JO01 - Guilty or Else (16 page)

“It’s too big of a coincidence, the exact flight time, and if it were an innocent flight Fischer would have logged it.”

“He’d lie on the stand, wouldn’t he?” Sol asked.

“Sure he’ll lie. But when he does, I’ll make him eat his words. Make him look like a lying bastard. When I’m finished with him, the jury will know the truth.”

“Aren’t we a mite self-assured, a little egotistical today?”

“Sol, you find the guy. I’ll nail him.”

“How long do we have?”

“Not long, today’s Monday. The preliminary hearing is scheduled for Thursday morning.”

“Not much time to find a guy who doesn’t want to be found.”

“I need to show a strong alternative to the D.A.’s theory. They still won’t drop Rodriguez as a suspect, but maybe they’ll grant bail. I might be able to get him out on his own recognizance, no bail money. I gotta get Rodriguez out of jail.” A horrible thought crossed my mind. “Sol, listen. If something happens to Rodriguez while he’s in custody, if he somehow should happen to die, the D.A. would close the Gloria Graham murder case. It’d be all over. Welch and Karadimos would be off the hook.”

“Yeah, a
mamzer
like Karadimos could have it carried out, jail or no jail. It’s the easiest place on the planet to whack someone. A shiv in the back, it’s over. The hit man’s wife or girlfriend gets an unexpected deposit in her bank account. Yeah, I’d better get my guys looking for Fischer right away,” Sol said.

“One more thing.”

“Shoot.”

“Can you get someone to sweep my office for bugs and check the phone as well?”

“I told you your place is bugged, but you wouldn’t listen.”

“Sol, please. Just send someone. Okay?”

“I’ll send a sweeper right away, but it might be too late. The barn door and all that.”

I left Foxy’s and raced back to my office. Sol’s electronics guy wasn’t there yet and I didn’t want to use the phone even to check my messages. I decided to make some coffee and wait.

When Rita went to the All American Home Center to get the rake, she also bought a new coffeepot. The old one had been smashed during the break-in. I didn’t care; it was beaten up and shabby. The one she bought looked sharp, kind of space age with a lot of dials and stuff. It was the newest automatic type that I’d seen on TV. But I didn’t have the foggiest notion how to work the thing. I figured there must be an instruction book around here somewhere.

After looking in a couple of desk drawers, I asked myself where I’d put the book if I were Rita. I went to the filing cabinet, opened the drawer, and sure enough, inside was only one file, labeled: Pot, Coffee, Book!

I fiddled around trying to hook up the high-tech gizmo, and was just about to give up when a small guy who looked about seventeen opened the door and walked in. I started to say hello, but he put a finger to his lips.

“Quit.” he whispered.

“Sol sent you?” I whispered back.

He nodded his head.

Before the guy started searching the place, I asked in a low voice if he knew how to hook up a coffeepot.

He glanced at it and shook his head. “Nah, I wouldn’t waste my time on that piece of crap.”

That did it. I’d stop for coffee later at Dolan’s Donuts.

The kid wandered around carrying a device shaped like a large plastic wishbone. The arms were about ten inches long, and the handle was like a tennis racket but it had small lights and knobs on it. He walked around the place, holding the gadget in front of him, waving it up and down as if it were a divining rod and he had come looking for water. When he finished checking both offices and the restroom, he gestured for me to meet him outside.

“Yep, the place is hot. I haven’t checked the phones yet, but they’re probably hot too.”

“Can you remove the bugs?” I asked.

“Sure, only take a few minutes.”

We walked back into the office, where he took some tools out of his pocket, removed the plate covering the light switch, cut a wire, and pulled out a device about half the size of a pack of cigarettes.

“Wow,” he said, his eyes bulging. “Look at this transmitter. Isn’t she sweet? See how small she is? This is the newest technology, very expensive. She’ll broadcast on an FM frequency over five hundred yards. Can I keep her?”

“Yeah, why not.” I wondered why he referred to a listening device using the female pronoun.

“Great! I’ll check the phone connection box, outside. I’m sure they’ll be another beauty like this one wired to the main line.”

As soon as the sweeper left, I dialed my answering service. “Mabel, this is O’Brien. Any messages?”

“Yeah, the usual.”

“Read them, okay?”

