Carr stood up and stretched. He walked to the window. "LaMonica is getting ready to print," he said. "He bought black, green, red, and blue ink and a lot of paper. He would need black and green in order to print money, but I can't figure the blue and red."
Kelly shrugged. "Who the hell knows?" he said. "But there's one thing you can count on. He wouldn't buy ink and paper unless he already had everything else he needed: press, platemaker, photo equipment. He's probably running off a load somewhere right now."
"There's another thing that's for sure," Carr said, still staring out the window. "We don't have any leads."
Chapter 14
It was Saturday afternoon.
Charles Carr slowed down to the speed limit as he approached the garish neon billboards that marked the beginning of the Las Vegas strip. He'd been lounging around Sally's apartment drinking coffee that morning when Sally had pointed at a newspaper advertisement for Las Vegas. With that, she'd jumped up and started throwing things into an overnight bag. "If you won't go with me, I'll go alone," she said.
He went with her. And during the trip she managed to talk the whole way. It was as if she were trying to compensate Carr for the long hours of sagebrush and telephone-line scenery. Her topics were familiar ones: judge Malcolm's college-age girl friend, the stenographers association's proposed fifteen-day bus tour of Europe, burgeoning rent and inflation, her sister's beautiful and talented children, and Judge Malcolm's shrewish, menopausal wife.
Sally finally stopped talking. She slid over next to him and rested her head on his shoulder. "It's been such a long time since we've taken one of our spur-of-the-moment trips," she said. "Get an idea and just go." She slid a hand inside his shirt and touched the hair on his chest. "You're so quiet."
At the check-in desk of the Silver Dollar Hotel and Casino, a mirrored place with a casino lobby the size of a football field, Carr signed the guest register "Mr. and Mrs. Charles Carr."
They spent the evening strolling in and out of the casinos, sipping cocktails, playing slot machines, people-watching along the strip. Carr rolled dice for a while at one place, but stopped when he realized Sally was bored. They caught the midnight stage show at the Dunes Hotel and afterward they ordered more than they could eat at a swanky Italian restaurant.
They didn't get to bed until after 3:00 A.M., and then they made love for a particularly long time. Sally joked about the therapeutic effects of wine. After exchanging tender goodnight kisses, Carr dropped off into slumber.
During the night he reached over to touch Sally and she wasn't there. She came back to bed and was silent for several minutes, but Carr could tell by her breathing that she hadn't gone to sleep.
"Are you awake?" Sally finally whispered.
"Yes."
"We don't communicate on the same wavelength," she said. "We communicate in bed and when we're out and have had a few drinks. Other than that, you're like a stranger. You could be someone I sat next to on a bus. We've dated for years and I still truly do not understand you. Damn."
Carr fluffed a pillow. He leaned back against the headboard. "Let's get up and hit a couple of crap tables before we go back," he said. "We might get lucky."
"Please communicate with me, Charlie."
Carr rubbed his eyes for a moment. He sat up in bed. "We once stood in line in a Vegas parking lot in order to pay some clown fifty dollars to read marriage vows off a three-by-five card. But I couldn't go through with it. I don't want to buy a tract house. I don't want to join the P.T.A. I don't want to go to cocktail parties with the neighbors. I don't want to wear matching tennis shorts. I don't like picnics or Little League games…"
"In other words, you are a completely fulfilled person," she said. "You are satisfied with your life. Is that what you're saying?"
"No," Carr said in a low and serious tone. "It was about a year ago when I faced myself for the first time in my life. I woke up one morning and went to the breakfast table. It was cold in my apartment and I was alone. I thought about the fact that someday I was going to have to retire. And do you know what I said to myself?"
Sally sat up. "What?"
"I said, It's time to start taking yoga lessons. I never got around to taking them, mind you, but I thought seriously about it, and as a matter of fact, later that day I bought a quart of yogurt and mixed it with some bran flakes."
"You're making fun of me," Sally Malone said. Angrily, she threw the covers back and got out of bed. She fumbled with cigarettes and matches on a dresser table. "I'm sorry for having brought up anything more serious than a Dodger game," she said.
