The Quality of the Informant [Gerald Petievich] (fb2) читать постранично, страница - 40

forearms for a moment, he lit a cigarette and puffed. "A suggestion," he said. "I could let you out a block or so away from the border crossing. You could walk straight across into the parking lot and pick up the load. I could meet you up the street across from the tourist information center. That way we could avoid driving through the crossing point, making a U-turn, and driving back into the lot. You have to admit, if some border pig just happened to notice that kind of an act he might get a little suspicious."

LaMonica leaned back in the seat. "Good idea," he said. "But why don't you walk over and pick up the package? I'd rather drive."

Teddy Mora sucked deeply on his cigarette. He spoke with a mouthful of smoke. "Uh this car isn't registered to you. It might cause a problem at the crossing point."

"Maybe you're right." LaMonica rolled his window down to clear out some of Mora's smoke. "We'll both walk to the lot to make the pickup."

Mora fidgeted. "Is there anything wrong? You haven't said shit since we left Ensenada. I mean if you think there's a better way to do this, just say the word."

LaMonica turned to the other man. His expression was blank. "As long as things go right, there's nothing to talk about."

They passed through the border checkpoint with no problem. Mora drove less than a mile north, pulled over into the middle lane, and made a U-turn. They headed back toward the border.

LaMonica grabbed the steering wheel and tugged. The vehicle veered to the right shoulder of the road. Mora slammed on the brakes. "I'll drive," LaMonica said. He got out of the car and walked around to the driver's side. They exchanged seats. LaMonica put the car in gear and headed toward the parking lot. He stopped a few feet away from the entrance and got out of the car. At the fence he grasped the chain link and stared into the lot for what seemed like a long time. He climbed back in the driver's seat and put the car in gear.

Mora was pale. "It pays to be careful," he said. "Paulie the Printer takes things one step at a time."

LaMonica steered into the parking lot. Though he noticed the green Chevrolet almost immediately, he drove by it, continuing among the rows of vehicles.

Mora pointed. "That was it. You just passed it," he said.

Carr and Kelly ducked below window level of the sedan. They almost bumped heads. "That sneaky sonofabitch is casing the lot," Kelly whispered.

Carr peeked above the dashboard. He pulled his revolver out of its shoulder bolster. "He's turning around … heading toward the Chevy. This is it."

Kelly's gun was out.

LaMonica pulled up behind the green Chevrolet. A young woman was loading straw baskets into the trunk of a sports car parked next to the vehicle. He slid the revolver out of his waistband. "Get out and get the package," he said.

Mora stared at the weapon. "Everything is cool," he muttered on his way out the door. He ambled to the rear of the vehicle. Keeping his eyes on LaMonica, he reached into the right rear wheel well and fished around.

LaMonica climbed out of the car, holding the gun under his shirt. "Is it there?" he said.

Mora pulled out a key and held it up. He winked.

Charles Carr kept low, moving between automobiles. Kelly flanked on his right two cars away. Finally, only one car separated him from the Chevrolet. Holding his revolver with both hands, Carr sprung from behind it. He aimed at LaMonica. "Freeze! Federal officers!" he said. Mora ran.

With what seemed like an almost practiced motion, LaMonica grabbed the young woman standing at the sports car by her hair. She screamed as he pulled her in front of him. He pressed a pistol to her temple.

Mora darted between cars. LaMonica swung the revolver in his direction and fired once. Mora dropped. He bellowed in pain.

LaMonica pulled the screaming woman closer to him.

Carr drew a bead on LaMonica's forehead. Carefully he pulled back on the trigger. The woman's head bobbed in the way. He released tension.

"I'll kill her!" LaMonica shouted. "Get back or I'll splatter her brains all over this lot!" Using the woman as a shield, he backed toward his car.

Carr ducked down. He motioned to Kelly. The Irishman vaulted across the hood of a car and grabbed LaMonica's gun hand. They struggled with the weapon. The woman fell down. The gun fired in the air.