“My assistant took the messages while I was out. Left them around here someplace. Hang on.” A few seconds later, she came back on the line. “Okay, here’s the first one. It says, ‘Mr. O’Brien, please call me. Your car insurance is due. Signed, George Biddle.’ Next: ‘O’Brien, you’re a dead man.’ The third one is from a print shop. They’ve got a special this week.”

“What! What did you say?”

“They got a special this week, you know, on printing. Wait a minute!” Mabel paused. “
Oh, my God
! The second one says, ‘O’Brien, you’re a dead man.’ It’s not signed. What the hell is this? You
really
must have pissed someone off.”

“Must be a joke.” I slowly hung up the phone. Karadimos had a special this week, too. Dead lawyers, a dime a dozen.

C H A P T E R 
23

I didn’t sleep well Monday
night. I rolled around in tangled sheets and woke up about a dozen times. Finally giving up, I got out of bed at five, showered and shaved, and landed at Denny’s Coffee Shop at 5:30 a.m. I ordered coffee and some eggs. Dawdling over the
Times
, I read it cover to cover.

By seven, I’d finished the paper, even the want ads, and set it aside. I couldn’t get Welch out of my mind. It would do no good to phone his office again. I knew he wouldn’t return my call, but what I really needed was a face-to-face meeting. I wanted to look him in the eyes when I asked him a few questions. I felt I’d know a lie when I heard one. But how would I get him to agree to a sit-down, when I couldn’t even convince him to talk to me on the phone?

Finishing the last of my coffee—my fifth cup—I happened to glance out the large plate glass window at the front of the coffee shop overlooking the parking lot. I noticed a guy wearing a black leather overcoat walking toward my Corvette. He stood beside my car for a moment. Then with one swift motion, he pulled a baseball bat from under his coat and smashed the driver’s side passenger window. He tossed something in through the opening then ran to a car that waited for him. The car, a dark blue Buick, sped away.

I shot outside, instinctively raced around the lot and ran halfway down the block. Of course, the guy was long gone.

I dragged myself back to the Vette. An envelope rested on the front seat among the dime-size chunks of glass.

I pulled it out and ripped it open. Inside was a handwritten note: Quit the case NOW! Or I’ll use this bat on your head instead of the window. We can get to you anytime. Don’t think Sica’s men are going to protect you. Big Jake won’t always be there to cover your back.

A moment later, Big Jake’s Caddie rolled to a stop next to me. With a cigarette dangling from his mouth, he stuck his head out the car window and appraised the damage. “You see who done it?” he asked.

“Yeah, a big guy, six-one, six-two, lots of dark wavy hair, a scar on his face.”

“Sounds like Angelo, one of Karadimos’s best persuaders. He’s only gonna send his primo guys from now on, now that they think I’m on the job.”

“You know the guy?”

“Yeah, he’s one of the ratfink
soldatos
that left Buscetta and joined up with that fat Greek.”

“I thought you were going to cover my ass!”

“You told me to take a powder, not hang around. Anyway, you’re in one piece, ain’t ya? So, what’s the problem?”

It wouldn’t do me any good to get hot; the damage was done. Besides, I did more or less tell Jake to stay away, which might have been a little hasty. “Want some breakfast?” I asked, angling my head toward the coffee shop.

“Thought you didn’t want to be seen with me, too low down for you.”

“No, not really, Jake. What I meant—”

“What I heard ’bout you lawyers is true.”

“Yeah, what?”

“Full of bullshit.”

I sighed. “Yeah, guess so.”

“Get in the car,” he said.

I climbed into the passenger seat. “Maybe I made a mistake about you, Jake, about not sticking close by.”

Jake’s massive hands gripped the steering wheel, squeezing and twisting the rim as he gazed out the front windshield. “I gotta keep outta sight. Joe wants it that way.

You won’t see me until I show up. No one will. Cops, Karadimos’s torpedoes, nobody. I’ll be invisible, but I’ll be there.”

It was hard to imagine a guy like Big Jake invisible. He’d be impossible to miss. He’d stand out like a dancing elephant among a bunch of scurrying field mice.

“Thanks, Jake, I appreciate your help, and I don’t dislike you. It’s just—”

“O’Brien, let’s get this straight. I don’t give a shit what you appreciate, and I don’t give a damn if you like me or not. Most people don’t. I gotta job to do, that’s all. Let’s leave it at that.”

