The Quality of the Informant (11 page)

"Then he'll beat the rap," Higgins said. "It's doubtful we could prove
motive
because we can't prove he knew she was the informant. For
means,
the murder weapons have no fingerprints. Proving
opportunity
is
out because no one can place him at the scene of the crime. Getting the district attorney to file murder charges in this case would be about as easy as finding a doctor who'd admit a mistake."

Carr stared at the floor for a minute.

Kelly took a photograph from the array on the table and held it up. It was a five-by-eight of a group of pigeons pecking at what looked like popcorn strewn along a blood-splattered sidewalk. "What the hell is this?" he said with a disgusted look.

"Pigeons eating human guts," said the cop. "Couple of Mexican chaps disemboweled one another on Wabash Avenue day before yesterday. Machetes. A young officer took the photo to prove that he tried to secure the original crime scene like he was supposed to. But the birds showed up for the feast."

Kelly tossed the photo down.

Carr said thanks to the detective. Then the two agents headed out of the office and down the hall toward the elevator.

"Next time we come here I'm going to wait in the car," Kelly said. "I'm getting too old for this shit. I really am."

"Me too," Carr said. He gave his partner a punch on the
shoulder
.

In the moonlight the water along the coast was inky, its waves gray, ominous.

Paul
LaMonica
pulled off the El Camino Real highway onto a bumpy road that led to the beach. After a hundred yards or so, his headlights illuminated a stucco building surrounded by sports cars and
Cadillacs
. The structure was the size of a small tract house. For God only knows what reason, it had been built catty-corner to the water. Like the rest of Baja architecture, it looked unfinished. Like some revolutionary slogan, the word
Teddy's
had been painted in red above the entrance.

LaMonica
parked his car and got out. The sound of Mariachi music and drunken conversation mixed with that of the waves slapping against the rocks. He went in.

Inside the dimly lit hangout was a circular bar and a few tables occupied by as many boisterous, garishly dressed women as men - mostly bikers and their broads. Three Mexican guitar players strummed in the corner.

Everyone, including the musicians, had their eyes on
LaMonica
as he made his way to a table.

Behind the bar, Teddy Mora filled shot glasses from a half-gallon tequila bottle. He wore a Stetson with a red band and feather, and gold necklaces over a T-shirt with a cartoon illustration of a man with an oversized, drooling tongue. He waved at
LaMonica
and everyone stopped staring.
LaMonica
sat at an empty table.

A few minutes later Mora moved to
LaMonica's
table carrying a tequila bottle and two glasses. He set the items on the table and pulled a lemon out of his trouser pocket. Using a penknife, he sliced it into wedges. He looked around to see if anyone was listening.

"I'm running out of twenties," Teddy said, wiping the wet knife on his T-shirt.

LaMonica
shook his head. "They're all gone," he said.

Teddy filled the glasses and sprinkled salt on the back of his hand. Taking a lick of the salt, he tossed back a shot of tequila. He chomped on a lemon wedge and spit the rind on the floor. "That's too bad," he said. "Everybody wants '
em
." He laughed. "I even tossed a few in with my bar receipts and deposited them in the bank." He laughed again.

"That's what you can do with my newest
thing,"
LaMonica
said.

Teddy Mora looked puzzled.

"Traveler's checks,"
LaMonica
said. "You can dump a few in with your bar receipts. Even though they're counterfeit, the traveler's-check company will pay off, stand good for them. If they didn't, all of you legit businessmen would refuse to accept them and the company would go out of business."

"In other words, the company is willing to take the loss," Teddy said.

"Exactly."

"Then lay some of that nice paper on me, my good man. Teddy loves
Paulie's
paper." He stuck out his bony hand.

LaMonica
pulled an envelope out of his back pocket and handed it to Mora. "You're the only person besides myself who knows about these. You will not deal them to anyone else. Use them yourself or throw them away."

"In other words,
Paulie
has bigger plans for the checks. Teddy gets the picture. Your secret is safe with Teddy," Mora said reassuringly.

"Has Sandy been around?"
LaMonica
asked.

"She stops in for a few almost every night," Teddy said. "She's got a new boyfriend. He sticks with her like glue. Do you know who I'm talking about?"

LaMonica
shook his head.

"The spook that drives the gold-colored Caddy. I think his name is Cole," Teddy said, "but he calls himself Mr. Cool."

"Never heard of him."

"Typical spook weight-pumper," Mora said. "He just got out of San Quentin. Supposedly he's wanted for violation of parole."

"How tight is she hooked up with this Mr. Spook or whoever he is?"
LaMonica
said. He drank a shot of tequila and bit into the lemon. Warmth rushed to his face.

"From the looks of it she
ain't
just 'trying one out,'" Teddy said. "You'll probably have to go through him if you want to use her."

