LaMonica and Hartzbecker climbed back into the sedan. LaMonica started the engine. In the rearview mirror, he saw Lockhart turn around. The fat man broke into a clumsy run and fell down. He jumped up quickly and continued on.
"Did you see that!" Sandy said. She broke into hysterical laughter, and her fists alternated pounding her thighs and the dashboard. "The fat bastard fell on his ass!" She roared again.
LaMonica eased the revolver into his belt. He started the engine and drove out of the lot.
"We did it!" Sandy said, clapping her hands like a child. "Twenty-five thousand dollars apiece! I'm out! Out of the shit once and for all!" She stretched out her legs and leaned back in the seat. Her eyes closed. "I'm going to the Canary Islands. I know people there. It's sunny the year round. All the Germans go there for vacation. I'll fit in easily. Maybe I'll get a job in one of the little art galleries. I could stay there for the rest of my life and no one would ask any questions." She ran her hands through her hair. "God, I feel good. "
LaMonica steered south onto a freeway leading to the border. He edged into the fast lane. Sandy broke into laughter again over Lockhart's fall. She wiped tears of mirth from her eyes. An overhead sign read "Rest Stop — One Mile."
"I'd better pull over so we can stash the money under the backseat," LaMonica said. "I'm afraid they might open the trunk when we cross the border. No use taking any chances at this point."
Sandy nodded. She leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes.
LaMonica swung the sedan onto a side road separated from the freeway by a parking island. The usual California rest stop: a grassy area with cement picnic tables and a restroom facility. It was deserted. He pulled to the end farthest from the entrance and parked. Sandy was still resting, eyes shut.
LaMonica pulled the gun and put it to her temple. Her eyes flew open. "Get out of the car," he said. There was a look of horror on her face. Tears welled in her eyes. She didn't move.
"Open your door and get out. I won't hurt you if you will get out of the car."
"Please don't do this," she said. "All I want is my part. I earned it. I did the things you asked me to do. I don't deserve this. I came across the border for you. I risked everything."
"Get out of the fucking car right now!" LaMonica said.
A tear rolled down her check. Still she didn't move. "People told me that you hated women, that you just used them. You're sick." Her hand grasped the door handle. She opened the door and climbed out.
Keeping the pistol trained on her, LaMonica followed her out the passenger side. He pointed toward some trees. "That way … move," he said.
Her eyes were wide. "No," she said. "I don't want to go over there. You can have the money. Please don't hurt me." Her hands floated to the surrender position.
LaMonica glanced about. There was the sound of cars zooming by on the freeway, people heading for the border. Stiff-armed, he aimed the weapon at the middle of her back.
He fired.
Sandy flew forward and down, her hands failing to break her fall. LaMonica stepped forward. Aiming at her head, he fired twice. Gasping sounds. Her body twitched about. For a moment he thought he might have heard a sob, but he discounted it as a simple stress reaction. He stepped back. Having looked around again, he pushed the revolver into his back pocket. It was warm.
LaMonica bent at the waist and grasped Sandy's body by the wrists. He dragged it for a long way across the grass to the edge of a small embankment. Without hesitation, he swung the body over the side. Like a mannequin, it rolled along the dirt and grass to the bottom. He stepped back and surveyed the entire area again. He was alone. Before getting back in the car, he hid the revolver in the trunk.
On the way back to Mexico he was careful not to exceed the speed limit.
Chapter 23
The restaurant, a twelve-seater, was directly across the street from the police station. The place was devoid of decoration except for a set of primitive murals painted on the rough-textured walls: serape-clad boys riding burros toward a setting sun; brown, dark-eyed women toting children. There was no air conditioning.
The three cops sat around a Formica table as they waited to be served. Rodriguez had commanded the Treasury agents to order the biggest lobster dish. They had followed orders.
Carr took a sip of Carta Blanca and set the bottle down. "Purple ink," he said with a puzzled look.
"I guess we won't find out what LaMonica counterfeited until something printed with purple ink hits the street," Kelly said. He stared at one of the wall paintings.
