The Quality of the Informant cc-3 Read online

  "I knew this would happen eventually," she'd said. "Snitches always get killed." She broke into tears. "I'm gonna get killed just like my husband did."

  Carr had put his arm around her shoulder and said, "I'll help you find another place to live. They won't be able to find you again."

  He'd helped her pack and put her in a hotel room for the night. A day or so later, he and Kelly moved her into a new apartment and gave her a new name. It was months before Carr succeeded in building up her confidence again. He took her to lunch, sent cards, gave her little tasks; but if there had been any one reason why she'd begun feeding him information about passers and forgers, con men and scam artists again, he would have to say it was the money-Uncle Sam's reward at the end of every case. There was more money for printers and fugitives than phony-twenties passers; but all in all, it was a nice extra income for nothing more than listening to bar talk, getting samples of the current variety of phony paper, making an introduction or two. In this way, she was like most other informants.

  A green freeway sign: HOLLYWOOD-NEXT THREE EXITS.

  Carr swung onto an off ramp that led down a hill. He snaked off the main drag into a residential neighborhood made up of apartment houses that, like everything else in Hollywood, were not worth the money. He parked his car half a block away and walked.

  On his way up the street he checked the parked cars. They were all unoccupied. He looked around once more and jogged a few steps into a courtyard with a swimming pool. Linda's apartment was on the first floor. He knocked and she let him in.

  Carr made small talk as Linda Gleason, wearing a long dress with a slit up the side, served coffee from a little silver pot. Without asking, she mixed Carr's double cream. It was the ritual of their meetings. She lit a cigarette and sat in a chair across from him.

  Linda crossed her legs, making no attempt to cover her thigh. "I don't know Paul's last name," she said. "But he told me he's wanted. He was talking to Teddy Mora for a long time down at the Castaways … definitely business.

  Teddy sells any kind of paper he can get his hands on. He only comes in on Fridays; I think he lives out of town. He stays all day and deals paper just to people he knows. He and Paul were talking big figures. Teddy calls him Paulie. I made it a point to meet him because my sixth sense just told me he was a crook. I even had him over here to the apartment and he still wouldn't crack with a last name, though he did tell me he was wanted by the feds for a funny-money caper. I think he's got something cooking right now. He made a couple of phone calls that sounded real strange."

  "What kind of calls?" Carr said. He sipped coffee.

  "The first call was something about inks and paper," Linda said. "He used the name Robert French. The other one might have been to an answering service. He told them to answer the phone by saying, 'International Investigations.'" She puffed her cigarette. "God only knows what kind of scam that is."

  Carr put his coffee cup down on the table and pulled a pen and notepad out of his coat pocket. "What does he look like?" he said.

  "Over forty, medium build, graying hair that might come from a bottle. He has a missing finger-little one, left hand."

  Carr made some notes, then put the pen and pad away.

  "I've set it up so he'll be coming over here tomorrow afternoon. You can arrest him when he drives up," Linda said.

  Carr stood up and sauntered to the door. "I'll check the fugitive files."

  Linda was looking at her hands. "If you arrest him, can I get my reward the same day? I've got a few bills to take care of."

  "That should be no problem," Carr said.

  Carr yanked open a file drawer labeled "Fugitive." He pulled out a stack of brown manila envelopes and spread them out on his desk. It took him an hour to determine that three out of seventy-odd files related to males with the first name Paul. Only one, Paul LaMonica, fit the general description. Carr's finger traced the fine print of the section marked "Physical Characteristics." The amputation was described as "LFT/little/missing." The last line of the rundown sheet read: "Check NCIC for warrant validity." Carr folded the file and slid his chair to the Teletype machine a few feet behind him. He typed in LaMonica's name, date of birth, and social-security number, copying the information from the file. He pressed the "end of message" button and waited.

  Minutes later, the machine rattled to life again. It typed:

  WARRANT VALID/SUBJECT IS FED PRISON ESCAPEE TERMINAL ISLAND/ARMED amp; DANGEROUS/U.S. MARSHAL L.A. HOLDS WARRANT. END OF MESSAGE.

