The Quality of the Informant cc-3

by Gerald Petievich

  Sandy was pacing back and forth in front of the elevators.

  LaMonica put his arm around her shoulder just in case anyone was watching. They strolled slowly along the corridor.

  "What the hell do I do now?" she whispered.

  LaMonica looked up and down the hall. "Counter offer with fifty thousand and don't come off it," he said. "Give him three days to make up his mind."

  LaMonica led her back into the room. She sat down on the bed again. Lockhart stood on the balcony. His face was damp, oily.

  "Those people will put a contract out on me if they don't get the checks," Sandy said, wiping a tear. "They'll come after me. That means I won't be able to work at a regular job or go anywhere near my friends or family. I'm probably stupid for not giving them the checks and having it over and done with…but I hate them. My Freddie would turn over in his grave." Her hands wiped tears from her eyes. "I need at least fifty thousand. I need it because I have four kids. I can't work. We'll have to move." Her eyes sought the ceiling, "I wish to God I had never seen the damn checks."

  Lockhart stood up. He hoisted his trousers over the mound that was his belly. "We're not able to pay any more than I have offered. I'm sorry," he said.

  "That's final," Sandy said. "If that's the way you people feel about me, then the hell with it! Day after tomorrow I'm turning the checks over to the Italians. It's worth a hundred grand to avoid the death sentence!" She cupped her face in her hands and sobbed.

  Omar Lockhart waddled to the door and opened it wide. "I'm sorry," he said. He walked out, closing the door gently behind him.

  Sandy waved an extended middle finger at the door. LaMonica grabbed her arm and swung her to him. His hand closed over her mouth. His lips were at her ear. "Don't say a word," he whispered. She stared at LaMonica with a look of fear as he released her arm and picked up the chair Lockhart had been sitting in. LaMonica turned it over and examined it closely, then set it down without making a sound. Dropping to his knees, he searched under the table next to it. He motioned to her and she joined him under the table. He pointed to a black object the size of a dime. It was fastened under the rim of the table with a gumlike substance.

  They crawled out from underneath the table and stood up. LaMonica took a pen and pad out of his pocket and wrote, "Cry for a while, then tell me your mind is made up about the fifty thousand. Make up a story about how much debt you're in after Freddie's death, and so on." He showed her the note. The sobs began.

  They did not check out of the room for over an hour.

  Chapter 17

  The stocky bald man waiting in the Treasury Field Office reception area wore an expensive looking blue suit. There were grease spots on his silk necktie. Carr introduced himself, and the man handed him a business card. It read:

  OMAR T. LOCKHART

  DIRECTOR OF SECURITY

  TRAVELERS CHEX, INCORPORATED

  HOUSTON, TEXAS

  They shook hands. "The secretary checked a name for me in your files…Freddie Roth," Lockhart said in a panhandle drawl. "She said you handled the case."

  Carr nodded. "Roth is dead," he said. "Murdered over a year ago."

  "That's a ten four," Lockhart said. "And how was he killed, if I may ask?"

  "Head blown off," Carr said. "Underworld dispute over some counterfeit bonds he had printed. Why are you interested in old Freddie?"

  "It's a confidential matter," said Lockhart. "Can you tell me anything about Freddie's young girl friend?"

  Carr shrugged. "Have no idea. I know he used to live with a gal in El Monte."

  "Did Roth ever print any counterfeit checks?" Lockhart asked. The look on his face was extremely inquisitive.

  "Yep," Carr said. "Printed anything he could get a sample of. Did it his whole life. Checks, money, bonds, passports you name it."

  "Would you mind if I took a look at your file on Roth?" Lockhart said.

  "Yes, I would mind," Carr said. "Particularly since you don't seem to want to tell me what this is all about."

  "Sorry," said the fat man. "I just can't do that at this point."

  "Then it's been nice talking with you." Carr turned, walked back into the office, and sat down at his desk. He continued thumbing through a stack of intelligence reports and initialing each page as required by the agent in charge.

  Kelly looked up from his newspaper. "Who was that?"

  "A private eye. He wanted some info on Freddie Roth," Carr said.

