the motion, to have a moment or two of stasis that would let him fully realize where he really was. But for this long moment, it all seemed like a dream, and Wager felt a jab of fear that he might simply get up and laugh and clap a hand to Farnsworth’s bony shoulder and say, “I’m a narc, too,” and then stand there grinning at Farnsworth’s wide eyes, grinning and waiting to wake up from the dream, the grin slowly draining in icy sweat as he would realize that it wasn’t a dream, that he really was in Farnsworth’s cabin far from the gritty streets of Denver, that he had really blown his cover.
He was too old for this, too old to take these games seriously; too old not to despise the phony world that made his face the friend of those his mind and heart called enemy; too old to let himself relax and enjoy a good meal and a laugh that was being paid for right now on street corners and in alleys and bars that Farnsworth or Ramona or little Peter would never even see. For now the phony was the real, but when that other world of his mind and heart pressed on him, he felt how slippery was the rock on which he pretended to stand.
“I was set up. Chandler came on like a big buyer from Detroit; sat right there in that chair you’re sitting in and smoked a few joints, drank booze, shot the shit with us just like a human being. He had a good rap, man. Smooth and a lot of laughs. Then he wanted a bigger buy than anyone else could handle.” The sprigs of wiry hair wagged again. “We thought he was a hit man with the Mafia—Charlie Flint found a gun in the glove compartment of his car and we thought he was a fucking hit man. It never crossed my mind that dude was wearing black boots.”
“Black boots?”
“Yeah—the sheriff’s officers all wear black boots. Uniform regulations. Even the undercover people wear them, because the S.O. doesn’t pay those poor bastards enough for two pairs of shoes.” He laughed and bobbed the child and sipped at the beer on the small table by his chair. It was Cerveza Tecate; Farnsworth drank only Mexican beer, as a protest against Yankee imperialism. “Those poor bastards got to want something more than money. They’re probably all maricons at heart; the boots, the guns, the uniforms—that’s the only cojones they’ve got.”
“Was Chandler a faggot?”
The pipe snorted a cloud of blue smoke that spread in a flat layer around the living room and slowly drifted toward the Franklin stove sitting out from one corner. From the kitchen came the rattle of dishes in water and the opening and closing of cabinets as Ramona put away the dinner things. “He probably got his jollies from little boys. He sure fooled me, though. I used to think I could smell a narc a mile away. Hombre , I been warned by el buen Dios , and as soon as we get enough bread together, that’s it.” He cocked his head at something that Wager didn’t hear but that Farnsworth—familiar with the noises and silences that surrounded his cabin—knew. “That sounds like them now.” A moment or two later, the German shepherd that roamed the yard around the small house began a deep bark. “Yeah, that’s them—up we go, Chico!” He handed the sleepy bundle of rubbery arms and fuzzy-warm pajamas to Wager. “Hold him a minute while I lock up the dog.”
It had taken Wager another month to ride this far on Bruce the Juice’s coattails; he had shaken hands first with one, then another, and then another dealer—or “businessman,” as the Juice liked to call them. As always, they had kept that distance and caution of dealers who had enough trusted buyers so that they did not have to take chances. But Wager had not pushed; he moved slowly and kept Bruce’s account fat. After a while, he had a chair of his own at the Timber Line, and finally he had met Farnsworth.
“Hey, Farns—this here’s Gabe. I told you about him!” Bruce tried to sound cool, but Wager, half standing to shake hands with Farnsworth, heard
He was too old for this, too old to take these games seriously; too old not to despise the phony world that made his face the friend of those his mind and heart called enemy; too old to let himself relax and enjoy a good meal and a laugh that was being paid for right now on street corners and in alleys and bars that Farnsworth or Ramona or little Peter would never even see. For now the phony was the real, but when that other world of his mind and heart pressed on him, he felt how slippery was the rock on which he pretended to stand.
“I was set up. Chandler came on like a big buyer from Detroit; sat right there in that chair you’re sitting in and smoked a few joints, drank booze, shot the shit with us just like a human being. He had a good rap, man. Smooth and a lot of laughs. Then he wanted a bigger buy than anyone else could handle.” The sprigs of wiry hair wagged again. “We thought he was a hit man with the Mafia—Charlie Flint found a gun in the glove compartment of his car and we thought he was a fucking hit man. It never crossed my mind that dude was wearing black boots.”
“Black boots?”
“Yeah—the sheriff’s officers all wear black boots. Uniform regulations. Even the undercover people wear them, because the S.O. doesn’t pay those poor bastards enough for two pairs of shoes.” He laughed and bobbed the child and sipped at the beer on the small table by his chair. It was Cerveza Tecate; Farnsworth drank only Mexican beer, as a protest against Yankee imperialism. “Those poor bastards got to want something more than money. They’re probably all maricons at heart; the boots, the guns, the uniforms—that’s the only cojones they’ve got.”
“Was Chandler a faggot?”
The pipe snorted a cloud of blue smoke that spread in a flat layer around the living room and slowly drifted toward the Franklin stove sitting out from one corner. From the kitchen came the rattle of dishes in water and the opening and closing of cabinets as Ramona put away the dinner things. “He probably got his jollies from little boys. He sure fooled me, though. I used to think I could smell a narc a mile away. Hombre , I been warned by el buen Dios , and as soon as we get enough bread together, that’s it.” He cocked his head at something that Wager didn’t hear but that Farnsworth—familiar with the noises and silences that surrounded his cabin—knew. “That sounds like them now.” A moment or two later, the German shepherd that roamed the yard around the small house began a deep bark. “Yeah, that’s them—up we go, Chico!” He handed the sleepy bundle of rubbery arms and fuzzy-warm pajamas to Wager. “Hold him a minute while I lock up the dog.”
It had taken Wager another month to ride this far on Bruce the Juice’s coattails; he had shaken hands first with one, then another, and then another dealer—or “businessman,” as the Juice liked to call them. As always, they had kept that distance and caution of dealers who had enough trusted buyers so that they did not have to take chances. But Wager had not pushed; he moved slowly and kept Bruce’s account fat. After a while, he had a chair of his own at the Timber Line, and finally he had met Farnsworth.
“Hey, Farns—this here’s Gabe. I told you about him!” Bruce tried to sound cool, but Wager, half standing to shake hands with Farnsworth, heard
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