The Quality of the Informant Read online

  THE QUALITY OF THE INFORMANT

  GERALD PETIEVICH

  COPYRIGHT © 1985 by Gerald Petievich

  Published in the United States by Arbor House Publishing Company.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental and exists solely in the reader's mind.

  ****

  For

  JOHN,

  GUDRUN,

  TRIXI,

  and

  JOHNNY

  ****

  Chapter 1

  THOUGH IT was early in the day the Castaways Lounge had plenty of customers, mostly men. The walls of the dimly lit bar were decorated with crude glow-in-the-dark paintings of nude women with heavy breasts and luminous pink nipples. There were lots of whispered conversations about money, calls made from the pay phone next to the rest room, sudden departures and returns. There were many bars like it in Hollywood.

  Paul LaMonica sat at a cocktail table with Teddy Mora, a gaunt man with an oatmeal complexion. The meeting had been Mora's idea. He said he had a proposition.

  "I've just lined up the best coke connection on the West Coast," Mora said. "They call him the Barber. He's a hair stylist who makes house calls to the movie stars; I mean the big movie stars. He told me they don't even haggle price. They like cocaine and they don't give a shit what it costs."

  "So?" LaMonica said. He sipped a Bloody Mary.

  "So, his supplier got himself killed on a rip-off day before yesterday," Mora said. "The Barber wants me to take over. The man needs dope for the movie stars. This is the chance of a lifetime."

  "Where do I fit in?" LaMonica asked.

  "I need front money for the first load of snow," Mora said. "I'm offering you the chance to go in with me. We'd be partners. The way I have it figured, we can triple our investment with every load."

  LaMonica lit a cigarette. "Dope is not my thing," he said. "I don't even know enough about it to talk price. Besides, every deal has a thousand middlemen involved, and from what I've seen through the years, one of 'em is usually a snitch." He frowned. "And I don't like snitches."

  "I'm not asking you to get involved in any of the negotiations," Teddy Mora said. "I can handle the nitty-gritty. You're an ink-and-paper man and you always have been. I know that." Mora reached across the table and patted the other man on the arm in a brotherly fashion. "All I'm asking you to do is to come in as a partner; to make an investment. You'll come straight in from the top end of the thing. I'll handle all the details. There is virtually no risk whatsoever. I guarantee that."

  A ginger-haired cocktail waitress came to the table. Her nametag read "Linda" and she wore a low-cut top and a short skirt. "Another round?" she said. LaMonica nodded. As she emptied the ashtray her leg rubbed against his arm. She smiled at him and walked away. He guessed her age as close to forty, a few years younger than his. "How much are we talking about?" LaMonica asked. He rubbed his hands together.

  "We need a total of a hundred," Mora said. "My fifty grand is in the bank right now."

  "How do I know that?" LaMonica had a wry smile.

  Teddy Mora reached into his back pocket, pulled out a bankbook, and handed it to LaMonica. LaMonica opened the book. There were a dozen or so stamped entries totaling about fifty thousand dollars. He handed the book back.

  "Okay," LaMonica said. "I come up with fifty ... then what?" He took a drag from the cigarette and picked a piece of tobacco off the end of his tongue.

  "Then we deposit the money into a bank account in Ensenada," Mora said. "An hour later we get a telephone call. The load will be stashed in a car in the tourists' parking lot on the U.S. side of the border. We pick up the load and head for L.A., where the Barber is waiting. He pays us up front and we tell him where to find the package. We triple our hundred grand in one day. On our end, it's just you and me. You don't have to meet anyone. There is no way for anything to go wrong. On the Mexican side, the deal is insured by my contacts in Mexico City. When I say 'contacts', I'm talking about people at the highest level. I'm talking about the politicos. It's taken me three years of living in Mexico to set this thing up."

  LaMonica raised his eyebrows in an expression of disbelief. "Why don't you just parlay two deals for fifty each? Why do you need me?"

