In a swirl of red dust, LaMonica pulled up in front of the cabin, which the Mexican realtor who'd sold it to him had described as a beach house. He got out of the car and stretched. From the trunk, he unloaded cardboard boxes filled with reams of paper and ink cans. Having carted them to the door, he used a key to unfasten a large padlock. Inside, the air was oven temperature and smelled like printer's ink.
LaMonica flipped the light switch. In the middle of the room an offset printing press rested next to a worktable. Above it, a fluorescent light fixture hung from a rafter. Under the table, gallon bottles of printing chemicals were lined up exactly as he had left them. Next to the press a lithographic camera covered by a bed-sheet loomed like an apparition. A darkroom fashioned out of tarp and lumber protruded from the wall. Beside it, a pillow rested on a canvas folding-cot.
LaMonica pulled the sheet off the man-sized camera and used it to wipe off the lens. He paused for a moment to stare at his reflection: fair features; whitish hair one could describe as "distinguished"; firm biceps; the eyes and hands of a technician, a scientist, a man patient enough to endure prison-one whose symbol could be the forged and tempered steel that was the material of daggers.
Rummaging among his box of "Priority One" supplies — printers' manuals, color charts, half-tone screens, aluminum offset printing plates, lithographic film — LaMonica finally found an electric fan. He pulled it out of the box and plugged it in.
With the fan blowing on his sweaty frame, he took off his clothes and piled them on a chair. Naked, he was finally ready to get down to business. He sat at the table and resumed work on the passport. Using a razor blade, he separated the cover from the pages. He held a page up to the light. It had neither stamp marks nor folds. The bluish American eagle design, with its fine, unending lines of color, was pristine. He tossed the other pages under the table and began the work of mounting the pattern page for his copy camera. He accomplished this task as he did the rest of his printing efforts, without regard to time.
By early afternoon the heat in the workshop had become more than stifling. For a respite, LaMonica stepped in front of the fan and allowed the air to blow-dry his perspiration-soaked chest, genitals, and underarms. This refreshment was followed by a long drink from the jug of bottled water he had brought along. He repeated the process often.
By midnight the passport pages were printed and dried. Carefully he trimmed each page on a paper cutter and rounded the corners. He stapled them inside the cover. From a briefcase he removed a photograph of the peasant-cheeked Sandy Hartzbecker. She was posed leaning back against a wall with one knee up. She was nude except for a halter-top. She had a cigarette in one hand and a cocktail glass in the other. With the paper cutter, he sliced away everything in the photograph except her head and shoulders. Using glue and a wipe rag, he affixed the photograph to the inside cover of the passport. This process alone took almost two hours.
Exhausted, LaMonica flicked off the light. He pulled the sheet off the litho camera and flopped down on the cot. Having covered himself, he closed his tired eyes. Before falling asleep, he imagined fucking Linda the cocktail waitress and then killing her and running naked across spikes and jagged chunks of glass without sustaining injury.
It was light outside when LaMonica woke up. He ate the contents of a can of peaches and drank the juice, then threw himself back into work.
Having mounted the traveler's check on a piece of cardboard in front of the copy camera, he snapped photo after photo. Because of his precise standards, it took him almost three hours to prepare suitable negatives. Finally he held the completed black transparencies up to the fluorescent light and checked closely for flaws.
By eleven o'clock the cabin was sweltering. He flung open the door and stepped out onto the porch, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight. Below the hills in the direction of town he could see the coastline and a procession of fishing boats heading toward the docks near the Ensenada fish market. Birds fluttered among the branches of a nearby tree. He picked up a rock and hurled it into the branches. The birds flew away. He stepped back into the cabin, tossed his clothing on the floor, and returned to work.
Using a grayish opaquing fluid and a fine-tipped brush, LaMonica painstakingly eradicated the signatures on the negative for the front of the traveler's check. By the time this procedure was completed, he had a stiff neck. Finally the negatives were ready. One at a time he arranged them on a vacuum-frame table and matched them to a thin lithographic printing plate that was about the size of a legal tablet. He fished around in his box of supplies and brought out a stopwatch. He flicked on an arc light and the stopwatch simultaneously and timed the plate exposures. In less than an hour the plates were completed.
