JO01 - Guilty or Else (31 page)

I dropped to my knees, took a deep breath and held it. I reached into the hole and dug with my hands like a dog after a bone. I tried to free the case. It wouldn’t budge. Digging frantically, I finally loosened the case and pulled it out.

After wiping the dirt off it, I sat the aluminum briefcase upright on the grass. I jammed the shovel’s edge into the seam where the two halves came together. It popped open.

I knelt down next to the case, which overflowed with documents. Holding the flashlight in my mouth, I rifled through the papers, spilling some on the grass. “Holy Christ,” I said out loud.

I set the flashlight on the grass, scrambling to scoop up the papers and put them back in the case. I didn’t need to study the files right now. I knew what I had found. I felt like Alfred Nobel. I had discovered dynamite!

“Freeze, asshole,” a voice said. “Don’t make a sound.” I felt a gun barrel jammed against the back of my head and heard the ratcheting sound of a hammer being cocked.

C H A P T E R 
48

“What the hell!” I shouted.

“I said keep quiet,” His voice was guttural and harsh. “I’ll drop you right here, motherfucker!”

“Okay, okay. I’m cool.”

“Stand up.”

With my hands in the air, I struggled to my feet. The gunman rammed the barrel into the small of my back. “Pick up the case and walk slowly to the car. It’s on the street.”

I bent over, closed the briefcase, and tucked it under my arm. We left the backyard and moved down the driveway, then marched toward the blue Buick sedan parked a couple of houses away.

“You’re not a cop,” I said.

“No such luck, O’Brien.”

“You know me? Karadimos sent you?”

“We’ve been following you since Vegas.”

“Vegas?”

“Almost lost you when you stomped on it in Barstow,” the gunman said, “but the Buick Electra with 455 cubes and a McCulloch supercharger held its own against the Vette. Too bad you have a small block in your machine. Should’ve coughed up a few bucks more and got the big 427.”

“Lousy gas mileage,” I said.

“You’re a riot, O’Brien.”

Christ, this was no time to chat about cars. I broke out in a sweat and tried to think of a way out, but nothing came. This wasn’t like TV or the movies; this was real. If I made a move on the guy, he’d shoot me dead before I could turn halfway around.

As we approached the Buick a guy the size of the Goodyear blimp jumped from the driver’s seat. Another gorilla climbed out of the passenger seat. They called him Angelo. I remembered Jake mentioning Angelo, said he was one of Karadimos’s best persuaders.

From their conversation I learned that the other two were Gus and Lenny. Angelo looked like a persuader, mean and ugly with a nose spread all over his face and small knotty protrusions on his forehead. He’d been a professional fighter once, and I had no doubt he could hurt people without a care. I recognized Angelo. He was the goon who followed me around in the Buick.

Lenny took the case from me and placed it in the Buick. Angelo patted me down. He took the car keys from my pocket and tossed them to Lenny. “Get that Vette out of here, ’fore someone sees it.”

“Hey, you sonofabitch, nobody drives my car.” Angelo hit me in the right kidney. I doubled over.

“No one asked your permission.”

My Corvette disappeared down the street. I wondered if I’d ever see it again. Gus, the gunman, backed up, still covering me, and opened the rear door.

“Get in, O’Brien,” he said. “Angelo, you’re driving. I’ll watch him.”

We climbed in. Angelo, the heavyweight, started the car, drove around the block, and turned right on Firestone Boulevard. We pulled up next to a phone booth at a closed gas station.

“Tell the boss about the briefcase, Angelo,” Gus said without taking his eyes off me.

Angelo made the call and was back in the Buick in less than a minute. “The Greek wants us to take O’Brien to the yard. He’ll meet us there.”

“Looks like you’re going to taste a little garbage. You like rotten cantaloupes, O’Brien?” Gus asked.

I clenched my fists. “Yummy,” I said.

About fifteen minutes later we pulled into Karadimos’s trash yard on Atlantic Avenue. Angelo parked the Buick next to a black Mercedes in front of the old stucco office building. A dim yellow light highlighted the shade-covered window in front. Someone was inside. Had to be Karadimos.

“Get out and head for the door.” Gus pointed to the office. “I’m right behind you.”

I reached the door, felt the gun against my back, and heard him say, “Open it.”

I did what he said. He pushed me hard, and I stumbled into the building. Karadimos sat behind his beat-up desk. “Well, Mr. O’Brien, what a pleasure,” he said in his nasal wheeze.

I glared at him. “Can’t say the same.”

