The Quality of the Informant (22 page)

"I'll take it," Sandy said. "But I'm getting screwed and it's just not right." Haughtily, she folded her arms across her chest.

The fat man dug a handkerchief out of his back pocket and unfolded it. Covering his face with the cloth, he wiped from side to side. He looked at the hanky and stuffed it back into his pocket. "My employer insists that the transfer itself take place in the United States."

With eyes closed, Sandy shook her head. "No way," she said.

"We're not going to negotiate on this point," Lockhart said, "because I'm sure you don't
really
expect us to bring fifty thousand dollars in cold cash across the border." He stood up and straightened his wrinkled trousers.

"You will if you want the checks," Sandy said.

"No, young lady, we damn well won't," Lockhart said. "Texans don't do business that way. You'll come to the U.S. to do the final deal or it will not be done at all." His eyes bugged with hostility.

LaMonica's
hands made a "go easy" gesture and he winked at the security man.

"I'll expect to hear from you soon," said Lockhart. He turned and trudged along the edge of the pool and through the hotel lobby.

"I'm not going across," Sandy said. "I told you I wouldn't go and I wasn't bullshitting. I have the creeps just being here in T-Town. You've heard the stories about the feds kidnapping fugitives and driving them across. I'm not going to take a chance on going back to eating off a plastic tray and sitting in a room with fifty bull dykes just to watch a television program."

LaMonica
leaned closer to her. "You're not looking at this realistically," he said. "These people are ready to
pay.
You and I will get twenty-five thousand fucking dollars apiece! We will be
out
of this shitty border scene. I'm talking about
freedom,
Sandy. A ticket
out."

Sandy's fingernails played a tune on her lower lip.

"I'll be with you every step of the way,"
LaMonica
said confidently. "We can pull it off without any problems. I know we can."

"I've heard that before," Sandy said. "Besides, you don't give a shit about me or any other woman. For you, women are just something to use."

"We're
both
going to be there. We're
both
wanted in the U.S. I'm not asking you to take any risk I'm not taking. In fact, if something happens I'll let you hand me up. I'm giving you my permission to tell the cops I forced you into the operation against your will. You can cut a deal and testify against me. I'm giving you my permission to do that if anything happens. I swear."

"Deal or not, I've still got an escape warrant that would put me back in the joint," Sandy
Hartzbecker
said. "
That's
what it all comes down to."

LaMonica
grabbed her arm. "No," he said, speaking through gritted teeth. "What it all comes down to is that fat motherfucker Lockhart sitting across the border with fifty grand wrapped in rubber bands and whether we go over and take him off or just sit here and listen to one another talk about it. I'll tell you this much: With or without your help, I'm going to go up there and try to
take
the man's money. I'll hold a gun to his head if I have to."

Sandy pulled her arm away. She stood up and faced the pool. She watched the two human dolphins as they continued to splash around. It was a long while before she spoke.

"I want Mr. Cool to be there with me," she said. "That way I know I won't get ripped off."

LaMonica
grimaced. "Involving other people in our business is suicide. It's unnecessary."

"It's the only way I'll do it. I mean that."

LaMonica
sat for a while without speaking. "Okay," he said finally. "You're risking as much as I am by letting him in on it. Go ahead and call him. Tell him we'll do the deal at the Sandstone Motor Lodge on Interstate Five just south of San Diego. He should get a room
there
day after tomorrow and wait for us."

****

Chapter 20

THEY WERE less than a hundred feet from the border, waiting in a line of automobiles.

LaMonica's
mouth and throat seemed to become drier and drier as they approached the international boundary. His mind was on the sleeping bag in the trunk that contained the phony traveler's checks. He wore a straw sombrero with the word
Mexico
stitched across the brim.

Sandy squirmed in the passenger seat. "I should have walked across," she said out of the side of her mouth. "You could have picked me up on the other side."

"Too complicated,"
LaMonica
said. He stepped on the accelerator and the car advanced. "Just relax. Look the cop in the eye," he said.

"What are you bringing into the U.S.?" the younger border patrolman said, standing at the driver's window. His olive green uniform was starched, neat; a brass nameplate over his pocket read "C. Roberts."

LaMonica
flicked the brim of his silly bat. "Just this," he said. Turning to Sandy: "And I'm afraid the wife is bringing back Montezuma's revenge." Sandy shook her head as if she were embarrassed.

The patrolman smiled. He stepped back from the car and waved them across the line.

LaMonica
accelerated into the stream of traffic heading north toward San Diego. Sandy held out her hands. They were shaking. "Look at me." she said.

LaMonica
flipped the sombrero onto the backseat. "That hat is worth a million bucks," he said. "It's all they look at."

Less than fifteen minutes up the road
LaMonica
steered onto a freeway off ramp. At the end of the ramp he turned left and followed a bridge that doubled back across the freeway. He pulled up in front of a motel, a two-story rectangular affair with a coffee shop. Having parked the car, he strolled into the registration office. The woman behind the desk was gray-haired, hefty and wore a flowered dress. Her eyeglasses hung precariously on the top of her nose. She handed
LaMonica
a registration card and a pen. He signed it "C. Roberts."

