Free The Quality of the Informant by Gerald Petievich

voice. "I just don't know what to dooooooooooooooooo with him," she'd said. He started the engine and drove off. As he cruised along the two-lane road toward Ensenada, the sun finally set. He was exhausted. Having taken a few deep breaths, he turned the car radio to a San Diego station. Suddenly an old man on a bicycle pulled into the roadway. Without slowing down, LaMonica swerved and missed him by a couple of feet. His heart beat rapidly for a few moments, then returned to normal.
     
    ****
     
    Chapter 8
     
    KELLY PARKED the government sedan in front of a small shop with a bright yellow awning mounted over a display window. The awning's calligraphic lettering announced "The New Life Gallery." Kelly followed Carr out of the sedan. They strolled to the window, which contained kaleidoscopic photographs of pasty-faced, embracing women. The photographs were flanked by a wooden box containing a pile of what appeared to be dyed red sand in the middle of a collection of kitchen knives. An artist's business card leaning against the wooden box bore the title "Women's Work."
    Carr opened the door and stepped into the art gallery. There was the sound of a chime. A fortyish woman with close-cropped blond-streaked hair wearing a shapeless dress stood in the corner speaking softly with a pair of designer-jeaned women of similar age. Both had potbellies like half footballs, wore an excess of turquoise jewelry, and stood poised on six-inch heels. The woman in the shapeless dress acknowledged the agents with a nod and continued her conversation.
    Kelly nudged Carr. He pointed to a pedestal next to the wall. Resting on it was a carved wood vagina lined with feathers and seashells. In the orifice, the artist had pasted a magazine photograph of women marching with banners. The price tag on the sculpture was $2,000. A mobile hanging above the sculpture was formed with photographs of female buttocks and love poems hand-lettered on Kotex.
    After a few minutes, the potbellied women departed. The woman with the blond-streaked hair approached Carr and Kelly. Carr reached into his pocket for his badge.
    "You don't have to show me anything," the woman said. "I can tell you're cops."
    "Are you Rosemary Clamp?" Carr said.
    "Cramp," she said. "Rosemary Cramp. But my name is now Rosanna DuMaurier . I had my name changed legally." Kelly continued to stare at the wooden sculpture. "It's the artist's self-portrait," she said.
    Kelly nodded dumbly.
    "We're looking for Paul LaMonica ," Carr said.
    "I don't know anyone anymore," she said. "I haven't been arrested for over five years. Of course you've probably checked my record and you already know that. Who told you that I knew Paul LaMonica ?"
    "We didn't come here to cause you any problems," Carr said. "We have a warrant for LaMonica's arrest and we're talking to a lot of people trying to find him." He looked her in the eye as he spoke.
    "I don't appreciate you people coming into my gallery. It's totally uncalled for. I actually got a chill down my spine when I saw you walk in. It's like a reflex from my past life. I haven't been in trouble for over five years and I'm fully within my rights to ask you to get the hell out of here right now. Now, will you please leave! I mean it."
    "I apologize if we've embarrassed you," Carr said. He nodded at an amazed Kelly and sauntered toward the door. He stopped in front of a rack of crude pencil drawings and sorted through them. He picked one up which depicted two disconsolate women sitting on a four-poster bed stroking a cat. He stared at the drawing for a moment. "How much is this?"
    The woman gave him a searching look before speaking. "Twenty-five dollars." Carr walked toward her with the drawing. He handed it to her and reached for his wallet. He pulled out some bills and gave them to her. The woman stared at the money for a moment, then accepted it.
    "A cop buying lesbian art?" she said.
    "It's a birthday present for my twin sister. She lives in San Francisco. We