The Quality of the Informant cc-3 Page 2

  Certainly by any normal standards his existence could be described as neither wholesome nor particularly fruitful. But for a man who more than twenty years ago had volunteered for the army-the 101st Airborne, and combat in Korea-it was not without its rewards.

  At Vermont Avenue he pulled into the slow lane and took the turnoff. He headed north through a crowded business district. At the edge of Hollywood, he pulled up in front of a fast-food stand, a four-seater operation fashioned out of sheet metal that had been painted bright red. On the awning over the stools was a crudely painted sign of a hot dog dripping with mustard: "Calhoun's" was lettered on the bun. Charles Carr parked his sedan and got out.

  "The Snake has returned," Calhoun said as Carr straddled a stool. The 260-pound black man wore a white T-shirt and trousers, apron, and a paper chef's hat. Without using tongs, he plopped a frankfurter into a bun. Having loaded the bun with relish and mustard, he wrapped the hot dog and set it down in front of Carr. Calhoun wiped his fingers on a rag. The men shook hands. "Kelly told me you'd transferred back," Calhoun said. "I've been waiting for you to stop by."

  Carr picked up the hot dog and took a bite. He chewed and swallowed. "What's going on?" he said.

  "There's some twenties and phony driver's licenses around," Calhoun said. "Nothing really hot and heavy, you understand. Just the usual. If you want it, it's out there."

  "Money talks," Carr said casually. He took another bite.

  "You got that right," Calhoun said. "Just wave a little of that green shit around a few people, and a man can get exactly what he wants. Hell, yesterday the dude who lives next door told me he could get any brand of TV I wanted. It'll be stolen, but I could actually order the brand I wanted ahead of time. Can you believe that shit?"

  Carr nodded. He finished the hot dog.

  Calhoun plopped another frankfurter into a bun. Carr gestured no, and Calhoun tossed the frank back in the steamer.

  "How's your son doing?" Carr asked.

  Calhoun shook his head. "Tyrone's gotten worse since I wrote you that letter," he said. "He won't listen to me and he calls his mother names. It's all because he moved into an apartment with a bunch of jive-ass niggers. A couple of weeks ago I drove him down to the army recruiting office. A sergeant gave him a real nice talking-to. He actually got him to fill out all the papers and take a physical. He was ready to go. The wife and I were all set to have a real nice going-away party for him-a barbecue in Griffith Park." Calhoun adjusted his cap and shook his head again. "Then those jive-ass punks he's been hanging around with talked him out of it. They told him he was an asshole for wanting to go in the army and be a paratrooper. They're dope dealers, a bunch of jack-jawed no-good hophead motherfuckers. I know they're into funny money too. I heard my boy whispering on the telephone about it. At first I figured I'd go over there and cave their damn heads in, but I'd be taking a chance at ending up in San Quentin my own self. I'm afraid that once I got started I wouldn't know when to quit. You know how I am."

  Carr nodded.

  A gray-faced old man wearing a filthy baseball cap and T-shirt sat down at the counter. Calhoun served him a hot dog and a cup of coffee. He returned to Carr. "Them jive-ass punks my boy is living with all drive Cadillacs. I raised my son in the Baptist Church. I saw to it that his ass was in Sunday school all the way through the tenth grade. But now he's eighteen years old and he's met some punks that deal dope and have enough money to drive their bitches around in Cadillacs." He slapped the counter violently. "Damn! And to think my boy came within an inch of being an airborne trooper. He woulda been a second-generation paratrooper instead of a goddamn hophead."

  "A person can't even eat a bog dog in peace," said the old man at the counter. He stood up angrily and walked away with his frankfurter and coffee.

  Calhoun tipped his hat at the man.

  "On second thought, maybe I will have another," Carr said.

  Calhoun winked. He prepared a hot dog and handed it to Carr. "Tyrone just don't know any better. He's grown up in the city and it's all he knows. He's at the age where he needs a change in environment … to find out that there's other people in the world besides the punks that live around the corner. I was the same way when I was his age. I know what I'm talking about."

  "The boy needs to jump out of an airplane," Carr said.

  Calhoun folded his arms and leaned forward over the counter. "Or have the jumpmaster kick his ass out the door," he said.