  The machine stopped. Carr leaned back in his chair and read the rest of the file carefully. It included a "Synopsis of Investigation," which read as follows:

  LaMonica was the principal in a scheme to cause the distribution of extremely high-quality counterfeit hundred-dollar bills. He was able to transact a number of large purchases of diamonds from legitimate jewelers with the bogus notes. He resold the diamonds to other jewelers. LaMonica worked alone in the confidence operation and is believed to have printed the counterfeit notes himself. During the course of the scheme the subject used various forms of well-made counterfeit identification. LaMonica has contacts in Mexico and is believed to be in biding there.

  There was a mug shot photograph of LaMonica stapled to the inside of the file. Carr ripped the photo off and put it in his pocket.

  It was almost 5:00 P.M.

  The atmosphere in Linda's apartment was uneasy. Carr had been there since noon. Linda was sitting on the sofa, thumbing through a fashion magazine. They had run out of small talk. Carr paced in front of the window. Outside, in a courtyard decorated with dying Oriental trees in planter boxes, an old woman with brown spots on her back floated around a swimming pool on an inflated rubber mattress. There was no other activity. The mold-colored apartment doors surrounding the swimming pool might as well have been nailed shut. Through the wrought-iron fence enclosing the entrance to the complex Carr could see Jack Kelly leaning back in the driver's seat of the G-car.

  Linda picked up the mug shot that was on the coffee table. It was next to a walkie-talkie radio stenciled PROPERTY OF U.S. GOVT. "His hair is grayer than in that picture," she said. "I think he dyes it."

  "It would have been better if you had set up a meeting somewhere other than your apartment," Carr said. He was still looking out the window.

  "No matter where or how you arrest him, no matter what time of day or how you do it, in the long run he's going to figure out that I did him," she said.

  Carr turned to face the woman. "After we arrest him we can say that we followed him from-"

  "It doesn't matter what bullshit story you give him," Linda interrupted. "He'll figure out that I was the snitch.

  He's not dumb. I'm not worried as long as he goes back to prison. I'm moving to another apartment next week anyway." She ran her hands through her hair, took a deep breath, and exhaled. "How about some coffee?" she said.

  "No thanks."

  She picked up the walkie-talkie radio and pressed the "transmit" button. "Cup of coffee, Jack?"

  "No thanks," Kelly said.

  Linda put the radio down. "I hate all the people where I work," she said. "There's no one that's normal. Even the bartenders are ex-cons. Deals go down in there every minute of the day: dope, funny money, hot jewelry, you name it. I don't know how I find these kind of places; come to think of it, they seem to find me. Everyone trusts me because I was married to Richard. They think I'm solid." She laughed without smiling.

  Nothing was said for a while. Linda flitted about the apartment picking things up, emptying ashtrays. She wiped off the kitchen sink with a sponge. Drying her hands, she turned to Carr. "May I ask you something?" Her tone was soft.

  "Shoot," he said.

  "After all these years, why haven't you ever made a pass at me? Other men find me attractive Her smile was wry.

  Carr fidgeted. "I guess it's because I don't like to mix business with pleasure," he said.

  "Other cops do." She turned to the sink again and filled a coffeepot w
ith water. "You're right," she said. "It would never work. I wouldn't trust you afterward. It's the way I feel about most men who-"

  "I think it's him," Kelly blared over the radio. "He's parking across the street … getting out of his car."

  Carr snapped the blinds closed. He grabbed the radio off the coffee table and pressed the transmit button. "Roger," he said. He leaned close to the blinds and peeked out.

  "This is the part I can do without," Linda said. She put the coffeepot down and hurried into the bedroom.

  "He's comin' atcha," Kelly announced. "I'll be behind him."

  Carr pulled his revolver out of its holster without taking his eyes off the space in the blinds.

  The gray-haired man opened the wrought-iron gate and stopped. He looked around for a moment, then strolled to the apartment door and knocked. Carr swung open the door and pointed his revolver at the man's face. "Federal officers, LaMonica. You're under arrest." LaMonica raised his hands. Kelly approached at a full run. He snapped handcuffs on the man's hands.

  Linda Gleason came out of the bedroom, a sheepish look on her face. Paul LaMonica stared at her the way inmates stare at prison guards: enmity without expression.

