The Quality of the Informant (13 page)

LaMonica
stood up. "I'll be at Teddy's tonight," he said. "If you want in, meet me there. You can bring your boyfriend." He walked out the door wondering whether he should have played it a little softer.

****

Chapter 11

LAMONICA
HAD been
in Teddy's for over an hour, sitting at a corner table sipping beer. Teddy flitted from table to table with his tequila bottle and lemon. Sandy came in the door followed by her boyfriend. Mr. Cool wore a form-fitting T-shirt the same color as his skin. His biceps were puffed,
veiny
. Sandy pointed and he strolled to
LaMonica's
table. Unsmiling, the black man sat down. He had boozy, red-rimmed eyes and a moon-shaped scar on his cheek. Looking self-conscious, Sandy walked past them to the bar.

LaMonica
stared at the weightlifter with a blank expression. "I'm offering Sandy a piece of a thing I have under way. Her part will be a few simple meetings. I'm promising her twenty-five grand when it's over." He sipped his drink.

The black man made a half smile. "Is this a paper thing?"

"I guess you could say that,"
LaMonica
said.

"Just what kind of paper do we be talking about?" Mr. Cool folded his arms and leaned forward on the cocktail table. The table tilted.

LaMonica
sat back as if the man across from him were diseased. "High-quality paper."

"Then we be talking about funny money," Mr. Cool said. "Is that what we be talking about?"

LaMonica
sipped his drink,
then
wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What part don't you understand, brother?"

"Just exactly what the fuck do the lady have to do, man?" Mr. Cool said. "Some things people have to do are worth more money than other things people have to do."

"If the lady decides she wants in, then she will do exactly what the fuck I tell her to do,"
LaMonica
said. "That's what she has to do."

"You didn't answer the
muthafuckin
' question."

"Why don't you give it to me again?"

"Man, why don't you quit the
shuckin
' and
jivin
' and get down to
talkin
' some business? The lady asked me to check things out and make sure it all goes right for her, that she
ain't
going to get ripped off. If I don't give her the go-ahead, then she for damn sure
ain't
gonna
join your little party. Do you see where I'm
comin
' from?"

"Like I said, her part will be a couple of meetings with a sucker,"
LaMonica
said. "She plays a part. We score and split fifty thousand. This is a guarantee."

"In other words, the
lady have
to show her face. And if she have to be showing her face, then she's right out there on Front Street when the pigs come around with their pictures," he said. He lit a menthol cigarette.

LaMonica
looked the man in the eye. He said nothing.

"You'll have to deal with me if she don't get what's
comin
' to her," the black man said.

"She'll get it,"
LaMonica
said. "But it won't be because I'm afraid of you, nigger."

Mr. Cool stared at
LaMonica
for a moment. Then he got up and went to the bar. He and Sandy whispered. Sandy came back to the table and said, "Okay, when and where?" There were tears in her eyes.

"I'll pick you up at your motel day after tomorrow,"
LaMonica
said. "Pack a bag."

"Where are we going?"

"Up to Tijuana."

During the twenty-minute ride from the airport the cabdriver drawled on about how much Houston had grown and
LaMonica
acted as if he were interested. He pulled up in front of a gunmetal-gray building with letters over a bank of glass doors that spelled "National Headquarters Travelers
Chex
Incorporated."
LaMonica
paid the taxi fare, including tip, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He checked every pocket in his clothing as a final security measure, making sure he carried no identification with his real name. He strode into the building.

The reception area was decorated with a Texas state flag, travel photos, and a blowup of a purplish traveler's check. The receptionist, a young Mexican woman with dark lips and eyes, was courteous. He told her he wanted to talk to the director of security. She made a brief phone call and showed him into an office decorated with police paraphernalia: insignia patches, inscribed
billy
-clubs
.

The fat man behind the desk stood up and shook hands. It was hard to tell his age. He had smooth pink cheeks that probably didn't require more than
a
once-a-week shave. His hair was black and looked as if it had been pasted onto his head in little greasy gobs. He wore a clip-on necktie. "Omar T. Lockhart," he boomed. "I'm the director of security."

LaMonica
introduced himself as Roger Brown and handed the man a business card. Lockhart motioned him to a chair. He read the business card out loud: "International Investigative Service."

"Most of my clients are corporations,"
LaMonica
said.

"I see. And what can I do for you?" Lockhart made a little pointless laugh.

"I am a private investigator,"
LaMonica
said. "I represent a client who wants to provide information concerning the counterfeiting of your company's traveler's checks. My client demands anonymity, and I have given her my personal and professional assurances that her identity will be protected. Frankly, she fears for her life."

