The Quality of the Informant cc-3

by Gerald Petievich

  Carr gave him a sympathetic look. "Not to change the subject, but didn't you pull some capers below the border last year?" he said.

  "I was on loan to Immigration. They sent me down there four times last year," Garcia said. "In Tijuana I'd pay a coyote two hundred bucks from the confidential fund and then just take the trip. Sometimes it was in the bed of a truck, sometimes stuffed like a sardine in the back of a van or camper. It would be a full-blown surveillance all the way from the border into Los Angeles. I'd give the signal at the drop-off point and we'd arrest everybody, a conspiracy case usually. The illegal aliens would get deported and the coyotes would bail out and slip back across the border. They'd be back in business before I finished writing my reports. The whole investigation ended up bringing in nothing more than a few extra fugitives."

  "Where do the American fugitives hang out down there?" Carr said.

  Garcia sipped his drink as if it were delicious soup. "Ensenada, probably. I've heard rumbles that there's a bar down there a lot of 'em go to. Rodriguez at the Ensenada Police Department keeps an eye on the Americans down there. He's a friend." He gave a quick glance around the bar, leaned close to Carr, and whispered, "And I hear the fan-belt inspectors have a caper going down there right now. It's some kind of a long-range operation. They're gathering information on the activities of American fugitives hiding in Mexico. They're paying some high-power snitch big money to find out who's who and what's what." He sat back and stopped whispering. "You know, one of those big idea things that will end up in a stack of bullshit FBI reports." Garcia chuckled.

  "The kind of reports that will get passed around at organized-crime task-force meetings," Carr said. "Everyone will act like they recognize the names." He smiled.

  "Maybe they'll call it Operation Bad-Ass Gringos," Garcia said, still laughing.

  Carr shook his head. "I'm afraid that code name wouldn't fly for them," he said. "Bad words."

  Ling finally brought more drinks. He plunked them down and rushed away.

  "On my last Mexico case I was stuffed in the back of a truck with so many people I damn near suffocated," Garcia said. "When the arrests finally went down, I told 'em I wasn't going to do it anymore. I've got a wife and five kids. You know what they said? They said I had job stress and they sent me to talk to a psychologist. He kept asking whether I felt tired all the time. I told him I never get tired. He asked me why I drink, how I get along with my wife sexually, crap like that. I told him it was none of his goddamn business. They don't know what to do with me now."

  A tall man in a pin-striped suit walked in the front door. He took a seat at the end of the bar, making no effort to greet anyone.

  "That's the FBI agent in charge of the fugitive operation I was telling you about," Garcia whispered. "His name is Tom Luegner. But he won't give you any information. You know how those people are."

  Carr nodded. A while later he carried his drink to the bar and sat down next to Luegner. He introduced himself.

  "I've seen you around," Luegner said. "You're a…uh…friend of Sally Malone." His smile exuded poise. Every hair on his head was in place, the knot in his tie of a perfect size and shape.

  Carr ignored the remark. "One of my informants was murdered by a federal fugitive named Paul LaMonica," Carr said. "LaMonica supposedly lives in Mexico. I could use some help."

  Luegner tore off the corner of his cocktail napkin. He rolled it between his fingers. "The name does kind of ring a bell," he said. "What was your informant's name?"

  "Linda Gleason," Carr said. Would you like me to spell it for your report?he thought.

  "And LaMonica killed her?" Luegner said.

  "That's right."

  "I'd sure like to help you out," Luegner said in an offhanded manner. "But you know how sensitive our intelligence files are. Of course it's no secret that we've had reports that LaMonica has been seen now and then below the border." Without saying excuse me, Luegner reached in front of Carr and grabbed a few bar olives. He plopped them in his martini.

  Carr felt the blood rushing to his face. "You can't blame me for trying," he said in a self-deprecating manner.

  Luegner smiled. "Certainly not. We're all in the same business."

  Carr stood up. He finished his drink and set the glass down on the bar.

  Luegner stuffed an olive into his mouth. "By the way," he said as he chewed, "seen Sally lately?"

  "As a matter of fact I haven't," Carr said casually. He waved at Kelly and strolled out the door.

  Carr headed down a pedestrian walkway lined with souvenir shops, which because of the hour were closed. He stopped at the entrance to a small parking lot. There were no more than ten vehicles. A silver Corvette was parked in the corner of the dimly lit area next to a commercial trash receptacle. Carr sauntered over to the Corvette. He pulled a pen-sized flashlight out of his coat pocket, flicked it on, and ran the beam of light along the interior of the vehicle. There was a gasoline credit-card receipt on the front seat bearing Tom Luegner's name. He flicked the light off and stepped to the trash bin. Using the light, he rummaged around until he found a wire coat hanger. He pulled it out and twisted it straight, leaving a hook at the end.

  Carr glanced around the lot again. He was still alone. Holding the flashlight in his teeth, he wedged the wire between window and doorframe. After four or five tries, he managed to maneuver the hook under the door handle. He tugged, the lock snapped, and he swung open the door and climbed in. Frantically, he dug around behind the front seat until he found what he was looking for-a heavy briefcase. Pulling it onto his lap, he tore at the latches and it popped open. Using the flashlight to read by, Carr flipped through a stack of reports titled "Informant Contact Report" and stamped CONFIDENTIAL.

  Someone was crossing the lot.

  Carr flicked off the flashlight and ducked down in the seat. He held his breath. The footsteps of more than one person. They came closer. Car doors opened. Men laughed. Car doors closed. A vehicle drove off.

  Carr exhaled. Balancing the flashlight on his lap, he raced through the papers as fast as he could. The report that caught his attention was the one with the most recent date. It was written in the standard FBI format:

  TO: Special Agent in Charge

  FROM: Assistant to the Special Agent in Charge Thomas A. Luegner

  Subject: Operation Peter Rabbit

  Source: 2034XD

  Method of Contact: Tel/con

  Info:2034XD reports that fugitive Sandra Hartzbecker aka Sandra Hill (FBI #5658940H) met recently in Ensenada with a male adult identified as Paul LaMonica (FBI #9586744L) for the purpose of planning early stages of a stateside forgery scheme. No further information. Rec checks show LaMonica subject of fug. warrant #bhk5906 for escape. Subject escaped from Terminal Island federal prison eleven months ago after overpowering a civilian employee at the institution. He used a counterfeit police identification card to facilitate his escape. Subject is a master printer, many times convicted of counterfeiting U.S. currency, various types of checks, etc. No further information. Hartzbecker is former girl friend/criminal cohort (counterfeit money passer) of LaMonica.

  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 s
tamped 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.Yagotta 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.