Shakedown (20 page)

"I get it."

"We need another man. Roll out Frank Tyde. Don't call him. Pick him up at home. Head for judge Traynor's house."

"Judge Traynor's house?"

"She'll be expecting you," Novak said.

THIRTY

The Wheel of Fortune Motel, like a lot of the motels which existed solely because of their proximity to the downtown Las Vegas casinos, had seen better days. The balconies of the three-story rectangular structure looked out at slow-moving glitter-gulch traffic, an undersized swimming pool surrounded by a chain-link fence, and a sprinkling of old cars in the parking lot, but the rates were affordable to down-on-their-luck gamblers and FBI agents trying to keep within the limits of their expense allowance.

Novak parked his car near the registration office where it could be easily spotted from the street. He checked his wristwatch. It was one in the morning. He made his way to Room 27, knocked on the door.

Eddie Sands let him in. Novak immediately locked the door behind him, then checked the door to the adjoining room to make sure it was unlocked. Sands, wearing socks without shoes, returned to a small sofa.

Novak moved to an end table, picked up the phone receiver. He dialed. As the phone rang, Novak noticed that the television was tuned to a talk show. A man who had won an egg-eating contest was being interviewed by the gray-haired host. Elliot answered. "Novak here. I've got Sands at the Wheel of Fortune Motel, Room 27."

"Thanks for keeping me informed. Everything okay?"

"Fine."

"Try to get some sleep," Elliot said. "I'll see you in the grand-jury room." The phone clicked.

Novak set the receiver down.

"Who was that?" Sands said.

"The attorney-in-charge of the Organized Crime Strike Force."

"Secrets don't last very long in Las Vegas."

"Does Tony have anyone in law enforcement on his payroll now?" Novak said as he moved to the front door, fastened the deal-bolt lock, then the chain.

"He got me out of Terminal Island by funneling juice to the Federal Parole Board."

"Other than that." Novak tugged at a corner of the curtain to close it fully.

Eddie Sands shrugged. "He once mentioned if anything was happening he would get a call. But he would have no reason to give me a name. He would never tell anyone.

Novak flipped the light switch off He tugged the curtain back an inch or so, kept his eye on the lot. "What did Parisi say about Bruno Santoro getting blown up?" Novak said as he continued to stare out the window.

"He said Bruno was ready to testify against him, so he had him clipped."

"What were his exact words?"

"Something like 'Bruno was going to sing a song for the feds. So I made him disappear.' Then he said something about a bomb. Then he laughed. That was about it."

Novak opened a dresser drawer, removed some stationery, made a note of what Sands had said. He lit a cigarette, grabbed a chair, and set it next to the window. He straddled the chair.

"What are you worried about?"

"Nothing."

"If you weren't worried you wouldn't be staring out the window."

Sands moved to the dresser, removed a can-from a six-pack of beer, popped the top. He offered it to Novak. Novak accepted.

"Who wired Bruno's car?" Novak asked.

"Probably the Corcoran brothers."

"The dudes who hang out at the Golden Gate Sports Book?"

"None other."

"They know bombs?" Novak said.

"Tony paid their way to a survival school. The contract went from Tony to Vito to them."

Sands sat down. Both men sipped beer. "How did they know where Bruno's car was located in order to plant the bomb?" Novak said, "Did someone follow him?"

Sands shrugged. "He got a call. He told me he got a call from someone who knew Bruno was a snitch."

Sands stood up slowly. "That's why you're keeping all the lights off in here ... because there's a leak in your department."

Novak didn't answer. He kept an eye on the parking lot.

"Eddie, I want you to tell me everything you know about Tony Parisi. From the first day you met."

Sands took a big pull from the beer, sat down again. He began to speak.

About an hour later he was still talking. Novak had used up almost five sheets of motel stationery making notes. As he had done intermittently, he tugged the curtain back an inch or two, peeked out. A black Cadillac pulled into the parking lot, cruised along the rows of parked vehicles, then drove out of the lot and across the street. Two men climbed out. They looked about, moved to the trunk, opened it, lifted something out, shut the trunk.

Sands stopped talking. "What is it?"

As the two men moved under a streetlight on their way to the motel, Novak got a better look. They were black and wore business suits. Novak stood up, pulled his gun.

Sands moved to the window, peeked out. "The Corcoran brothers."

Novak pointed to the adjoining room. Sands picked up his shoes, moved quickly.

There was the sound of approaching footsteps. Two silhouettes moved slowly past the window to the door, stopped.

Novak backed away from the window, followed Sands into the adjoining room. He gently pulled the door to the room closed, turned the latch. He stood in darkness.

