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home to put dinner on the table. It was a pattern that she repeated day after day, almost with the regularity of a job.
    Henry's Lounge was a dimly lit, smoky place on Ninth Street that Dorothea frequented. Marjorie Harper, a stocky, no-nonsense bartender who knew all the regulars, said Dorothea was hard to miss: She was always dressed "fit to kill." She always took the same seat at the bar—second from the end, where she could watch everyone—and she'd order a vodka and grapefruit juice. In no time she'd have an audience, and then she'd be off on some "fabulous story ," perhaps about being a survivor of the Bataan Death March, or about how she used to be in movies with Rita Hayworth.
    One day, a pharmaceuticals salesman sat down next to her. "They discussed drugs for over an hour," Harper recalled. "She had him convinced that she was a retired surgeon."
    Dorothea Puente was loquacious, a good storyteller , and a colorful character. If she tended to embroider her tales, well, who could begrudge the old lady's fantasies? Her eccentricity was part of her charm. At least she was entertaining; let her have her little white lies.
    Thriving on attention, she stoked a reputation for generosity. Dorothea was quick to give gifts, frequently left five-dollar tips, and on a good day might buy rounds for the house, or even order pizza. "She wanted to do nice things for everybody," according to Harper. "She even said she wanted to buy me my own bar."
    With the Camellia Center for Seniors just next door, a lot of elderly folks stopped in at Henry's every day. These were people who didn't sleep much, who might be standing out on the sidewalk, waiting for the bar to open at 6:00 a.m. They really didn't have much of anywhere else to go. True to character, Dorothea would invite a few of them to come to her place for Thanksgiving dinner, or even to move into her boardinghouse.
    To the old gents she met in bars, she was an aged angel, a wrinkled coquette. But, as Harper saw it, "Her thing was elderly men with checks."
    It seemed that Bert Montoya had struck a maternal chord with Dorothea Puente. She fawned over him and shepherded him so closely that one wouldn't think of accusing her of anything more sinister than of being overprotective. So on Thursday, March 31, 1988, when she dressed nicely as always and took Bert Montoya out, no one thought much about it.
    She took him to a redbrick government building on the corner of Fifteenth and L streets, where she took a number and waited. When her number was finally called, Dorothea politely explained to the Social Security Administration representative, "I'm here with Mr. Montoya. He's mentally retarded, you see, and can't really manage his money, so he'd like me to be the payee for his SSI checks."
    Not an unusual request. People with mental or physical handicaps that may cause "fiscal irresponsibility" are often encouraged to have their benefit checks handled by someone more competent, usually a relative. (This person serves as a "representative payee" in the Social Security vernacular.)
    The elderly woman was handed a form to fill out. In the blank asking her relationship to the applicant, she wrote "I am cousin." When she was finished, she handed back the form, and the process was under way.
    Later, the Social Security Administration would contact Bert's psychiatrist, who confirmed that Bert suffered from "psychosis, a degree of mental retardation, and abnormal behavior." Further, the doctor reported, Bert was "nonparticipative in society… withdrawn… generally needing someone to watch out for him." Yes, Social Security would be careful to establish medical evidence of Bert Montoya's mental disability. In that area, it was thorough. Yet no one would check even the most basic elements of Dorothea Puente's background. The Federal Privacy Act prohibited that.
    In time, the application was approved, and checks of $637 per month—intended for Bert Montoya but made payable to Dorothea