  "Good question," Mora said. "The answer is that I've been talking a big game to the Barber, but now that the connection has finally come together, I'm short of cash. I've got a lot of money tied up in my bar in Ensenada, and I just bought a head shop down the street from here by Grauman's Chinese. I'm short of bucks. It's that simple. I'm giving you a shot at the deal because I trust you; we walked the yard together. If you'll come in with me I won't have to worry about talking this thing up to investors and taking the chance of meeting a fed or an informer. But I hope you're realistic enough to see that there are plenty of people who would literally jump on this thing."

  Mora picked up his drink and took sips, then set the glass down. His hands grasped the edge of the table. He leaned forward and said, "What I'm telling you is that you can fuck around for the rest of your life with funny money and phony checks and you will never be able to score anywhere near what you could with just one solid coke deal. I don't have to sit here and remind you that bogus bills have to be passed one at a time, or at best, dealt off in thousand-dollar packages to a parade of sniffling, back-stabbing hypes, one out of two of which is a rat. Even checks ... top limit can't be more than a few grand and you have to stand there in the bank with your face hanging out in order to cash it." Mora pulled his chair closer to the table. "Coke is the answer. There's guys who have made enough to walk away from everything for once and for all. And I'm not talking about heavies. I'm talking about twenty-one-year-old red-assed punks sailing around on their yachts in Marina Del Rey right this very minute. They had the guts to get in their car and make one round-trip from here to Tijuana and back. L.A. is full of people like that. And what the hell did they have to lose? Minimum, straight probation for the first offense, or maximum, a year in a federal camp with tennis courts. Was it worth it? You're goddamn fucking right it was. Why? Because there's a market for the shit! The movie stars, TV people, doctors, dentists ... they pack their noses every night. They get off on it! And, old buddy, most important of all, they are willing to pay out their asses for it."

  Having spit out the last sentence, Teddy Mora sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.

  LaMonica smiled. "I guess after all these years I can trust you not to try to scam me," he said.

  Linda the waitress leaned back against her bar station and gazed in his direction. She popped an olive into her mouth and made a funny face. LaMonica smiled.

  "I've always made it a point not to cross Paulie LaMonica," Mora said. "It's because I know you too well. Friend or not, you'd kill me and sit down and eat a sandwich afterward." Mora laughed nervously.

  The waitress approached them, and they stopped talking. As she arranged drinks on the table she made a point of giving LaMonica an extra peek down the front of her low-cut costume.

  LaMonica paid her. "Keep the change."

  "Thank you, Silver Fox," she said with a smile.

  As she walked away he noticed that her legs were smooth, no varicose veins. All in all, a reasonably attractive woman.

  Mora's leering eyes followed the waitress back to the bar. "Word is she can suck a tennis ball through a twenty-foot garden hose," he whispered.

  Linda set the empty drinks down on the bar. She turned and winked at LaMonica. He winked back.

  "It'll take me a week or two to come up with my fifty grand," LaMonica said. "I have a thing mapped out."

  "We've got to move on this deal as soon as we
can," Mora said. "The buyer won't wait forever. He's big, I'm telling ya. He gets invited to every studio party. He's the dope pusher to the stars."

  ****

  Chapter 2

  THE AIR-CONDITIONING unit in the modest apartment had just clicked off. Its rattle was replaced by the whiz-hum sound of the nearby Hollywood freeway.

  Linda Gleason was in her bedroom, standing in front of a dressing-table mirror. She reached behind for the zipper, tugged at it, and the cocktail waitress outfit split in half. She gave a shrug and it dropped to the floor.

  In her underwear she turned and faced the man sitting on the edge of the bed. She knew him only as Paul, and his hair was styled, graying, perhaps dyed. His pants were off. He had the paunch, the fish-skin folds on the belly, that all the Hollywood rounders, the credit-card bullshitters, the confidence men with open-collar Beverly Hills shirts wore like a uniform. To her, it was a telltale mark of prison.

  But there were other signs: his generally cautious demeanor; the vague remarks on the telephone; his reluctance to leave messages or to tell her where he lived; the way he parked his car around the corner from the Castaways Lounge rather than in the parking lot. And the missing little finger ... could he have lost it in a prison knife fight?