They heard the sounds of a pump shotgun chambering a round, of the door being kicked, splintering, and of people rushing into the room, moving about quickly. Novak positioned himself next to the connecting door. He pointed his revolver at the door, at chest level, prepared to fire at whoever entered. He could hear Sands breathing heavily.

"Muthafuckas have gone," said one of the men in the other room. Footsteps approached the adjoining door. The doorknob turned. Novak's trigger finger tightened. He felt a warm survival rush at his temples that reminded him of Vietnam.

Then he heard footsteps running out of the room and down along the balcony.

Novak vaulted to the window, pulled back the blind about an inch. Sands joined him. They watched as the gunmen ran across the street, jumped into the Cadillac, and sped away.

Novak stepped away from the window. He said nothing.

"You should have let 'em have it," Sands said.

"They'll come back for me. Why didn't you kill 'em?"

Novak moved to the door. He opened it, looked about. Because of the commotion, people were coming out of rooms. He and Sands went to his G-car and climbed in.

No lights were visible at Lorraine Traynor's house when Novak cruised past. At the corner, he turned right. He spotted Haynes's car, pulled to the curb, and turned off the engine. He and Sands got out. In the darkness, they walked down the sidewalk to an empty lot which faced the rear of Lorraine Traynor's house.

"Where are we going?" Sands said as Novak trudged across the empty lot. Novak touched an index finger to his lips. "Sssshhh." Sands shrugged.

They climbed over a fence, crossed the backyard, and entered through the rear door of the house. Lorraine Traynor, Haynes, and Frank Tyde were sitting at a dining table which was littered with city maps, affidavit forms, coffee cups. Two Remington pump shotguns rested against the wall.

"Good morning, judge," Novak said. He introduced Eddie Sands.

"Please sit down," she said. She left her seat, moved to a dining cart, poured coffee into cups.

Frank Tyde tapped his palm over his mouth as he yawned. "I hope we're getting overtime for this," he said. Haynes gave him a dirty look.

Lorraine Traynor served coffee to Sands, then Novak. "What happened?" she said.

"We had visitors," Novak said. "The Corcoran brothers, carrying heavy iron. We watched them from the next room."

"I'll be damned," Haynes said.

Lorraine Traynor sat down at the table. She tapped her fingers on her lower lip for a moment. "Mr. Sands, I'm ordering that you be provided protection as a federal witness. You will remain here in my home until further notice. Agent Tyde, you will remain with Mr. Sands. Why don't you two go in the kitchen and make yourselves something to eat?"

Tyde slapped his stomach. "Sounds good to me." Sands followed him out of the room. Lorraine Traynor picked up a pen, made a note on a legal pad, turned to Novak. "What did Sands have to say?"

Novak took out his notes, perused them for a moment. "Parisi told him he got the word from a snitch that Bruno Santoro was going to be at the Highland Coffee Shop."

Lorraine Traynor made a note on the pad. "That doesn't do us a lot of good in tying Parisi to the murder," she said. "We need something solid against him. A piece of evidence that is, on its face, undeniable."

"Sands thinks the bombing was done by the Corcoran brothers," Novak said. "They have the training."

"Let's arrest 'em. I'll crack their heads together to make 'em talk," Haynes said.

Lorraine Traynor looked askance at Haynes. Haynes gave her a little smile. She turned to Novak. "If you think it's the way to go I'll authorize the arrest of the Corcoran brothers."

Novak stood up, leaned against the wall. "The Corcorans are solid cons. Chances are they'll never talk. And if they did it would be Parisi's word against theirs."

"Does that mean that you want to interview Parisi first and try to get him to incriminate himself?" she said.

Novak shook his head. "That would be a waste of time. He's never given a statement to the police in his life."

"Let's just arrest him," Haynes said. "If he thinks we have a case he might talk."

Novak sipped coffee. "It won't work," he said.

Lorraine Traynor sat back in her chair. "It sounds to me like you have something else in mind."

"I do. It's a long shot."

"I'm listening," she said.

"Elliot, Red, and I were the only ones who knew Bruno was going to be at the coffee shop that day," Novak said.

She made another note. "The fact that a secret got out isn't evidence of anything. It's possible Parisi had Bruno followed to the coffee shop. Any number of scenarios could-" Suddenly Lorraine Traynor stopped speaking as she realized what Novak was getting at.

"If you are going to do that I'll have to call the Attorney General," she said.

THIRTY-ONE

It was almost two in the morning.

As Novak cruised slowly along the well-lit street looking for Elliot's address, he went over the details of the plan in his mind.

