Money Men

by Gerald Petievich

"My parents live with us. That's why we came back to the U.S., to take care of them. My mother has cancer. She has me so worried." Carol looked at the floor.

  "I'm sorry," Iumi Ishikawa said.

  Carol raised her head. "I assure you the check is good."

  "I'll speak with the manager. I'm sure he will approve the transaction once I explain it to him." Iumi Ishikawa gave an embarrassed smile, or was it a nervous smile? She walked to the manager's desk. He was blond, tan, trim as a jogger. She talked with him briefly and came back to the desk. The manager picked up his phone and dialed.

  "Is there a problem?" Carol asked, lowering her voice halfway through the sentence.

  The manager stared at her while speaking on the phone. The Japanese girl stood at the desk with the check in her hands. She did not sit down.

  Carol's knees were shaking.

  "If you'll just wait a few minutes, the check will be approved," Iumi Ishikawa said.

  "No way!" Carol lunged, grabbed the check, and ran out the glass door.

  Brakes squealed as she dodged across the street. Looking behind her, Carol flung herself into a department store's revolving door. She heard a siren.

  Out of breath, she mixed in with women in furs and rings, moving from table to table, picking things up and putting them down, as if browsing.

  Standing behind a window display, she held up a blouse and looked across the street at the bank. The bank manager and the Japanese girl were standing outside the bank looking around.

  A police car pulled up. A black policeman got out and slipped his baton into a ring on his belt. The bank manager pointed down the street toward another store. He was pointing the wrong way!

  The policeman and the bank manager trotted down the sidewalk.

  Carol headed toward an escalator and realized she was walking too fast. She slowed down. In front of her was a tiered display of purses. She picked one up and studied every face near her. No one was looking. She ripped off the gray wig, stuffed it in the purse, and set it back down. She ran her hand through her hair and got on the escalator.

  On the way up she had a view of the entire first floor. It had three street entrances. There was canned music and the murmur of soap-opera talk from a row of color televisions. A man and woman on TV kissed. She was safe.

  If no one had seen her run into the store, they would look around for an hour or so and then go away. She breathed deeply.

  She realized the check was still in her hand. She asked a salesman where the rest room was and headed for a door near a group of sofas.

  In the rest room she stuffed the check in her bra. Watching the door, she took off the pink jacket and put it in a trashcan. She tucked in her blouse. Her watch said it was noon. This was as good a place to wait as any.

  Two giggling salesgirls came in twenty minutes later, and Carol left the rest room.

  The escalator took her to each floor. She paused at every department and made up questions for the salespeople. In the fourth-floor rest room she spent a full half hour standing in front of the mirror before anyone else came in. In linens she purchased some beach towels. They filled up a shopping bag nicely.

  On the third trip down the escalator, Carol began to wonder whether the salespeople were staring at her. Or was it just her imagination? But then again, why take chances?

  She looked at her watch. She had been in the store two full hours.

  From the display window she could see that the police car was gone from the bank. Everything seemed back to normal. The street was crowded with shoppers.

  Carol tapped a young salesgirl on the shoulder. "Excuse me, is there a back way out...into the parking lot?"

  "Sorry, these are the only customers' doors," she said, pointing to the street entrance.

  "Thank you."

  A bus stopped across the street and picked up passengers. That was it! She could see a bus two blocks down. Thank God!

  She joined a group of women going out the door, and walked in the opposite direction from the bank, toward a bus bench. She sat down.

  Was that a police car down the street near the bus? Jesus, it was. It was just cruising. It passed the bus and then stopped for a light. It was too late to get up and run. He would see her. Once she got on the bus she would be home free.

  As the police car approached, she could see that the driver was black. She felt the goose bumps. He was pulling over to the curb in front of the bus bench. She turned her head.

  The policeman got out of the car and walked around the car to her. The bus passed by.

  "Ma'am?"

  "Yes, officer," Carol said.

  "We're looking for a lady in a pink skirt. May I ask you where you've just been?"

  "Just bought some towels for the beach house." She opened the bag and smiled. "See?"

  "Thank you. Would you mind walking down the street with me to the bank? It will just take a minute."

