The Quality of the Informant cc-3

by Gerald Petievich

  "Would you like us to phone your office?" Carr said.

  "Thanks anyway," Lockhart said as if in a trance. "That won't be necessary."

  "Do you think you'd be able to recognize any of the men who beat you up?" Rodriguez said.

  Lockhart licked his lips. "Motorcycle hounds," he said. "All I remember is leather jackets, beards. The whole thing happened so fast…" He turned to Rodriguez. "They stole a gun I had with me, as well as my wallet and I.D. I guess that's illegal down here."

  "That's okay," said the officer.

  A raven-haired nurse entered the room. She poked a pill into Lockhart's mouth and held a glass of water to his lips. The pudgy man drank, then closed his eyes.

  The cops left the room and walked through a small office and out the front door. They stood around Rodriguez's squad car for a moment.

  "They really worked that poor guy over," Kelly said. "They must've taken turns on him."

  Rodriguez beamed as he rubbed his hands together fiendishly. "It's just what I've been waiting for, boys," he said.

  "Howzat?" Carr said.

  "An excuse to kick Teddy's door in," he said. He swung open the door of the police car and vaulted his lumberjack frame into the driver's seat. Carr and Kelly followed him into the vehicle. Rodriguez started the engine and slammed the car into first gear. He made a U-turn and sped south along the main road. On the way through town, Rodriguez snatched the microphone off the hook on the dashboard and barked commands in Spanish. By the time he had reached the edge of town he was followed by a pair of squad cars loaded with uniformed officers.

  Nearing the turnoff to Teddy's Bar, Rodriguez slammed on the brakes. He pulled off the road onto a soft shoulder. The police cars stopped directly behind him. The officers, young men in khaki uniforms who appeared as fit as infantrymen, piled out. They put on their hats and formed an informal line next to Rodriguez's vehicle.

  Rodriguez pulled a newspaper from underneath the driver's seat and stepped out of the car. He spread the paper out on the hood of the car. With rough pen strokes, he drew a diagram of a building. Above it, he wrote "Teddy's." He gave instructions and the officers nodded. Rodriguez said, "Vamos," in a harsh voice. The young officers removed their hats and hustled back to their squad cars.

  Rodriguez stepped to the rear of his vehicle and opened the trunk. He pulled out the Thompson submachine gun and checked it. Having done this, he got back in the car and arranged the weapon so that it rested against his thigh, barrel pointed to the floorboard. He started the engine and edged back onto the highway. He pressed the siren button and flicked the switch for the red light. The other squad cars did the same. The raiders raced down the dirt road at full speed, creating an enormous dust cloud. Kelly fastened his seat belt.

  "You boys follow me in the front door," Rodriguez said. "Teddy is yours."

  Carr nodded.

  The police cars skidded to within a few feet of the bar's front door. The parking lot was littered with motorcycles. The officers piled out. Rodriguez, tommy gun at port arms, trotted to the front door. With one mighty kick, he knocked the door fully off its hinges. It fell forward like a gangplank. He sprang inside. "Pendejos!" he said. "Manos arriba!" He fired a machine-gun burst into the ceiling. Customers screamed and dived for cover. Plaster fell. The officers rushed in and slammed people against walls. Everyone was frisked.

  Carr found Teddy Mora ducking down behind the bar. He reached across and seized the man's collar with both hands. A forceful pull brought him over the bar. Carr dragged the struggling man out the back door. Mora came to his feet swinging. Carr blocked a left and punched Mora squarely in the jaw. The bartender fell to the dirt. As he scrambled to get up, Carr stabbed a knee into his chest. Mora dropped to the dirt again. He gasped for air.

  Carr put his hands in his pockets. "Told you I'd be back," he said.

  Mora moaned.

  "Now I'll ask you again," he said. "Where is Paul LaMonica?"

  It was a minute before Mora caught his breath. Hands rubbing his stomach, he sat up. "I don't know," he said.

  "Okay," Carr said, "then here's what happens next: the police will camp out in front of this place. They don't like you. They'll be happy to put you out of business, altogether. "

  "I didn't say I wasn't willing to cooperate," Mora said. "I didn't say that when you talked to me in L.A., and I'm not saying it now. I just don't know where LaMonica is right now. I can't tell you something I truly don't know."

  "Is he in Mexico?" Carr said.