He slowed down. The houses were two-story stucco jobs, all with driveways big enough to accommodate three cars and a boat. It was one of the most expensive residential areas in Las Vegas. Novak spotted the house number he was looking for. He pulled into the driveway, climbed out of the car. There were lights on inside the house.

At the door, Novak rang the bell. A minute or two later, he heard footsteps inside. They stopped on the other side of the door. "Who's there?" Elliot said.

"Novak."

At least thirty seconds passed before anything happened. Then Elliot unlocked the door and opened it. He was dressed in pajamas and robe.

"I've been trying to phone you at the Wheel of Fortune," Elliot said. "Where the hell have you been?"

"The manager there was asking a lot of questions, so I checked out."

"Why the hell didn't you call me?"

"I didn't want to talk on the phone."

Elliot opened the door fully. "Come in."

Novak stepped in, followed Elliot across a large, tastefully decorated living room and into a kitchen that might have been featured in a Sunday supplement. "I know you wouldn't be here unless it was something important."

"Is there anyone else here?" Novak said.

"We're alone."

"Sands is talking."

"I told you I don't want him talking before he gets on the witness stand."

"He's shook up," Novak said. "I can't help it if he has diarrhea of the mouth."

Elliot stood there for a moment as if in pain, then regained composure. He turned the heat on under a coffee pot.

"His usefulness as a witness could be blown if he makes a bunch of dumb statements ahead of time."

"I can't keep him quiet. He's on the edge."

"Snitch's remorse. Understandable."

"It's more than that," Novak said. "He doesn't trust us.

Elliot turned to face him. "How so?"

"Sands says we have a leak at the Strike Force. Specifically, that's how Bruno Santoro was fingered."

Elliot filled two cups, came to the table, sat down. "A leak," he said.

"He says that someone is funneling information to Tony Parisi ... that it's common knowledge he has an insider on his payroll."

"All hoods brag about having a cop or a prosecutor on the payroll. It's invariably bullshit."

"What the man is telling me fits with what has been happening at the Strike Force."

"What evidence does he have? Let's talk some hard fucking facts."

"Only the people in our office knew Bruno was an informant."

"Does Sands have any clue to the identity of the leak? Anything of evidentiary value whatsoever?"

Novak shook his head.

"Eddie Sands is just trying to build up his value as a witness," Elliot said.

"He's already committed to take the stand," Novak said. "He gains nothing by lying to us."

"Sometimes snitches lie just to lie."

"Sands was a cop. I believe him."

"You're a hundred and fifty percent right," Elliot said. "We have to take this seriously."

Novak nodded. "I'll have Sands at the grand jury at eleven a.m.," he said. He finished his coffee and stood up.

They walked to the door. Elliot stuck out his hand, shook with Novak. "This is going to be the biggest organized-crime indictment in the country, John. And I am personally going to see that you are promoted."

'Thanks," Novak said. Though it was difficult, he looked Elliot directly in the eye.

"Which motel?"

"Pardon?"

"The motel where you have Sands."

"The Algiers, Room 302," Novak said.

"Who is with him at this moment?"

"No one."

"Isn't that kind of dangerous?"

"He's not going anywhere as long as we have his wife."

"We have to keep his location on a
need-to-
know basis ... one hundred and fifty percent
need-to-know," Elliot said.
"I don't want anyone except you and me to know where you have him stashed
."

Outside, Novak climbed into his sedan and sped onto Boulder Highway. He turned right and continued at a high rate of speed until he reached the first commercial area. It was an all-night convenience market with a small parking lot. There were three cars parked in the lot: a Volkswagen, an old Chevy, and Lorraine Traynor's Dodge van. He slowed down, flicked his headlights on and off a couple of times as he drove past. The headlights on the van did the same.

It took him less than ten minutes to get to the Algiers Motel, a hundred-room two-story place built around a circular swimming pool. He parked down the street and hurried to the motel. Room 302 was on the second floor at the end of the walkway. He climbed steps, knocked on the door. The door was opened by Red Haynes. Novak stepped inside. "The bait is out," he said as Haynes closed the door behind him.

The room was decorated with fuchsia wallpaper and mirrors. Lying on the bed were two pump-action shotguns. He moved to the curtain, peeked out. There was no one in the parking lot. He picked up a shotgun.

"Three in the magazine and one in the chamber... all double-O buck," Haynes said. "How do you want to do this?"

Novak surveyed the room quickly. He grabbed chairs from a table, placed them in the corners of the room facing the door. "I think we should let'em come in," he said. "Maintain your firing position."

"Gotcha," Haynes said. He picked up the other shotgun, moved to one of the chairs, sat down.

