Gerald Petievich - The Quality of the Informant

"This ain't your ranch down here, cowboys," Rodriguez said before they could answer. "If you take someone into custody in Mexico, it's kidnapping. You arrest them, then I arrest you. How would you like that, eh, cowboys?" He rolled over to the basket, still chomping the orange. More juice.

Carr stared at the Mexican. "He's a federal prison escapee and he killed one of my informants," Carr said.

The cop went through his wipe-off routine again, then stood up. Carr figured his height at more than six-foot-two. "And what would you tell me if I came across the border into your country and said I was looking for some sonofabitch? Huh? What would you tell me?" Rodriguez's eyes were half shut.

"We'd probably tell you that we'd handle it," Carr said.

"That's right, cowboys. And that's what I'm telling you. I'll handle it…by the proper police procedures."

Kelly's face was red. "And what does that mean?" he said.

"That means when I find the sonofabitch you're looking for, I kick his ass, handcuff him, toss him in the backseat of my car and drive him up to the border where you people are waiting. I pull the sonofabitch out of the car and boot his ass across the line to you. That way things are done nice and legal." The detective smiled broadly. His canine teeth were gold.

The special agents smiled back. Carr introduced himself. He shook hands, as did Kelly. "Frank Garcia said to say hello," Carr said.

"You're friends with Frank?" The Mexican's eyes lit up.

Carr nodded. "Drinking buddies."

The Mexican laughed loudly. He picked up the mug shot. "In that case, maybe we'll kill this pendejo when we catch him. You just say the word."

"Thanks anyway," Carr said. He smiled wanly.

"But first we've got to catch the sonofabitch." Rodriguez picked up the phone and dialed. "There's only one real-estate man in town who rents to Americans." He held a phone conversation in Spanish. Near the end of the conversation he wrote something down. He said gracias and hung up. "This pendejo used the name Roger Brown when he rented the place…paid two months' rent in advance." Rodriguez stood and pulled a cowboy-style two-gun belt out of a desk drawer. He fastened it around his waist. "Let's go, men." He yanked the submachine gun from its rack and strode out the door.

The patrol car sped south along the coast. Rodriguez had turned on the red light and siren as if they were heading for a bank robbery in progress. He rounded turns in the narrow road like a stock-car racer. A few miles south of town the detective vaulted the police car off the pavement and onto a dirt road. Kicking up a camouflage of dirt, he raced along a path bounded by heavy chaparral and fir trees for a few miles. Finally, at a clearing, the vehicle was brought to a halt. The siren was turned off. Ahead of them, at the edge of the woods, lay the charred remains of a small structure. It was surrounded by a makeshift fence that the fire had not touched. The men exited the vehicle and stared at the ruins, the dust from the police car swirling around them like smoke.

"The pendejo sure as hell doesn't live here anymore," Rodriguez said.

Kicking through the debris, Carr made his way into the middle of the charred pile. He picked up a half-burnt scrap of lumber and poked at the ashes. "LaMonica is a counterfeiter," Carr said without looking up. "He may have had a good reason to burn this place down."

The Mexican detective furrowed his brow. "Destroying the evidence," he said somberly. He turned on his heel and headed back to the patrol car. Having unlocked the vehicle's trunk, he flung it open. He pulled out a shovel and a pick and tossed them on the ground. Without hesitation, he removed his coat and unfastened his gun belt. He dropped them in the trunk. Stripping off his dress shirt, he hung it neatly from the trunk latch. He grabbed the tools and strutted into the middle of the ashes like a bull entering a ring. He tossed a shovel at the T-men and went to work with the pick.

By noon it was a hundred degrees. The three men were covered with soot and perspiration. Rodriguez had made a beer run for which he refused to accept any money; there was a pile of Carta Blanca bottles in the trunk of the squad car.

Kelly stood to the rear of the ash pile. He poked the point of a handkerchief into his eye for a moment and pulled it out. He wiped something on the back of his hand. "Got it," he said. "It felt like I had a two-by-four stuck in there."

Carr kept digging, hacking around.

Next to the patrol car lay a collection of items that had withstood the fire: a couple of ink cans (labels burned off), a feeder that looked like it might have come off a printing press, a charred paper cutter…

Rodriguez was fifty or so yards away in a clump of trees.

He whistled. The T-men sauntered over. The Mexican pointed to the ground between some trees where the earth appeared freshly spaded. Without a word the men began digging. The sound of metal on metal. Carr dropped to his knees and dug with his hands. "It's a printing press," he said.

They took turns digging. Finally the upper section of the machine was free. Following Rodriguez's suggestion, they used a rope to attach the press to the rear bumper of the police car. The Mexican started the engine and pulled the press, dirt and all, from its burial site. Oddly, it came out of the ground upright, as if all the machine needed was a brushing off to be operable again. The men used bare hands to knock the remaining dirt off the moving parts. "There's no blanket roller," Kelly said.

The cop looked puzzled.

"The blanket roller might have an ink impression of what was printed," Carr explained.

Rodriguez nodded. He stepped closer to the heavy machine. As if the machine were an adversary, he slammed his open palms against it. With a mighty shove, he knocked the printing press over. With another flurry of hands, the men cleared the dirt off the bottom of the press. A piece of white bond paper was stuck to the base of the apparatus. Carr pulled it off. There was nothing on it except a glob of purple ink. They passed the sheet around.

"The inks that LaMonica bought in L.A.," Kelly said. "Blue and red…"

"Makes purple," Carr said. "Blue and red makes purple."

"But what the hell kind of negotiable paper is printed with purple ink?" Kelly scratched his head. "Foreign money maybe, or checks."

"Could be any number of things," Carr said.

"It's for sure the sonofabitch didn't go to all this trouble to cover up printing birthday paper," Rodriguez said. He laughed loudly.

It wasn't yet noon, which probably accounted for the fact that the motel bar was nearly empty. LaMonica faced Lockhart across a cocktail table hidden in a corner. Other than the whispers of the two men, the only sound in the place was the splashing of highball glasses as the bartender dunked them in and out of soapy water.

"I want to see your money," LaMonica said. "Surely you don't expect me to just hand over the package of checks and hope for the best. Like what's to stop you from taking the checks and just flat out walking away? You're smart enough to know my client can't stroll into the local police station and make a complaint about someone stealing her phony checks." Staring at the fat man, he swished the ice in his drink and took a sip.

Lockhart finished his drink and looked into the glass. "On the other hand," he said, "you see no danger in me showing you people fifty thousand dollars — real dollars, mind you, not some worthless printed paper shit like you are selling, but real honest-to-God greenbacks. " He shook his head. "You must think I'm a rube, Mr. Brown, an honest-to-Christ, shit-shoveling hillbilly."