5. Overall, Mr. LaMonica seems to be adjusting quite well at present. He continues to have an overwhelming desire to be accepted by others.
Carr shook his head. He turned to Kelly who was dialing a phone at the next desk. "Ever meet anyone who didn't have a desire to be accepted?"
"Whatsat?" Kelly said.
"Never mind," Carr said. He read the last report in the file. It was a year old and described how LaMonica had been caught in his Beverly Hills apartment with $50,000 in counterfeit twenties.
Carr closed the file.
Kelly jammed the phone down. "That was headquarters," he said. "LaMonica learned to print years ago in the Terminal Island print shop — some sort of a prison rehabilitation program." He gave a harsh laugh.
Carr stood up and stretched. He walked to the window. "LaMonica is getting ready to print," he said. "He bought black, green, red, and blue ink and a lot of paper. He would need black and green in order to print money, but I can't figure the blue and red."
Kelly shrugged. "Who the hell knows?" he said. "But there's one thing you can count on. He wouldn't buy ink and paper unless he already had everything else he needed: press, platemaker, photo equipment. He's probably running off a load somewhere right now."
"There's another thing that's for sure," Carr said, still staring out the window. "We don't have any leads."
Chapter 14
It was Saturday afternoon.
Charles Carr slowed down to the speed limit as he approached the garish neon billboards that marked the beginning of the Las Vegas strip. He'd been lounging around Sally's apartment drinking coffee that morning when Sally had pointed at a newspaper advertisement for Las Vegas. With that, she'd jumped up and started throwing things into an overnight bag. "If you won't go with me, I'll go alone," she said.
He went with her. And during the trip she managed to talk the whole way. It was as if she were trying to compensate Carr for the long hours of sagebrush and telephone-line scenery. Her topics were familiar ones: judge Malcolm's college-age girl friend, the stenographers association's proposed fifteen-day bus tour of Europe, burgeoning rent and inflation, her sister's beautiful and talented children, and Judge Malcolm's shrewish, menopausal wife.
Sally finally stopped talking. She slid over next to him and rested her head on his shoulder. "It's been such a long time since we've taken one of our spur-of-the-moment trips," she said. "Get an idea and just go." She slid a hand inside his shirt and touched the hair on his chest. "You're so quiet."
At the check-in desk of the Silver Dollar Hotel and Casino, a mirrored place with a casino lobby the size of a football field, Carr signed the guest register "Mr. and Mrs. Charles Carr."
They spent the evening strolling in and out of the casinos, sipping cocktails, playing slot machines, people-watching along the strip. Carr rolled dice for a while at one place, but stopped when he realized Sally was bored. They caught the midnight stage show at the Dunes Hotel and afterward they ordered more than they could eat at a swanky Italian restaurant.
They didn't get to bed until after 3:00 A.M., and then they made love for a particularly long time. Sally joked about the therapeutic effects of wine. After exchanging tender goodnight kisses, Carr dropped off into slumber.
During the night he reached over to touch Sally and she wasn't there. She came back to bed and was silent for several minutes, but Carr could tell by her breathing that she hadn't gone to sleep.
"Are you awake?" Sally finally whispered.
"Yes."
"We don't communicate on the same wavelength," she said. "We communicate in bed and when we're out and have had a few drinks. Other than that, you're like a stranger. You could be someone I sat next to on a bus. We've dated for years and I still truly do not understand you. Damn."
Carr fluffed a pillow. He leaned back against the headboard. "Let's get up and hit a couple of crap tables before we go back," he said. "We might get lucky."
"Please communicate with me, Charlie."
Carr rubbed his eyes for a moment. He sat up in bed. "We once stood in line in a Vegas parking lot in order to pay some clown fifty dollars to read marriage vows off a three-by-five card. But I couldn't go through with it. I don't want to buy a tract house. I don't want to join the P.T.A. I don't want to go to cocktail parties with the neighbors. I don't want to wear matching tennis shorts. I don't like picnics or Little League games…"
"In other words, you are a completely fulfilled person," she said. "You are satisfied with your life. Is that what you're saying?"
"No," Carr said in a low and serious tone. "It was about a year ago when I faced myself for the first time in my life. I woke up one morning and went to the breakfast table. It was cold in my apartment and I was alone. I thought about the fact that someday I was going to have to retire. And do you know what I said to myself?"
Sally sat up. "What?"
"I said, It's time to start taking yoga lessons. I never got around to taking them, mind you, but I thought seriously about it, and as a matter of fact, later that day I bought a quart of yogurt and mixed it with some bran flakes."
"You're making fun of me," Sally Malone said. Angrily, she threw the covers back and got out of bed. She fumbled with cigarettes and matches on a dresser table. "I'm sorry for having brought up anything more serious than a Dodger game," she said.
Carr reached out and grabbed her arm. He pulled her back into bed. As she protested, he covered her mouth with his.
In the morning they grabbed a quick breakfast and headed back to Los Angeles.
The airport was a swarming arena; everyone dragging trunks, suitcases, and children from place to place, shouting instructions to one another, waiting impatiently in lines.
Paul LaMonica dialed a number on the pay phone. He put a finger in the other ear to keep out the noise. A secretary connected him with Omar T. Lockhart. "I've spoken with my client," LaMonica said without introduction. "I'd like you to meet me at the Houston Airport, in the bar, as soon as possible. I'm waiting to catch a flight." That will give you a chance to have someone follow me, you pig-eyed sonofabitch, he thought.
There was a silence. "Okay," Lockhart said. "I'll be right down." He sounded annoyed.
LaMonica hung up the telephone. He went straight to a ticket counter, stood in line, and bought a ticket to San Diego. The clerk handed him the ticket and a boarding pass.
"You're all checked in, Mr. Ross," the clerk said. "We'll board in an hour."
The bar, situated on a balcony overlooking a maze of ticket counters, had few customers. LaMonica waited behind a bank of rental lockers until Lockhart picked out a table and sat down. A minute later a husky man with a shaved head sat down at the bar itself. He and Lockhart exchanged glances.
LaMonica strolled over to Lockhart's table and sat down without a greeting.
Lockhart spoke first. "My company doesn't like to involve itself in this sort of business," he said. A short-skirted waitress wearing a cowboy hat came to the table. They ordered Bloody Marys and the waitress walked away. "We're not jumping into anything half-cocked. You're going to have to give me some background details before we go any further."
"Be happy to," LaMonica said. "My client was the girl friend of Freddie Roth, a well-known counterfeiter. I say 'was' because Roth was murdered about a year ago in an underworld dispute. At the time of his death he had just finished printing two million dollars' worth of your precious traveler's checks. Apparently he had a European buyer for the whole batch. Anyway, my client is sitting on the checks, all of them, right now. That's the story in brief."
A wave of perspiration was evident on both of Lockhart's chins. He avoided looking toward the man at the bar. "Now I'll ask you the prize question," he said. "How much will she settle for?"