  Carr took a bite of the hog dog. He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. "Still wearing 'em?" he said.

  Calhoun stepped back from the counter and held up his foot. The black, round-toed paratrooper's boot had an even shine. "I've had 'em resoled more than thirteen times," he said.

  "I'll need an address," Carr said.

  Calhoun smiled. He dug a pencil out of a drawer and scribbled something on a napkin. He handed it to Carr.

  Carr stuffed the napkin into his wallet. He finished the hot dog, stood up to leave, and said, "Be home tonight."

  "I'll be standing by, Sarge," Calhoun said.

  Chapter 3

  The squad-room walls were covered with federal wanted posters, blowups of counterfeit twenties, and street maps dotted with red stickpins.

  Charles Carr swiveled his desk chair around to look out the window. The view below was of downtown Los Angeles in darkness: lifeless buildings, grayish-white streetlights, and a freeway still bustling even after rush hour. Across the road the neon lamps of Chinatown gave off an exotic rainbow glimmer. He was glad to be back.

  He thumbed through the latest stack of L.A. area intelligence reports, squinting as he turned the pages. He would not give in to wearing glasses.

  Jack Kelly, a man of Carr's age with the jaw and limbs of a grizzly bear, hunched at the desk next to him. Tacked to the bulletin board behind his desk was a watercolor of an automobile that looked like a box with wheels. "To Daddy from Junior" was printed in a child's letters along the bottom. "Did you find yourself an apartment?" he asked without looking up.

  "Santa Monica," Carr said. "Same building I lived in before I was transferred." He shook his head. "Rent's up a hundred bucks."

  Kelly put down the newspaper. "Doesn't seem like two years," he said, chuckling harshly. "The memos 'No Waves' sent to headquarters to keep you from transferring back here were classic. He'd say things like, 'Agent Carr would benefit, career-wise, by a transfer to an office other than Los Angeles,' or 'Office requirements in the Senior Special Agent category are minimal…' like the pencil-neck geek that he is, he would never just come out like a man and say he hated your guts and didn't want you here. Good old true-to-form Norbert C. Waeves, the man who can grind out government memos faster than an offset printing press.

  Carr smiled and said, "That's why he was promoted to special agent in charge."

  Kelly changed the subject. "I saw Sally in court the other day. She wants you to call her … told me that three times. Said she had been elected president of the Federal Court Stenographers Association. Nice gal, Sally, lots of class. The wife still says you should have married her years ago.

  Carr shrugged.

  Kelly folded the newspaper and tossed it in the trashcan. "Since you were transferred, here's what you've missed: We have a new United States attorney. He was appointed because he's married to the daughter of that guy that owns half the hotels in Palm Springs. He has Jell-O for brains and all of his prosecutors are family friends-arrogant hippies and unbelievable Ivy League pricks. They're more concerned with the rights of the defendant than the public defender, and they all wear bow ties like that storefront lawyer on television. The other day the U.S. attorney actually gave a press release on the prosecution of a postman who got caught throwing his advertising mail in the sewer. The same day I asked them for a search warrant for a counterfeiter's car. They refused to issue one because they weren't sure of the case law. I had to let the guy drive off even though I knew the car had a load of phony twenties in the trunk."

  "In other words
, the system hasn't changed," Carr said.

  "What system?" Kelly said. He flipped open a briefcase that was sitting on his desk and grabbed a sandwich. He removed the wax paper and lifted the top piece of bread to check the contents, then mashed the sandwich down with the heel of his hand.

  "Meatloaf and raw onions?" Carr said.

  Kelly's eyes said yes. He opened his mouth as wide as possible, bit off a full third of the sandwich, and chewed intently. Three more bites and the sandwich disappeared. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his hands and mouth roughly.

  Later, they left the office with Carr behind the wheel of the government sedan. Carr explained Calhoun's problem as they drove south on Main Street past L.A.'s skid row.

  "Now I see why you didn't want to talk in the office," Kelly said when Carr finished explaining his plan. He stared at a group of derelicts huddled under a rescue-mission sign featuring a picture of Jesus with outstretched hands. They were passing around a bottle of wine.

  "Every one of 'em has a full head of hair," Kelly said.

