In the empty coffee room, Carr picked up a well-worn copy of the Los Angeles Times. He read halfway through a feature article on how a small town in Ohio had lowered the crime rate by arresting all its heroin addicts. He thought of one apartment house near McArthur Park where at least fifty addicts lived. The addicts in that apartment house alone would fill up most small-town jails. He threw the paper down.
Leaning back on the sofa, he thought of the smelly Quonset hut outside Seoul where he first practiced real-life interrogation. The methods were different then, but the motivations the same. It was simply a matter of finding the right chord and playing it no holds barred. Carr closed his eyes.
A half hour later, he got up from the sofa, returned to the interview room, and sat down. He looked Roth directly in the eye.
"It looks like you are in luck. I had to take a lot of jaw from the captain, but he finally agreed to go along with the gate pass if I tell him you cooperated with me fully. The deal is on." Carr continued to peer into the other's eyes, for a sincere effect.
"How do I know you're tellin' me the truth?" Roth said. Using his index finger he made a figure-eight pattern on the table top.
Carr stared at the floor for a moment, then spoke clearly and loudly. "I just went in and made a fool out of myself making a deal for you, clown. Either give me the story right now or you go back to your cell, and I'll be on my way. I don't like people who waste my time. I'm tired of this stinking room. I have a hangover. Fuck you."
Carr stood up, knocking his chair back violently, and walked toward the door.
"Okay," Roth said "Sit down and I'll tell you the whole thing. But I better not be ripped off. If anybody finds out I'm helping the Feds, I could end up getting shanked. There's guys in here that actually like to do it…"
"So I've heard," Carr interrupted. "Who's holding your stash?"
"I don't want to get anybody else involved. I gave my stash to a friend to hold for me. He's got about fifty grand. It was left over from the printing. You guys missed it when you broke down the door. I had it buried two blocks away." Roth cleaned his glasses on his shirttail.
"What is your friend's name?"
Roth put his glasses back on. "This guy is a real friend, man. I don't want to see him drop behind a deal where he was just doing me a favor. You know what I mean?"
"How bad do you want the gate pass?" Carr asked.
Roth closed his eyes, opened them, then spoke. "Virgil Leach. He deals in paper. You can find him at the Paradise Isle in Hollywood. He's called 'Pleach.' That's a combination of 'pimple' and 'leach.' You'll know why when you see him. Gotta girlfriend named Vikki; she has a big habit. Now you know as much as I do. "
"Why is Leach holding your stash?"
"He's just a friend, a paper passer from the old days. After you guys busted me I knew there would be heat on the serial numbers. I asked him to hold the stuff for me until I got out of the joint. I wasn't going to pass any. I just didn't know what to do with them." His expression was somber.
Carr nodded, as if he understood. He stood up to leave.
"When do I get my gate pass?" Roth said.
"Just as soon as it's typed up." Carr knocked on the door. It was opened. He stepped into the hallway and told the guard to take the prisoner back to his cell.
SEVEN
It was dark.
Carr looked through the binoculars at Virgil Leach's small wood-frame house. It was nestled next to a modern-looking, pink stucco apartment house. A Cadillac was parked in the driveway. Except for the apartment house, the neighborhood was run down; property values on the decline. "Urban decay," as Time would say.
Kelly dozed at the wheel.
After stopping by the state parole office to pick up Leach's mug photo and current address, they had driven directly to Leach's house and begun the surveillance. It had been a long day.
Carr put the binoculars back in the glove compartment. Out of boredom he picked up the Xerox copies of the parole reports again. Leach's mug shot was stapled to the first page, Carr thought of the "before" photograph in an acne-medicine ad.
Leach was described in the reports as a forty-year-old with a "sociopathic personality with emotional blunting."
Kelly yawned loudly and began rubbing his eyes. "You still reading that bullshit?" he said.
"I thought it was more interesting than listening to you snore.
"Man, am I hungry." Kelly rubbed his stomach.
"So what else is new?" Carr smiled, lifting the binoculars to his eyes again. He adjusted the lens.
"I got my evaluation today. No Waves put it in on my desk so he wouldn't have to face me. It was a sandwich job as usual."