Novak moved about the room flicking off light switches. In semidarkness, he went to the other chair, sat down, rested the shotgun on his lap. The only light in the room was a faint gray illumination coming through the curtains. There was the barely audible sound of police calls coming from the walkie-talkie on the floor next to Haynes.

Leaning back in the chair, Novak relived his last conversation with Bruno Santoro. He wondered how many times his mind had gone over the scene. He thought of Lorraine, and then, God knew why, he remembered being on the bus leaving the army induction center in Philadelphia. Sitting in a window seat on the crowded bus, he waved goodbye to his father and uncle-strapping, red-faced Slavs who had taken the afternoon off at the Hardesty Steel Mill to see him off. Standing on the sidewalk, tears streaming down their faces, they waved until the bus was out of sight.

"What if they just walk up here and toss a hand grenade through the window?" Haynes said. "These guys are bombers."

"They'll come in. They're gonna want to make sure they're getting Sands."

Resting his shotgun on his shoulder like a duck hunter, Novak moved to the window, pulled the curtain back a few inches, peeked out. He returned to his seat.

"This could get real nasty," Haynes said a few minutes later.

"How are your sons doing?" Novak said to break the tension in the room.

"Football and screaming rock music, that's all they live for. I call it jock and roll .... Maybe Elliot won't tip off Parisi. Maybe there's some other explanation."

"I don't think so."

Haynes cleared his throat. "We could be sitting here for nothing," he said. "Maybe Parisi found out some other way. Maybe Frank Tyde is rotten."

"Red Haynes, the eternal optimist," Novak said. Nothing was said for a long time. Novak checked his watch. They had been in the room almost two hours.

"The sun's gonna come up pretty soon. They won't do anything then."

"Never know."

"How long we gonna sit here?" Haynes said finally.

"I don't know."

There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs outside. Novak moved to the curtain, peeked out. The Corcoran brothers were moving up the steps toward the room. "The Corcorans. This is it, Red." Novak moved back to the corner of the room.

Red Haynes picked up the walkie-talkie, pressed the transmit button. "Federal officers need help," he whispered. "Algiers Motel... Room 302." He turned down the volume.

Novak lifted his shotgun, aimed it at the door. Haynes did the same.

There was knocking at the door.

"Who's there?" Novak said.

"Police. Is that you, Novak?"

"Yes."

The sound of shuffling directly outside the door, whispering, then a terrific crack as the door was kicked in.

As the Corcoran brothers raced into the room with sawed-off shotguns, Novak and Haynes fired simultaneously. The room exploded in shotgun flame and smoke. One intruder spun backward and was hurtled through the doorway. Glass shattered as the other was flung against the bay window. Novak fired again and blew him through the window and onto the walkway.

Holding the smoking shotgun at the ready, Novak moved to the light switch, flicked it on. At the doorway, he stepped across a body as Haynes grabbed the sawed-off shotgun from the floor. Novak moved cautiously out the door. The other man was lying facedown on the walkway. He was twitching. There was the sound of sirens.

Haynes followed him outside, carrying the walkie-talkie. He was breathing hard. "Federal officers requesting an ambulance to the Algiers Motel," he said. "Shots fired. Man down."

"Ten four," replied the dispatcher.

"You all right?" Novak said to Haynes.

Haynes nodded. "It's Elliot. He's working for Parisi. The dirty son of a bitch."

"I want you to stay here and handle the scene," Novak said. "Wait fifteen minutes and call Elliot. Tell him what happened."

"Good luck," Haynes said.

Novak left the Algiers Motel and drove down the Strip to Boulder Highway. Lorraine Traynor's van was still parked in the parking lot of the convenience store. Novak drove past and parked his car at the rear of a supermarket so that it was shielded from the street. He locked his car and hurried back to the convenience-store parking lot. Lorraine slid open the door of her van. He climbed in. They embraced. Novak checked his wristwatch. "Haynes should be calling Elliot right about now.

"I hope you're right," she said.

"Elliot has to call Parisi. He can't just sit there at home."

"My fingers are crossed," Lorraine said.

Neither spoke for a while. There was only the intermittent sound of cars and trucks gusting by on the highway and distant bluegrass music coming from a radio in the supermarket.

About five minutes later, Elliot drove into the lot, parked near the pay telephone. He stepped out of his car. He was wearing a pajama top over his trousers. He looked about carefully, as if to check the automobiles parked in the lot, then sauntered to the pay phone. Novak reached to the floorboard and flicked on a portable high-frequency receiver/tape recorder. From the instrument came the sound of a telephone ringing. Then a click.