  "Howzat?"

  "Winos," Kelly said. "They all have full heads of hair."

  Carr gave his old partner a puzzled look.

  "Just think of it," Kelly said. "In your whole entire lifetime, how many bald winos have you seen? There must be something about the booze that helps 'em keep their hair."

  "Dr. Jack Kelly," Carr said. He chuckled.

  Carr steered through the deserted garment district and down Central Avenue past crowded soul-food stands and pool halls. "There's still not one single movie theater in all of Watts," Kelly said. "Too much vandalism, too many fights. But there is an answer. The owner could hook electrical wires under every seat in the theater. Anybody causes trouble, just give 'em a jolt. Knock 'em right out the door."

  "Great idea," Carr said dryly. He pulled out the napkin to check the address, then turned onto a side street. He parked in front of a run-down apartment house with three Cadillacs lined up in the driveway. The agents took flashlights from the glove compartment and climbed out of the sedan. They strolled slowly down the driveway. Kelly flashed a beam of light on a mailbox. The name Calhoun was listed on the box for apartment number 3 along with two other names. Kelly flashed the light on the side of the two-story building. Number 3 was on the ground floor.

  "I'll take the back," Kelly whispered. He tiptoed along the driveway and turned right at the corner of the building.

  As Carr approached the front door, he heard the sound of rock music inside. He knocked. Footsteps came to the door and a man inside said, "Who's there?" Carr slipped his revolver out of its holster.

  "Federal officers," Carr said. "Open the door." There was the sound of running inside. Carr stepped back, lifted his foot, and slammed it into the doorknob as hard as he could. The doorjamb shattered and the door flew open. The living room was empty. He ran down the hallway and into a bedroom. The window was open and a black man was halfway out. He moaned. Kelly had him in a headlock. Carr grabbed the black man by the belt, pulled him back into the room, then threw him against a wall and frisked him. Carr handcuffed the man's hands behind his back. As Kelly started to climb in the window, Carr silently pointed at the closet.

  "What's your name?" Carr said to the prisoner.

  "Tyrone Calhoun," he said in a voice that quavered.

  Carr stepped to the closet door. He stood to the side, grasped the doorknob, and yanked the closet open. Two young black men stood huddled in the corner. "Good evening, lads. Come on out and join the party," he said. The men stepped out of the closet. They wore bright full-sleeved silk shirts and tailored trousers. Carr shoved them against a wall. He frisked.

  As Kelly crawled in the window, Carr motioned him to watch Calhoun. He grabbed the other two men, shoved them into the living room, and opened the front door. "Bye," he said. The men looked at one another, then rushed out the door and down the driveway. Carr returned to the bedroom.

  Kelly pulled drawers out of the dresser and upended them. He yanked clothing out of the closet, searched it, and tossed it on the floor.

  "Do you have a warrant?" Tyrone Calhoun said.

  "Shut your goddamn mouth," Carr snapped.

  Kelly hoisted a nightstand upside down. "Bingo," he said. He tossed Carr a stack of counterfeit ten-dollar bills wrapped with a rubber band.

  Carr held the money in front of Calhoun's face. "Is this yours?"

  "I just moved in here a couple of weeks ago," Calhoun said. "I swear to God I ain't had anything to do with that stuff."

  "Oh, really," Carr said sarcastically. "You're under arrest for possession of counterfeit money." He turned to Kelly. "Give him his rights, Jack."

  Kelly sauntered across the room. He pulled a card from his shirt pocket and read in a singsong fashion: "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court or other proceedings. If you cannot afford a shyster one will be appointed for you. You also have a right to a free press and to peaceably assemble for the purpose of libation. Do you understand those rights and wave them as you would the flag of our nation?"

  "Uh, yes sir," Tyrone Calhoun said.

  "How old are you?" Carr said.

  "I just turned eighteen."

  "Then you also have the right to make one telephone call," Carr said. "Whom do you choose to call?"

  Tyrone Calhoun squeezed his eyes shut. "My dad will kill me," he said.

  Carr grasped the prisoner's arm. He pulled him into the living room. Calhoun gave him a number and Carr dialed it. He held the phone to the young man's ear.