"We may not be that lucky," Carr said. "For all we know he counterfeited bank certificates of deposit, or some other such security. A scam like that wouldn't be uncovered for years."
Everyone nodded.
A chunky, dark-haired woman wearing a peasant dress strutted out of the kitchen balancing a platter. She set it down on the table. The platter contained a pile of enormous, steaming lobsters. A young girl, who could have been her daughter, followed her with heavy plates brimming with peppers, refried beans, and rice. She made room on the table and set them down.
Kelly smiled graciously. He tucked a paper napkin into his collar. Nothing was said as the three men went about the business of eating. There was only the crunching of shells, sucking noises and the passing of plates.
Suddenly Rodriguez jumped up, knocking his chair backward. "Tintamorada!" he cried. Without so much as wiping his hands, he barged out the front door and headed for the police station. Carr and Kelly stopped eating only long enough to shrug.
A few minutes later Rodriguez marched back in the front door holding a single sheet of printed paper with two fingers. He handed the paper to Carr and made a silly bow. He sat down and resumed eating.
Kelly leaned over his partner's shoulder as he read: "Warning Bulletin — Travelers Chex Incorporated, Houston, Texas…"
In the middle of the page was a color reproduction of a traveler's check. The basic color of the printing on the check was purple.
"That counterfeit check appeared for the first time right here in Ensenada a few days ago," Rodriguez said. He scooped up some beans with the corner of a tortilla and shoveled them into his mouth. "I'll bet that even you gringo federales would be able to guess where."
"Teddy's?" Carr said.
Rodriguez chewed for a while and swallowed. "Right. That pendejo Teddy Mora deposited the checks in his account at the bank down the street. When they bounced, he told them he had cashed the checks for customers at his bar." Rodriguez laughed sarcastically. "As if he would cash anything for the pendejos that hang out in that place."
"I'll be damned," Kelly said. He spoke with his mouth full.
"The Travelers Chex security man that came into the Field Office the other day…" Carr said with a furrowed brow. "This is what he must have been beating around the bush about. But why the questions about Freddie Roth?"
Kelly pulled a paper napkin out of a dispenser. He wiped a mustache of drawn butter off his upper lip. "Some stoolie probably sold him an old Freddie Roth story." He shook his head. "Mr. Greenjeans Freddie Roth no less. Snitches finger him even in death. They should have embalmed him with green ink, God rest his soul."
After the meal Carr tried to pay. The chunky lady acted insulted and said something in Spanish. Rodriguez pinched her fondly on the cheek. "She said she honors the badge," he said.
The three returned to the police station. Carr dialed the telephone number listed on the Travelers Chex circular and asked for Omar Lockhart. "I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Lockhart is on business in San Diego," the secretary said. She recited a phone number and an address for a motel on Ortega Road where he could be reached. She asked him to hold the line. Carr placed his hand over the mouthpiece. "Lockhart's staying in a motel just up the street from the one where Luegner's fiasco went down," he said. Kelly wore a puzzled expression.
A man with an authoritative voice came on the line. He introduced himself as the chairman of the board. Carr told him about hi
s visit from Lockhart. He explained about the search for LaMonica and the discovery of the printing press.
"What does this fugitive look like?" the chairman asked.
"Gray-haired guy with a missing little finger on his left hand," Carr said.
A brief silence. The chairman moaned. Briefly, he explained what Lockhart was doing in San Diego. "Would this counterfeiter you're looking for involve himself in such a scheme?" he said.
Carr looked at the ceiling. "I'd say that was a definite possibility."
"I'll have Mr. Lockhart get in touch with you," the chairman said, a note of urgency in his voice. He hung up.
Carr chortled. "It sounds like LaMonica just sold a load of phony traveler's checks to the Travelers Chexcompany itself. He sold 'em a bill of goods that the package was left over from one of Freddie Roth's old printing runs … and they paid him fifty thousand dollars."
"Maybe the company preferred to take the loss all at once," Kelly said. "Less paperwork!" The cops broke into hearty laughter. Rodriguez slapped his knee.
As soon as he caught his breath, Kelly said, "Where will LaMonica go now that he's made the big money?"
