The Quality of the Informant cc-3

by Gerald Petievich

  "I need some background information," Carr said.

  Shorty McFadden lit a fresh cigarette. He puffed once and coughed once. "Shoot."

  "Teddy Mora," Carr said.

  "The Teddy Mora I know deals paper out of the Castaways Lounge one day of the week," McFadden said. "The rest of the time he's hard to find. I heard he just bought a head shop down the street from Grauman's Chinese. I met him once in the U.S. marshal's lockup when I was awaiting trial. We both made bail at the same time. He had some bank counter-checks and I downed 'em. I gave him front money for some more, and he never came through. He's a snake, a back-stabber."

  "Have you ever heard the name Paul LaMonica?" Carr said.

  Shorty nodded. "He's a paper pusher too … funny money and checks. But when I was hanging paper, I never scored from him. The word was that if you crossed him he'd kill ya. Not just get pissed off, but actually blow you away. I wasn't real big on the idea of ending up in the refrigerator because I shortened him five bucks in buy money or some shit. We were in the same cellblock at Terminal Island for a while. He choked a Mexican to death with a rolled-up sheet and got away with it. Even the usual snitches refused to testify against him. He's the kind of guy who would figure out a way to transfer to another joint just to get you. The word is that he learned how to print … does his own paper now and sells it. He's screwy, a loner."

  "We need some help in finding him," Carr said. "He's a fugitive."

  With a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, McFadden slowly shook his head. "Four years ago you grabbed me red-handed in a bank. My wife was dying in the County Hospital. When you took me to see her before you booked me, it was the first time a cop had done a favor for me. I said it then and I'll say it now, I'll tell you anything you want to know." He pointed to his temple. "What's up here is yours for the asking, but I'll never set anybody up and I'll never testify. If I did, I would be a rat. And no one likes a rat. So if you're asking me to find the man and set him up for you, the answer is no. I'm not a snitch."

  The lady bartender carried a tray over to them. She set a full bottle of expensive Scotch and two glasses of ice on the table. Her complexion was deep African black and she had wide lips, hips, and cheekbones. She wore gypsy earrings.

  "This is my new old lady," McFadden said. He introduced Carr and Kelly by their first names. "These people are friends. Take care of them when they come in."

  The woman winked and walked back to the bar.

  "We met at a methadone treatment center," McFadden said. "That woman has changed my life. She won't even let me drink." He picked up the bottle and filled their glasses.

  "Is there anything else you can tell me about LaMonica?" Carr said.

  Shorty McFadden started to light a cigarette but realized he already had one in the ashtray. He stuffed it back in the pack. "He has a missing finger," he said. "As the story goes, he was running off a load of hundreds in a cabin up near Big Bear Lake and he got his finger caught in the printing press. He was alone, and of course he couldn't holler for help. He ended up chopping his own finger off." Shorty McFadden shook his head. "If it was me, I think I would rather have just started yelling and taken the trip back to the joint for a deuce or so." He glanced at the stage. The other musicians had hopped on it and were picking up their instruments. Shorty McFadden snapped his fingers and pointed at Carr. "Rosemary," he said. "The broad who used to forge all the stolen savings bonds. She knows LaMonica. I suggest you talk with her. She might be able to do you some good."

  "What's her last name?" Kelly said.

  "Clamp or Clump or something like that," McFadden said.

  "Where do we find her?" Carr asked.

  "The last I heard, she was running an art gallery on Melrose right near the Beverly Hills city limit. As I understand it, she doesn't do savings bonds anymore because every forgery bull in L.A. knows her handwriting by sight." Shorty McFadden smiled for the first time. Carr thought his face looked like a yellow rubber mask. Maybe it was just the lighting…

  Shorty McFadden glanced at his wristwatch. "What would you like to hear?" he said.

  "How about 'I Can't Get Started With You,'" Carr said.