After washing each of the plates in developing solution until the image of the checks was visible, he chose the ones he liked best and tossed the others on the floor. Without hesitation, he affixed the front plate onto the printing press and locked it into position. He took the time to carefully adjust the ink and water levels on the printing press, then flicked the "on" switch and stepped back. The sound of a press starting up gave him a slight chill (as it always had ever since the day he lost his finger).
The press worked efficiently, spitting perfect copies of the purple traveler's check into its basket. As reams were completed, LaMonica gingerly refilled the paper feed. After a couple of hours, stacks of counterfeit traveler's checks were piled up all over the cabin. Although fatigued, LaMonica took special care as he used a paper cutter to trim the traveler's checks. While doing this, he would occasionally compare one of the counterfeits with the genuine item to make sure it was the right size.
By 5:00 P.m. the job was completed. Having handed the checks, he stacked them in a large black briefcase. He carried the case to the car and locked it in the trunk.
Using a shovel and pick he had brought with him, he spent the next two hours digging a hole next to a tree near the cabin. He dragged the printing press out of the cabin and shoved it into the hole. He did the same with the copy camera and the vacuum frame. He covered the hole with dirt and returned to the cabin.
Using a two-gallon can of gasoline he kept on hand for emergencies, he doused the walls and floor as he backed out the front door. He lit a book of matches and tossed it into the room. A fire jumped. Paul LaMonica climbed in behind the wheel of the rented sedan and watched the cabin as it was engulfed in flames. He remembered the sound of fire engines arriving in front of his house when he was a child … and his mother's whining, siren like voice. "I just don't know what to dooooooooooooooooo with him," she'd said. He started the engine and drove off. As he cruised along the two-lane road toward Ensenada, the sun finally set. He was exhausted. Having taken a few deep breaths, he turned the car radio to a San Diego station. Suddenly an old man on a bicycle pulled into the roadway. Without slowing down, LaMonica swerved and missed him by a couple of feet. His heart beat rapidly for a few moments, then returned to normal.
Chapter 8
Kelly parked the government sedan in front of a small shop with a bright yellow awning mounted over a display window. The awning's calligraphic lettering announced "The New Life Gallery." Kelly followed Carr out of the sedan. They strolled to the window, which contained kaleidoscopic photographs of pasty-faced, embracing women. The photographs were flanked by a wooden box containing a pile of what appeared to be dyed red sand in the middle of a collection of kitchen knives. An artist's business card leaning against the wooden box bore the title "Women's Work."
Carr opened the door and stepped into the art gallery. There was the sound of a chime. A fortyish woman with close-cropped blond-streaked hair wearing a shapeless dress stood in the corner speaking softly with a pair of designer-jeaned women of similar age. Both had potbellies like half footballs, wore an excess of turquoise jewelry, and stood poised on six-inch heels. The woman in the shapeless dress acknowledged the agents with a nod and continued her conversation.
Kelly nudged Carr. He pointed to a pede
stal next to the wall. Resting on it was a carved wood vagina lined with feathers and seashells. In the orifice, the artist had pasted a magazine photograph of women marching with banners. The price tag on the sculpture was $2,000. A mobile hanging above the sculpture was formed with photographs of female buttocks and love poems hand-lettered on Kotex.
After a few minutes, the potbellied women departed. The woman with the blond-streaked hair approached Carr and Kelly. Carr reached into his pocket for his badge.
"You don't have to show me anything," the woman said. "I can tell you're cops."
"Are you Rosemary Clamp?" Carr said.
"Cramp," she said. "Rosemary Cramp. But my name is now Rosanna DuMaurier. I had my name changed legally." Kelly continued to stare at the wooden sculpture. "It's the artist's self-portrait," she said.
Kelly nodded dumbly.
"We're looking for Paul LaMonica," Carr said.