“Now, O’Brien, let’s keep a positive attitude.”

“Okay, I’m positive it’s not a pleasure.”

“I see you came back to my yard. Do you enjoy the ambiance?”

“It’s not a rose garden, but it does have a distinct odor.”

“Glad you like it. Because it appears you’ll be spending the rest of your life here.”

“This place is crawling with scum and germs. I haven’t had my shots.”

“Don’t worry. You won’t be alive long enough to catch anything. Angelo, bring me the briefcase. Gus, keep the gun on his head and shoot him if he moves an inch.” Angelo obeyed, and Karadimos started rummaging through the case. “This is what I was looking for. You’re to be congratulated, O’Brien. A shame you didn’t listen to me; you would have been amply rewarded.”

I remained silent, thinking. The only way I’d leave this place would be dead, or with the briefcase. I had to control my anger, not make any stupid moves, or I’d be history and Ernesto Rodriguez would spend his life behind bars.

Karadimos tossed Angelo a roll of duct tape he pulled from the top desk drawer. “Tape his hands behind his back. Don’t cover his mouth. We’re going to have a nice little chat. Aren’t we, O’Brien?”

“Nothing to talk about.”

“Turn around and put your hands behind you,” Angelo demanded.

With my arms behind my back and my wrists bound, Angelo shoved me into the chair facing Karadimos, who said, “I’m gonna ask you a few questions. If you cooperate, tell me what I want to know, then we won’t have to use extreme measures. Am I making myself clear, O’Brien?”

I started to shake. I didn’t like the sound of extreme measures. But I wondered what I could tell him. He already had the cassette tape; he already knew what I knew about his operation.

“Why don’t we start with the obvious question? How many people have you told about the unfortunate conversation you’d taped at Chasen’s? Illegally, I might add.”

Illegally. He had to be kidding. The guy runs drugs and teen prostitutes and he talks about what’s legal. I glanced around. My left brain told me that I’d never get free. My right brain still tried to figure out an escape route. Gus stood behind me with the gun pointed at my head; Angelo, the monster, hovered off to the side. Other than the revolver in Gus’s hand I saw nothing in the office that could be used as a weapon.

“Come on, O’Brien, speak up. Don’t be shy.”

I remained silent.

He paused for a beat, then his voice changed, became hard. “Angelo,” is all he said, but the way he said it made my skin crawl.

Angelo stood and flexed his fingers as he moved toward me. He backhanded me twice across the face. I tasted blood.

“Goddammit, I haven’t told anyone about the recording.”

“You expect me to believe that? You’re working with Sica. You would’ve told him right off the bat.”

“Yeah, I told Sica. I forgot.” Let him take up the issue with the Sica gang. I didn’t give a shit.

“Who else?”

“No one.”

“What about that fat Jew you hang around with?”

Oh Christ! No way would I tell him about Sol’s involvement. “He’s just a friend. We don’t talk about business.”

Angelo whacked me again, three times in rapid succession. I could feel my face pulse as my mouth started to swell. Blood ran down my shirt. He hit me again, harder.

“I know you’ve discussed the tape with that cute little piece of ass you have running around your office. We’ll be chatting with her too.”

Oh God, no! What have I done? Shit, not Rita.

“She knows nothing, goddammit. She’s a filing clerk, that’s all. I don’t confide in her about anything. You told me yourself the tape is illegal. Believe me, she knows nothing.”

“You’re protesting too much. She’s in on it, all right.”

I squirmed, wanting to get my hands around his fat ugly neck and squeeze until his eyeballs popped out of their sockets. “God damn it! I told you she doesn’t know anything!”

Angelo hit me with his fist this time. My head snapped back and my vision blurred. I shook my head, spraying blood around the room.

“You’re a lying sack of shit, O’Brien. But we have ways.” Karadimos reached in his desk drawer again. This time he pulled out a syringe and held it to the light. A drop of viscous fluid oozed out of the tip of the needle.

C H A P T E R 
49

Angelo jerked me out of
the chair and dropped me onto the old, ratty car bench seat that Karadimos used as an office couch. I didn’t dare resist, not with Gus keeping the gun trained on me.

“Lay him out and tie his arms and legs down.”

Karadimos tossed Angelo the roll of duct tape. He came around from his desk, holding the syringe. “Don’t try anything, O’Brien. Wouldn’t want to have Gus shoot you here and mess up the upholstery.”