  Kelly grunted. He folded the sports page.

  The telephone rang and Carr picked up the receiver. It was Calhoun. "A white boy just showed me a sample twenty. I told him to come back in an hour. You'd better get on down here." The telephone clicked.

  "Calhoun's got one," Carr said. He stood up and shrugged on his suit jacket. Kelly folded the newspaper and stuffed it into his coat pocket. He followed Carr out the door.

  Carr steered north on Vermont Avenue toward Hollywood. At a stop light Kelly finished reading his newspaper, then tossed it in the backseat. "I hate this paper," he said. "The editorials are antipolice." He turned to Carr. "Ever ask yourself why?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why a newspaper would be against the police?"

  "No," Carr said. His mind was on the chalk outline of Linda's body on the floor of her living room.

  "It's because the editors are out-and-out Communists," Kelly said.

  Charles Carr drove slowly by Calhoun's hot dog stand. There were no customers. He pulled over to the curb two doors up. Leaving the keys in the ignition, he climbed out of the sedan and sauntered back to Calhoun's counter.

  Calhoun spoke as if he were out of breath. "This white boy wanted to sell me five hundred bucks' worth of twenties for a hundred-dollar bill. I told him to come back in an hour with the whole package. That was forty minutes ago."

  "Who is he?"

  "I don't know his name," Calhoun said. "I always called him Curly. He used to be banging around here. I think he was dealing weed. A couple of months ago he must've made hisself a real good score. He started driving a sports car and I seen him with a blonde. A good-looking gal with a nice ass."

  "What does he look like?"

  "Curly hair and sort of a peach fuzz beard. I figured him for a user because he's always sniffling his nose and sometimes he wears a long sleeved shirt even when it's hot as hell. He drives a white Porsche."

  Carr gave a knowing nod.

  "You know the muthafucka?"

  "I think so," Carr said. "Kelly and I will be across the street in that alley." He pointed. "Once you see the funny money, give us a wave. Tell him you don't like the quality and you're not interested. When he leaves, we'll follow. "

  Calhoun winked.

  Carr returned to the sedan. He climbed in and started the engine. As he pulled into an alley facing the hot dog stand, he told Kelly what he'd just learned. Minutes later the young man in the white Porsche pulled up in front of Calhoun's. He exited the Porsche and headed for the counter carrying a brown paper sack. After speaking briefly with Calhoun, he handed over the bag. Calhoun opened it, looked inside, and handed it back. As the young man stuffed the sack under his shirt, Calhoun's fingers made a discreet wave.

  Charles Carr started the engine. The young man gestured angrily at Calhoun, then shook his head in a disgusted manner and shuffled back to the Porsche. As he drove north on Vermont, Charles Carr pulled into traffic a half block behind the sports car.

  "If he sees us, he'll throw his package," Kelly said.

  Carr nodded. The Porsche turned right on Hollywood Boulevard. Carr stepped on the gas and made the same turn. The streets were crowded with the usual mixture of tourists and leather freaks, teenage whores, men dressed as women, and muggers of all races. It seemed that everyone wore sunglasses.

  "We're far enough away," Carr said. "Let's do it."

  Kelly reached under the seat and pulled out a red light with a magnetic bottom. He plugged it into the cigarette lighter. The red light flashed. With a hook shot reach, he mounted
it on the roof of the sedan. The Porsche accelerated and swerved right onto a residential street. As the driver tossed the brown bag out the window, Carr braked sharply. Kelly swung open the passenger door and retrieved the bag.

  Carr floored the accelerator. The Porsche's tires squealed as it rounded another corner onto a busy street. The Porsche was almost a block ahead as the G-car made the turn. It swerved to avoid a double-parked truck and sideswiped a station wagon coming from the other direction. The Porsche vaulted a curb and crashed into the side of an apartment house.

  Carr slammed on the brakes. The T-men jumped out of the sedan and approached the sports car with guns drawn. The driver struggled frantically to start the engine. Carr swung open the door and yanked the man out by his hair. Kelly frisked him and snapped on handcuffs.

  "How long have you been following me?" he said.