  "Dad? It's me. I … I'm under arrest, but I didn't do anything. I'm at the apartment."

  Carr pulled the phone away and hung up. "I don't like long phone calls," he said.

  Kelly shuffled out of the bedroom carrying a handful of pill bottles and glassine envelopes. "Found some dope, too," he said. "The stuff ought to be good for at least another five years in the pen for this punk." He sat down at the kitchen table and made a list of the contraband.

  "Where are my, uh, friends?" Tyrone Calhoun asked.

  "On their way to jail," Carr said.

  A few minutes later, Calhoun, wearing his white uniform, stepped in the door.

  "Who are you?" Carr said.

  "I'm the boy's father."

  "It's not my stuff, Dad," said Tyrone.

  "I guess it don't really matter now, do it, Mr. Jive-Ass?" Calhoun said.

  "The bail will be twenty thousand dollars," Carr said. "We're booking him in at the Terminal Island federal lockup."

  "I'm sorry, Dad." His voice cracked.

  Calhoun took off his hat. "Officers," he said, "this boy is set to join the U.S. Army. He wants to be a paratrooper. He's done passed the test and filled out all the paperwork. Isn't that right, son?"

  The young man gave his father a confused look, then nodded. "I'm supposed to be sworn in any day."

  Calhoun straddled a chair at the table. "Officers," he said, "this arrest will ruin the boy's life. It'll mean that he won't get accepted into the army." He hung his head. "If you could see your way to giving the boy a break on this case, I give you my word that he'll go in the army and never cause any trouble again. I'm a member of the Los Angeles junior Chamber of Commerce."

  Kelly continued to write on a pad. "Bullshit," he said.

  "I swear he'll take the oath the very moment the recruiting office opens up tomorrow morning," Calhoun said. "Please don't ruin this boy's life."

  Carr avoided looking Calhoun in the eye for fear of laughing. Instead he glared at the young Calhoun with a look of mock enmity for a moment. Then he stood up and nodded at Kelly, who followed him to the corner of the room. They feigned whispering. "You're the boss," Kelly finally said in a louder, disgusted tone. "But I still don't like it." He buffed back to the kitchen table. Angrily, he shoved the counterfeit money and the narcotics into a paper bag and strode out the door.

  "I've decided to give the kid a break," Carr said. "But we're
keeping the evidence. If he's not sworn into the army and on a bus to basic training by tomorrow night, we'll be out looking for him. I'm holding you personally responsible for what happens."

  "You have my word of honor, Officer," the elder Calhoun said. He stood up and shook hands. Carr stepped behind Calhoun and removed his handcuffs.

  The young man rubbed his wrists. "Thanks a lot, Officer," he said. "Thanks a lot."

  Carr walked out the door. He and Kelly made it into the sedan and closed both doors before they broke into hysterical laughter. Carr caught his breath. "Operation Shanghai."

  Kelly kept laughing. He used the back of his hand to wipe away tears of mirth. "After his first day of basic training, he'll wish he'd gone to jail instead!" The laughter continued all the way back to the Federal Building. Before entering the underground garage, Kelly tore up the counterfeit tens and tossed them and the narcotics into a storm drain.

  Back in the field office, the phone on Carr's desk rang. He picked up the receiver.

  "I heard you were back," Linda Gleason said.

  "Long time no see," Carr said.

  "I have a homecoming present for you, Charlie."

  "And what might that be?"

  "A fugitive. Do we have to talk on the phone?"

  "I'll come over," Carr said. He hung up and turned to Kelly. "Linda Gleason," he said, "she's got something."

  "One good case coming up," Kelly said. "Good ol' Linda is money in the bank."

  Carr stood up and put on his suit jacket.

  "That's the way it always is," Kelly said. "Good informant, good case; bad informant, bad case. Everything depends on the quality of the informant." Having said this, he picked up the newspaper.

  "You're right," Carr said on his way out the door.

  Chapter 4

  As Carr maneuvered the G-car into a hypnotic stream of headlights that was the Hollywood freeway, he pictured Linda five years ago: She was standing in the living room of her apartment; glass was everywhere, the front window blown out by shotgun pellets. She was wearing a housecoat. Her flashing green eyes were minus the map of lines that had developed around them in the years after.