I realized what he was going to do: pump me full of Sodium Pentothal or Amytal—truth serum. Early in my LAPD career, I’d seen a detective use the stuff on a prisoner. It wasn’t pretty. The cop gave the guy too much and he convulsed and almost died.

“No, you sonofabitch!”

Angelo backhanded me across the face again. The blow loosened one of my back teeth. I pressed it with my tongue and felt it move. My face must have looked like hamburger. “Shut up, and do as you’re told,” he snapped. “Or I’ll whack you again, harder.”

Now I couldn’t move. Angelo had tied my legs too tight, cutting off the blood flow to my feet, and Gus stood over me with the business end of the revolver pressed against my forehead. Karadimos held the syringe up to the light; a tiny stream of liquid shot out of the needle. “Two milliliters should do the trick, don’t want to knock you out entirely.” He jabbed the needle in my thigh, right through the fabric of my pants.

The hell with Gus and the gun. I twisted and bucked, tried to kick my feet. No good, my legs were trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey. I struggled harder.

As Karadimos slowly depressed the plunger, he shouted, “Hold still, O’Brien. You’ll break the goddamn needle. Angelo, for chrissakes, pin his legs!”

Angelo’s two hands were like vice grips, clamping my knees against the seat. But it didn’t matter. There was nothing I could do now. The fluid coursed through my veins.

I’m weak, muscles like Jell-O and warm, very warm. Pain in my face, disappeared…a nice…no, a wonderful euphoria coming over me. I’m floating…drifting in the air. Eyelids heavy…vision closing in…a circle of light, getting smaller, smaller in the darkness.

“Wake up!” a faraway voice said. I felt a slap across my face. Didn’t hurt, and I didn’t care. Someone slapped me again. Just want to sleep, such a beautiful sleep…

I felt another slap. “Wake up!” the voice, closer this time, almost in my ear. “Can you hear me? Wake up, you son of a bitch!”

A sliver of dim light…eyelids heavy, each weighed ten pounds. I floated on the car seat, weightless…Karadimos, floating too. His face inches from mine. A blur, a hand whipped across my face…why…what have I done? The Greek…mad…not floating anymore. My tongue is thick. Hard to breathe…focus, focus, try to focus. Nothing hurts. He said to relax…relax…

“I could’ve given him too much.” Karadimos’s voice.

Have to talk…tell him how I feel. “Good morning…what a wonderful day.” My voice is strange. I said that?

“Wait, he’s coming around. In a few more seconds he’ll jabber like a cockatoo. I want to hold him in twilight. Gus, get me the black satchel by my desk. Has more juice in it, in case we need it later.”

“I like juice…like coffee better, but my coffee tastes like piss,” I heard myself say and had no idea what I was talking about. “Rita makes good coffee…goddamn; she’s pretty…fucking beautiful. Wait, I’m her boss. Wouldn’t be right…”

“Welcome back, Jimmy. How do you feel?”

“Fucking great, thank you very much.”

“We’re going to have a nice little talk. Do you feel like talking to me?”

“Yeah, a nice talk. What do you want to talk about?”

“Tell me about the tape recording.”

Tape. I began singing the words to “Hey, Jude.”

“Jimmy, listen to me. Did you tell anyone about the tape?”

“I lost the tape…my favorite, the Beatles. They don’t perform anymore, you know…”

“Not that tape. The one you recorded at Chasen’s.”

“Lost it, too…let a hooker steal it…she gave it to you. Sol said she worked for you.”

“How much does Silverman know about my business?”

Sol’s smart…he’s my friend.” I could hear my voice echo in my brain. Don’t talk. Don’t talk about Sol. I shouldn’t talk about him. “Sol doesn’t like you.” I rolled my head. So confused, hazy, but I couldn’t stop talking. “Sol wants to put you in jail.” Christ, keep your trap shut.

“Did you tell the police, or the district attorney, what you heard on the tape?”

“She hates me…”

“Who hates you?”

“Bobbi.”

“Why?”

“Thinks I lied about your airplane.”

“You did, Jimmy. You lied to her. I didn’t kill that girl.”

“Bobbi’s pretty too, I’d like to—oops, not gonna to say that. We have a Chinese wall…” Is this a nightmare? I wanted to throw up.

“What’s he talking about, boss? What’s this crap about a Chinese wall?”

“Shut up, Gus! He’s talking, that’s what counts.”

It became quiet for a moment. Tired…I felt tired, but not as tired as before. The shadows in my mind started to brighten…I’m coming back. I remember now.
Oh Christ
! He gave me Pentothal!