The Quality of the Informant cc-3

by Gerald Petievich

  As usual, Kelly insisted on getting out of the sedan and stretching his legs every half hour. So far he had done this four or five times.

  He finished reading a newspaper and tossed it in the backseat. "Have you ever thought about what this does to a person's health?" Kelly said.

  Carr gave him a puzzled look.

  "Just sitting on your butt all day in the front seat of a car," Kelly said. "Lack of exercise, food can't digest properly. It's bad for the circulation, too. Just as soon as we get off work, what do we do? We sit on our butts at Ling's bar, swilling drinks and eating greasy chicken rolls. There's absolutely nothing healthful about the job. If you let it, the job will kill ya, outright kill ya. Death by blood clots in the legs."

  "Linda said he comes here every Friday without fail," Carr said, gazing across the street.

  "We'll probably still be sitting here at midnight," Kelly said.

  Carr shrugged.

  Less than half an hour later, a Cadillac pulled up in front of the bar. Teddy Mora opened the door, got out, and glanced around. He was wearing a tropical shirt, white pants, and sandals.

  The T-men ducked down in the seat as Mora sauntered through the front door. They sat up again.

  "Okay," Kelly said. "The asshole showed up. If he's peddling counterfeit money, he's got to have some on him. I say we stroll right into the place, throw him up against a wall, and see what he's got in his goddamn pockets. Nothing to lose, really, and we might even get lucky."

  "Let's wait until we catch his act," Carr said.

  "We could be here forever," Kelly said.

  Three hours later, Mora exited the front door and looked around. He walked to the Cadillac and got in.

  "Let's just grab him and see if he's holding," Kelly said.

  "Not yet," Carr said. His eyes were riveted to the Cadillac.

  Mora started the Caddy and drove past them. Carr fumbled with the ignition and squealed tires making a U-turn.

  He followed, letting Mora stay a block or so ahead. Suddenly the Cadillac pulled into a small parking lot next to a hamburger stand. Mora parked and got out. He shuffled into a telephone booth and closed the door. Moments later he exited the booth and returned to his vehicle. He started the engine and drove off.

  "Pretty short phone call," Carr said, his eyes still on the phone booth.

  "You're right, partner." Kelly got out of the car, strolled to the phone booth, and stepped inside. A minute later he returned to the sedan and climbed in. "The booth is loaded. There's a stack of bogus twenties taped under the phone box," Kelly said, digging around in the glove compartment. He found a set of handcuff s and stuffed them in his pocket.

  In less than ten minutes, a white Porsche with a bumper sticker that read "Happiness is Being Single" pulled up next to the hamburger stand. An emaciated-looking young man wearing tight Levi's and a tank top got out on the driver's side. He had a grayish complexion. Tugging nervously at his mop of curly hair, he surveyed the street carefully. Finally, he stepped into the telephone booth and pushed the accordion door closed.

  "He was in the Castaways earlier," Kelly said. "I remember the car."

  The young man picked up the telephone receiver and held it to his ear. His other hand sought the bottom of the phone box. He shoved something into his pants pocket and opened the door. After glancing around, he stepped out of the booth and headed for the Porsche.

  "He's got it!" Carr said on his way out of the sedan. He ran across the street at full speed. As he approached, the young man ripped an envelope from his pocket and tossed it on the ground. He dove for the door of the sports car. Carr grabbed the man's arm and spun it behind him. "Federal officers," he said. "You're under arrest." The young man gave a moan. Kelly snatched the envelope off the ground. He handed Carr the handcuffs. Carr fastened them onto the man's wrists. He dragged the struggling man across the street to the sedan and shoved him into the backseat.

  Kelly climbed in next to the prisoner. He thumbed through the stack of counterfeit notes as Carr walked around the sedan and got into the driver's seat.

  The young man's eyes were shut. "I'm fucked," he said, shaking his head. "I'm on parole right now. I'll get violated. God damn it!" There were inch-long strands of curly hair growing on the man's sallow cheeks. His nose was running.