Carr reached out and grabbed her arm. He pulled her back into bed. As she protested, he covered her mouth with his.
In the morning they grabbed a quick breakfast and headed back to Los Angeles.
The airport was a swarming arena; everyone dragging trunks, suitcases, and children from place to place, shouting instructions to one another, waiting impatiently in lines.
Paul LaMonica dialed a number on the pay phone. He put a finger in the other ear to keep out the noise. A secretary connected him with Omar T. Lockhart. "I've spoken with my client," LaMonica said without introduction. "I'd like you to meet me at the Houston Airport, in the bar, as soon as possible. I'm waiting to catch a flight." That will give you a chance to have someone follow me, you pig-eyed sonofabitch, he thought.
There was a silence. "Okay," Lockhart said. "I'll be right down." He sounded annoyed.
LaMonica hung up the telephone. He went straight to a ticket counter, stood in line, and bought a ticket to San Diego. The clerk handed him the ticket and a boarding pass.
"You're all checked in, Mr. Ross," the clerk said. "We'll board in an hour."
The bar, situated on a balcony overlooking a maze of ticket counters, had few customers. LaMonica waited behind a bank of rental lockers until Lockhart picked out a table and sat down. A minute later a husky man with a shaved head sat down at the bar itself. He and Lockhart exchanged glances.
LaMonica strolled over to Lockhart's table and sat down without a greeting.
Lockhart spoke first. "My company doesn't like to involve itself in this sort of business," he said. A short-skirted waitress wearing a cowboy hat came to the table. They ordered Bloody Marys and the waitress walked away. "We're not jumping into anything half-cocked. You're going to have to give me some background details before we go any further."
"Be happy to," LaMonica said. "My client was the girl friend of Freddie Roth, a well-known counterfeiter. I say 'was' because Roth was murdered about a year ago in an underworld dispute. At the time of his death he had just finished printing two million dollars' worth of your precious traveler's checks. Apparently he had a European buyer for the whole batch. Anyway, my client is sitting on the checks, all of them, right now. That's the story in brief."
A wave of perspiration was evident on both of Lockhart's chins. He avoided looking toward the man at the bar. "Now I'll ask you the prize question," he said. "How much will she settle for?"
The waitress brought drinks. Lockhart took a healthy gulp and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
"Ten percent," LaMonica said.
"A hundred thousand dollars? You can go back and tell her flat out that she's not going to get it. Flat out. No way," Lockhart said.
LaMonica sipped his drink. "The amount of money she wants is not even the hard part," he said. "Freddie Roth's last printing job was contracted by the Mafia…yes, the actual honest-to-God Italian Mafia. If you check on Roth you'll see he was well connected. After Roth's murder, she tried to peddle some of the checks. They found out about it and sent some hoods to take the checks from her. My client heard they were coming, grabbed the checks, and went into hiding. She had planned to live by passing a few of the checks now and then-as you can see, they're of very high quality, easy to pass-but she got cold feet." LaMonica smiled "I don't know whether she was more afraid of the Mafia or the police."
"And just how did you get involved?" Lockhart asked.
<
br /> "I do investigative work for her attorney," LaMonica said. "He asked me to check out her story; she owes him a sizable legal fee." He wiped condensation off the outside of his glass.
"We're not going to pay ten percent," Lockhart said. His chin dripped sweat. It seemed he had nothing else to say.
"I'll certainly relay that message to her," LaMonica said. "I just hope the Mafia won't pay ten percent either. She's negotiating with them, too, as you may have already guessed. As I understand it, their distribution problems are minimum." He looked at his wristwatch. "I've got a flight to catch."
Lockhart nodded dumbly.
LaMonica got up and they shook hands. "I'll be back in touch," he said.
"I want to meet your client. I have to speak with her in person," Lockhart said as if mouthing his one and only line in the school play.
"I'll tell her that." LaMonica headed down an escalator and made his way to the boarding gates. At the intersection of two busy corridors, he hid behind a ticket-counter partition. Moments later the man with the shaved head rushed past him like a hound after a rabbit. LaMonica checked his watch once again, then trotted to a boarding area at the opposite end of the airport. He approached a gate and gave a red-suited boarding agent his ticket.