  "I'm not sure," Mora said with a sincere expression. "But he does keep in touch. I'm asking you, do I sound like someone who isn't willing to cooperate? Why should I take heat for LaMonica? He isn't shit to me."

  "I'm going back to L.A. tomorrow afternoon," Carr said. "Phone me at the police station before I leave or you're through down here. Rodriguez will run you and all of your asshole biker friends straight across the border. And when you come across, I'll be waiting there for you."

  Carr turned and walked back into the bar. Customers were still spread-eagled along the walls. Rodriguez sat at a cocktail table examining a pile of guns and knives. Near the front door, a group of bearded men stood handcuffed to one another. Rodriguez nodded and a policeman ushered the chain of men out the door.

  A policeman held open a gunny sack next to the table, and Rodriguez slid the weapons into it. Mora came in the back door. He approached the detective meekly. "Mr. Rodriguez, can I ask what this is all about? I've never had any trouble here before."

  Rodriguez pointed to the gunny sack. "You don't call that trouble?" he said. "This is Mexico. We don't like pendejos who carry guns." He stood up. "Does that tell you what this is all about, cocksucker?"

  Mora's head was down. Rodriguez stood up and shoved him out of the way. He barked orders in Spanish. The officers headed out the front door. A police van pulled up. The prisoners were loaded into it.

  The raiders piled into their squad cars and departed.

  "What do you think?" Rodriguez said as he steered onto the highway.

  "Hard to predict," Carr said. "What Teddy does will depend on what he's got going with LaMonica right now. He'll probably turn him in if it won't cost him any money."

  It was almost closing time for the bars. A camouflage of fog had wafted in from the ocean. Hugging the streets here and there, the cold smoke had turned Ensenada's simple streets into a maze.

  Paul LaMonica drove slowly through the motel parking lot. All the rooms were dark and the gold Cadillac wasn't there. He drove out of the lot, turned north, and followed the main road, which wound through the deserted shopping district all the way to the bar district at the edge of town. Three people lolled about on the sidewalks in front of barrooms cloistered on a side street blocked off to vehicular traffic. The only light came from a few streetlamps that hung from heavy electrical cord across the thoroughfare. He steered around the corner and into an alley that paralleled the rear entrances to the drinking spots.

  Mr. Cool's gold Cadillac was parked in a tiny lot behind the third bar from the corner.

  LaMonica pulled into the lot and parked next to the driver's side of the Caddy. After turning off the engine, he rolled down all the windows in his sedan. He removed his windbreaker and folded it into a makeshift pillow. Arranging the jacket on the driver's side, he lay back on the front seat. There was not enough room to stretch out completely, so he positioned his legs at an angle to the passenger door. The only sound in the lot was that of muffled rock tunes coming from inside the bar.

  In one motion, LaMonica pulled the.38 from his waistband and sprang upright in the seat, pointing the gun out of the passenger window. He lay back on the seat. After a while he sprang up again. He tucked the revolver back in his waistband and reclined on the seat to wait. A pair of cats shrieked as they fought up and down the alley. This went on for what seemed like a long time. The noise ceased as a man and woman exited the bar. LaMonica peeked over the seat. Standing just outside the door, they exchanged drunk talk
and crotch gropes for a few minutes. The two were young and wore matching cowboy hats with feather bands. The woman giggled as the man pulled down his zipper and urinated against the door of the bar. "Someone's going to see you. Someone's going to see you," she said in slurred tones. Finally, the man zipped up his fly and they staggered down the alley.

  LaMonica lay down on the seat again. He closed his eyes and his mind drifted to the mountain cabin near L.A. He was alone and trapped. His finger was crushed between printing-press rollers. He managed to open a pocket knife. He sawed on the finger and the pain reached up his arm and spread to every part of his body, including his teeth. Finally he saved himself. Blood squirted all over the place.

  Paul LaMonica held up the hand with the missing finger and looked at his wristwatch. It was 3:30 A.M. He heard footsteps coming out the back door and heading in his direction.

  Mr. Cool stood at the driver's door of the Cadillac, fumbling with car keys.