  Kelly handed Carr the packet of counterfeit money. The T-man looked at it without expression for a moment. The prisoner squirmed. "Pretty rough," Carr said. "Taking a trip back to the joint for such a little package…"

  The young man's mouth hung open like a baby bird's. His eyes were shut. "God damn it," he cried. "I shoulda never left my apartment. I had nightmares last night. Shit comes down on me whenever I have nightmares. My roommate told me not to do anything today…God damn it."

  "We want Teddy Mora," Carr said without emotion.

  The man was silent for what must have been a full minute. "I ain't no snitch," he said.

  "I didn't say you were," Carr responded. "But you just might be a businessman. If you are a businessman, you'll realize that now is the time to make a deal."

  "Exactly what kind of a deal?" The man leaned forward in the seat.

  "You for Teddy Mora," Carr said.

  The young man looked out the window for a while and sniffled a few times. "I'll never testify. I'm not crazy. I've seen what happens to people when they-"

  "You won't have to testify," Carr interrupted. He lit a cigarette.

  "If I take this thing to trial I might beat it altogether. I beat my first case that way. My lawyer told me what to say." He twisted around to wipe his nose on his shoulder. He missed. "The assistant U.S. attorney was a broad with wire hair. She kept trying to use big words; got all screwed up when she asked questions. My lawyer told me he met her at a lawyer's party after the trial. She cried about losing the case. He said she blew him in the front seat of his Mercedes after the party. He tells everybody the story."

  "On the other hand, you might go to trial and lose," Carr said.

  "That's what happened the second time," the young man said. "The judge sentenced me to probation on the case."

  "There's a chance you might get a little prison time for the third offense," Carr said.

  The man nodded. "Just happened to a friend of mine. He got six months-that means two months in the joint minus good time and all." He shook his head sadly.

  "On the other hand, why do even two months?" Carr said.

  The man sat quietly for a few minutes. He leaned his head down to wipe his nose on a knee. He missed.

  "Exactly what would I have to do?"

  "Just phone Teddy and tell him you want some more, Carr said.

  "Then will you let me go?"

  "Yes."

  The young man furrowed his brow. His head turned from Carr to Kelly and back to Carr. "I want it in writing," he said. "I don't trust cops. I've been screwed before."

  "We don't put things in writing," Carr said.

  The prisoner leaned forward and attempted to wipe his dripping nose on his knee. Again he missed. He closed his mouth and inhaled.

  "This guy is making me sick," Kelly said. "Let's book him."

  " If you won't put it in writing, will you repeat what you've just said in front of my lawyer?"

  "We hate lawyers," Carr told him.

  Nothing was said for a few minutes.

  "Will you let me go as soon as I make the call?" the young man said.

  "As soon as you make the call," Carr said.

  The man leaned back in the seat. He was silent again. Finally, he spoke. "He'll know it was me."

  Carr stuffed the counterfeit money back in its envelope. He initialed and dated it, then pulled a rubber band off the rearview mirror and wrapped it around the envelope. Roughly he shoved the packet into his inside coat pocket.

  "You're right," Carr said. He started the engine.

  The young man sat up. "Where are we going?"

  "To lock you up," Carr said. He put the car in gear.

  "Okay. I'll
call him," the young man said. "But I've never snitched before. I really haven't."

  Carr turned off the engine. Kelly reached behind the man's back and unlocked the handcuffs. He opened the car door and ushered the prisoner to the telephone booth. Carr followed. Kelly dropped a dime in the slot and handed the prisoner the receiver. He dialed, with Kelly looming over him like a grizzly.

