O Is for Outlaw

phone.
    I dialed directory assistance and asked for the number of the Secret Service in L.A., the offices of which were actually listed as part of the U.S. Treasury Department. In addition to the L.A. number, I was given a telephone number for the agency in Perdido. I charged the call to my credit card, punching in the Perdido number. The phone rang once.
    "Secret Service," a woman said.
    How secret could it be if she was willing to blurt it out that way?
    I asked to speak to an agent and she put me on hold. I stared out across the parking lot, listening to the sibilant ebb and flow of traffic on the highway. The morning was clear, the temperature in the 50s. I imagined by afternoon that would warm to the usual 70s. The line was picked up moments later, and a flatvoiced gentleman introduced himself. "This is Wallace Burkhoff. "
    I said, "I wonder if you can help me. I'm calling because I suspect there's a credit card scam being operated from a bar in Colgate."
    "What kind of scam?"
    "I'm not sure. A friend of mine – actually, my ex-husband – bought some phony documents from a fellow up here. I think the owner of the bar might be running a regular manufacturing plant." I told him about the Honky-Tonk: the scanning device for drivers' licenses and my guess about the matching of credit card charge slips to names on licenses. On the surface, it sounded thin, but he listened politely as I talked on. "A couple of days ago I saw a truck on the premises. Ten cartons had been unloaded and stacked in the corridor. The boxes were marked PlasStock, which the owner told me was plastic glassware and cutlery."
    "Not quite." Burkhoff laughed. "Plas-Stock specializes in commercial equipment for manufacturing plastic cards and blank card stock for medical ID cards and health club memberships."
    "Really? My ex has three sets of fake IDs in his possession, including drivers' licenses, social security cards, and a fistful of credit cards. I'm reasonably certain some of the data came from a regular bar patron, because I was introduced to the guy, and the name and approximate date of birth are the same."
    "What's his interest in acquiring phony IDs?"
    'He's a former vice detective, and I think he picked up on the operation three or four months back. I mean, I can't swear this is true, but I have the receipts he kept from a series of visits to the place and I also have the phony documents with his picture plastered all over them. "
    "Would he be willing to talk to us?"
    "He's currently out of commission." I told Agent Burkhoff about Mickey's condition.
    "What about yourself?"
    "Hey, I've already told you as much as I know. This is outside my area of expertise. I'm just making the call. You can do with it as you please."
    "Where's their base of operation?"
    "I think it's somewhere in the building. Yesterday, the owner set it up so I had a chance to see the second floor. It was empty, of course, but I did spot a number of electrical outlets. I don't know what kind of equipment would be in use, "
    "I can tell you that," he said. "Optical scanners, encoding machines, shredders, embossers, tippers that's what puts the gold on the newly embossed numbers, laminators, hologram punch devices. You see anything like that?"
    "No, but I suspect they were operating in the space until a couple of days ago. I checked with the local architectural archives and took a look at the plans submitted when the owner applied for building permits. The structure's one of the few in town with a basement and my guess is they moved the operation down there."
    "Give me the particulars and we'll check it out," he said.
    I gave him the name and address of the Honky-Tonk and Tim's name and home address. I added Scottie's name to the mix, along with the dates Mickey'd been there and the names on the assortment of phony documents he had. "You need anything else?"
    "Your name, address, and phone."
    "I'd prefer not," I said. "But I'll make copies of the IDs and put those in the mail to you."
    "We'd appreciate that."
    I hung up, hauled out the telephone book, found my travel agent's number, and put a couple of coins in the slot. I told her I needed plane tickets for Louisville and gave her my budget limitations.
    "How much?"
    I said, "Five hundred dollars?"
    She said, "You're joking."
    I assured her I wasn't. She tapped the information into her computer. After much silence, many sighs, and some additional clicks, she told me the best she could do was an airline that had been