  "All day," Carr said. Kelly led the man back to the sedan.

  After the arrival of tow trucks and police cars, and the signing of various forms, they proceeded to the Field Office with the prisoner.

  "I can help you guys out again if you will do something for me," the young man said.

  "We're listening," said Kelly, who was sitting in the back seat next to him.

  Carr steered onto the freeway toward downtown.

  "I think I know who the printer is."

  "Who is it?" Kelly said.

  "What'll you do for me?" he said.

  Nothing was said for a while. The freeway signs read "Broadway," "Los Angeles Street." Carr steered onto an off ramp and headed down a hill toward the Federal Building.

  "The printer's name is Paulie and he's a friend of Teddy Mora. He lives down in Ensenada. That's what I heard."

  "Have you ever met him?" Carr said.

  "No. I've just heard talk."

  "Thanks a lot for the tip," Kelly said.

  "I guess that means you're not going to give me a break," the young man said.

  "That's right," Kelly said.

  "I wanna see my lawyer."

  Carr and Kelly spent the next few hours on the usual processing: taking fingerprints, filling out forms, preparing affidavits and reports. It was dark by the time they booked their prisoner into the Los Angeles County jail.

  Early the next morning Carr and Kelly met in the reception area of the United States attorney's office, a handsomely carpeted room decorated with framed photographs of the president, the attorney general, and the latest U.S. attorney, a former local presidential campaign manager. During the hour they spent waiting, the receptionist, a red haired woman wearing a shapeless polka dot dress, phoned her mother, painted and blew dry her fingernails, phoned a friend and discussed a television program, thumbed through a movie magazine, and painstakingly switched stations on a tiny transistor radio several times.

  Finally, Reba Partch, wearing a white skirt and sweater with yellowed underarms, hustled in the front door carrying a large straw purse in one hand and a hairbrush in the other. She applied brush strokes to her dandruffyBrillo pad as she strode to the receptionist's desk. The receptionist handed her some phone message slips and nodded at Carr and Kelly. Partch glanced at the T-men as if they were mannequins. She flicked dandruff off her shoulders and proceeded to her office.

  Half an hour later the receptionist's phone rang. She answered it, then set down the receiver. "You can go in now," she said.

  Carr and Kelly headed down a hallway. They stepped into Partch's office. She was on the phone. They sat down. On the wall behind her was hung a USC diploma and a framed photograph of Partch and three other equally unattractive young women wearing T-shirts and jeans. They were sitting in a rubber raft next to a dock. Everyone held up beer cans.

  "Gotta run," Partch said and hung up the phone.

  Carr started to speak. Partch held up her hand, then dialed the phone again. "Service department, please," she said. After a lengthy discussion concerning shock absorbers and how much she needed her car by tonight, she hung up.

  Carr started to speak again.

  "Reports," she said as she made a "gimme" motion with her hands.

  Carr bit his lip and handed her the reports. She stuffed a handful of cough drops into her mouth and rattled them around against her teeth as she read. Having turned all the pages, she handed the reports back. "Lack of sufficient evidence to prove criminal intent," she said.

  "Even though he threw the counterfeit money out the window of his car when he saw us following him?" Carr said.

  "In court he could take the witness stand and say that he thought the bag contained narcotics or some other such contraband. Without some proof that the defendant knew that the bag contained counterfeit money as opposed to any other kind of illegal goods, the judge would throw the case out. The counterfeiting statutes require proof of specific criminal intent. As usual, your case is weak because you won't reveal your informants." She made a smile similar to the one in the raft picture. "So you'll have to release your prisoner."

  Charles Carr took back the reports and folded them. He and Kelly stood up.

  Reba Partch said, "Any questions?"

  Without a word, Carr and Kelly headed out of the office to the elevator. The elevator door opened and they stepped inside. Partch rushed out after them. She posed angrily with her hands on her hips. "Must you people really be so rude?" Kelly pushed the elevator button and the door closed. They returned to the Field Office without discussing the incident.

  Chapter 18

  There was the smell of coffee in the boardroom. The executives drank the beverage without clinking their cups. All, including Omar T. Lockhart, avoided the neat piles of sweet rolls. It was the usual Wednesday meeting, attendance mandatory, fresh notepads in front of every handsome leather chair.