  He asked to speak with Teddy Mora. A few seconds went by. "It's me," he said. "I picked up the… uh… letter at the phone company. Yes, everything is okay." He bit his lip. "It's just that the letter isn't big enough. I need another one of the same size. I wasn't thinking when I placed my first order. I'm planning to take a trip and the letter won't last. I want to have enough to last throughout the trip." The young man's face contorted. He bit harder on his lip. "Well, then you can just forget it, man. Like I can score somewhere else. If you don't want to go to the trouble of delivering another letter, I'll just take my business elsewheres… okay, man… okay… The same place. You know I'm good for it…I don't like to talk on the phone either. Right on." The young man hung up the phone. "He's coming to deliver another package to this phone booth," he said. "He was pissed off that I didn't order a bigger one to start with. I did what you wanted." He shook his head sadly. "Now I know what it feels like to rat on somebody." He wiped his nose with two fingers and rubbed the fingers on his trousers. "I shouldn't have done it," he said.

  Carr's thumb pointed to the Porsche. "Nice to meet you," he said.

  "I wasn't sure you were going to keep your word," the man said.

  Carr mocked a smile. The man trotted to the Porsche, climbed in, and drove off. Carr and Kelly returned to the government sedan.

  Teddy Mora arrived less than ten minutes later. He parked his Cadillac next to the phone booth and got out.

  The Treasury men had their hands on the door handles. They vaulted out of the sedan and broke into a run. They hit Mora like the Rams' line, knocking him to the ground. They each grabbed an arm and pressed him to the pavement. Carr's fingers flew to the man's pockets and pulled out a stack of twenties.

  "I was set up," Mora said as Kelly snapped handcuffs onto his wrists.

  Chapter 13

  The field office interview room was paneled with cheap acoustical fiberboard and was, as all police interview rooms are, less than adequate in size. Carr, with Kelly at his side filling out an arrest report, stared at Mora across a small table. He asked him about LaMonica.

  Mora's arms were folded across his chest. "I saw LaMonica a couple of days ago in the Castaways," he said. "I see a lot of people there."

  "What did you talk about?" Carr said.

  "About money. We always talk about money-business deals. I'm an entrepreneur."

  "Where do you know him from?" Carr said.

  Mora unfolded his arms and tried to rest them in his lap. This didn't work. He folded them across his chest again.

  "Terminal Island. We did time together. I'm sure you already know that."

  "So you talked about money…" Carr said.

  "That's right. He had some kind of a deal going, and it turned to shit. Some kind of a real-estate deal. Of course he didn't go into detail about it. I assumed it had turned to shit when he came and asked me for a loan. I told him no. That's all I know about him. As far as my head shop, he was there once and he probably figured it was a good place to escape through…the alley and all."

  Carr stood up and removed his coat. He hung it on the back of his chair. He sat down again. "Where can we find him?" he said.

  "I have no idea. Maybe San Francisco or Las Vegas. But I truthfully have no idea where he lives," Mora said.

  Carr was silent for a moment. He looked at Kelly. "If you don't tell us everything you know about LaMonica, we'll be forced to camp out on your ass just like we did today. We'll either end up arresting you again or putting you out of business, or both."

  "Get the picture, clown?" Kelly said.

  Mora stared at the wall. Sitting there, his sagging body barely fitting the government-issue chair, the angular man looked foolish, perhaps inconsequential. "LaMonica lives out of the state," he said. "I swear I don't know where. He was here in L.A. putting together some sort of a legitimate business deal. If you know anything at all about him, you'll know that he never tells anyone his business. As God is my witness, that's all I know about the sonofabitch. Now will you let me post bail? I have appointments to keep."

  Carr stood up and opened the door. He nodded at Kelly.

  Kelly stood up. "Sure," he said. "We wouldn't want to keep all those nice folks down at the Castaways waiting for their twenties." He grabbed the man's arm and pulled him out the door.

  Carr and Kelly pulled up in front of a large store front with a sign that read "Lithographic Supply Service of Los Angeles." They went in.

  Three hours later they were still there, coats off, crowded around a messy desk in the manager's office. The manager, a neat, older man who wore glasses with wire frames and a long-sleeved dress shirt that was a size too big, hovered over them as they sorted through piles of invoices.

  "How do you know he ordered the supplies from here?" the manager asked sternly.

  "Your telephone number was on the toll record we subpoenaed from the phone company," Carr said without looking up.

  "And the name Robert French?" The manager folded his arms across his chest.