"A what?"
Kelly reached into his inside coat pocket and took out a typed Special Agent Yearly Evaluation Form. "Listen to this," he said. "Special Agent Kelly is an experienced senior agent who can be counted upon to fulfill his responsibilities. He is an excellent marksman and has a high record of arrests and convictions. At times his outspokenness causes problems with his coworkers. Kelly has a thorough knowledge of the operations manual and keeps his reports up to date." Kelly folded the paper and stuffed it back in his coat pocket. "See? A sandwich job. He starts with good points, then the bad, then ends with something good. A shit sandwich. Just enough to keep me from getting promoted, but not enough to get me pissed off…What did he put in yours this time?"
"Same as yours, except for the bad part. Mine said something like 'Carr has a tendency to be too independent. He objects to proper supervision and has on occasion refused to identify his informants when told to do so.'"
"Good old No Waves. He wouldn't know an informant if one bit him on the ass. The pipe-smoking, briefcase-carrying, ass-licking, back-stabbing prick. Did I ever tell you about the time he interviewed me on a brutality allegation?"
Carr shook his head no even though he knew the story by heart.
"He sits there behind his desk with two inspectors in the room, tape recorder on. The interview was almost over, and he says, 'Well, you know how it is. We have to follow up on rumors.' I said, 'I hear rumors every day.' He said, 'Like what?' So I said, 'Yesterday somebody told me you were a queer.' The friggin' inspectors almost fell off their chairs!" Kelly laughed furiously, caught his breath, and laughed again.
Leach walked from his front door. He wore European-cut trousers that were too small for his chunky frame, and a waist-length leather jacket that would have looked good on a nineteen-year-old.
"Okay. We've Finally got some movement," Carr said.
Kelly rubbed his face roughly with both hands and started the engine.
Leach got into the Cadillac. The headlights came on. He backed out of the driveway and pulled into traffic.
Kelly, without headlights, kept at a safe distance behind the Cadillac as it drove along shabby side streets toward Wilshire Boulevard. Carr wished Leach would get onto a larger street so the tandem turns would not be so obvious.
The Cadillac turned west on Wilshire Boulevard.
Carr thought they had lost him for a moment when he made a left turn on Vermont. They caught up to the Cadillac as it entered the freeway. The trip to Marina Del Rey was easy because there were a million cars on the freeway. Carr knew that all headlights would took the same in Leach's rearview mirror; an easy tail.
As Leach pulled into a valet lot at the Captain's Disco he almost ran into a bevy of sun-tanned young women dressed in jeans and tank tops. He got out of his car and handed the keys to the valet. He walked up the steps and in the front door.
"Everybody here is either a pipe smoker or a stewardess," Kelly said. "If Leach brought a pipe, he should fit right in."
"You take the point," Carr said. "I'll wait here."
Kelly took off his Suit coat and gun and threw them on the back seat. He trotted up the steps, paid his cover charge at the door, and went in. Carr could hear the faint echo of rock music.
Waiting, Carr turned on the radio and listened to a late-night talk progr
am. The disc jockey's voice sounded bored, sleepy, as he discussed capital punishment with a shut-in who kept coughing. They used the word deterrent over and over again. Carr leaned back in the seat.
It was 1:30 A.M. when Kelly, came back out. He waved to Carr and headed for a phone booth in the parking lot next door. The phone call was brief.
After Kelly hung up the phone, it was exactly four minutes until a black-and-white police car drove into the parking lot.
Kelly approached it. The uniformed officers inside nodded their heads as Kelly displayed his Treasury badge. After speaking animatedly for a few moments, he pointed toward Leach's Cadillac. After a short discussion, the police car pulled out of the lot and parked down the street.
Kelly trotted back to the car and slid into the driver's seat. He turned off the radio.
"He's ready," he told Carr. "I counted at least seven drinks. He's in there trying to pick up teenyboppers, but they've all shined him on."
Leach walked out the front door and waited for the valet to bring the Cadillac. He looked unsteady on his feet. He seemed to fall into his car as the valet opened the door.
