The Quality of the Informant (18 page)

Undeveloped leads: Maintain contact with Source.

Carr slammed the briefcase shut and set it in the backseat exactly as he'd found it. He slipped out of the Corvette, closed the door quietly, and tossed the coat banger back into the trashcan.

Carr climbed into his sedan and started the engine. On the way to his apartment he listened to an all-night jazz station.

****

Chapter 16

IN THE morning Carr found the arrest folder in the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet marked "Closed Cases." A tab on the folder read "
Hartzbecker
, Sandra/Passer." He carried the folder to a desk in the corner of the room and sat down. He opened the folder. There was nothing inside it except some mug shots.
Hartzbecker
was dressed in a well-tailored pants suit and her hair was in pigtails. Like everyone in such photographs, she wore a frown.

Carr flipped the stack of mug shots over. Each photo was stamped FIELD FILE ON THIS SUSPECT STORED IN THE LAS VEGAS FIELD OFFICE. He flipped the folder shut. There was a phone on the desk. He picked up the receiver and dialed.

"U.S. Treasury. Las Vegas Field Office, Special Agent Cecil True speaking. Good morning." The agent ran the words together as if reciting Hail Mary
number
twenty.

"This is Charlie," Carr said. "I need a little info."

"I hope you liked my introduction," True said. "I got written up last week for answering the phone, 'Treasury.'"

"Do you remember a passer named Sandra
Hartzbecker
?" Carr asked.

There was a momentary silence. "That's
a roger
," True said. "German broad...fifty dollar notes; the pinch went down in the Casino Monte Carlo."

"What happened?" Carr said.

"She was playing craps at one of the high stakes tables dropping fifty dollar bills for chips. The pit boss at the table takes a look at one of the bills and gets suspicious. He calls security and they try to put the arm on her. The fight is on. She scratched the shit out of one of the guards. By the time I got there it was all over but the shouting."

"Did she talk?" Carr said.

"Nope," True said. "She did the 'I cashed a check at a bank in L.A.' act. At the Field Office I poured her purse out on the desk right in front of her. There's nothing in it but counterfeit fifties and a motel key. Of course she said she'd never seen the key before. I put her in the lockup and headed down to the motel. There was about fifty grand in the same variety of fifties in a shoebox hidden under the bed as well as a couple of pairs of men's pants and shirts hanging in the closets along with her stuff. Back at the office I showed her the shoebox and she started crying. Never would cop out on her boyfriend, though. She's really a solid broad. I figured it out anyway. She had an address book in her purse. I can't remember the guy's name right offhand

"Paul
LaMonica
?" Carr said.

"That's it," True said. "I really pressed her, even offered her a deal if she would hand him up, but she stuck by her guns. She kept her story all the way to the joint.
A solid broad.
Ya
gotta
give her credit."

"Thanks for the rundown," Carr said.

"Anytime," True said. "By the way, how's our old buddy No Waves?"

"About the same," Carr said.

"That's why I like it right here in good
ol
' Las Vegas." True cleared his voice. "U.S. Treasury Las Vegas Field Office, Special Agent True signing off. Have a real nice day," he said in a sarcastic tone.

Carr smiled and shook his head. He hung up the receiver.

It was almost midnight.
LaMonica
had been catnapping in an overstuffed chair.

The light and sound of a television set filled the hotel room, a talk show featuring a youthful cowboy actor with plucked eyebrows rambling on about the dangers of nuclear power. There was nothing else on.

Like the other cubicles on the top floor of the Tijuana Excelsior, the room was replete with fancy tile work and imitation primitive art.
LaMonica
rose from the chair and stretched. He stabbed his way through sheer curtains to the spacious balcony.

Sandy, resting on one of the two double beds, remained transfixed by the television.

The view from the balcony was partially obstructed by the downtown bullring, an ominous structure that loomed like some ancient ruin. To the right, American Border Patrol helicopters with powerful spotlights rattled along north of the international boundary searching for intruders. A breeze, tepid and gusting steadily, came from that direction.

"Would you like to go over it again?"
LaMonica
said to the wind.

"What?" Sandy said. The bed creaked. She went to the dressing table and poured a drink.

"Go over it again," he said, raising his voice.

Sandy pushed her way through the curtain and stood next to him. She held a drink. "If I don't have it down by now I never will," she said between sips.

A helicopter descended suddenly, its beam of light aimed at something moving on the ground. Vehicle lights sped along the fence. After a while the helicopter ascended and followed the border east. Finally it was out of sight.

"Funny, the two of us spending the night together,"
Sandy
said. "After that last time I swore I'd never work with you again. And here we are rehearsing an act."

"I wanted you in on this. I really did,"
LaMonica
said. His hands held the balcony rail.

"I'm here because I finally said to myself that if you really did rip me off in that last thing, you would never have had the guts to ask me to work with you again," Sandy said. "Plus, I sort of respect you...the way you work alone and take care of business. You're not a bullshit artist.
And because I have a chance to make enough money to change everything for once and for all.
I want
out
of this
fuckin
' place. It's a goal." She held the drink to her forehead.

