The Quality of the Informant (7 page)

Kelly
waved,
drink in hand, from a bar-stool perch facing the door. Carr made his way to him and sat down.

Ling, wearing his usual bow tie and long-sleeved white shirt, wiped his wire-framed eyeglasses on his sleeve. He put them back on. "Charlie," he said, grabbing a Scotch bottle. He poured a drink and set it down in front of Carr. "Lady sheriff detective ask about you last night. Big blonde," he whispered. "She want to know if I have your address since you transfer back. I thought maybe I give her my address. Maybe get her in bed with me and lay her before she know what happens!" He gave a high-pitched laugh.

Carr smiled and shook his head.

Still laughing, Ling poured more drinks and rushed to the other end of the bar.

"How long did he have you in his office?" Kelly said.

"About two hours."

"Same here," Kelly said. "Christ, you'd think
we'd
killed Linda." He shook his head sadly.

"That's just the way he is," Carr said.

Kelly set his drink down. "You're right there. He's the same pipe-smoking, ass-kissing,
i
-dotting, mama's boy bureaucrat he always was. Over the years I've had dreams about kicking the shit out of him. Literally pounding his
friggin
' head in."

"I know what you mean," Carr said. He gulped fully half of the Scotch-and-water and put the glass down. Neither man said anything for a while.

"Linda was getting careless," Kelly said. "She'd done too many cases. She shouldn't have brought the guy over to her apartment. It was a stupid thing to do."

"She had a lot of guts."

"We don't have anything to go on," Kelly said. "
LaMonica
could be anywhere by now."

"We'll find him," Carr said after a while. "And when we do we're going to play catch-up."

Carr and Kelly spent the next day standing around in the hallway outside judge Malcolm's courtroom waiting to testify. The case was a leftover that predated Carr's transfer to Washington. Because of assorted technicalities, Judge Malcolm had granted twelve defense motions for continuance in almost two years. Carr wasn't particularly surprised by the delay because he had seen the defense lawyer use the same strategy in other cases.

At 4:00 P.M., Assistant U.S. Attorney Reba
Partch
, a harried young woman with thick glasses, wiry hair, and an oversized rear end, strode out of the courtroom. She wore a black velvet jacket with a matching tie and a huge
dandruffy
collar. "You two are excused," she said gruffly. "I let him plead to one count for straight probation." She dug a package of cough drops out of her jacket and popped a couple into her mouth. "It's a weak case anyway, and I'm sick of making court appearances on it. There've been a million continuances. Even the judge is sick of the case." She maneuvered the cough drops around in her mouth.

Kelly's face reddened. "Since when is a confession a weak case?" he said. "He told us he did it. Not to mention the fact that he had a stack of phony twenties in his pocket when we arrested him. The jerk has a record a mile long."

"If we went to trial on him and lost, then what would we have?" she said.

"The same thing we have right now," Kelly said. "Nothing. "

Her tongue arranged the cough drops so she could speak. "You people are completely out of touch with reality," she said, cough drops rattling against her teeth. She flung open the door and bustled back into the courtroom.

Kelly was still talking about the incident that night as he drove south past fog-shrouded motels and fast-food stands along the Pacific Coast Highway, a two-lane road that wound through the beach cities. "Her daddy raised her, paid for her law school, and juiced her way into a federal prosecutor's job with a nice fat political contribution. The only thing he couldn't do for her was
try
her cases."

"You don't become a judge by taking cases to trial," Carr said. "You might lose. Sally told me that Judge Malcolm never tried a case during his days as prosecutor. He had a perfect record when he was appointed to the bench."

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," Kelly said as he swung the G-car into a parking lot next to a smallish building. A flashing marquee on its roof proclaimed "Shorty McFadden's-Le Jazz Club." They got out of the car and strolled to the rear door of the place.
The sound of a saxophone came from inside.
Both men tightened their belts to keep their guns from bulging under their suit jackets. Carr opened the door and they went inside.

Blue lights shone through cigarette smoke onto a stage that barely had room enough for the combo on it. Shorty McFadden, a fragile-looking, jockey-sized man wearing a French-cut white suit and a black turtleneck, was playing a fiery "Cherokee" on his sax. As he harmonized, his eyes were half shut and his knees bent with the rhythm. He had thinning brown hair and the chalky complexion of a man who had just been released from solitary confinement.

The crowd was mixed: beach types, a few blacks, more than a few middle-aged hoods with young women, some sunken-cheeked hypes. The T-men were the focus of lots of stares, including one from a black woman bartender with corn-rowed hair who was as tall as a basketball player. Carr and Kelly took a seat at a corner table that provided a view of both doors.

At the end of the set, Shorty McFadden bowed to the applause and told the audience in a hoarse voice that it was time for a break. He set the saxophone on its stand and lit a cigarette. Then he hopped off the stage and wound his way to the bar, shaking hands along the way. The Amazon bartender said something to him and he headed straight for Carr's table. Everyone shook hands. Shorty greeted the T-men without smiling. Come to think of it, Carr had never seen him smile. The diminutive man pulled up a chair.

"Is there anything going on in here?"
McFadden asked, sounding concerned.