"Maybe he'll come right back here," Carr said. "He knows the heat is on for him across the line."
"On the other hand, with that much money he could pretty much pick and choose his hideout," Kelly said.
"Good point," Carr said.
Lockhart paid for his room with a traveler's check (all company executives were required to do so on company business — "Avoidance of Possible Adverse Publicity" the memo had been entitled). While checking out, he chatted amiably with the clerk, a mature woman wearing a flowered dress that fluffed over meaty thighs.
The switchboard buzzed. The woman picked up the receiver. "You just caught him," she said. "He's standing right here in front of me." She handed Lockhart the receiver.
It was the chairman.
"I'm glad I caught you before you left," he said angrily. "I just took a call from a U.S. Treasury agent named Carr-"
"Yes sir, I've met him," Lockhart interrupted.
"That's nice," continued the chairman. "He told me some interesting things about a man named LaMonica, a counterfeiter. Seems that this LaMonica may have recently printed up some of our traveler's checks. Carr has evidence that he uncovered down in Ensenada."
"I'll follow up on that immediately, sir," Lockhart said. "Since I'm so close to Mexico, I'll just drive down and gather the pertinent details in person."
"Before you rush off," the chairman said, "you might like to know that this counterfeiter is a gray-haired man with a missing finger on his left hand."
Lockhart felt a rush of heat spread across the back of his neck. The phone felt slippery, he could barely hold it in his hand. He wanted to gag. Nothing was said for a while.
"Are you still there?" the chairman said.
"Yes sir."
"Please don't tell me that you've already bought the checks, Omar. Please don't tell me that," the chairman said. Lockhart pictured him with palm against brow.
"Yes sir. Just a few minutes ago… Jesus, sir." Lockhart made a fist. It pressed against his chin.
"You allowed a counterfeiter, a criminal person, to sell us his own product," the chairman said. "You handed over fifty thousand dollars of this year's net profit to someone you hadn't properly checked out. I'm sure I'll have no problem at all explaining that to the other members of the board. Perhaps I can appeal to their goddamn sense of humor!"
"I'm sorry…sir."
"Fix it, Omar," the chairman said.
"Sir?"
"You're going to go out and repair the damage you've done to us. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
"Sir…uh… I'm not exactly sure what I can do at this point," Lockhart said.
"You can go find this LaMonica person and get our money back! That's what you can do! You can go grab this cocksucker by the throat and squeeze until he gives us our money back. Do whatever you have to do. Nobody is going to do this to us and get away with it."
"I'll do my best, but I'm not sure I can-"
"Find the dirty sonofabitch and bring back our fifty thousand dollars, Omar. If you don't, your desk won't be here when you return. You made the mess. Now you can clean it up!" The phone clicked loudly. Omar Lockhart handed the receiver to the woman. He rubbed his temples. His head ached as if acid had been injected behind his eyes.
"Are you all right?" said the woman. She stared at him as if he were bleeding. "Mr. Lockhart? Would you like to sit down?"
Lockhart took out a handkerchief. He wiped his eyes and forehead and took a deep breath. "Mr. Brown's room," he said. "Roger Brown. He checked out a short while ago. That…uh…was him on the telephone. He asked if I could get a copy of his room's telephone bill. He needed some of the numbers."
The woman opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of receipts. She thumbed through a few and pulled one out of the pile. "He only called one number from his room," she said. The woman wrote the telephone number on a piece of paper and handed it to him.
Lockhart mumbled his thanks. He shuffled out the door.
Having found a pay phone next to the swimming pool, Lockhart dropped in a dime. The operator told him that it was an Ensenada area code. He gave her the number. It rang.
"Teddy's Bar," a man said.
Lockhart slammed the phone down. He headed for his car.
The dirt lot in front of Teddy's Bar was filled with motorcycles: the kind with riser handlebars and chrome decorations of one kind or another. Lockhart parked next to a Harley with a tuck-and-roll leather seat.