"I don't know anyone anymore," she said. "I haven't been arrested for over five years. Of course you've probably checked my record and you already know that. Who told you that I knew Paul LaMonica?"
"We didn't come here to cause you any problems," Carr said. "We have a warrant for LaMonica's arrest and we're talking to a lot of people trying to find him." He looked her in the eye as he spoke.
"I don't appreciate you people coming into my gallery. It's totally uncalled for. I actually got a chill down my spine when I saw you walk in. It's like a reflex from my past life. I haven't been in trouble for over five years and I'm fully within my rights to ask you to get the hell out of here right now. Now, will you please leave! I mean it."
"I apologize if we've embarrassed you," Carr said. He nodded at an amazed Kelly and sauntered toward the door. He stopped in front of a rack of crude pencil drawings and sorted through them. He picked one up which depicted two disconsolate women sitting on a four-poster bed stroking a cat. He stared at the drawing for a moment. "How much is this?"
The woman gave him a searching look before speaking. "Twenty-five dollars." Carr walked toward her with the drawing. He handed it to her and reached for his wallet. He pulled out some bills and gave them to her. The woman stared at the money for a moment, then accepted it.
"A cop buying lesbian art?" she said.
"It's a birthday present for my twin sister. She lives in San Francisco. We lead very different lives, but I respect her more than anyone I know. She had the courage to come out … to be honest." Carr turned and headed toward the door. He opened it.
"Do you remember the phony series E bonds that were cashed in the banks along Wilshire Boulevard five years ago?" said the woman.
Carr stepped back in and turned to face her. "Three grand's worth in every bank from downtown Los Angeles to Santa Monica. I remember the case well."
The woman tapped her chest. "Me," she said. "I can tell you now because the statute has run out and I can't be prosecuted."
"It was one of the best bond capers I've ever seen," Carr said. "Four agents spent weeks working on it. All we came up with was a vague description of a woman."
"I wore different wigs," she said. "Paul LaMonica was waiting in the car for me outside each bank. I ended up with nothing more than a few bucks out of the deal. There were too many people that had to be pieced off. Hell, at the time LaMonica was supplying my smack habit and that's all I really cared about. It was right after that caper that I got busted for marks and ended up doing a year in Frontera. I did a lot of thinking when I was in. For the first time in my life I admitted to my true sexuality. For the first time I realized that all of life is based on sex. Admitting my true nature solved virtually all of my problems. For once, I could accept myself. After I was released I kept completely away from the old crowd. I began living a new life. That's why I named this place the New Life Gallery."
"Have you seen LaMonica in the past few months?" Carr said.
"He stops by once in a while when he's out of the joint. He always wants me to do some phony paper for him, and I always shine him on."
"Any idea where I could find him?" Carr said.
"What did he do?"
"Escaped from Terminal Island."
"I'm sure you're already aware that all the paper pushers hang out at the Castaways Lounge in Hollywood," she said.
Carr nodded. "I've checked. He's not around there."
"Then I don't know what to tell you. But please, don't come around here anymore. My clientele is frightened of police types. This is more than just an art gallery. To my sisters and me, this is a shrine to women. The art here is a declaration of sexual truth. As a matter of fact, I believe that not being honest with oneself is the root cause of drug addiction. I know that my own problem disappeared as soon as I came out." She plucked a bread-dough plaque of buttocks and breasts off the wall and dusted it on her dress. She re-hung it. "It's been a long journey for me, but I've finally arrived. If you people would have knocked on my door a few years ago, I would have jumped through any available window. I was involved in so many crimes that when I was questioned by the cops I had to be told which crime they were talking about in order to confess." She shook her head and smiled.
"Did LaMonica phone you a couple of days ago?" Carr said.
"Who told you that?"
"What did he want?"
"As usual he wanted me to do a deal with him. He offered me half of the action, said all I had to do was play a part. I assumed it was some kind of a con scheme."
"Did he give you any details?"
