Ground Money Read Online Free Page B
Author: Rex Burns
areas.
His eyes snagged on the number for the Animal Protection Office in the State Department of Agriculture. A woman answered, and when she heard what he wanted, the voice gained a note of bureaucratic worry over something that violated routine. “We’re not allowed to divulge information like that over the telephone, Sergeant Wager. Any investigations we run or respondents we contact are treated as confidential.”
“You can’t tell me if a couple of rodeo cowboys have ever had problems with your office?”
“No, sir. Not without clearance from the director. I can connect you with him, if you wish.”
“Not that important.” And not what he wanted, either: a blizzard of request and approval forms that needed signatures from unit commanders and woke official curiosity about what in the hell Wager was doing. So much for the regulatory agencies. He pondered over whether or not to make the next call. In fact, if he hadn’t promised Tommy, Wager wouldn’t—he was beginning to feel more than a little foolish going around asking about the Sanchez kids. But like a lot of people, especially older ones, when Tom got a question in his head he’d fret and worry himself and everyone else until it was answered; and if Wager had to lie to him, he’d feel a lot worse than foolish.
“Juvenile Division, Sergeant Cole.”
“Andy, this is Gabe Wager.” He explained who he was looking for.
“Our files are sealed, Gabe. You know that.”
“I don’t want to see the files. I just want to know if the names are active.”
A pause. “Sanchez. Jesus, we got so many Sanchezes. What about birthdates? You got that?”
“Just the approximate age. I can give you the father’s name.”
“Well, that’ll eliminate half of them, anyway—the little bastards.”
Wager told him as much as he knew.
“All right, hang on—I’ll see what comes up.”
In a couple minutes he came back with four names from the computer, but none of them matched Tommy’s sons. “That’s it, Gabe. That’s all I got.”
“OK, Andy. Thanks for the help.”
Wager hung up, fingers lingering on the smooth plastic of the telephone. Then he swore and quickly hooked four numbers. “Jo Fabrizio, please.”
“Officer Fabrizio, sir.”
“You want to go out for a beer after work?”
“Am I supposed to know who this is?”
“Dammit, Jo, you know who it is. Yes or no, do you want to go out?”
“Are you sure you do?”
“I’m asking, aren’t I?”
Maybe she figured that was the most she’d get by way of apology. At any rate, she said, “Might as well—it’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”
“I’ll be by a little after four.” Then he added in a quick mutter which she might not have heard. “And thanks.”
My Brother’s Bar had changed in a lot of ways: picture windows opening up one dark wall to bring in the light and curious glances from the street, another large room for rush-hour crowds, remodeled bathrooms that lost a lot of the aura which the dank, smelly stalls used to have. The last change didn’t bother Wager, but the windows did; they even had potted plants hanging there, and next would come ferns. Then Wager would have to talk to Demetri—maybe take him out back and read state statute 18-4-507: Defacing Landmarks or Monuments. At least the barroom itself had not changed, and he led Jo to one of the small tables in a corner. He felt more at home with its dimness and the relaxed murmur of late-afternoon drinkers, and it was still his favorite place. No loud music, no tweedle and zap of electronic games, no television set. You could do what you came there for: sit and drink. And, if you wanted, you could talk.
“Hi, Gabe—the usual?”
He said yes and Jo nodded, and the waitress, sliding a clean ashtray on the table, went quickly to the pickup with the orders.
“Did you find out anything for Tommy?”
He shook his head. “I put out a few feelers. But nothing’s turned up. I don’t really expect it
His eyes snagged on the number for the Animal Protection Office in the State Department of Agriculture. A woman answered, and when she heard what he wanted, the voice gained a note of bureaucratic worry over something that violated routine. “We’re not allowed to divulge information like that over the telephone, Sergeant Wager. Any investigations we run or respondents we contact are treated as confidential.”
“You can’t tell me if a couple of rodeo cowboys have ever had problems with your office?”
“No, sir. Not without clearance from the director. I can connect you with him, if you wish.”
“Not that important.” And not what he wanted, either: a blizzard of request and approval forms that needed signatures from unit commanders and woke official curiosity about what in the hell Wager was doing. So much for the regulatory agencies. He pondered over whether or not to make the next call. In fact, if he hadn’t promised Tommy, Wager wouldn’t—he was beginning to feel more than a little foolish going around asking about the Sanchez kids. But like a lot of people, especially older ones, when Tom got a question in his head he’d fret and worry himself and everyone else until it was answered; and if Wager had to lie to him, he’d feel a lot worse than foolish.
“Juvenile Division, Sergeant Cole.”
“Andy, this is Gabe Wager.” He explained who he was looking for.
“Our files are sealed, Gabe. You know that.”
“I don’t want to see the files. I just want to know if the names are active.”
A pause. “Sanchez. Jesus, we got so many Sanchezes. What about birthdates? You got that?”
“Just the approximate age. I can give you the father’s name.”
“Well, that’ll eliminate half of them, anyway—the little bastards.”
Wager told him as much as he knew.
“All right, hang on—I’ll see what comes up.”
In a couple minutes he came back with four names from the computer, but none of them matched Tommy’s sons. “That’s it, Gabe. That’s all I got.”
“OK, Andy. Thanks for the help.”
Wager hung up, fingers lingering on the smooth plastic of the telephone. Then he swore and quickly hooked four numbers. “Jo Fabrizio, please.”
“Officer Fabrizio, sir.”
“You want to go out for a beer after work?”
“Am I supposed to know who this is?”
“Dammit, Jo, you know who it is. Yes or no, do you want to go out?”
“Are you sure you do?”
“I’m asking, aren’t I?”
Maybe she figured that was the most she’d get by way of apology. At any rate, she said, “Might as well—it’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”
“I’ll be by a little after four.” Then he added in a quick mutter which she might not have heard. “And thanks.”
My Brother’s Bar had changed in a lot of ways: picture windows opening up one dark wall to bring in the light and curious glances from the street, another large room for rush-hour crowds, remodeled bathrooms that lost a lot of the aura which the dank, smelly stalls used to have. The last change didn’t bother Wager, but the windows did; they even had potted plants hanging there, and next would come ferns. Then Wager would have to talk to Demetri—maybe take him out back and read state statute 18-4-507: Defacing Landmarks or Monuments. At least the barroom itself had not changed, and he led Jo to one of the small tables in a corner. He felt more at home with its dimness and the relaxed murmur of late-afternoon drinkers, and it was still his favorite place. No loud music, no tweedle and zap of electronic games, no television set. You could do what you came there for: sit and drink. And, if you wanted, you could talk.
“Hi, Gabe—the usual?”
He said yes and Jo nodded, and the waitress, sliding a clean ashtray on the table, went quickly to the pickup with the orders.
“Did you find out anything for Tommy?”
He shook his head. “I put out a few feelers. But nothing’s turned up. I don’t really expect it