  Using both hands to hold the pistol, LaMonica sprang up in the seat. He held his breath. Aiming the revolver out the window, he fired three shots as fast as he could pull the trigger. With an animal yelp, Mr. Cool slammed forward against the side of the Cadillac and dropped to his knees. LaMonica fired again. As if the fourth shot were charged with electricity, the black man came to his feet and staggered toward the alley. LaMonica fired again but missed. He dropped the revolver on the front seat and started the engine. He flew out of the parking space and accelerated into the alley. Mr. Cool had fallen with his back next to the wall on the left. He moaned. LaMonica pulled up next to him and slammed on the brakes. He grabbed the gun off the seat and took aim out the window. Mr. Cool held out a hand. "No more," he said. LaMonica pulled the trigger again and the black man's head exploded. He kicked the pedal to the floor and zoomed down the alley and around the corner.

  Chapter 25

  One by one, the men arrested at Teddy's Bar had refused to talk.

  Carr sat with Rodriguez and Kelly around a wooden table in the police station's interview room, waiting for the last prisoner to be sent in. The cubicle, its unfinished plaster walls bearing some indentations with red marks that Carr thought might have been made with a human head, was filled with the odor of fresh oranges. Like a ritual, Rodriguez had peeled and gobbled one orange after each unsuccessful interview.

  Rodriguez thumbed his hat off his forehead. He massaged an orange and ripped it in half. Leaning over the wastebasket, he chomped. Juice dripped into the basket. "I told you none of them would tell us anything," he said with his mouth full.

  Carr shrugged. Kelly yawned. Rodriguez finished the rest of his orange.

  A guard opened the door. He shoved a thirtyish man dressed in greasy Levi's and leather vest into the room. The man had an untrimmed beard and a head of long and knotted hair like a collie's that needed brushing. He was tattooed on both arms, wore an earring, and his hands were chaffed and gray with dirt.

  Rodriguez pointed to a chair. The man sat down at the table across from him.

  Carr showed the man his badge. "We're U.S. Treasury agents," Carr said. He flipped over a mug shot of Paul LaMonica that was lying on the table. "Do you know this man?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "We're not trying to hassle you," Carr said. "The man is a murderer. All I'm asking is that you take a look at the photograph and tell me if you recognize him."

  The long-haired man stared Carr in the eye. "I don't see no photograph, pig."

  "You might be in a jam because of the guy that you people beat up at Teddy's," Carr said. "You might find yourself doing a little time down here for it. We can help with that if you want to cooperate."

  The man glared at Carr, then at Kelly. "Like I said, I don't see no goddamn photograph."

  Rodriguez ripped open another juicy orange. "Are you saying that you really can't see the mug shot?" he said angrily. "You actually can't see the mug shot even though it's sitting right there in front of you on the table?" He made an exaggerated expression of disbelief.

  "You heard what I said, greaseball."

  With a catlike motion, Rodriguez reached over the table and grabbed the prisoner's hair. He yanked him fully across the table and locked the man's throat in the crook of his arm. He squeezed and the prisoner gasped for air. With his free hand, Rodriguez mashed the orange pulp into the man's eyes. "Maybe this will help you see, pendejo!"

  The man made a stifled yelp. Rodriguez squeezed harder. More orange juice ran into the prisoner's eyes. He struggled frantically. Without releasing his grip on the prisoner's neck, Rodriguez stood up and walked to the door with the struggling man. Having opened it, he punched and kicked the blinded man out the door and into the arms of a uniformed officer. He yelled something in Spanish, and the guard dragged the man away.

  Rodriguez pulled out a handkerchief. He wiped his hand carefully.

  "There's a man who has no appreciation for citrus fruit," Kelly said. They joined in laughter.

  A uniformed officer stuck his head in the door and said something in Spanish. Rodriguez turned to the T-men. "Let's go," he said. "They just found the body of an American at the north end of town. Teddy Mora's phone number was in his wallet."

  Rodriguez steered the radio car off the main street into an alley. The alley was filled with drunken bar patrons who had filtered out to see the action: suntanned Americans wearing shorts and sandals; Mexicans in flowered shirts and bracero hats; fat B-girls in red and black cocktail dresses. The crowd made way for the police car. They pulled up to a rope on stanchions that was blocking the alley. Policemen milled about behind it.

  Carr and Kelly followed Rodriguez out of the vehicle. Rodriguez yelled orders and policemen extended more rope to block off the other end of the alley.

  The body of a black man sat propped against the alley wall. Being careful to avoid stepping on any evidence, Carr moved closer to the body. He knelt down. The neck was tilted grotesquely in death. Carr observed an entrance wound on the left side of the nose. There was blood behind the head on the wall, and the chest was soaked red. He realized it was the FBI informant.