  "You got it." Shorty McFadden stood up and sauntered through the crowd, shaking hands. Then he climbed onto the stage, picked up his saxophone, and tested the mouthpiece. He nodded at the bass man and began to blow.

  After the first tune, Carr and Kelly finished their drinks and slipped out the back door. Thick fog had rolled in. They climbed into the G-car. Kelly turned on the headlights and started the engine. He drove down an alley lined with trashcans and through a service-station lot. A pickup truck behind them took the same route. Kelly turned north on the Pacific Coast Highway and stepped on the gas. A few blocks later he made a right turn onto a residential street. The pickup truck did the same.

  "Somebody's on our ass," Kelly said.

  "I see him," Carr said. The truck pulled up within a few feet of their rear bumper. The headlights blinked on and off.

  "This is as good a place as any," Carr said, as he dug around in the glove compartment. Having found a flashlight, he reached for his gun.

  Kelly slowed down and pulled over to the curb. He yanked his revolver out. The pickup stopped a car-length or so behind them and the headlights went out. In the gray illumination of a lone streetlight, he saw the figure of a man with long black hair exit the truck. Slowly, the man headed for the passenger side of the sedan.

  "Now!" Carr said. The Treasury men swung open the doors of the car and jumped out, pistols drawn.

  The man raised his hands. "It's me, Frank Garcia!" he said, his hands reaching higher. "Easy does it."

  Carr shone the flashlight in Garcia's face. The T-men put their guns away.

  Garcia lowered his hands. "I saw you coming out the back door at Shorty's," he said as he walked closer. "We've had him under surveillance for a week."

  "What's he in to?" Carr said.

  "He's the Mr. Big in a five-pound white heroin deal," Garcia said. He had a barrio accent. "Delivery is expected any day."

  "You must have the wrong guy," Carr said, smiling. "Shorty just told us he's finally cleaned up his act."

  "He's cleaned up all right," Garcia said. "I've made two buys from him and three from his bitch within the last week. They're dealing China white out of the place like they had a license. The load he's waiting for is one he financed himself. He made a down payment on a fishing boat and hired a couple of stooges to make a round trip to Acapulco. They're on their way back right now. As soon as the heroin is delivered, we're going to take him and his old lady off. I figured you might want to know."

  "Thanks for the tip," Carr said.

  "See you down at Ling's," Garcia said. He trotted back to the pickup truck, climbed in, and used the microphone. As he drove off, he gave a wave.

  "Maybe you should have requested Shorty to play 'Goodnight Irene,' " Kelly said. They both laughed.

  Chapter 7

  It was almost 2:00 A.M.

  Charles Carr drove out of Chinatown onto the Santa Monica freeway heading toward his apartment. He was full of booze, chicken-roll hors d'oeuvres, and cop talk. Stopping off at Sally Malone's was something he hadn't consciously planned on doing; maybe it was the liquor or the empty morning streets or the tepid Santa Ana wind swirling in the open windows that brought him there.

  Having parked the car, he shuffled up the steps to her apartment. He knocked gently on the door, waited awhile, and knocked again.

  "Who is it?" Sally said.

  Suddenly Carr wished he hadn't come. Could he just trot down the steps and drive off? Sally Malone opened the door a few inches. "Charlie!" She turned on the light in the apartment.

  "I've had a few drinks," he said. "I didn't realize it was so late." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized how utterly lame they sounded.

  Sally stepped back from the door. "Come on in before you wake up my gossipy neighbors," she whispered. She was wearing a terrycloth bathr
obe that stopped way above her knees. Since he'd last seen her she had cut her chestnut hair into a stylish curly shag. The change made her look younger than her forty years.

  He walked in and Sally closed the door behind him. "Well," she said, going to the stove and lighting a burner under a coffeepot.

  He followed her into the kitchen. Like the rest of the well-furnished apartment, it was immaculate. "I'd just as soon have a beer if you don't mind," he said.

  She shook the coffeepot and set it down. "Nice of you to find the time to stop by," she said.

