“I haven’t fucked up the case,” I insisted.
“A miracle because you’ve done just about everything possible to fuck it up.”
“Bullshit!”
He pounded the desk and stood, leaning over, nose-to-nose with me. “Just let it go. Wait until the case is solved.” Our volumes began escalating.
“I can’t,” I said—which being interpreted was, I wouldn’t.
“A few weeks?”
“Weeks? Or months? You don’t know. And I can’t wait.”
“Why the fuck not? Is this kid—”
“Because I’ve waited thirteen years too long!”
“Ai, Dios mio! You! Ya estoy harto de tanta hostia. Estúpido cabrón!”
“I’m Googling that.” I sat down and began typing in my phone. “And if you just told me to suck your cock, I’m calling Denise.” While I waited for the tension to ease, I watched the latest viral pet video.
“I said I’d had enough of this shit, you stupid stubborn ass.”
“I love you, too. Which is why I say this with respect: If you keep rubbing your face like that, I’m going to have to lift up skin to look you in the eyes.”
“This kid is involved, Glass.”
“I know he is, but he was just used to throw us off Alvarado.”
“That’s little Austin speaking.”
“A, he’s not little. B, not even funny to go there. C, he’ll get us a name.”
“Says you and your—”
“Says me and eight years of being a cop.”
“Eight years is still primary school. I wouldn’t brag about that. He has until Monday to come up with someone. Or you bring us something we can squeeze him with.”
“Deal.” I exhaled, hoping I’d bought enough time that Peter could come through.
Luis grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and slipped it over his shoulders. “Let’s get out of here and find out where those kids are before the DA agrees to that plea. Because it ain’t here.”
“Where to then?”
“Let’s go beat down some SORs (Sex Offenders Registrants).”
“I thought uniform was on that?”
“They are,” Luis said. “And so are we. Let’s go.”
Peter
By Friday Luis and I had visited forty-two registered kiddy offenders in Denver and its suburbs. By late evening we had four left on our list. The DA had already cut the deal with Alvarado hours earlier. Nineteen minors were rescued from various places, but those were only the most recent of Alvarado’s victims. They were the ones Alvarado gave up. Luis and I were hearing reports of more from the dregs we’d been interviewing.
My cell rang a few minutes from the end of our sweep. Luis and I were parked outside a halfway house, where we had interviewed yet another sex offender. My partner lit up a cigarette while I picked up the phone. “Glass,” I answered with a cough.
“The Manhole,” Peter said. “Talk to Darryl Boerner. He’ll be there until three a.m. He knows you’re coming.” He hung up before I could say a word.
“Peter came through. The Manhole?” I refused to peek at Luis as my lips pressed together and my chest and shoulders shook.
Luis groaned, “Shit.” He dragged the gears into drive and hung a U-turn taking us into the depths of downtown.
My Job Sucked Sometimes
The Manhole was one of Denver’s oldest gay bars. It was notorious for leather, biker types. Rumors were that a stairwell and basement existed where men had sex and, during the summer, ‘watersports’ were played on the patio. The heat of the day reminded me what time of year it was.
“This you can handle on your own,” Luis announced as he parked out front.
The bar wasn’t dark and dingy like I had expected it to be. Sunlight filtered in through a doorway which led out to the patio, and hanging fluorescent lights kept most of the area well-lit. The only dark spot was four steps from the entrance, where the infamous stairwell coughed up moans from two leather clad men humping against the wall. My partner steadfastly ignored them. I craned my neck to investigate and grimaced. I was definitely not gay enough for that, I decided. Luis wore the most put upon grimace in the history of man. “I’ll wait here,” he said, leaning near the door.
For early evening it was almost empty, only a smattering of men nursing their beers, hovering at tables or playing pool and darts. A few of the patrons walked by. They wore chaps. Just that—chaps, with nothing else. Their hairy asses waved around in the breeze. I grinned, checking my partner. Luis passed a hand over his eyes and curdled to cracker white.
Walking over to the bar, I leaned across the scuffed wood and flashed my badge, smiling with what I hoped was my charming smile. “Here to see Darryl,” I said to the biggest, hairiest man I’d ever laid eyes upon. I dubbed him Grizzly Adams.