"What about your boyfriend,
Mr. Cool?
"
LaMonica
said. "You'd just leave him behind?" He smirked.

"I once read in a women's lib book that women should have relationships with lower class men in order to develop confidence," Sandy
Hartzbecker
said. "I think the author was right. My relationship with Mr. Cool has changed me. I feel different after having been with him. He's his own man, but he's concerned about what happens to me. We're equals. We respect each other and always have something to talk about. We share things and look out for one another. The book was right. Fuck what other people think." Her expression was one of disdain.

"If Lockhart puts you on the spot tomorrow, just turn on the tears and leave the room,"
LaMonica
said. "I'll follow you out and then we'll decide what to do next. We have to play it by ear. On the other hand, don't be afraid to push him to the wall. I read him as basically a pussy. He'll cave in with pressure. Even if he tells us to shove it and walks out, don't worry. We can always go back later with a lower offer."

Like a ritual of good luck, they went over the details again. By the time they'd hashed it all out, Sandy had downed three more drinks. They went back into the room and got undressed.

Sandy fluffed a pillow and flopped down on her bed.
LaMonica
climbed onto the other bed and flicked off the light on the nightstand. There was only moonlight in the room. It was too warm for covers.

"You wanted me in the same room with you so I couldn't back out at the last minute," Sandy said. Her speech was slightly slurred from the drinks. "You're a great one for details. You like to have everything just right. Just the way you want it...even in sex."

A gust of wind.
The curtains reached into the room like ghost's hands. A sound in the distance might have been a siren. They stirred for a while. Nothing was said.

"I'll do it if you want me to," Sandy said flatly. "I can't sleep. "

"I'd like that,"
LaMonica
said.

"Only if we can start my way," she said. "There's a jar in my purse.

LaMonica
reached into the purse on the nightstand. He removed a jar of surgical jelly.

Sandy rolled over and adjusted a pillow under her stomach. "When I say stop, I mean stop."

Sitting on the balcony with the morning sun warming his back, Paul
LaMonica
felt encouraged. The plan had progressed. He knew Omar T. Lockhart had not waddled all the way from Texas to Tijuana lust to shoot the shit.

For over an hour the topic of discussion had been money. There had been first and second offers, and the hotel room
was
filled with fiery talk about them. Sandy
Hartzbecker
, wearing a jumpsuit, paced around the room puffing on brown cigarettes, making demands. For emphasis, now and then she would aim a finger at Lockhart as if it were a gun.

Lockhart looked perfectly uncomfortable sitting at a table. He clicked furiously on a ballpoint pen.

"A hundred thousand dollars is completely out of the question," Lockhart said, bobbing his puffy head in a bow of confidence. "We'd just as soon take our chances and let the damn checks get distributed and passed. Sure, we'll sustain some loss, but the police will catch the forgers eventually." He leaned back in the rattan chair.

Sandy was perched on the edge of the bed facing the balcony. She stabbed a finger in the direction of the fat man's face. "Then you can go right ahead and do just that!" she said. "Because if you think I'm going to settle for one dime less, you're crazy. I came to you people because I wanted to do the right thing...and because of what those Mafia bastards did to my Freddie." Her voice was filled with emotion. She sniffled. Tear action. "But I swear to God I'll sell the package to them unless I get enough money to make a new life for myself. They killed Freddie and they'll kill me if they don't get the checks. I'm going to need a new identity, a new life. These things cost money." She pulled a tissue from a box and wiped her nose.

Lockhart leaned back in the chair. His neck disappeared in the burden of flesh under his chin. "I hope you realize that simple possession of those counterfeit checks is a felony violation of law," he said smugly.

"Oh, so now you want to
threaten
me?" Sandy said. "Then why don't you just go ahead and call the FBI! Or the cops or the Secret Service or
whoeverthefuck
you want to call. This
is Mexico,
you
sonofabitch
! U.S. laws don't apply here!" Sandy grabbed more tissues. She dabbed her eyes furiously.

"There's no need to raise your voice," said Lockhart without any show of emotion. "I receive my instructions from a board of directors. There are certain ground rules that I - "

"Then go back and tell your board of directors to get
fucked!"
Sandy jumped to her feet. "I have nothing else to say to you. I've made up my mind to go the other way." More loud sniffles as she rushed to the door. She swung it open.

"I am prepared to make a final substantial offer," Lockhart said, "if you would care to listen."

Sandy's hands were on her hips. "Then make it," she said.

Lockhart blinked rapidly before he spoke. "Twenty five thousand dollars for full recovery."

Sandy's hands flew to her face. Sobs. She ran out of the room.

LaMonica
shook his head in mock despair. "I'll get her," he said on his way out of the room.

Sandy was pacing back and forth in front of the elevators.