  "Someone heard him make a call and order some ink," Carr said. He pushed aside a stack of invoices and dug into another.

  "It seems to me," said the manager, "that what we're talking about here is counterfeiting." His tone was grave.

  Kelly gave the man an odd look.

  "All printers have tried it once," the stern man said.

  "What's that?" Carr said. He smiled courteously.

  "Counterfeiting," the manager said. "Every printer tries it once. They try it just as a lark and destroy the bills afterward. You know, just to see if they can do it."

  "Hot damn!" Kelly said, holding up one of the invoices like a rat's tail. He dropped it in front of Carr.

  Carr read the invoice. It listed a sale of black, blue, green, and red ink plus fifteen reams of No. 53 paper to Robert French. Carr handed the invoice to the manager.

  The manager studied the paper with a determined look. "Fifty-three is Ardmore Bond, a fairly high-quality paper. We don't get much call for it. This was a cash deal. An over-the-counter transaction."

  Carr scribbled something in his notebook and stuffed it into his coat pocket. The agents stood up to leave and Carr thanked the manager.

  "No thanks are necessary," he said with a sour look. "This shop has been broken into twice during the last year. I hope you catch the man you're looking for and put him in a penitentiary forever. I mean that from the bottom of my heart. Forever." He pursed his lips.

  "We'll sure try," Carr said on his way out the door. Kelly gave the man a little salute.

  Carr and Kelly were alone in the squad room.

  Files, all bearing LaMonica's name, were spread out across Carr's desk. Most of them were marked "Career Criminal," as if such a term had real meaning. Carr had spent the last two hours carefully going over the reports, summaries, and evaluations in them. The Treasury main file included specimen photographs of the counterfeit notes LaMonica had printed throughout the years, mixed in with arrest sheets, conviction forms, intelligence reports, and a stack of booking photographs in which LaMonica's hair became progressively grayer, his jowls slacker. He and Carr were about the same age.

  The only remarkable difference from other such files was the absence of confession forms. Even LaMonica's first arrest (caught red-handed in a bank changing twenties into hundreds) reflected a refusal to give out anything other than his name. As a matter of fact, after his last arrest, he had refused even that.

  Carr pulled a memorandum from a banded stack of papers covered by a note labeled: "Not for Dissemination Outside Department of justice." It read:

  TO: Chief Federal Probation Officer


  FROM: Carl Teagarten-Deputy Federal Probation Officer

  SUBJECT: Probationer Paul A. LaMonica-Six-Week Release Report

  1. Although probationer LaMonica has a bad habit of falling back into a criminal pattern, he has been out of federal prison for six weeks now and seems to be adjusting. Although he has not gained employment yet, he tells me that he has made a number of applications seeking work as a salesman. I have not allowed him to seek any printing-related occupation for the obvious reasons.

  2. LaMonica remains somewhat of a loner and tells me that his free time is spent reading and going to the movies.

  3. He rented a fairly expensive apartment in Beverly Hills last week. When I questioned him about it he was very cooperative. Apparently he has recently come into some sort of an inheritance from a distant relative (I haven't had time to verify this, but hope to by the next six-week report). He also made a down payment on a sports car with the same source of income.

  4. I have received a number of calls from various law-enforcement agencies for LaMonica's current address, but have refused to provide it under terms of the Privacy Act.

  5. Overall, Mr. LaMonica seems to be adjusting quite well at present. He continues to have an overwhelming desire to be accepted by others.

  Carr shook his head. He turned to Kelly who was dialing a phone at the next desk. "Ever meet anyone who didn't have a desire to be accepted?"

  "Whatsat?" Kelly said.

  "Never mind," Carr said. He read the last report in the file. It was a year old and described how LaMonica had been caught in his Beverly Hills apartment with $50,000 in counterfeit twenties.

  Carr closed the file.

  Kelly jammed the phone down. "That was headquarters," he said. "LaMonica learned to print years ago in the Terminal Island print shop — some sort of a prison rehabilitation program." He gave a harsh laugh.