The red lights of the police car went on as soon as the Cadillac passed.
Kelly started the engine. They drove past the flashing red light of the police car and saw Leach, arms outstretched, trying to touch the tip of his index finger to his pimpled nose.
Kelly stepped on the gas.
The black sheriffs deputy shoved Leach roughly into the dark cell.
Carr lay on the top bunk feigning sleep, his face embedded in a pillow that smelled faintly of Clorox. He had decided not to say anything until morning, figuring that Leach would not be too enthusiastic about gabbing with a cellmate at 3:00 A.M. No use rushing it.
Leach walked the four steps to the commode and urinated loudly. He flopped on the lower bunk and dropped his shoes to the floor one at a time. He began snoring within ten minutes.
Carr told himself there was no reason why he shouldn't be able to sleep. He rethought the tack he would use, then dozed fitfully.
An echoing scream woke him. He sat up in the bunk. There was the sound of a scuffle farther down the tier, then a loud moaning. People fighting over a cigarette or perhaps a plastic comb?
Carr rolled over and stared at the flaking ceiling. He thought of bicycling along the beach to Sally's house; he knocked and she wasn't home.
He closed his eyes.
Carr woke up as the tier lights went on. He slid off the bunk, put his shoes on, and washed his face with cold water at the yellowish sink. The cell reminded him of a service-station bathroom: filthy cement.
"How long you been in?" asked Leach, yawning. He stood up from the bunk, stretching. He had no shirt on. His face was a mask of ripe, red infections, his neck a collar of thick purple scar tissue with protruding unshavable whiskers.
"Ten days," Carr answered. He dried his hands on a gray towel.
"What're you in for?" Leach yawned again without covering his mouth.
"Drunk driving," Carr said. "I'm getting out today." ("Chance meetings require common topics," said the agents' manual.)
"No shit," Leach said. "That's what I'm in for. Had a few drinks at a bar. I'm on my way home and the cops give me the red lights. No shit." He made his fingers into a comb and raked his sticky hair.
"The goddamn pigs must of needed one more for their quota," Carr said. Without looking at the other man, he climbed back onto the top bunk, lit a cigarette, and leaned against the wall.
Leach was at the sink now, drinking handfuls from the faucet. He spit water into the sink. "Sounds like you don't get along with the man." Leach looked at his wet hands for a moment, turned, and began drying them on a corner of Carr's blanket.
"Get your hands off the blanket," Carr said matter-of-factly.
Leach stopped drying his hands with the blanket but continued to hold it. He stared amusedly at Carr. "Sounds like you learned some of the rules during the last ten days."
"I learned the rules in Leavenworth," Carr said. "Now get your goddamn hooks off the blanket." ("Don't be afraid to poke the lion," said the T-school instructor.)
Leach dropped the corner of the blanket. "No shit," he said.
"How much time did you do in Leavenworth?" He rubbed his hands back and forth on his pants.
"A deuce."
"What for?"
"Passing funny money," Carr said.
"No shit? How'd they make you on it?"
"Feds lied on me in court. Said they found funny money in my car." He paused. "What makes you so interested?"
Leach opened up his palms and furrowed his brow. "Easy, dude! You're talking to somebody who's done time in Folsom, Atlanta, and San Quentin. Maybe you heard of me. Papers used to call me 'The Drugstore Forger.' I was in the papers and everything before my last case. Name's Leach. They call me 'Pleach.'" He stuck out his hand for the jive handshake
"Right on," Carr said. He shook hands.
Carr smelled the odor of oatmeal and grease as it wafted along the cellblock, mixing with that of humans in cages of concrete. A cement nursery school?
Leach stepped to the bars and grasped them. "My bail bondsman should be waiting in the arraignment court to bail me out," he said.
"I should make the noon release myself. This is my last day." Carr bit his lip, hoping Leach would take the bait.
"No shit."
That was the last thing Leach said for a few minutes.
Finally he spoke. "What do you have planned?"
"Make a few bucks and head back east," Carr said.
"I'm going to pick up some phony cashier's checks soon as I get out. A friend's got a load. They're always easy to down without ID."
"Not as easy as funny money."
