by Rusty Ellis
Ransom stood up and walked with his plate to the microwave and popped the door open. Setting the clock for 30 seconds, he turned back to Teresa while the machine whirred and heated the last half of his hamburger.
“It’s a simple guess that Gianni was working for Sartori. We need to find Gianni,” the bell dinged on the microwave and Ransom grabbed the edges of the hot plate and returned to the table. “I doubt Turing will talk to us. Whatever Sartori has over his head must be big. Big enough that Turing is willing to let his wife get killed and still keep working for him.”
Part V
Tuesday
20
The drive through the desert to the Southern Desert Correction Center felt like deja’ vu to Ransom. Very few cars passed by and the desert remained unchanged since he and Leesa’s last trip, three days earlier. The two constants: desert and heat.
The air conditioning whirred and gallantly fought the outside temperature in a battle to keep the interior of Leesa’s sedan bearably cool. Ransom reached up and touched the window—the heat emanated through the glass before his fingertips could touch the hot surface—a reminder the temperature had hit 103 degrees and would climb another three degrees at the day’s peak.
“Awfully quiet in here,” Leesa noticed Ransom’s fingertips near the window.
“Trying to figure out the angle with Turing. If Sartori was involved in the hit on Turing’s wife, what keeps Turing around?”
Ransom tapped the window a couple of times with his index finger; playing with the hot surface.
“Maybe Foster can spread some light on that today?” Leesa suggested.
“Truthfully, I don’t think he’ll know much beyond Gianni.”
Leesa slowed the car down to take the left turn across the southbound lane and onto Cold Creek Road. She drove into the familiar parking lot and found a spot two rows back from the entrance and parked. Ransom pushed his door open and a gust of parching air whipped through the interior of the car.
“If we can get to Gianni, maybe we can put the rest of it together,” he mentioned and slid his right foot out of the car and onto the blistering asphalt.
21
The sweat on Averett’s brow was unrelated to the summer temperatures. He preferred to have little to no direct contact with Moreno Sartori. Normally, he would just deal with Sartori’s private counsel, Jimmy Hurley. However, Jimmy had called and said Mr. Sartori wanted to meet with him. Averett knew enough about Sartori to question whether the request was optional. And rarely did he meet on anyone else’s grounds.
Averett parked his car in the empty parking lot in front of the restaurant. It was too early for the lunch crowd.
No witnesses, Averett considered with an gut wrenching twist in the pit of his stomach.
Averett climbed from his car, a leather notebook in his hand, and approached the front door. He reached for the handle and was startled when someone inside pushed the door open for him. A large man in a dark suit filled the doorway. Averett stood and stared at the behemoth of a man, unsure of his next move, waiting for instruction.
“Mr. Sartori is expecting you,” a deep voice sounded from the man’s sullen face.
The man stepped to one side while holding the door to let Averett enter. The man pulled the door shut and Averett could hear the clicking sound of the door’s lock.
“Wait a second,” the big man stepped behind Averett and began to run his hands over the outside of his suit. He took Averett’s leather folder from his hand and inspected it as well. “Back there,” the man gestured toward the back corner of the restaurant and handed the folder back to him.
Averett peered through the dim-lit eating area and could see three people at a back table. Two were sitting and another giant man was standing against the wall; a bookend to the man now following him.
Averett weaved through the tables as he moved closer to the back table. He recognized Jimmy and Sartori sitting at the table. Jimmy stood and smiled at Averett, meeting him a few steps from the table to shake his hand.
“Mr. Sartori appreciates you coming, Mr. Turing,” Jimmy continued to smile and gestured toward a chair opposite Sartori’s seat across the table. Sartori made no effort to stand or greet his guest.
The man following Averett to the table returned to his post near the other man behind Sartori.
“Of course,” Averett nodded toward Sartori then turned back to Jimmy, “and call me Averett, please.”
“Okay, Averett,” Jimmy continued. “Mr. Sartori wanted you here today to talk about a few things that have come up recently.”
Averett sat quiet, unsure whether to direct his attention to Jimmy or Sartori. Moreno Sartori sat quiet, listening to Jimmy explain his position and do his bidding.
“He first wants to thank you for taking care of the situation we had yesterday and going down to police headquarters. You responded quickly and took care of that situation professionally and efficiently. He appreciates that,” Jimmy looked over to his boss and received no negative indication of his explanation so he continued. “Second, he is a little concerned over your daughter going out to the prison to meet with…,” Jimmy looked down at his notes on the pad in front of him, though Averett knew he was just playing a little game with the name, “…here it is, Mr. Foster.”
Jimmy looked up from his notes, a smug grin across his face. Averett felt his face turning red over the mention of his daughter. Sartori had no right to have his crony utter her name. He had no right to even think of his daughter, let alone dictate her actions. Averett fought to let his anger subside before responding.