The front door of the place was open. There was the sound of raucous conversation, jukebox music, some outright yelling. All in all, it was the kind of place that Omar Lockhart would not have set foot in under any other circumstances. But he was angry. He reached inside his coat and felt the butt of his revolver. I am not going to be afraid of a bunch of motorcycle creeps. I have no argument with them nor they with me, he thought.
Lockhart locked his car, hitched up his trousers, and strode into the front door. The smell of marijuana was overpowering. There was a hush in the conversation as he made his way to the bar. The crowd, a bunch of bearded men and fat women wearing an assortment of leather and denim vests, followed him with their eyes. Two men left their bar stools and strolled out the door.
"Are you the proprietor?" Lockhart said to the skinny man standing behind the bar.
"Proprietor?" the man said sarcastically. "Yes, I am. And who, pray tell, might you be? I know you're not the man who comes to drain the cesspool in back. He's already been here and left." The bartender looked to the greasers at the bar, with a punch-line smile. They broke into hostile laughter.
Lockhart felt a tingling sensation in his hands as he reached into his wallet for a business card. He handed one of the engraved cards to Teddy Mora. There were eyes on his wallet. He shoved it back into his coat. I'm handling this badly, he thought.
"I'm the director of security for Travelers Chex Incorporated," Lockhart said.
Teddy picked up a flashlight. He flicked it on and held it to the card. "That probably means you're an ex-cop," he said.
"As a matter of fact I was with the police department in Houston for a number of years," Lockhart said.
"Oh, really?" Teddy said. "That's probably some real hot and heavy shit back in good 'ol Houston. But down here it doesn't mean frijoles. You see, cops ain't welcome in here. This is a foreign country, my man. American cops like you are just run-of-the-mill assholes down here."
A hairy man at the bar belched like a foghorn. People laughed. Lockhart tried to force a smile, but couldn't.
"Is there somewhere where we could speak in private?" Lockhart said. He held his breath.
"No," Teddy said. More laughter.
Lockhart glanced around. Everyone stared. "Some bogus traveler's checks have been passed in here," he said. "The man that is probably responsible uses the name Roger Brown. He has gray hair and
a missing little finger. Do you know him?"
"Yeah, he was here just a little while ago," someone said.
Lockhart turned toward the voice. "Do you know where he went?"
"He went out to take a shit and the bears ate him." An explosion of laughter.
Teddy joined in the merriment. "That's right," he said. "The motherfuckin' bears ate him." Suddenly Teddy Mora stopped laughing and leaned across the bar. His face was within an inch of Lockhart's. "Now why don't you get the fuck out of here before we lose our sense of humor."
Lockhart stepped back. He shuffled out the door into the parking lot. His car was gone. There was automobile glass on the ground where he had parked it. He let out a deep breath. "Damn," he said out loud. He rubbed a sleeve across his forehead and headed straight back in the door. He marched directly to the bar. "I want to use your telephone," he said to the bartender. "Someone has stolen my car."
Another burst of laughter. Teddy Mora ignored him. He poured drinks.
"Dammit. Is there a telephone here?" Lockhart said. Suddenly, a hand that smelled like motor oil was over his mouth. His legs flew forward and he was on the floor. Someone was grabbing his gun. Something crashed over his head.
Chapter 24
The hospital room was furnished with a pair of beds with hand cranks and a couple of nightstands. The cubicle's solitary window framed nothing more than an alley wall.
Lockhart's eyes were blackened and there was a line of fresh stitches protruding from his upper lip. Both arms were in casts. The Texan spoke slowly, without emotion.
Because of the smell of disinfectant, Carr felt like covering his nose as Lockhart staggered on with his tale. Every few seconds the security man's tongue would dart out to moisten his swollen lips, and then he would continue. Earlier, he had asked for water and Kelly had helped him drink. Rodriguez, leaning against the wall, made notes in what looked like a patrolman's traffic-citation book.
"I regained consciousness on the road near the turnoff to Teddy's Bar," Lockhart said. "A man driving a truck picked me up and brought me here. I passed out again when he pulled me up by my arms." He blinked a few times and took a deep breath. He exhaled. "That's the whole sorry-ass story, I'm afraid. They just plain got the best of me."
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