  Lockhart responded to the chairman's nod by sitting up in his chair. He opened a folder full of typed memoranda. "I've completed the preliminary negotiations," he said. "It's going to take sweetening the pot some from our offer of twenty five thousand, but I'm convinced we'll be able to buy the checks." He had practiced saying this.

  Every eye in the room was on him. Lockhart prayed that he wouldn't break into one of his uncontrollable sweats.

  The chairman uncapped his gold ink pen and scribbled on a pad. "Number one," he said, "I'll authorize fifty thousand to 'sweeten the pot,' as you put it. Not a cent more. Number two, we'll not be going to Mexico for the final transaction. It's too dangerous. They will have to come to meet us on U.S. soil. Number three, Just who in the hell are these folks?" He looked up.

  Lockhart cleared his throat. "I've been able to develop some valuable information along those lines. I checked police records and visited the Los Angeles office of the U.S. Treasury Department "

  "And what have you learned?" the chairman interrupted, his tone impatient.

  Lockhart's neck and forehead suddenly felt damp. He referred to his memoranda. "Uh, I've learned that there was, in fact, a Freddie Roth and that Roth was a convicted counterfeiter of checks, bonds, and currency. Roth was murdered by another underworld type a year or so ago. At this point it hasn't been established whether he had a girl friend. He was married you see, and this was probably something he would try to hide from his wife. ."

  The chairman of the board frowned. "I find the whole matter disgusting," he said.

  Everyone at the long table gave concerned nods.

  "Let's move on to the next item on the agenda," he said.

  The phone rang.

  Carr sat up in bed. He snatched the receiver off the nightstand.

  "Why didn't you call me?" the woman said. "You said you would."

  "I've been busy." He had no idea who she was.

  "I've heard that one before," she said, "But please don't think that you just got lucky in the middle of the night. I don't call men. They have to call me."

  Carr rubbed his eyes. He had a headache.

  "You really have no idea who this is, do you?" she said. Carr didn't answer.

  "The reason I called is that a dyk
e just got booked here for attempted murder and she says she has some information for you. Her name is" there was the rustling of papers 'Rosanna DuMaurier. Her a.k.a. is Rosemary Cramp."

  Carr forced himself to open his eyes. "I'll be right down," he said. "Uh, thanks for the call."

  The phone clicked. Carr staggered out of bed and into the shower. He turned on the cold water and groaned as it startled him into consciousness. Having dressed, he headed for the L.A. women's jail. By the time he reached City Terrace Drive and accelerated up the hill, it was daybreak. After parking his car in the visitor's lot, he approached a large guard booth and held up his badge and I.D. card to the glass. The gate in front of him buzzed, and he pushed it open. Carr took a familiar path along a cement courtyard toward the visiting room. He passed through another set of doors, then followed a yellow line on the floor down a corridor to a window made of bulletproof glass. A blonde in a tight fitting khaki uniform sat behind the window. She was close to his age and had a sheriff's gold badge mounted on her left breast. She made a kiss movement at him.

  "Remember me now?" she said. "Chinatown on payday night? Bob Tomsic, the Secret Service agent, was with my girl friend. She was wearing the Mickey Mouse T shirt." Her voice emanated from a speaker below the window.

  "Of course I remember," Carr said in a tone of sincerity. "Who booked Rosemary?"

  "L.A.P.D." she said. "A couple of Hollywood patrol officers. I know one of them. He told me she stabbed her girl friend through the arm with a vegetable knife. She was hysterical when she came in, but she's calmed down now. She begged me to call you; said you'd know what it was all about." The deputy pressed a button. A hydraulic lock snapped, and a steel door to Carr's left slid slowly open. The blond deputy made another kiss and offered a laconic smile. Carr smiled back. He stepped into a room full of long, Formica covered tables. A few minutes later Rosemary Cramp, wearing a prisoner's denim sack dress, opened a door stenciled INMATES. She shuffled to the table and sat down across from him.

  "Sorry to hear about your problem," Carr said.