"You just made it, Mr. Ross," said the man. "Please hurry. The flight is ready to depart."
LaMonica rushed down the boarding ramp and onto the plane. He found his seat and fastened his seat belt.
The jumbo jet was only half full. In the seat next to him was a bespectacled young woman wearing designer jeans and a cashmere sweater. She was reading a thick book. Her gray-streaked hair was pulled back smartly. As the plane lifted off LaMonica leaned back and took a deep breath.
After a while, the woman put the book down and stretched. LaMonica smiled. She smiled back.
"Live in San Diego?" he said.
The woman shook her head. "Business trip."
"I love your sweater," he said. "In fact, I bought my wife one just like it. I was in New York at a medical convention and I missed her birthday. I feel lust awful about it."
The woman smiled. "She'll forgive you. I take it you're a doctor?"
"Yes, I'm a neurosurgeon. My name is Bill Adams." They shook hands.
"Carol Williamson," she said. "I'm a buyer for a department store."
"I just hate to travel," he said. "I guess I'm kind of a homebody."
"I don't mind it so much," she said.
LaMonica closed his eyes. Later, he slid back in his seat and allowed Carol Williamson to step into the aisle. She found her way to the front of the cabin and entered the lavatory.
LaMonica looked around carefully. With one hand, he opened her purse and dug out a wallet. His fingers flew to the money pouch. About fifty dollars. Not worth the risk. He pulled two of the ten or so credit cards out of the wallet and pocketed them, then shoved the wallet back into the purse and shut it. He leaned back and closed his eyes again. When Carol Williamson returned and stepped gingerly around him, he acted as if he were asleep. As her leg brushed his he imagined grabbing her crotch with both hands and squeezing until she cried. She wiggled back into her seat.
When she tried to initiate some small talk, he ignored her.
Over the intercom the pilot announced the weather forecast for San Diego. By midnight LaMonica would be back across the border and at the safe house. He visualized himself lying on the cot-naked, secure and comfortable. Women (he recognized none of them) stood by the bed clutching rattan baskets overflowing with money. They nodded to one another and emptied the baskets over his body. Some of the money fell off the sides of the cot and onto the floor. He was immersed in crisp, rich greenbacks, unable to move, unable to touch himself.
Chapter 15
The floor of the huge jai-alai auditorium was a carpet of discarded betting tickets and empty beer cups, the refuse of a seedy-looking crowd (at least half were Americans) that milled around the betting windows. The electronic tote boards at either end of the fronton flashed changing odds on the Perfecta, Quiniela, and Trifecta combinations, gambling jargon designed to avoid the use of the word lose.
The court itself was an enormous well-lit stage shielded by fine netting. On its left side half a dozen bored-looking Mexican men sat in a cagelike affair waiting to compete. They were dressed in white trousers and colorful shirts.
Paul LaMonica found Sandy sitting alone in the reserved section. He plopped down in a seat next to her. "They want to meet you," he said.
"Are they suspicious?" She turned the page of the program she was reading.
"A little. You can't blame them. There's a lot of money involved," LaMonica said in a confident tone.
Sandy closed the program and stared at the court. "I don't like showing my face. It scares the shit out of me to show my face," she said.
"No U.S. soil, no U.S. crime," LaMonica said.
"But they could put us together behind a conspiracy."
"So what's another grain of sand on the beach?" LaMonica said.
The players marched to the middle of the court and bowed to scattered applause. Two of them strutted to the service line while the rest returned to the cage. The game began.
"They're no better than the greyhounds who chase the mechanical rabbit," Sandy said, her eyes on the court, "or racehorses. They just come out like slaves and perform. Sad, don't you think?"
"I'm sure they're not too sad in the locker room every night when they sit around and cut up the side bets," LaMonica said. "Racehorses with brains."
"I hope they don't ask me too much about this Freddie Roth person," Sandy said.
"If they do, you just play it by ear — keep everything vague."