In the motel room,
LaMonica
stood at the window while Sandy relaxed in a chair. "I thought we were going to meet at the Sandstone Motel," she said with a puzzled look. "I told Mr. Cool to meet us there."

LaMonica
pointed out the window. "The Sandstone is just across the freeway," he said. "Your man is already there. That looks like his Caddy parked in the lot in front of that room."

LaMonica
walked to a nightstand. He picked up the phone and dialed an area code and a number.

"Teddy's Bar," Mora said.

"I need a favor,"
LaMonica
said.

"Shoot."

"I want you to drive up toward San Diego. Stop at the Sandstone Motel Lodge on Interstate Five. There's a telephone booth next to the registration office. I'll call you on that phone. Make sure you travel clean,"
LaMonica
said.

"Gotcha," Mora said. "Can you give me a clue as to what the hell is going down?"

"I don't like to talk on the phone,"
LaMonica
said. "I'll tell you when you get here." He hung up.

The air was filled with the gentle thunder of waves.

Sea gulls, none of which looked the least bit overfed, made swooping attacks on edible items along the strand,
then
fluttered back to the grassy hillocks above it where Carr and Kelly had been hiding since morning. The birds seemed to launch themselves without urgency, as if to keep from getting bored.

It was high tide, nearing dusk, and Carr's legs felt numb and stiff. Maintaining a low crawl position among the chaparral, the T-man and his partner faced the portion of shore that included Teddy's Bar. They were far enough away that binoculars were needed to make out the faces of those coming and going from the modest establishment but close enough so that when the wind was right, they could hear the sound of Mariachi music coming from the open front door.

Carr looked at his wristwatch, a habit he had always tried to avoid on surveillances because it seemed to make time slow down.

"We're
gonna
have to move in closer as soon as it gets dark," Kelly said. "If Teddy slips by we could still be up here with these sea gulls tomorrow morning. Wouldn't that be a goddamn knockout punch? Being up here all day peeing in the bushes waiting for Teddy to make a move and we
miss
him when he leaves?"

Carr smiled. "Sounds like you're not enjoying our little fishing trip."

"On the contrary!" Kelly said sarcastically. "How could I say it hasn't been just
barrels
of fun being down here in Baja dodging sea-gull shit. I've particularly enjoyed having a pound or so of sand wedged up the crack of my ass all day. Not to mention the third degree sunburn I've developed on the back of my neck.
Golly
, I haven't had so many kicks since my double hernia."

A light colored Mercedes sedan made a dust cloud as it came down the road. Carr grabbed the binoculars. The vehicle had California license plates and was driven by a man wearing a wide brimmed gambler's hat. He parked the sedan in front of the bar and got out. Carr guessed him at no more than five feet tall. Having taken a quick glance around, the man proceeded to the trunk of the vehicle. He unlocked it and the lid popped up. Sticking his hand in what looked like a leather bag, he pulled out a handful of small white packets. With one smooth motion he hoisted his pants leg and shoved the items into his sock. After closing and locking the trunk, he strolled into the bar.

"So far, everyone who has gone into the place has looked one-hundred-percent
wrong,"
Kelly said.

Carr put down the binoculars and rubbed his eyes. "Sure seems that way," he said.

Kelly pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and spread it out in his hand. Tucking one of its sides under the back of his baseball cap, he allowed the cloth to cover the back of his neck, legionnaire style. "Matter of fact, from the looks of the people so far, I'd say if you wanted to give the world an enema you could probably start by sticking the nozzle right in the front door down there," he said.

Carr grabbed the binoculars and adjusted the focus. "That's him," he said.

Teddy Mora, wearing a tropical shirt, came out of the bar.
Ostrichlike
, he sauntered across the parking lot and headed toward a green camper truck. Mora unlocked the driver's door and got in. The engine roared as he headed up a road leading to the highway.

The agents jumped up and ran through the chaparral like firemen heading for a hook and ladder. Carr vaulted into the driver's seat and started the engine. Kelly jumped in on the passenger side and slammed the door. Throwing the sedan into gear, Carr hit the accelerator and zoomed toward the highway at full speed. Nearing the main road, he caught a glimpse of Teddy Mora's camper proceeding north at what seemed a leisurely pace. The T-man steered through brush and bumped across rocks and onto the highway. Adjusting his speed, he was able to keep Mora's camper truck barely within sight. As it grew dark, Carr kept up the cat-and-mouse game by turning the sedan's
brights
on and off intermittently as they rounded curves.

By the time they reached the outskirts of Tijuana, it was dark. The green camper truck wound through the border town's business district, a winding maze of illuminated beer advertisements and winking neon that touted B-girl dives with names like Sailor's Lounge, Rosa's and Hula Girl. At the western edge of the town, the camper made a turn and followed a sign pointing toward the U.S. The vehicle crossed a small bridge and pulled into one of the lines of cars inching up to the border.