  Carr sat in the backseat with LaMonica on the way to the Field Office for the usual processing.

  LaMonica was slouched down in the seat. "I wanna do a deal," he said.

  Carr was looking out the window at nothing in particular. He didn't answer.

  "I know what you're thinking," LaMonica said. "You know my record. I've never cooperated in the past, so why should I now?" He squirmed.

  Carr nodded.

  "It's because I have enemies at Terminal Island this time. If you send me back there it's the death sentence. I'll get shanked in a week. One of the prison gangs has a contract out on me." LaMonica's eyes were wide. "That's why I had to escape. It was a matter of survival."

  Carr reached across the front seat and pulled a booking form from above the visor. He took a pen out of his pocket and filled in LaMonica's name.

  LaMonica stared at the form. "I have something to offer, but once you book me it will be too late. Can't we just pull over and chat for a few seconds?"

  Carr wrote "Camel's-hair sport coat, brown pants" under a column marked "Prisoner's Clothing." "Mr. LaMonica wants to chat," Carr said without looking up.

  Kelly laughed.

  "I've got a hundred grand in twenties stashed here in L.A.," LaMonica said.

  Kelly stopped laughing. His eyes met Carr's in the rearview mirror. Carr nodded. Kelly steered off the freeway and into a supermarket parking lot. He stopped the car and turned off the engine.

  "Where's the stash?" Carr said.

  "It's less than ten minutes from here," LaMonica said. "I'm willing to surrender it only in exchange for your promise to let me do my time somewhere other than Terminal Island. Leavenworth, McNeil Island, I don't care. I just can't go back to T.I."

  Carr folded the booking card and stuffed it in his coat pocket. "I can't guarantee-"

  "I know the program," the prisoner interrupted. "You can't guarantee anything, blah, blah, blah. I also know that for you feds, a prison transfer is no big deal. All I'm asking is that you go to bat for me."

  Across the street a Cadillac pulled up to a black woman sitting on a bench at a bus stop. She was wearing a blond wig. The driver of the Cadillac spoke to her through the passenger window. The woman looked around furtively and got in. The car drove off. Shaking his head in disgust, Kelly muttered, "Right in broad daylight."

  Carr lit a cigarette and tossed the match out the window. "So you saved some paper for insurance in case you got caught."

  "Whatever," LaMonica said with a look of resignation.

  "If you lead us to the stash I'll do what I can to keep you out of Terminal Island," Carr said. "That's the only deal I'll go for. No more, no less."

  LaMonica leaned his head back against the seat and exhaled. "Okay," he said. "You've got a deal."

  "Where to?" said Kelly.

  "Head down Hollywood Boulevard," LaMonica said. "It's in a bank safety-deposit box."

  Carr dragged on the cigarette. "The key?"

  "My wallet," LaMonica said. He leaned toward the window. Carr pulled a wallet from the prisoner's rear pocket. Inside it was a brass key.

  "Okay, Jack, now we head for Hollywood," Carr said. Kelly started the engine and got back on the freeway.

  LaMonica gave directions to the bank with panache. 'Right turn here, please … Left turn here, please." With manacled hands he pointed to a restaurant with a neon lobster on the roof. "Best lobster in L.A.," he said. "With a little luck I'll be back in there cracking shells in a year or two. Do you figure I'll get much more than that?"

  "Depends on the judge," Carr said.

  Kelly guffawed. "If you get some pussy like Judge Malcolm he'll probably let you go and put us in jail," he said.

  LaMonica pointed out the window. "There's the bank."

  Kelly slowed down. The bank was a brown brick structure sandwiched between a health-food store and a shop with hashish pipes displayed in its window. Kelly applied the brakes. He backed into a parking space and turned off the engine.