  Ile only thing she liked about the man so far was the way he had come right out and put the question to her. No beating-around-the-bush crap about "going out for breakfast" or "taking a drive to the beach." His had been a simple and straightforward "Let's fuck." (Much to his surprise, she'd said, "Shouldn't we wait until we get to my apartment?") Even as a teenager she had preferred the boys who straight-out pulled her sweater off over those who insisted on the crawling-hands-breath-holding-kissy-face act before getting down to business. Of course she had learned early on that women could not express such thoughts. Richard, her dead husband, had made that point more than once. "It kills the mystery," he'd said.

  "Small world," Linda said, unsnapping her bra.

  "Like how?" Paul pulled off his undershirt and tossed it on the floor. He had a florist's smile.

  "You having known my husband," she said, shrugging off the bra and sitting down at the dressing table. As she ran a brush through her hair she watched him in the mirror. He leaned back against the headboard.

  "Richard and I were at Terminal Island together ten years ago," he said. "Maximum security. I heard about what happened to him after we got out. Too bad." He said "too bad" without shaking his head. He pulled off his shorts and tossed them on the floor.

  Linda leaned closer to the mirror and applied lipstick. "I told him it would happen if he took money from a loan shark, but he never listened to me ... or to anyone else, for that matter." She made her lips flat and pressed them together.

  The man's hand was between his legs. He was pulling on himself. Linda hoped it wouldn't mean one of those marathon efforts to make him come. At least he wasn't drunk, she thought.

  Linda Gleason stood up and pulled off her panties. She tossed them at a chair. Crawling onto the bed, she perched on her knees in front of him. "Relax," she said. "Let me do everything." Without hesitation, she took his cock firmly in her hand and pumped gently. "Tell me what you like," she whispered.

  The man gave a moan and soon became erect. He whispered things for her to do, positions to assume, and she complied. None of the requests surprised her. It was the usual bill-of-fare fantasy cock-worship act that always excited men. Hurrying like an adolescent, he was on top of her, rutting, sweating, exercising his ugly abdomen, and Linda made periodic joy-yelps to help him along. Finally, his eyes closed and he gave in to orgasm. As the man groaned in a wave of pleasure, Linda glanced at a clock on the nightstand. She made an expected aaaah sound. With a wet kiss, he rolled off her in exhaustion.

  Linda snuggled next to him. Her hand danced gently across the hair of his chest for a while. "Mmmm," she said. "It's nice to be with someone who turns me on."

  Paul fondled a breast. "I don't come to L.A. very often," he said. "The feds here are looking for me."

  Linda's neck tingled. She had guessed right. "Why?" she asked.

  "Funny money." He flicked her nipple.

  Hiding her excitement at the remark, Linda took his hand and covered it with little kisses.

  "When are you leaving town?"

  "Tomorrow night," Paul said, looking at the ceiling.

  During the next half hour or so, they showered separately and Paul dressed.

  While Linda stood drying off in front of the bathroom door, Paul said something about using the telephone. Tucking in his shirt, he went into the living room.

  Linda tiptoed to the half-closed door as he was dialing the phone.

  "This is Robert French," she heard him say. "May I speak to Mr. Lassiter please?"

  Linda put her ear to the crack of the door.

  "Hello, Robert French here," Paul said. "I ordered thirty reams of safety paper and some inks yesterday. Would you check and see if the order is ready?" Nothing was said for a while. Then, "Fine," Paul said. "No, that won't be necessary. I'll be in to pick it up. Thanks." He hung up the phone and made another call. "Yes, for one month only," he said. "I want you to answer: 'International Investigations Incorporated.' I'll call in for messages once a day. Whoever calls, just tell them I'm out of town." He hung up the receiver.

  Linda dashed to the closet and grabbed a robe. Paul came back into the bedroom and sat down on the bed. He started putting on his shoes.

  "Sounds like you've got something cooking," Linda said, fearing to be any more direct. She ran a brush through her damp hair.

  "You might say that," Paul said. "Matter of fact, I'll be needing a female backup in a week or so. Interested?"