  "I am in a hurry. I'd really rather not. My husband is waiting for me. He's a producer at the studios." Carol looked at her watch.

  "I'm afraid you'll have to come along with me. It'll just take a minute," said the policeman.

  "Well, if you insist. Would you mind carrying this bag for me?"

  The policeman looked at her for a moment and gave a grudging smile. "Sure."

  Carol handed him the bag and kneed him in the balls at the same time. He fell backward. There was the sound of police equipment hitting the sidewalk.

  Running down the street, she pulled out the check and shoved it in her mouth. "God help me! Please don't let me go back!" She turned the corner, feet flying. The sound of running came from behind her. Suddenly a black arm clamped around her neck. Her feet stopped and flew forward. Ronnie and his towel!

  Her tailbone slammed against the sidewalk. She scratched violently at the arm around her neck. The policeman's sweaty cheek touched her ear. "Spit it out, Mabel," he grunted. She tried to swallow, and a funny sound came out. The vice around her neck tightened. "Okay, bitch, you asked for it. Nighty night," said the policeman. Blackness.

  Carr's eyes itched from using the binoculars. Someone once told him it was caused by the light refraction of the windshield glass. Kelly's hulk filled the back seat.

  "Here comes Scarlett O'Puke," Kelly said, taking a toothpick out of his mouth. A henna-haired middle-aged woman entered her apartment.

  By now each resident of the avocado apartment house had been christened by Kelly. One old man was "Mr. Spitter"; the scraggly young couple on the first floor were "John and Martha Incest"; a spindly, modish bachelor who lived next door to Diamond was "Ensign Tubesteak."

  "Not one of these people goes to work. Have you noticed that?" Kelly said.

  "Would you hire any of them if you were an employer?"

  "Fuck no," Kelly said.

  "See."

  Kelly changed the subject. "I think Red is planning a caper," he said.

  "What makes you say that?" Carr said.

  "He's too cautious. The only place he's been in two days was a Laundromat. He's laying low. He's building up to something. Rounders never stay in their pad unless it's for a reason." Kelly used the toothpick again.

  "Don't forget," Carr said, "Waxman told us Diamond was into the sharks. Maybe he hasn't made his payment and he's worried. Besides, we don't know where he went when we lost him yesterday. "

  "Maybe. But I say he's getting ready for a job; thinking, planning, using his noodle. Crooks always like public places."

  "Maybe so." Carr exhaled. He looked in the rearview mirror.

  A sedan pulled in behind them and parked. Delgado got out and came over and leaned in the passenger window.

  "The duty agent just got a call from Wilshire Division. They grabbed a paper hanger in a bank. A broad. She's singing for a deal. Says her ex-con boyfriend has a sawed-off. Here's my keys. I'll fill in here with Kelly while you go talk with her."

  ****

  TWENTY-TWO

  The squad room was a jumble of desks and phones. Uniformed poli
cemen and detectives in short-sleeved white shirts used the telephones. People, mostly black, were handcuffed to benches along the walls. The voices were profane.

  Carr lit a cigarette and listened to a policeman whose skin and hair were the color of his uniform. The cop's shoes and badge were soldier-shined.

  "She tried to scarf the check but I choked her and dug it out of her mouth," said the policeman. He handed Carr a clear plastic envelope containing a gnawed check. "The bank manager had just got a call from a friend at another branch who was stung by the same kind of check, same M.O. The broad-her name's Carol Lomax, by the way-just had a little bad luck. Her records package says she's on parole from Corona. Got out three months ago...She's talking about a dude with a sawed-off shotgun. Since it's a federal beef, I thought I'd give you guys a call."

  Carr handed back the check. "Did she give you her boyfriend's name?"

  "She said his name is..." The policeman took a notebook out of his shirt pocket. "Boyce...Ronnie Boyce."

  Carr's muscles tensed. "Ronnie?"

  "Why? You know the asshole?"

  "Yes," Carr said.

  The policeman pointed to a door with a photograph of a black-robed judge on a background of girlie-magazine crotch shots. Police art. "She's in that interview room if you want to talk with her." He turned back to writing his report.