A young man wearing a safari jacket slid in the door and surveyed the crowd. He had greasy duck-tailed hair and no color in his face. An Oriental woman in skintight clothing followed him, her T-shirted nipples pointing like camouflaged radar. The man gave a clenched-fist salute to Teddy and the couple sat down at a table with two well-dressed Mexican men.

Teddy Mora shook his head. "Things are nothing like the old days," he said. "That asshole will sit right there at that table and will, without so much as lowering his
motherfuckin
' voice, settle on a price with those two pushers. Then he'll probably do the deal; yes,
actually make the goddamn transfer,
right out in the parking lot. He'll have his bitch drive the dope across the border tonight. When she gets busted he'll actually wonder
why.
And when she hands him up he'll wonder why again. It'll probably never occur to the poor dumb shit that he did everything wrong; that, for all anybody knows, half the customers in this place are federal snitches waiting to tip off the customs people at the border. To that young jack-off, life is what he sees on TV. All the young punks today are out of touch with reality. To them everything is just a game. Maybe it's because they all get probation the first time out these days." Mora leaned into another shot of tequila and bit a lemon wedge. "People have been dropping like flies around here," he said. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "There's
gotta
be a turkey in the crowd," he whispered, "but I just can't figure out who.
Somebody gets arrested almost every day
,
it seems like
. This place is getting a bad name.
Couple of American
narcs
bust in here the other day with the Mexican cops.
They handcuffed a guy sitting right at the bar and dragged his ass out of here like a dog-some fugitive from L.A. I mean, like how in the hell did they know he was here?" Teddy's eyes surveyed the other tables suspiciously. "When I figure out who it is, I'll have the cocksucker snuffed out." Teddy chuckled. "Thank God down here it only costs two or three hundred bucks."

"Or just tell me and I'll do the job for free,"
LaMonica
said. He smiled.

Prune-faced Teddy licked the rim of his shot glass. "Remind me never to piss you off,
Paulie
the Printer," he said.

****

Chapter 10

AFTER AN hour or so of driving up and down the streets of Ensenada like a tourist looking for a room,
LaMonica
found the gold Cadillac with the MR COOL license plate. It was parked in front of a motel that looked like the others in town, a place with lots of rooms built around a swimming pool that was too small and a bar that was larger than the restaurant. He pulled into a lot across the street, where he could keep an eye on the rooms and the car at the same time.

For the next couple of hours he watched the comings and goings of the guests, mostly blue-collar types: hefty men in Bermuda shorts and uninteresting women carrying straw purses. Everyone was in various stages of tanning. They splashed one another in the pool, chased kids, and passed around bags of potato chips.

Leaning back in the seat,
LaMonica
recalled how he and Sandy
Hartzbecker
had first met. They'd been sitting on plastic-covered sofas in the dingy reception area of the federal parole office in downtown Los Angeles. His first impression of her was that she was a woman who would be impossible to describe. She was neither homely nor attractive, and her face, as well as her height, weight, bra size, and shape of hips, was totally unremarkable. Even her age would be difficult to guess. She had crow's-feet but it was difficult to tell whether they were caused by excessive exposure to sun and wind or the normal aging process. She wore a loose-fitting blouse and jeans, and cheap tennis shoes. Her mousy-brown hair was in pigtails, and her complexion was forgettable
;
unblemished and devoid of makeup of any kind.

She was precisely the type of woman he had been looking for.

He could tell by the form letter she kept folding and unfolding that it was probably her first post-release visit.

"Who's your parole officer?" he said.

She referred to the form. "Mr. Askew."

"He's mine, too,"
LaMonica
said. He lowered his voice. "He's big on playing big brother - a God-squad type. Cry on his shoulder a little bit and ask for advice on something. He'll love it. If you ask, he'll go for waiving the monthly visits."

"Thanks for the information." Her German accent was muted and as dreary as her appearance.

After his visit to the parole officer,
LaMonica
waited in the hallway outside the office. When she came out, they entered the elevator together. The door closed.

"You were right," she said. "He went for it."

"Where'd you do your time?" he said.

"Terminal Island."

The elevator door opened. They dodged through a crowded lobby onto the street.
LaMonica
offered her a ride and she accepted.

"What are you into?" she said when they were in the car.

"Paper."
LaMonica
started the engine and slipped into the halting downtown traffic.

"I did some once," she said. "Hundreds. I passed them in clothing stores in the San Fernando Valley." She gave an amused smile. "I bought so many cheap blouses I could have opened my own shop."

"What's your business?"

"My old man's business was heroin. I did time because I carried for him. I saw the feds following me so I got scared and threw the bundles out the window. It was the stupidest thing I've ever done in my whole life. I just lost my cool. When they arrested me they told me that if I hadn't thrown the stuff, they never would have known I was carrying. Every time I think about it
it
makes me sick."

"Who's your old man?"

"He's dead," she said. "A rip-off. It happened while I was in." She sighed. "But it may have been for the best. If I was with him now I'd probably be right back in all the shit."