  Linda shrugged and continued to brush. She wished she'd had a chance to look through his wallet. "Tomorrow is my day off," she said, sitting down next to him on the bed.

  "How about coming over before you leave. We can barbecue steaks." She nuzzled his ear. "And maybe I can have a repeat performance before I let you go," she whispered, giving his crotch a squeeze.

  "Why not," he said proudly. He stood up and threw on his camel's-hair sport coat. Linda followed him to the front door.

  He patted her on the bottom and said, "See ya tomorrow," in a confident tone. Linda Gleason winked. The man walked outside.

  Having closed and bolted the door, she found her purse on the kitchen counter, dug out a pack of filter tips and lit up. Plopping down on the sofa, she grabbed the phone off the coffee table and dialed.

  A sleepy-voiced man answered. "U.S. Treasury Field Enforcement."

  "I'm trying to get in touch with Special Agent Charles Carr," Linda Gleason said. She took a deep drag on the cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke.

  "He works the four-to-twelve shift. Would you like to leave a message?"

  "I'll call later, thanks."

  The phone clicked.

  It was 3:00 P.M.

  The apartment's solitary bedroom was bare except for a bed with a suitcase opened on it and a dresser. The second-story view from the window was of another apartment house. In Santa Monica, a blocked ocean view was the sign of an affordable address.

  Having shaved, showered, and donned slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt with a frayed collar, Charles Carr fastened a holster to his belt. He realized as he dressed that he had taken the shirt with him to Washington, D.C., when he'd been transferred there from L.A. two years ago. Unable to find his handcuff case after rummaging through the suitcase, he hung the cuffs over his belt at the small of his back. He shoved his .38 into the holster.

  While shaving, he had momentarily considered leaving the stubble on his upper lip to begin a mustache. A lady bartender he'd dated in D.C. had once told him it would make him look younger. He had quickly scotched the daydream and shaved clean. So he looked like a fifty-year-old man with a barroom flush on his cheekbones-so what? The Treasury Department's requirements had been for veterans with 20/20 vision and "no distinguishing traits." Though his looks, dr
ess, and general demeanor might keep him from making it to the pages of Gentleman's Quarterly, he figured he still filled the bill as a street-level T-man.

  He emptied his suitcase of the personal items he always seemed to cart along with him from transfer to transfer: a grainy Treasury Agent Training School class photo with everyone wearing hats; old bullet pouches and scribbly address books; a printed invitation to a 101st Airborne reunion decorated with a map of Korea; a news clipping about his shoot-out with the hired killer Clyde Reno; a dog-eared photograph of his mother and father sitting on the front porch of their tiny home in Boyle Heights; a stack of letters from Sally Malone. He stuffed the items into dresser drawers.

  Because his belongings were being shipped by government bill of lading (known to federal civil servants as the Wagon Train), he had no utensils. At the kitchen sink, he rinsed out a Styrofoam cup he found in the cabinet and drank two cups of water. He left the apartment and headed downtown.

  A tepid Santa Ana wind swirled in the open windows of Charles Carr's sedan as he sped east along the Santa Monica freeway. The breeze had wafted the city's stultifying layer of smog to sea, revealing a panorama of chaparral-covered foothills and mountains extending from Hollywood east past Cucamonga: nature's infrequent reminder that without neon, asphalt, Chevron stations, and tract homes with television aerials, Los Angeles was a desert basin touching an ocean.

  Years ago he had chased a counterfeiter at more than a hundred miles an hour along the same freeway. Each of the familiar exit signs stirred other such memories; a rooftop chase along LaCienega; a three-week surveillance on Sepulveda; a shoot-out in front of a bank on Robertson Boulevard. Hell, he had chased paper pushers and passers around the city for so long that few streets were unfamiliar to him. It was no secret that he thrived on the big-city action: the bizarre people, the jungle politics of the underworld, the challenge of trying to beat the counterfeiters and hoods at their own game.

  Off duty, his activities centered around police watering holes, maudlin retirement-and-promotion parties, barroom celebrations after big cases, and Dodger games. Though his attachments to women were usually characterized by casual dates and one-night stands, this was due to no particular creed or philosophy.