The Quality of the Informant (17 page)

"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 platoon 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."

Carr gave him a sympathetic look. "Not to change the subject, but didn't you pull some capers below the border last year?" he said.

"I was on loan to Immigration. They sent me down there four times last year," Garcia said. "In Tijuana I'd pay a
coyote
two hundred bucks from the confidential fund and then just take the trip. Sometimes it was in the bed of a truck, sometimes stuffed like a sardine in the back of a van or camper. It would be a full-blown surveillance all the way from the border into Los Angeles. I'd give the signal at the drop-off point and we'd arrest everybody, a conspiracy case usually. The illegal aliens would get deported and the
coyotes
would bail out and slip back across the border. They'd be back in business before I finished writing my reports. The whole investigation ended up bringing in nothing more than a few extra fugitives."

"Where do the American fugitives hang out down there?" Carr said.

Garcia sipped his drink as if it were delicious soup. "Ensenada, probably. I've heard rumbles that there's a bar down there a lot of '
em
go to. Rodriguez at the Ensenada Police Department keeps an eye on the Americans down there. He's a friend." He gave a quick glance around the bar, leaned close to Carr, and whispered, "And I hear the fan-belt inspectors have a caper going down there right now. It's some kind of a long-range operation. They're gathering information on the activities of American fugitives hiding in Mexico. They're paying some high-power snitch big money to find out who's who and what's what." He sat back and stopped whispering. "You know, one of those big idea things that will end up in a stack of bullshit FBI reports." Garcia chuckled.

"The kind of reports that will get passed around at organized-crime task-force meetings," Carr said. "Everyone will act like they recognize the names." He smiled.

"Maybe they'll call it Operation Bad-Ass Gringos," Garcia said, still laughing.

Carr shook his head. "I'm afraid that code name wouldn't fly for them," he said. "Bad words."

Ling finally brought more drinks. He plunked them down and rushed away.

"On my last Mexico case I was stuffed in the back of a truck with so many people I damn near suffocated," Garcia said. "When the arrests finally went down, I told '
em
I wasn't going to do it anymore. I've got a wife and five kids. You know what they said? They said I had job stress and they sent me to talk to a psychologist. He kept asking whether I felt tired all the time. I told him I never get tired. He asked me why I drink, how I get along with my wife sexually, crap like that. I told him it was none of his goddamn business. They don't know what to do with me now."

A tall man in a pin-striped suit walked in the front door. He took a seat at the end of the bar, making no effort to greet anyone.

"That's the FBI agent in charge of the fugitive operation I was telling you about," Garcia whispered. "His name is Tom
Luegner
. But he won't give you any information. You know how those people are."

Carr nodded.
A while later he carried his drink to the bar and sat down next to
Luegner
.
He introduced himself.

"I've seen you around,"
Luegner
said. "You're a...uh...friend of Sally Malone." His smile exuded poise. Every hair on his head was in place, the knot in his tie of a perfect size and shape.

Carr ignored the remark. "One of my informants was murdered by a federal fugitive named Paul
LaMonica
," Carr said. "
LaMonica
supposedly lives in Mexico. I could use some help."

Luegner
tore off the corner of his cocktail napkin. He rolled it between his fingers. "The name does kind of ring a bell," he said. "What was your informant's name?"

"Linda Gleason," Carr said.
Would you like me to spell it for your report?
he
thought.

"And
LaMonica
killed her?"
Luegner
said.

"That's right."

"I'd sure like to help you out,"
Luegner
said in an offhanded manner. "But you know how sensitive our intelligence files are. Of course it's no secret that we've had reports that
LaMonica
has been seen now and then below the border." Without saying excuse me,
Luegner
reached in front of Carr and grabbed a few bar olives. He plopped them in his martini.

Carr felt the blood rushing to his face. "You can't blame me for trying," he said in a self-deprecating manner.

Luegner
smiled. "Certainly not. We're all in the same business."

Carr stood up. He finished his drink and set the glass down on the bar.

Luegner
stuffed an olive into his mouth. "By the way," he said as he chewed, "seen Sally lately?"

"As a matter of fact I haven't," Carr said casually. He waved at Kelly and strolled out the door.

Carr headed down a pedestrian walkway lined with souvenir shops, which because of the hour were closed. He stopped at the entrance to a small parking lot. There were no more than ten vehicles. A silver Corvette was parked in the corner of the dimly lit area next to a commercial trash receptacle. Carr sauntered over to the Corvette. He pulled a pen-sized flashlight out of his coat pocket, flicked it on, and ran the beam of light along the interior of the vehicle. There was a gasoline credit-card receipt on the front seat bearing Tom
Luegner's
name. He flicked the light off and stepped to the trash bin. Using the light, he rummaged around until he found a wire coat hanger. He pulled it out and twisted it straight, leaving a hook at the end.

Carr glanced around the lot again. He was still alone. Holding the flashlight in his teeth, he wedged the wire between window and doorframe. After four or five tries, he managed to maneuver the hook under the door handle. He tugged, the lock snapped, and he swung open the door and climbed in. Frantically, he dug around behind the front seat until he found what he was looking for-a heavy briefcase. Pulling it onto his lap, he tore at the latches and it popped open. Using the flashlight to read by, Carr flipped through a stack of reports titled "Informant Contact Report" and stamped CONFIDENTIAL.

Someone was crossing the lot.

Carr flicked off the flashlight and ducked down in the seat. He held his breath.
The footsteps of more than one person.
They came closer. Car doors opened. Men laughed. Car doors closed. A vehicle drove off.

Carr exhaled. Balancing the flashlight on his lap, he raced through the papers as fast as he could. The report that caught his attention was the one with the most recent date. It was written in the standard FBI format:

TO: Special Agent in Charge

FROM: Assistant to the Special Agent in Charge Thomas A.
Luegner

Subject: Operation Peter Rabbit

Source: 2034XD

Method of Contact: Tel/con

Info
:2034XD
reports that fugitive Sandra
Hartzbecker
aka Sandra Hill (FBI #5658940H) met recently in Ensenada with a male adult identified as Paul
LaMonica
(FBI #9586744L) for the purpose of planning early stages of a stateside forgery scheme. No further information.
Rec
checks show
LaMonica
subject of fug.
warrant
#bhk5906 for escape. Subject escaped from Terminal Island federal prison eleven months ago after overpowering a civilian employee at the institution. He used a counterfeit police identification card to facilitate his escape. Subject is a master printer, many times convicted of counterfeiting U.S. currency, various types of checks, etc. No further information.
Hartzbecker
is former girl friend/criminal cohort (counterfeit money passer) of
LaMonica
.