"Maybe not, but he ain't got funny money. He's got checks."
"Who's your friend?" He cupped his hand to his ear. "Speak up. I didn't hear you."
"Just testing," said the scarred man.
Nothing more was said for at least a half-hour.
"Are you still into funny money?" Leach said at last.
Carr casually swung his feet over the side of the bunk. "You might say that."
EIGHT
Carr heard the sheriff's deputies walking along the tier as they called out prisoners' names. "Bloodsaw, Tyrone. Zavala, Jesus. Leach, Virgil."
"Here!" Leach answered. The deputy stepped to the bars, checked Leach's wrist tag. "Courtline bus number one," the deputy said, looking at a clipboard.
"Looks like I'll be bailed out in an hour or so. I got the first bus… By the way, what's your name?"
"Charlie."
Leach eyed the deputy. He whispered, "Charlie, think you'd be interested in some nice green stuff? No shit."
"What flavor?" Carr said.
"Number twenty…with ten different serial numbers." He held up all fingers.
"What's the price?"
"Eighteen points on the dollar. A hundred and eighty bucks for a grand."
The hydraulic lock snapped open cells farther down the tier. Prisoners shuffled.
"I might be interested."
"No shit. How much can you handle?"
"How much heat is on the batch?" Carr said. "Are the Feds on to the serial numbers?"
"No way, my man. The product is cool. No shit. If you can prove otherwise, I'll give you your money back…and that is no shit." Leach stuffed cigarettes in his pocket. He tucked in his prison shirt.
The hydraulic lock buzzed, and the cell door slid open slowly. "You'll make the noon release, right?" Leach said.
Carr nodded.
Leach whispered from the side of his mouth. "Meet me tonight at the Paradise Isle on Hollywood Boulevard. I'll have a sample for you. No shit." He stepped out of the cell.
Carr waited on a barstool at the Paradise Isle. The place was dark and crowded, the jukebox deafening. Kelly sat at the opposite end of the bar, near the rear door. He wore a purple bowling shirt and needed a shave.
Carr felt unea
sy. The place was all nicknames and handshakes. A fat blonde touched tongues with the black man next to her, knocking off his knit cap.
"Haven't seen ya here before," the bartender said. "Name's Gabe."
Carr shook the offered wet hand.
"Waiting for somebody?"
"Pleach. You seen him around?"
"He'll be in. Stops by every night. Nuther drink?" A fish smile.
Carr nodded.
Gabe served Carr another drink. He dried glasses for a few minutes before approaching Kelly, the other stranger in the place. He asked the preliminaries.
"I'm waiting for some good-looking cunt to walk in here. That's what I'm waiting for," Kelly said, in his normal tone of voice. The fat blonde looked up.
Gabe offered his hand to the Irishman. Kelly put his glass in it. "Put some booze in it this time, little man."
Gabe frowned.
Carr sipped his drink, wondering whether he and Kelly had passed the bartender's test.
Gabe picked up the phone at the end of the bar and dialed, whispered a few words, and hung up.
Fifteen minutes later Leach came in the back door and walked directly to the bar. Carr's breathing quickened.
"See? I showed up," said Leach. "No shit."
"That's good. I don't like to be hung up."
"Don't worry about Pleach. I always take care of business." He swung himself onto a barstool.
"We gonna be able to do some business tonight?" Carr asked.
"That depends." Leach glanced at the black wearing the knit cap. "After I bailed out today I started thinking. I don't know you. Nothing personal, you understand. I just don't know where you're comin' from. I mean like I just met you in County last night and I really haven't had time to check you out. No shit."
The bartender handed Leach a drink. He took a sip.
"In other words, you were just running your mouth this morning and you don't really have a connection. Is that what you're telling me?" Carr smiled.
"No, I didn't say that." Leach smiled back.
"Because if it is, it's no problem. I just talked to another guy today who's got some paper lined up for me. Fifties, with all different serial numbers. Price isn't as good as yours, but he'll come down. What I'm saying is that I can score tonight somewhere else." Carr took a sip and placed the glass back on the wet napkin.
Money Men cc-1 Page 5