  Carr wanted to run into the room. Instead, he took a couple of deep breaths. He walked slowly to the door and opened it casually.

  Carol was at the table, her head resting on her arms. The room had a table, chairs, and fiberboard walls. The ashtray on the table was overflowing, though there was a wastebasket in the corner. Next to the ashtray were a few wadded-up pieces of Kleenex with red stains. She looked up at Carr.

  "You a Fed?"

  Carr showed his gold badge.

  Carol looked at the badge, picked up a Kleenex ball, dabbed it under her upper lip, and looked at it. Her white blouse was filthy.

  "What's the matter?" Carr said.

  "That cop choked me out and stuck his hand in my mouth. My gums are bleeding. First of all, before I say anything I want to know what you can do for me." She dabbed again.

  "I can't make you any promises."

  "I know you can't promise me that I'll get off or anything. I'm on parole. They got the check. I know I'm going back." Her lower lip trembled. She stared at the ashtray. "If I could have gotten rid of the check, they wouldn't have anything on me." The Kleenex ball touched each eye, then the nose. She cleared her throat. "What I want is a letter to the parole board saying I cooperated with the Feds. I want the letter to be in my parole file."

  Carr sat down and laid his hands flat on the table. "That can be arranged," he said, "depending on what you can turn."

  "How about a sawed-off shotgun?" she said, "That's a federal beef, isn't it?"

  "Sure is. Where is the shotgun?"

  Carol rubbed the back of her neck. "In a locker at the downtown bus depot. That's where he keeps it. This guy I know. Ronnie Boyce. He just got out of Terminal Island."

  "What does Ronnie use it for?" Carr said. He drummed his fingers on the table.

  Carol looked at Carr's shoulder as she spoke. "I have no idea. I don't know anything about what he does with it, and I don't want to know. I just know he has it." She crushed the Kleenex.

  "Have you seen it?"

  "Uh, no.

  "Then how do you know he has it?"

  "I mean, I've seen it, but what he does with it is his own business."

  Carr picked up the brimming ashtray, walked to the wastebasket, and emptied it.

  "How do you know it's in the locker?" he said, before turning around.

  "He's told me that's where he keeps it, and besides, I've seen the locker key in the motel room."

  Carr sat down again.

  "What's the number on the locker key?"

  "I don't remember." Carol picked at her face. "I don't want him to know I handed him up. He's goofy."

  Carr folded his hands. "If you want to do yourself any good, Carol, you'll have to tell me where he is."

  "I hope you aren't going to rush over there, break down the door, and tell him I snitched him off." Carol's front teeth were bloody pink.

  Carr closed his eyes and shook his head slowly.

  Carol rested her ears on her fists. "The Sea Horse Motel in Santa Monica. It's on Lincoln Boulevard. Room eleven." Her eyes searched Carr. "Now that I've told you, are you still going to write the letter? Or were you just bullshitting?"

  "I'll take the letter to your parole agent myself." He took out a notebook. "What's his name?" He wrote it down and put the notebook and pencil away.

  "Is there any way you could get me into a federal prison so I could do my time there? They have a lot more vocational rehab stuff."

  "I don't think so," he said.

  "The only reason I got caught was because of my skirt. I should of changed it," Carol said. She put her head back down. He left the police station in a hurry, headed for Santa Monica.

  Carr drove past the Sea Horse Motel to get a look. Circling the block, he put the radio microphone in the glove compartment and glanced around the interior of the car to make sure there were no signs that it was a government vehicle. He drove into the motel parking lot and parked near room eleven. In the manager's office, he rang a bell at the counter. A brown cat with a missing ear jumped off the cluttered desk. Television sounds floated from a room shielded by a grimy plastic curtain.

  Carr guessed the woman who made a grand entry from behind the curtain to be over three hundred pounds. With her pink curlers and skin-tight sweater and slacks, she looked like an overinflated pool toy.

  She took a register card from a drawer and handed it to him along with a pen. "You want the room for a whole night or just a short while? Reason I ask is because a short while is cheaper."

  "I might be here a few days."