  Kelly knelt next to him. "Is that who I think it is?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "There will be miles of memos," Kelly whispered. "Miles."

  A uniformed policeman holding a Polaroid camera tapped Carr on the arm. He made a "take a picture" gesture. Carr stood up and stepped back. The flashbulb popped.

  Carr looked for Rodriguez. The Mexican was standing in front of a police car talking to an officer with sergeant's stripes. He waved at the T-men. Carr and Kelly approached.

  "Witnesses," Rodriguez said. A young blond woman wearing a cowboy hat sat in the backseat. A sleeping man used her lap as a pillow. "They're both drunk. They were standing at the end of the alley when they heard shots and saw a car speed by. One of 'em says the car was white, the other green. My officers interviewed people inside the bar. They said the victim stopped in for one beer. He used the pay phone in front of the place. A call that lasted about fifteen minutes. They said he does the same thing almost every night. Sometimes he takes calls at the same phone. Strange."

  "Probably making his daily report," Carr said. "He was a snitch for the FBI."

  "This case gets more interesting all the time," Rodriguez said.

  Carr followed the submachine-gun-toting Rodriguez up the motel steps. He heard Kelly trotting through gravel in the driveway to take a position at the rear of the place. Because of the hour, there were no lights on in any of the rooms. At the top of the steps Rodriguez handed Carr the room key he had removed from the dead man's pocket. Standing to the right of the door, he slid the key into the lock. He turned it and the lock snapped open. He pushed the door ajar a few inches and groped for the light switch. He flipped it on. Rodriguez rushed past him into the room, tommy gun first. The room was empty. Having checked the closet and bathroom, Carr strolled to the window and motioned to Kelly. Kelly holstered his revolver and headed toward the steps.
/>   Rodriguez laid his submachine gun on the bed and proceeded to upturn the nightstand drawers.

  Carr rummaged through a suitcase lying open on the dresser table. It was filled with men's clothing. He slammed it shut and pulled open the dresser drawers. Among socks and bathing suits he found form letters from a federal parole officer, credit-card receipts, book matches from L.A. bars he knew as crook hangouts, roach holders, a cutting mirror, a silver cocaine spoon, two driver's licenses in different names bearing the dead man's photograph, and a snub-nosed.38 revolver.

  Rodriguez came out of the closet with a woman's straw purse. He emptied it onto the dressing table in front of Carr. Among tubes of lipstick, wadded Kleenex, and bottles of nail polish was a wallet. Rodriguez picked it up and pulled out a gasoline credit card. "Sandra Hartzbecker," he said. He handed the card to Carr.

  Carr stared at the credit card for a moment. "She used to pass counterfeit money for LaMonica," he said.

  "Small world," Kelly said on his way in the door. He strode to the bed, grasped the mattress with both hands and flipped it onto the floor. A notebook was lying on top of the box spring. He picked it up and quickly thumbed through the pages. "Dope notations," he said matter-of-factly. He tossed the book on the floor.

  The telephone on the nightstand rang.

  Rodriguez picked up the receiver. He nodded a few times, then made exclamations in Spanish. He yanked his pen and notepad out of his pocket and sat down on the bed. After completing some brief notes, he gave instructions and then hung up. "A Teletype just came in from the San Diego Police Department," he said. "They found the body of Sandra Hartzbecker. She was shot and dumped alongside a freeway. They found a motel key to this room on her and requested that we search it for clues."

  "I'll be damned " Kelly said. His thumbs were planted in his belt.

  Carr stepped to the window. The view was of a cluster of wooden shanties webbed with clotheslines that were partially hidden behind the only modern building in town. Carr knew it was a sports betting office. A dry riverbed spotted with gardens of algae ran in front of the inhabited area. It was littered with empty milk cartons and other detritus. He stared blankly at the scene for a moment, then returned to the dresser. Taped to the corner of the mirror was a swimsuit photograph of Mr. Cool and Sandra Hartzbecker frolicking on the beach. The black man was in a weight-lifter's pose. Sandra Hartzbecker stood next to him, feigning amazement as she tested one of his puffed biceps. Carr pulled the photograph from the mirror and stared at it for a moment. He tossed it in the wastebasket.