Omar T. Lockhart slid forward in his chair. He took off his glasses and held them up to the light. "In other words, she wants to be paid a reward for her information," he said, putting the glasses back on. He flexed his eyebrows a few times and coughed without putting a hand over his mouth. "And just how will you be paid?"

LaMonica
gave a puzzled look. "My fee?" he said.

"Yes," Lockhart said, "that is what I'm asking you."

"I'm working on a percentage of the recovery fee plus expenses. That should be no secret."

Lockhart nodded knowingly. He looked out the window.

"I'll get to the point,"
LaMonica
said. "My client has knowledge of a stash of one million dollars in traveler's checks. They're five-hundred-dollar-denomination checks."

Lockhart turned to
LaMonica
. "Do you have a sample?"

LaMonica
pulled a business-sized envelope out of his coat pocket and handed it to Lockhart. Lockhart removed the check from the envelope and examined it carefully before putting it back in the envelope.

"And just what do we have to do to get our hands on these checks?" Lockhart said.

"I'll have to convince my client that it's worth the risk."

Lockhart nodded. "I understand."

"She is a very street-wise lady,"
LaMonica
said. "She knows full well that traveler's-check companies bear the full dollar loss on counterfeit checks that are passed. She wants ten percent of the dollar amount of the recovery.

Lockhart laughed. "Just a hundred thousand dollars?" he said. "No way we are going to pay any such reward, my good man. No way."

"I'm just relaying what she's told me. I'm only a middle-man."
LaMonica
stood up and stretched. He went to the window. The view was of a sprawling business area mixing into suburbs; a town of fast-buck artists, chance takers, oil thieves. "I know you'll want to discuss this with your superiors," he said. "Perhaps we could meet again tomorrow?"

Lockhart looked puzzled. He nodded.

"If you do decide to deal with my client, I would insist that you make no contact with the police or FBI until the investigation is in its final stages,"
LaMonica
said. "Police agencies have a tendency to move too quickly and could compromise my client."

"Of course those decisions are ours alone to make," Lockhart said.

LaMonica
turned to the security man. "Speaking as a professional private investigator, I'm telling you that my client will not work with the police. Period. I don't intend to waste my time and have the case blown before we are able to locate and recover the counterfeit checks-all of them. There will be plenty of time for the police to make arrests once the investigation is at the proper stage."

"That sounds fair enough," Lockhart said.

The men shook hands and Paul
LaMonica
walked out the door. Lockhart returned to his desk. After staring at Brown's business card for a few seconds, he dialed the Los Angeles telephone number on it.

A woman answered. "International Investigative Service."

"Mr. Roger Brown, please," he said.

"I'm sorry. Mr. Brown is out of town for a few days. May I tell him who called?"

"I'd prefer to just give him a call in a few days. I have some work for him. Uh, I take it your firm does handle corporate work?"

"Yes," the woman said. "This firm handles private investigations and industrial security work for major corporations. May I take your name and address?"

Lockhart set the receiver down.

The conference room was decorated with a set of Texas longhorns and a color photograph of John Wayne standing in front of the Alamo. He was holding up a book of traveler's checks.

Omar T. Lockhart sat in a seat at the end of the mahogany table next to the vice-president for personnel. The table was filled with men wearing dark suits. He had stood up and given his briefing, using as much police jargon as possible. By the time the questions started, there was a definite air of urgency in the room and Lockhart knew full well that he had created it.

"Who is this 'private eye'?" said the gray-haired man at the opposite end of the table. His expression was grim, perhaps a requirement for a chairman of the board.

"I've checked him out, Mr.
Stallworth
. He's an independent from Los Angeles. He does corporate work mostly."

The eyes at the table went from one man to another like a crowd at a tennis match.

"Just how good are these counterfeit checks?"
Stallworth
said.

"Excellent quality," Lockhart said. He removed a check from a folder and held it up. "Easy to pass," he added, realizing that his usual board-room butterflies had almost gone away. Everyone was looking at the check.

Stallworth
spoke. "How many of these have actually been passed?"

"Just a few in Ensenada, Mexico, a couple of days ago. They were passed in a bar," Lockhart said. "They've just started to pop up. For once we're right on top of the operation. We have a chance of recovering the checks before they get into heavy circulation."

"Get him down to some reasonable figure,"
Stallworth
said. "We'll pay, but we're not going to pay full fare."

"And the police?" Lockhart said.

"The private investigator is probably right in that regard,"
Stallworth
said. "If we bring in the police or the FBI at this point, they will take control. Naturally, they'll be more interested in arresting crooks than recovering the counterfeit checks before we end up eating a million-dollar loss. For the time being let's keep the police out of it."
Stallworth
looked at his watch. "I want you to report to me every day on this matter."