Carr aimed. He pulled the trigger.

Paul LaMonica's head snapped backward violently. A spray of blood stained the hood of the car. Kelly grabbed the woman and pulled her away as LaMonica slumped to the ground. She screamed gibberish and thrashed about hysterically. Kelly grabbed her arms and pulled her away. People yelled and ran about frantically. Carr took a few steps forward. He picked up LaMonica's gun and stuck it in his belt. He bent down. His fingers touched the wounded man's neck. There was no carotid pulse.

Carr found Teddy Mora on the pavement lying between two cars. He was doubled up in a ball, his features ashen, lips blue. He was bleeding.

A police car with red lights flashing zoomed into the parking lot and sped up to Carr. The T-man held his badge over his head. "Ambulance!" he said. The officer grabbed the microphone off the dashboard.

By the time the ambulance arrived, Mora had stopped breathing. The ambulance attendant complained to Carr about having been called out on a dry run. With an angry squeal of brakes, he departed.

Chapter 28

For Carr and Kelly, the rest of the day was taken up with interviews conducted by the San Diego sheriff's detectives, signing statements and forms and making telephone calls.

It was midnight by the time the agents arrived back in Los Angeles. At Kelly's insistence, Carr steered off the freeway at Vermont and headed for Calhoun's hot-dog stand. He parked in a no-parking zone in front of the place.

Calhoun loaded the counter in front of them with hot dogs and steaming cups of coffee. Kelly unwrapped a frankfurter and, holding it with three fingers, inserted fully half of it into his mouth. He chomped and tore the hot dog in half.

"What do you hear from your son?" Carr asked Calhoun.

"Tyrone called me from basic training this morning. The drill sergeant picked him as a squad leader. He sounded like he was real proud of himself."

"They always pick the tallest guys," Kelly said with his mouth full.

"I can't wait for the basic training graduation," Calhoun said. "I'm going to drive up to Fort Ord to see it. My boy will be marching and standing tall, and I'll be right there in the stands watching." He slapped together a second round of hot dogs and set them on the counter. Neither man made the usual protestations.

"You both look like you could use some sleep," Calhoun said.

The next morning Carr sat at his desk and turned the pages of the operations manual marked "Shooting Policy." There was an atmosphere of military decorum in the office-a remarkable quiet; none of the usual horseplay or swearing. Most of the special agents had found something to do in the field. The secretaries and clerks were dutifully at their desks rather than gossiping in the coffee room. Someone had covered the counterfeiting squad room's Supreme Court photograph (monkeys in dresses sitting around a table) with a map.

It was the usual atmosphere that prevailed in the office whenever the inspectors came to town.

Carr turned a page. He read:

In the event a Special Agent has reason to believe he is in fear of his life, or the lives of others, he is authorized to fire his issued Treasury revolver (Ref. Manual Sect. 387.90) for the purpose of stopping the suspect from committing whatever act he may be engaged in, keeping paramount in his mind the safety of others…

Kelly sauntered into the squad room. He took off his suit jacket and tossed it on a rack.

Carr looked at his wristwatch. "My, my," he said, "two full hours."

"I figured while I was in there, I might as well come clean. I copped out on every time we'd violated the manual regulations," Kelly said with a wry smile.

"If you'd done that it would have taken you a lot longer than two hours." Carr flipped the manual shut.

Kelly peeked out into the hallway. "It's Heckel and Jeckel. They tried to get me to say that there was some other alternative other than shooting … the usual second-guessing bullshit. No Waves chimes in with meaningless questions every few minutes. God, I hate that asshole."

"Heckel and Jeckel?" Carr said.

"The two jerks that were out here the time Howard Dumbrowski beat up his next-door neighbor."

Carr nodded.

Special Agent in Charge Norbert T. Waeves, pipe jutting from jaw, slipped into the room. He made his usual entrance,