I looked at Jake for a long moment, the ugly grimace on his face, and wondered about him. Did he have emotions—fears, highs and lows like the rest of us? Or was his life one deep, black pit of hostility? How did someone become so devoid of moral sensitivity? Was it a handicap to have a soul when one belonged to the mob? Or was it a benefit? He continued to stare out at the parking lot, at the people giving him dirty looks as they walked around his car blocking their path to the coffee shop.”

“Jake, how is this supposed to work?” I asked.

Without turning his head toward me, he said, “Told ya before. You do your thing and I’ll do mine. I’ll be there when I’m needed.”

“You think Karadimos and his gang would really use deadly force to stop me? Or are they just trying to scare me off?”

He wiggled his chunky fingers in a gimme manner. Jake had more muscles in his fingers that I had in my whole body.

“Lemme see the note, the one you got from Angelo.”

I pulled the paper out of my pocket and gave it to him. I had a newfound respect for Jake’s erudition. He read it without moving his lips.

“Yep, they’ll kill ya all right. That is, if you don’t stop messing with their shit.” He spoke without a trace of emotion in his voice.

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. But, I’ll stop ’em. I’m not sure why, but Joe wants to keep you alive, for a while anyway.”

“Suppose I can’t bring Karadimos down. What’s Sica going to do about him?”

Anger flashed from Jake like a spark from an electrical short. “Keep your trap shut. You got no lines. You ask no questions,
goddammit
!” He moved in closer. “I’ll say it again, don’t ask questions.” His face looked like a big red balloon ready to burst.

“I’m not going to ask any questions. Like you said, you do your thing, and I’ll do mine.”

“Okay, O’Brien, I gotta get outta here. Don’t call the cops about the car. Don’t want the bastards snooping around. They’d get in my way.”

At eight-thirty, I went back to my Corvette, cleaned up the glass, and set out for the office. Jake said he would follow me at a safe distance. He wanted to lay back and see if I was being shadowed by any of Karadimos’s heavy artillery.

Although I couldn’t kid myself about why Jake was trying to protect me, I knew it was a lot healthier having him around. But I also knew I was just a guy caught in the middle of the local Mafia and their new rivals. Things could change and I knew I was as useless and expendable as the Nehru jacket hanging in my closet.

C H A P T E R 
24

When I arrived back at
the office, Rita had the new coffeemaker assembled and plugged in. “Hey Boss, did you see the new coffeepot? It’s the latest thing.”

“Yeah, it’s super,” I said. “Do you think you can figure out how to make coffee with the thing?”

“Of course, a child could make a great cup with this pot,” she said as she scooped Yuban into the machine.

“Oh.”

“By the way, Joyce called. She said she has some more information about a company called Hartford something. She wants you to call her back. I’ll get her on the line if you want.”

“You work the coffeepot. I’ll call her myself.”

I remembered what Joyce told me about Hartford Commodities, the company that leased the Buick that had tailed me for a couple of days.

I picked up the phone and dialed. “Joyce, it’s me, O’Brien. Rita said you have some information.”

“It came this morning,” Joyce said. “Hartford Commodities, remember? Controlled by Triple A Holdings, Incorporated?”

“Sure, I remember. Triple A is the offshore corporation. Have you found out who the real owners are?”

“No, but they use Mutual Trust as their correspondent bank. Mutual is headquartered in Los Angeles. But here’s the important part: Thomas French, an attorney here in Downey, has fiduciary control over Triple A’s accounts. He handles all the transactions, including signing checks,” Joyce said. “There’s more. French also sits on the board of the Bank. Do you know this guy?”

Yeah, I knew French: Welch’s lawyer, the guy who gave me the brush-off. “I don’t know him personally, Joyce. But I know who he is.” I paused and thought for a second. “What kind of business is Hartford, anyway? What do they do?”

“It’s a produce company, started after the war by a guy named Sam Higgins. They import cantaloupes from Mexico. That sort of thing.”

“From Mexico?”

“Yes, but Hartford was sold to Triple A shortly after Higgins died a few years back. The documents relating to the Higgins estate and the company’s sale are missing. The secretary of state’s office is in the process of logging all their files into a computer. The missing documents will eventually show up. And when they do, I’ll call you.”