  He stared at the kitchen floor for a moment. Sally Malone didn't look up from the stove. Carr opened the refrigerator door and took out a beer. Avoiding eye contact, she grabbed a bottle opener off the counter and handed it to him. He popped the cap. "I've been busy since I got back … been meaning to give you a ring."

  They both watched the fire under the coffeepot for a moment. "All moved in to your apartment?" she said.

  "Right," he said. "Same building as before. I guess I'm a creature of habit."

  She picked up the coffeepot and poured. "I'm not," she said without any hint of a smile. "My life has changed since you were transferred. I'm into lots of new and interesting things; lots of meetings. I'm active in a jogging club, a women's rights group, the steno association…nothing you'd be interested in, of course, but I'm busier than I ever have been in my life. It's satisfying. I've found that I thrive on activity."

  "How's the activity at the FBI?" Carr said. He swigged his beer.

  After a long silence, Sally spoke to the stove. "I went out with Tom Luegner a few times, if that's what you're referring to," she said. "He's a complete jerk. All he does is talk about his silver fifty-coats-of-lacquer Corvette, or his precious informants, whom he refers to mysteriously as 'Alpha one twenty-three' or 'Delta sixty-seven.' As if I really cared. He lives a big FBI-top-secret act to impress everyone."

  Almost gently, Carr put the beer down on the sink. "I'd better go," he said, running his hands through his hair. "It's three in the morning and I've been drinking. I'm out of line sliding over here uninvited, and it's none of my business who you go out with. Let's just say I dropped over to say hello to an old pal." His hand touched her cheek softly. She threw her arms around him. They hugged, and Sally pressed her head to his chest.

  "I'm going to go," Carr said.

  "I've missed you so much," Sally said. "I waited for you to call me."

  "Ah, I don't I Ike to talk on the phone," Carr said. Another lame remark.

  Sally spoke with her head still buried in his chest. "You're going to stay here tonight and we're going to make love until we"-she giggled-"break into a sweat, as you used to call it." She threw her head back and looked him in the eye. "Do you remember the time you said that to me?" She put her head back on his chest before he had to answer. "It was our first weekend together. I still remember. It was almost nine years ago."

  In the bedroom they helped each other undress. "If we use each other, then so be it," she said. They took turns making love to one another. Their bodies meshed and twisted, and Carr felt her familiar smooth thighs under, on top, and around him. Their kisses became bites. Finally they rested.

  At daybreak Carr woke up and crawled out of bed. In the semidarkness he found his clothes and dressed. Sally stirred.

  Carrying his shoes, Carr tiptoed out the bedroom door. As he closed it, he thought he heard Sally say "Bastard!"

  Paul LaMonica tapped the accelerator and inched forward in a snake of cars. To his right was a large green sign: YOU ARE LEAVING THE UNITED STATES. He rolled down the window of the rented sedan and let in a swirling breeze that Mexicans would recognize as a portent of a Baja rainstorm. A San Diego police van sat parked next to the sign, rear doors open and waiting. The crew-cut prisoners huddled inside looked like sailors on leave.

  A guard booth less than fifty yards ahead was manned by a Mexican policeman wearing what looked like a bus driver's uniform with a gun belt and holster. LaMonica looked at his wristwatch and took a deep breath. The breeze made his hands feel clammy on the steering wheel, though he knew that logically there was nothing to worry about at this point. Even if a border lookout were in effect, the slob policeman wouldn't have received notice yet. Besides, the only picture the feds had of him was three years old. If he was lucky, maybe they hadn't even found her body yet, and there was certainly no law against transporting printing supplies into Mexico. He would cross the border and be safe.

  The lines of vehicles moved closer, and the policeman waved him forward. LaMonica took another deep breath and pulled ahead. "Wait," the policeman said, fumbling for something in his trouser pockets. LaMonica noticed that the officer needed a shave. Without changing his somber expression, the policeman stepped backward into the guard booth and opened a drawer. LaMonica felt piano wires cinch tightly around his forehead. His foot felt magnetized to the accelerator.

