager saw, but he wasn’t going to get sentimental about it. He asked the man for a more complete description of the suspect and about the places where he might be. One was the Denargo market area, about a dozen blocks away. There, the Burlington Northern, Rio Grande, and Union Pacific tracks came together and led north into Adams County and points beyond. “He talked a lot about the trains. He knows the routes and
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