The pelota slammed against the front wall like a rifle shot. It bounced back full court. A player was waiting. He caught the ball and roundhoused it back.
"Mr. Cool keeps asking me about you," she said. "He's afraid you're going to rip me off." Sandy gave him a funny smile.
"Your main man," LaMonica said sarcastically.
"We're just using each other," Sandy said. "Just like you and I always have."
"I don't like him."
"You don't like anyone. Particularly black people. You've always been that way."
They didn't speak again until the first game was over. The number-three player had beaten number seven with a kill shot to the corner.
"I want you to keep your Mr. Cool out of this," LaMonica said. "What you do with him on your own is your business. You and I had something once, but that's over now. I have no jealousy."
"You never had any kind of feelings," she said, her eyes on the fronton.
LaMonica ignored the remark. "I have a good feeling about our thing. And I'm positive that we'll be able to get it done if we can just keep the program simple and avoid getting other people involved. These things have a tendency to draw outsiders. They smell the bucks at the end of the line. We must avoid letting anyone else in on our act. The risk is too great."
"You always keep everything to yourself," she said. "For the whole year we were together I never had any idea where we were going or what we were going to do from one day to the next. I realized it after the cops grabbed me in Las Vegas. They asked me where we were planning to hit next. I actually had no idea." She gave a little laugh. "Hell, even if I'd wanted to do myself a favor and be a rat, I couldn't. You never let me in on the planning. We did live high for that year, though — I will say that. We lived real high."
"I want us to be partners in this," LaMonica said. "Don't forget. If things get heavy it'll be you and me against the wall. We can't let other people in on any of the details. There's too much at stake. You should realize that. It's a chance for us to get out of this border act once and for all — to head for Europe, Australia, with a whole new identity. To me, being stuck down here with these bean bandits is as bad as being in the joint."
"I hear you," Sandy said.
It was payday. Ling's was crowded and noisy.
The plato
on of federal cops glued to the bar barked for more drinks like kenneled dogs. Ling sat on the floor in the corner of the place probing a broken jukebox with a long screwdriver.
"Chickenshit service! Chickenshit service!" chanted the bar revelers. Ling stood up and pointed to the ancient machine with the screwdriver.
"You want this thing fix?" he said angrily.
Shouts of "Fuck the jukebox!"
Jack Kelly hoisted his empty glass like a knight's banner. "And fuck all your moth-eaten Frank Sinatra and Jerry Vale records!" he said. There was a violent round of laughter.
Ling tossed the screwdriver on the floor and huffed back to the bar. The laughter continued as he filled glasses with ice. He grabbed one of the glasses, rubbed it on his butt, and held it up. "This one for you, Kelly." The laughter was deafening.
Carr sat in a booth with Frank Garcia. Garcia was dressed "TJ" fashion: a cowboy-style shirt and boots, like the million or so Mexicans who filled L.A.'s run-down apartments and garment-district sweatshops. He was thirtyish but looked older because of his rheumy eyes.
"When are you going to move in on Shorty McFadden?" Carr said.
"Don't ask me," Garcia said. "I'm on a thirty-day suspension." His barrio accent was slurred from liquor. "The other night I stopped after work for a few drinks. I'd just finished working sixteen hours straight. I hadn't eaten all day, so the booze hits me. I walk out of the bar and realize I'm so drunk I can't drive home, so I hop in the backseat of my car and try to catch a few winks. I figured that if I slept for a while, I'd sober up enough to drive." He sipped his drink and stirred the ice. "Next thing I know, a couple of blue-suiters are pulling me out of the car. I show 'em my federal tin, but they don't believe me. They think it's stolen. They actually throw the cuffs on me and take me to the police station! Like there I am getting my fingerprints taken. I'm getting booked for being drunk in public. Luckily, one of the narcs in the station recognizes me and I get cut loose, but it's too late. The blue-suiters have already called up my agent in charge to verify my credentials." He finished his drink and slammed the glass down. "So I end up with thirty days no pay. Can you imagine that? Thirty days on the beach for not wanting to drive drunk!" He shook his head sadly. "Things like that happen to me all the time."
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