  The cop pulled a white card out of the drawer. He stepped out of the booth and handed it to LaMonica. It read:

  CLUB DISCO

  GIRLS GIRLSGIRLS

  THIS COUPON GOOD FOR ONE FREE DRINK

  On the reverse of the card was a crude map of downtown Tijuana marked with an X. "Here is where you find what you want," said the cop.

  "Gracias," LaMonica said. His throat was dry. The policeman waved him on.

  LaMonica drove along a highway that followed the northern edge of Tijuana. He followed the signs to Ensenada. After a while he crossed a bridge over a wide gully cluttered with huts made of cardboard and scrap lumber; makeshift homes that would be washed away with the first rain.

  The road ahead was clear. LaMonica felt tired, day-dreamy. The memory of his first arrest often came back to him when he was feeling this way. He had been sitting in his car across the street from the bank. A talk show was on the radio. "My son keeps things hidden from me," a woman whined. "He screams at me every time I go into his room. I think he's afraid I'll see him naked." The woman's voice was probing, headachy, like his mother's. The talk-show host was Dr. Robert C. Mendenhall the radio counselor, L.A.'s "Voice of Health."

  He had turned off the radio in the middle of Mendenhall's advice and climbed out of the car. Pulling the briefcase out of the trunk, he marched straight into the bank.

  Inside the air-conditioned lobby, he waited his turn in a long line in front of a window marked "Commercial Accounts." Oddly, he wasn't the least bit nervous. Finally, he reached the window. The bespectacled woman behind the counter had bluish-gray hair and wore a buttoned-to-the-neck suit of the same color.

  "I own the car lot down the street," he said as he snapped open the briefcase. He dumped the rubber-banded stacks of ten-dollar bills on the counter. "An elderly couple just bought a Mercedes and paid for it in cash. Can you believe that?" He chuckled.

  The woman's face was expressionless. Like a robot, she pulled off the rubber bands and counted the bills. With each stack, she made a mark on a little white pad. "Is this for deposit?" she said without looking up.

  "I'd like the whole amount in hundred-dollar bills. I'm going to an antique-automobile auction tonight. The purchases are all in cash, but I'd rather just carry a nice neat little bundle of hundreds than-"

  "I don't have that many hundred-dollar bills," she interrupted. "I'll have to go get some out of the vault." She opened her cash drawer and set the tens inside it. Using a key she removed from her pocket, she locked the drawer. She shuffled into the vault.

  He was still waiting at the teller window when the police arrived.

  The woman pointed a finger at him (her lack of expression even when doing this was remarkable). The policeman twisted his arms behind his back. The handcuffs clicked on. "Those tens have been on the warning list for over a month," he heard her say. The cops dragged him out the front door of the bank. He went to trial and then to prison. It was the first time.

  Never again, he'd promised himself on that day, would he make such a mistake. In the future he would weigh risks and attem
pt to control variables as carefully as a test pilot would.

  The road wound around a bill crowned with shacks and finally led down past the turnoff for the bullring by the sea. With the first whiff of salt air LaMonica felt secure again, safe from those who would put him back in prison clothes.

  In less than an hour he reached Ensenada. The town proper comprised a collection of kitschy hotels and souvenir shops accordioned together. Like other cities on the U.S. border, the town lived off camper-truck travelers in cowboy hats, sports-car types, and college kids looking for a cheap weekend.

  LaMonica pulled up at a stop sign. Across the street a newly built sports-betting office overlooked a dry riverbed where brown children played with empty pop bottles. The light turned green. He drove out of Ensenada and along a road that followed the coast.

  At a clump of trees, LaMonica turned onto a dirt road and continued until he was fully within sight of a one-story, wood-frame house. The structure's sheet-metal roof glistened with sea-level heat. He stopped the car. Using binoculars, he watched the house for a few minutes. There was no activity, no sign that anything had been disturbed. He put the binoculars down and continued on.