Gerald Petievich - The Quality of the Informant

"And just what do we have to do to get our hands on these checks?" Lockhart said.

"I'll have to convince my client that it's worth the risk."

Lockhart nodded. "I understand."

"She is a very street-wise lady," LaMonica said. "She knows full well that traveler's-check companies bear the full dollar loss on counterfeit checks that are passed. She wants ten percent of the dollar amount of the recovery.

Lockhart laughed. "Just a hundred thousand dollars?" he said. "No way we are going to pay any such reward, my good man. No way."

"I'm just relaying what she's told me. I'm only a middle-man." LaMonica stood up and stretched. He went to the window. The view was of a sprawling business area mixing into suburbs; a town of fast-buck artists, chance takers, oil thieves. "I know you'll want to discuss this with your superiors," he said. "Perhaps we could meet again tomorrow?"

Lockhart looked puzzled. He nodded.

"If you do decide to deal with my client, I would insist that you make no contact with the police or FBI until the investigation is in its final stages," LaMonica said. "Police agencies have a tendency to move too quickly and could compromise my client."

"Of course those decisions are ours alone to make," Lockhart said.

LaMonica turned to the security man. "Speaking as a professional private investigator, I'm telling you that my client will not work with the police. Period. I don't intend to waste my time and have the case blown before we are able to locate and recover the counterfeit checks-all of them. There will be plenty of time for the police to make arrests once the investigation is at the proper stage."

"That sounds fair enough," Lockhart said.

The men shook hands and Paul LaMonica walked out the door. Lockhart returned to his desk. After staring at Brown's business card for a few seconds, he dialed the Los Angeles telephone number on it.

A woman answered. "International Investigative Service."

"Mr. Roger Brown, please," he said.

"I'm sorry. Mr. Brown is out of town for a few days. May I tell him who called?"

"I'd prefer to just give him a call in a few days. I have some work for him. Uh, I take it your firm does handle corporate work?"

"Yes," the woman said. "This firm handles private investigations and industrial security work for major corporations. May I take your name and address?"

Lockhart set the receiver down.

The conference room was decorated with a set of Texas longhorns and a color photograph of John Wayne standing in front of the Alamo. He was holding up a book of traveler's checks.

Omar T. Lockhart sat in a seat at the end of the mahogany table next to the vice-president for personnel. The table was filled with men wearing dark suits. He had stood up and given his briefing, using as much police jargon as possible. By the time the questions started, there was a definite air of urgency in the room and Lockhart knew full well that he had created it.

"Who is this 'private eye'?" said the gray-haired man at the opposite end of the table. His expression was grim, perhaps a requirement for a chairman of the board.

"I've checked him out, Mr. Stallworth. He's an independent from Los Angeles. He does corporate work mostly."

The eyes at the table went from one man to another like a crowd at a tennis match.

"Just how good are these counterfeit checks?" Stallworth said.

"Excellent quality," Lockhart said. He removed a check from a folder and held it up. "Easy to pass," he added, realizing that his usual board-room butterflies had almost gone away. Everyone was looking at the check.

Stallworth spoke. "How many of these have actually been passed?"

"Just a few in Ensenada, Mexico, a couple of days ago. They were passed in a bar," Lockhart said. "They've just started to pop up. For once we're right on top of the operation. We have a chance of recovering the checks before they get into heavy circulation."

"Get him down to some reasonable figure," Stallworth said. "We'll pay, but we're not going to pay full fare."

"And the police?" Lockhart said.

"The private investigator is probably right in that regard," Stallworth said. "If we bring in the police or the FBI at this point, they will take control. Naturally, they'll be more interested in arresting crooks than recovering the counterfeit checks before we end up eating a million-dollar loss. For the time being let's keep the police out of it." Stallworth looked at his watch. "I want you to report to me every day on this matter."

"Yes, sir," Lockhart said.

Stallworth pushed his chair back. Everyone stood up. The chairman of the board left the room.

Omar T. Lockhart felt perspiration trickle down the middle of his back.

Carr and Kelly sat in a sedan across the street from the Castaways Lounge. The tavern was sandwiched between a porno shop with a cloth hanging over its front door and a storefront telephone answering service that Carr knew was used as a contact point for whores and pimps. Over the front entrance to the bar was a sign that read "No T-shirts or Bare Feet."

As usual, Kelly insisted on getting out of the sedan and stretching his legs every half hour. So far he had done this four or five times.

He finished reading a newspaper and tossed it in the backseat. "Have you ever thought about what this does to a person's health?" Kelly said.

Carr gave him a puzzled look.

"Just sitting on your butt all day in the front seat of a car," Kelly said. "Lack of exercise, food can't digest properly. It's bad for the circulation, too. Just as soon as we get off work, what do we do? We sit on our butts at Ling's bar, swilling drinks and eating greasy chicken rolls. There's absolutely nothing healthful about the job. If you let it, the job will kill ya, outright kill ya. Death by blood clots in the legs."

"Linda said he comes here every Friday without fail," Carr said, gazing across the street.

"We'll probably still be sitting here at midnight," Kelly said.

Carr shrugged.

Less than half an hour later, a Cadillac pulled up in front of the bar. Teddy Mora opened the door, got out, and glanced around. He was wearing a tropical shirt, white pants, and sandals.

The T-men ducked down in the seat as Mora sauntered through the front door. They sat up again.

"Okay," Kelly said. "The asshole showed up. If he's peddling counterfeit money, he's got to have some on him. I say we stroll right into the place, throw him up against a wall, and see what he's got in his goddamn pockets. Nothing to lose, really, and we might even get lucky."

"Let's wait until we catch his act," Carr said.

"We could be here forever," Kelly said.

Three hours later, Mora exited the front door and looked around. He walked to the Cadillac and got in.

"Let's just grab him and see if he's holding," Kelly said.

"Not yet," Carr said. His eyes were riveted to the Cadillac.

Mora started the Caddy and drove past them. Carr fumbled with the ignition and squealed tires making a U-turn.

He followed, letting Mora stay a block or so ahead. Suddenly the Cadillac pulled into a small parking lot next to a hamburger stand. Mora parked and got out. He shuffled into a telephone booth and closed the door. Moments later he exited the booth and returned to his vehicle. He started the engine and drove off.

"Pretty short phone call," Carr said, his eyes still on the phone booth.

"You're right, partner." Kelly got out of the car, strolled to the phone booth, and stepped inside. A minute later he returned to the sedan and climbed in. "The booth is loaded. There's a stack of bogus twenties taped under the phone box," Kelly said, digging around in the glove compartment. He found a set of handcuff s and stuffed them in his pocket.

In less than ten minutes, a white Porsche with a bumper sticker that read "Happiness is Being Single" pulled up next to the hamburger stand. An emaciated-looking young man wearing tight Levi's and a tank top got out on the driver's side. He had a grayish complexion. Tugging nervously at his mop of curly hair, he surveyed the street carefully. Finally, he stepped into the telephone booth and pushed the accordion door closed.