  Carr opened the door and got out. LaMonica slid across the car seat and struggled, handcuffed, to pull himself out of the vehicle. Carr reached down and cupped the prisoner's elbow to assist. LaMonica sprang to his feet and slammed his handcuffed wrists into Carr's face. The agent fell backward onto the sidewalk, his eyes blinded by a stiletto of pain. LaMonica bolted. Kelly ran past, shouting. Carr's eyes came back into focus. He was on his feet and running down an alley next to the bank. The warmth of blood spread across his forehead. Wiping it off with his hand, he turned right and trotted quietly along the alley behind the shops. Kelly burst through a store's rear entrance and almost knocked him over. The agents bumped into one another running back in the door. It was a narcotics paraphernalia shop. The bearded man standing behind a cash register looked sheepish. Carr grabbed him by the collar and pulled him across the counter to within an inch of his bloody face. "Where is he, you son of a bitch?" The man's eyes rolled to a door at the other end of the store. Carr shoved him backward as Kelly yanked the door open. They rushed into a roomful of boxes. The only other door led to the street. It was ajar. They ran outside.

  "Radio for help!" screamed an out-of-breath Carr. He continued his hunt up and down the street, in and out of stores, into alleys. Finally, he returned to the government sedan. Kelly barked instructions and a description to two uniformed officers. They jumped back in their cars and sped off in opposite directions. A car full of special agents arrived and divided into teams of two. Having pinned gold badges to their suit coats, they searched the storefronts on the opposite side of the street, running around like madmen.

  Chapter 5

  Linda Gleason flicked the television and the living room filled with the organ music leading to "The Days of Our Lives." She plopped down on the sofa. As soon as she found out whether Rex was returning to Samantha or flying off to Africa with Claudia, she would wash her hair. She lit a cigarette.

  There was a casual knock on the door.

  Probably Charlie Carr with the reward money, Linda thought. "Coming," she said. She jumped up and opened the door.

  It was Paul, and his face was red. He punched her fully on the point of her chin. Her head hit the carpet. She wanted to scream, but couldn't. Was her jaw broken?

  "Did you bail out?" she mumbled.

  Ignoring her, he closed and locked the door. Violently, he pulled off his belt. His eyes were wide in anger. She vaulted off the carpet and ran into the bedroom. The nightstand phone was in her hand. She dialed 0.

  He was in the room. "You stabbed me in the back, you rat-bitch-snake, cunt, dirty bitch…"

  "Operator," said a pleasant female voice. Something was around Linda Gleason's neck. She couldn't speak. It was his belt! The receiver dropped from her hand. No air. Her eyes felt as if they were popping out. She had this odd picture in h
er mind: her eyes and contact lenses actually popping completely out of her head and dropping on the carpet near the front door.

  It had grown dark. The streetlights came on.

  Carr sat on the fender of his sedan like a conductor without a train. Using a blood-spotted handkerchief, he dabbed for the hundredth time at the throbbing wound on his forehead. The last of the police officers had given up the search and departed. Across the street, the remaining Treasury agents piled into a G-car. The driver waved at him and drove off.

  Carr was light-headed, thirsty, and slightly nauseous.

  Jack Kelly wandered out of an alley down the block carrying something in his hand. "Looky here," he said before coming to a full stop. He handed Carr a pair of handcuffs with a key sticking out of one of the ratchet locks. Kelly pointed behind him. "Found 'em in the alley behind that coffee shop. Can you believe that sneaky bastard carrying a handcuff key? Talk about planning ahead. He must have had it in a shoe." The bearlike man was staring at Carr's forehead. "You're going to need stitches," he said.

  "Not yet," Carr said. "I'll call Linda. We'll have to find a place for her to stay until we catch him." He dug a dime out of his pocket and made his way to a pay phone at a newsstand down the street. He dropped in the dime and dialed. The line was busy. He walked back to the car and got in.

  Kelly started the engine. "Only you would think of a goddamn informant before yourself," he said, pulling the sedan into traffic.

  Carr knocked on the door of Linda's apartment. The blinds were closed and there was no sound inside.

  "She's not home," Kelly said. He jiggled change in his pants pocket.

  Carr rang the doorbell. Still no answer. An older woman wearing a floral-patterned housecoat and a turban of hair rollers shuffled out of the apartment next door. Her arms were folded across her chest. She stared at Carr's forehead. He opened his coat and displayed the badge on his belt. "Federal officers," he said. "Have you seen Miss Gleason?"

  "She's in there," said the woman. "One of her many boyfriends was just over; he came and left in a taxicab."