The Quality of the Informant (28 page)

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."