"Paul LaMonica doesn't give details. With him, everything is on a need-to-know basis. Had I agreed to come in, he would have waited until the last minute to fill me in on the details, names, and places. He believes in high security. That's all I'm going to say."
"Thanks." Carr turned toward the door.
"Is your sister really one of us?" she asked.
Carr nodded. "Yes," he said in a tone of sincerity. "And I am very proud of her." He walked out the door. Kelly followed.
The agents climbed in the G-car. Kelly got behind the wheel and started the engine. "I say, lez-be-on-our-way," Kelly said. He laughed uproariously. "Mytwin sister in San Francisco!" He laughed again and Carr joined in. Kelly caught his breath. "I almost had a heart attack trying not to crack up in there! You definitely should get the Bullshitter of the Year award for that act." He threw his head back and laughed again.
Carr took out his notepad and made some brief entries concerning the interview. He put the pad away. "Do you think she was holding back?"
"Hard to say."
Carr rubbed his hands through his hair. "If LaMonica was going to print counterfeit money, why would he call Rosemary and ask her to 'play a part'?"
"It doesn't make sense," Kelly said. As they drove down Melrose toward the Hollywood freeway, neither man spoke. Kelly signaled, then steered onto a freeway on ramp and accelerated. "I wonder who would pay two thousand dollars for a wood carving of a cunt?" he said.
Carr shrugged.
"The boss'll be here any minute," said the bearded man standing behind a glass display case filled with cutting mirrors, roach clips, glass beakers, and tiny scales. "He stops by once a week to pick up the till."
"We'll wait," Carr said.
Kelly was busy examining a book he had picked off a wall rack entitled How to Grow Marijuana Indoors. He slammed it back on the rack. Two teenage girls carrying schoolbooks came in the door and wandered over to a display of hollowed-out silver dollars and fake soda cans with secret compartments. They giggled. One nudged the other and nodded at the red-faced, staring Kelly. They giggled again and hurried out the door.
There was the sound of a car pulling up in the alley. A prune-faced man with a sharp chin and elbows shuffled in the back door. The clerk whispered to him. He turned around and faced the T-men. "I'm Teddy Mora," he said gravely. "You people looking for me?" He spun a ring of car keys lewdly around his middle finger.
Carr held out his gold badge. "A prisoner escaped yesterday," he said. "He ran in the front do
or and out the side door of this place like he knew where he was going." He took a mug-shot photo out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Mora. "Do you know him?" Carr said.
Mora glanced at the photo and handed it back to Carr. "I'm an absentee landlord," he said. "I don't live in Los Angeles. This place is owned by a corporation."
"We figured you might know the guy," Carr interrupted. "His name is Paul LaMonica."
Teddy Mora shook his head. "Never heard of him. Is there anything else?"
"Yeah," Kelly said, examining a hashish pipe on the counter. "How long do you think it'll be before you'll be able to sell dope to the kiddies right along with all the paraphernalia?"
Teddy Mora twirled the car keys. His gaze shifted from Carr to Kelly and back to Carr. "Is that about it? I have things to do around here."
"LaMonica's a fugitive," Carr said. "We're real interested in finding him. You've been around long enough to know what I mean. If we can't find him, we'll be back. And that's a promise not a threat."
Ignoring them, Mora turned and spoke casually to his clerk. The agents exited the front door.
Kelly drove along Hollywood Boulevard on the way back downtown. When they stopped at a red light, there were straggly-haired teenage boys on each of the four street corners. One of the young men gave a groin-pump greeting to a passing convertible driven by an older man wearing dark glasses. The man pulled the convertible to the curb and the boy approached.
"Child prostitutes, stores that sell dope fixings…" Kelly muttered in a defeated tone. "The whole country is turning to shit. Sometimes I think I'd like to take my wife and kids, chuck everything, and live up in the mountains away from it all. No mind-rotting TV, no forced busing, no dope." He shook his bear-sized head.
"LaMonica comes into town," Carr said, staring at the road ahead. "He stops by the Castaways Lounge and meets with Teddy Mora. They talk business. Linda gets her hooks in and invites him over-"
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