"Nothing like that," Carr said. "We just stopped by to talk. "

"If you ever get word that anything is going on in here, just tell me. I'll burn whoever it is right then and there. I've put the word out that nothing goes down in Shorty's. My old lady had to go to six hearings before the liquor board granted her a license for this place. I will burn
anyone
who brings trouble in here. I didn't spend fifteen years bouncing from San Quentin to Lexington with a needle sticking out of my arm so that some punk could do business in my club and get the place shut down. This place is my
dream,
man." He puffed on his cigarette. Smoke wafted out of his mouth and into his nose. "In the old days I used to wake up in the morning and gulp a handful of uppers. During the day I'd use heroin,
numorphan
, sleeping pills, and drink a gallon of wine. Sometimes I'd lay down about five A.M. or so and try to catch a few winks. And, even with all that shit in my system, do you know what was on my mind? The idea of someday owning my own jazz club...of being able to get up on a stage like I just did and blow 'Cherokee' for my friends. Well, I finally got my dream. And if anybody does anything to fuck it up, even though I'm a solid guy who went to the joint more than once because I wouldn't hand up my friends, I'll burn '
em
." He finished off a cigarette with a puff that fired paper all the way back to the filter, and blew out the smoke.

"I need some background information," Carr said.

Shorty McFadden lit a fresh cigarette. He puffed once and coughed once. "Shoot."

"Teddy Mora," Carr said.

"The Teddy Mora I know deals paper out of the Castaways Lounge one day of the week," McFadden said. "The rest of the time he's hard to find. I heard he just bought a head shop down the street from
Grauman's
Chinese. I met him once in the U.S. marshal's lockup when I was awaiting trial. We both made bail at the same time. He had some bank counter-checks and I downed '
em
. I gave him front money for some more, and he never came through. He's a snake, a back-stabber."

"Have you ever heard the name Paul
LaMonica
?
"
Carr said.

Shorty nodded. "He's a paper pusher too ... funny money and checks. But when I was hanging paper, I never scored from him. The word was that if you crossed him he'd kill
ya
. Not just get pissed off,
but
actually blow you away. I wasn't real big on the idea of ending up in the refrigerator because I shortened him five bucks in buy money or some shit. We were in the same cellblock at Terminal Island for a while. He choked a Mexican to death with a rolled-up sheet and got away with it. Even the usual snitches refused to testify against him. He's the kind of guy who would figure out a way to transfer to another joint just to get you. The word is that he learned how to print ... does his own paper now and sells it. He's screwy, a loner."

"We need some help in finding him," Carr said. "He's a fugitive."

With a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, McFadden slowly shook his head. "Four years ago you grabbed me red-handed in a bank. My wife was dying in the County Hospital. When you took me to see her before you booked me, it was the first time a cop had done a favor for me. I said it then and I'll say it now, I'll tell you anything you want to know." He pointed to his temple. "What's up here is yours for the asking, but I'll never set anybody up and I'll never testify. If I did, I would be a rat. And no one likes a rat. So if you're asking me to find the man and set him up for you, the answer is no. I'm not a snitch."

The lady bartender carried a tray over to them. She set a full bottle of expensive Scotch and two glasses of ice on the table. Her complexion was deep African black and she had wide lips, hips, and cheekbones. She wore gypsy earrings.

"This is my new old lady," McFadden said. He introduced Carr and Kelly by their first names. "These people are friends. Take care of them when they come in."

The woman winked and walked back to the bar.

"We met at a methadone treatment center," McFadden said. "That woman has changed my life. She won't even let me drink." He picked up the bottle and filled their glasses.

"Is there anything else you can tell me about
LaMonica
?" Carr said.

Shorty McFadden started to light a cigarette but realized he already had one in the ashtray. He stuffed it back in the pack. "He has a missing finger," he said. "As the story goes, he was running off a load of hundreds in a cabin up near Big Bear Lake and he got his finger caught in the printing press. He was alone, and of course he couldn't holler for help. He ended up chopping his own finger off." Shorty McFadden shook his head. "If it was me, I think I would rather have just started yelling and taken the trip back to the joint for a deuce or so." He glanced at the stage. The other musicians had hopped on it and were picking up their instruments. Shorty McFadden snapped his fingers and pointed at Carr. "Rosemary," he said. "The broad who used to forge all the stolen savings bonds. She knows
LaMonica
. I suggest you talk with her. She might be able to do you some good."

"What's her last name?" Kelly said.

"Clamp or Clump or something like that," McFadden said.

"Where do we find her?" Carr asked.

"The last I heard, she was running an art gallery on Melrose right near the Beverly Hills city limit. As I understand it, she doesn't do savings bonds anymore because every forgery bull in L.A. knows her handwriting by sight." Shorty McFadden smiled for the first time. Carr thought his face looked like a yellow rubber mask. Maybe it was just the lighting...

Shorty McFadden glanced at his wristwatch. "What would you like to hear?" he said.

"How about 'I Can't Get Started With
You
,'" Carr said.

"You got it." Shorty McFadden stood up and sauntered through the crowd, shaking hands. Then he climbed onto the stage, picked up his saxophone, and tested the mouthpiece. He nodded at the bass man and began to blow.

After the first tune, Carr and Kelly finished their drinks and slipped out the back door. Thick fog had rolled in. They climbed into the G-car. Kelly turned on the headlights and started the engine. He drove down an alley lined with trashcans and through a service-station lot. A pickup truck behind them took the same route. Kelly turned north on the Pacific Coast Highway and stepped on the gas. A few blocks later he made a right turn onto a residential street. The pickup truck did the same.