Gerald Petievich - The Quality of the Informant

"A few simple meetings on this side of the border is all I'm asking," he said.

"Meetings with who?"

"With a turkey, a square who won't know who you are. You will play a part. You'll be in on the whole thing with me, so you'll be able to see exactly how much money is involved. I intend to split fifty-fifty with you, and you'll be right in the middle with me to see that there's no back-stabbing, no rip-offs. We would be partners."

The fishermen laughed hysterically about something and ordered more tequila.

Sandy Hartzbecker sipped her drink and set the glass down. She lit a cigarette and puffed twice. Smoke floated from her mouth. "Will you repeat what you've promised me in front of my boyfriend?" Her lips were pursed in a determined manner.

"Sure," LaMonica said sarcastically, "and then maybe we should drive down to Teddy's and announce our business to every American thief and dope pusher in Baja. Let's let the whole world in on it. What the hell."

"You don't have to tell him what it's about, and I won't either. I swear. But I want you to make the commitment in front of him." She lowered her voice. "If I don't get my cut when it's over, then he'll come for you. He'll be my insurance."

"Maybe we should get a lawyer to draw up a contract?" LaMonica said with a sneer. "Can your nigger read?"

"You are a bigoted chauvinist pig," she said, her voice cracking. "Mr. Cool is more of a together person than you ever could be. It was a black man not a white man who married me and brought me to the U.S. I would still be serving beer to G.I.s for four marks an hour if it hadn't been for him. He was a dope fiend, but he treated me better than any white man ever has — including you."

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.

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'tgonna 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.