  Her curlers moved as she furrowed her brow.

  "You'll have to pay the rent each day. That'll be twelve dollars for tonight."

  "Here you are. I'd like to have a room near the ice machine. That's where I parked my car." Carr pointed behind him.

  "All the same to me. Here's the key to room twelve. Make sure to pay each day before noon." She pulled her sweater down to reach the horizon of her pants. The sweater popped back up an inch. She disappeared behind the plastic curtain.

  Carr walked into room twelve, carrying a Handie-Talkie in a brown paper sack, and sat down at the tiny dressing table with a phone on it. He removed the Handie-Talkie and turned the volume on low.

  He held it close to his mouth and pressed the transmit button.

  "Nine bravo four seven, this is three tango three one." He turned up the volume slightly.

  "This is nine bravo four seven, go ahead."

  "Two two this number"-he pulled the telephone closer-"787-9517."

  "Wilco. Four seven out."

  He turned off the Handie-Talkie and waited, looking at the double bed with white chenille bedspread and the circus-clown prints on each wall. A heater protruded from the wall adjoining room eleven. Above it was a vent.

  The phone rang.

  "Hello, Alex?"

  "Where are you?"

  "Sea Horse Motel on Lincoln in Santa Monica. Room twelve. Ronnie's staying in eleven. His girlfriend copped. Says he has a sawed-off. I haven't seen him yet."

  "Red is still in his apartment. I'll go back to the office. Jack will stay here on Diamond. At this point, the fewer people we have involv..." Delgado cleared his throat. "Let me know if you need anything."

  Carr hung up the phone and switched off the light. In semi-darkness he moved the chair next to the wall heater. He stood on it and, being as quiet as possible, used a flat key to remove the screws from the vent. He took it off the wall and tossed it on the bed.

  Through the wire vent cover on the wall of the next room he saw a mirror. In the mirror was a reflection of the man who killed Rico lying on the bed smoking a cigarette.
>
  ****

  TWENTY-THREE

  Kelly peered through the binoculars at Red Diamond's front door. He said out loud, "Come on out and go somewhere, you dirty son of a bitch." He could hardly believe it when a moment later Diamond appeared. He started the engine.

  Diamond backed his red Chevrolet out of the carport. Kelly ducked down on the seat as the car went past. Once Diamond had turned onto Hollywood Boulevard, Kelly made a tire-squealing U turn and picked up speed. He had to make the same stoplight as Diamond.

  Diamond turned north on Gower, passing a group of teenagers in transparent blouses. He sloped down between green landscaping to the Hollywood Freeway.

  Kelly smiled. Diamond didn't know he was being followed. Kelly stayed way back, shielded himself behind other cars.

  Diamond continued to the Harbor Freeway, then veered where the high green sign said SANTA MONICA FREEWAY. Kelly grabbed the microphone from the glove compartment as Diamond swung his car off at Lincoln Boulevard.

  "Three tango three one, this is your old partner. My man's coming atcha. We're a couple minutes away..."

  Carr's Handie-Talkie was clipped to his belt. He pressed the transmit button twice to acknowledge Kelly's message. He continued to peer through the vent. The tin edge was marking his forehead. His eyes and nose were completely inside the vent opening. He knew full well this was a violation of law. He could hear the judge now. "The defendant had a reasonable expectation of privacy as he relaxed in his room. If the agent could have observed him without removing the vent cover, he wouldn't have violated his constitutional rights. But since the agent removed the vent he infringed..."

  "We just pulled into the motel," Kelly said.

  A knock on the door. Ronnie sat up, swung his feet to the floor, crossed to the door, and opened it.

  Red Diamond looked pale. "How ya feeling, baby?"

  "Fine," Ronnie said. He backed up. Red came in. Ronnie shut and locked the door.

  Red rubbed his hands nervously and looked around. "Where's your old lady? I been wanting to meet her."

  "She went out to down some paper," Ronnie said. "Have a seat."

  "Do you have any questions?" Red sat down but got right up again. "We should get going."

  "Yeah. How does this guy know my name?" Ronnie pulled on pants and shirt. "You and me were the only ones who-"