Averett placed his hands on the table and began to lean in the direction of Sartori. His motion triggered the two statues behind Sartori to step forward toward either side of their boss. Sartori raised a hand to stop their motion and they returned to their positions against the wall. Sartori smiled at Averett and nodded, a motion for Averett to continue with what he was about to say.
Averett gathered his thoughts and sorted through the words he was about to present. His daughter had been a pawn long enough, unbeknownst to her, fortunately.
“Mr. Sartori, my daughter went out there for answers,” Averett paused to arrange his next comments. “She lost her mother. She just wants answers. She didn’t get any and I’ve talked to her. She won’t be returning to talk with Mr. Foster.”
Sartori nodded and Jimmy spoke up, “Mr. Sartori can appreciate what your daughter’s going through, Mr. Turing, I mean, Averett. We just want to make sure you understand the gravity of the situation. We would hate to see anything bad happen to your daughter, Averett.”
Averett’s blood boiled at the veiled threat against his daughter. Lashing out or making unbacked threats toward Sartori would only complicate the situation and possibly endanger Sara.
“It’s under control and won’t happen again,” Averett battled to sound in control.
“That’s good, Averett. Mr. Sartori knew you would understand,” Jimmy commented and reached inside his suit coat and retrieved an envelope. He set the envelope on the table and slid it in Averett’s direction, “For the work you did yesterday. Mr. Sartori appreciates your professional services and is confident this will compensate you for your time.”
Averett’s first reaction was to leave the envelope on the table. Knowing better, he picked up the envelope and slipped it into the inner pocket of his suit coat, “Thank you.”
The same man who escorted him in stepped away from the wall behind Sartori and plodded back to Averett’s side.
“Thanks again, Averett,” Jimmy stood and shook Averett’s hand as both men stood. “We’ll be in touch.”
The big man waited for the pleasantries to end and walked behind Averett to the front door. He stepped to the side of Averett and reached to unlock the door before shoving it open with the flick of his wrist.
Averett stepped back into the heat, a sense of relief washed over him. He returned to his car and tossed his leather binder on the passenger seat. He backed out of th
e parking spot and pulled back onto the street to head back to his office. Coming to a stop in the left turn lane, he was startled to see a man standing on the center median by his car window. The man was holding a sign in front of him, a worn look on his face.
The sign read: “Hungry. Please Help. God Bless.”
Averett rolled down his window and the man stepped forward in anticipation. Averett reached into his suit coat and retrieved the envelope Jimmy had given him and handed the sealed package to the man. The man gave him a curious look and slid his sign under his arm so he could tear open the envelope. The traffic light turned green and Averett pulled away as the man stood in amazement staring at the stack of hundred dollar bills.
22
Ransom and Leesa watched as Foster limped into the interview room. A red cut shone across the side of Foster’s forehead—a matching split on his lip on the same side of his face.
Ransom and Leesa sat quiet and examined Foster’s injuries.
“I fell down the stairs,” Foster began to laugh but his split lip discouraged his humor.
“That must have been quite a fall,” Ransom added.
Foster shrugged off the comment and took a breath, “This is not my strong point, but thanks for what you did for me and Amber.”
“Glad it turned out okay,” Leesa commented.
“How’s your daughter?” Ransom decided to avoid the obvious questions about the damage to Foster’s face.
“She’s not as tough as her old man but she’s smart like her mother was,” Foster grinned. “She’s been smart enough to stay out of trouble, well, for the most part. Being related to me hasn’t helped.”
Foster lowered his voice and his eyes darted toward the guard in the corner and back to Ransom.
“She’s safe,” he whispered. “I sent her out of state to where no one knows her. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Fair enough,” Ransom agreed. “What can you tell us about Gianni? Where did you first meet him?”
Foster kept his voice low and seemed paranoid. Given the current state of his forehead and lip, Ransom couldn’t argue with the concern.
“At Gino’s Bar. You know that little dive downtown on the strip?”
“Yeah, I know the place,” Ransom was familiar with the locals bar; it had been around since the late-60s.
“That’s where he contacted me.”
“Contacted you?” Leesa was curious about the wording of Foster’s description of their first meeting.
“He just came up and offered to buy me a drink. Who am I to offend someone by not taking a free drink?” Foster again struggled with his split lip and grinning. “We had a drink together, and then another, and by about the fourth drink he mentioned my daughter.”
Ransom glanced at Leesa, both confused at the addition of Foster’s daughter into this part of the conversation.
Foster let out a sigh and continued, “My daughter had been shacking up with some knucklehead who didn’t pay his bills.”
The confused look remained on Ransom and Leesa’s faces, still no connection made to Foster’s current incarceration.
“The guy didn’t pay his bookie and tried to make some quick money moving meth. Strike one and strike two. Strike three was when Metro crashed into their place with a warrant and seized a good quantity of meth in their apartment.”
Foster shook his head, the anger revealing itself through a vein in his neck. Ransom and Leesa sat quiet, letting Foster rollout the story as he saw fit. Adhering to a critical component of the commandments of good detective work: don’t interrupt a suspect willing to talk.
“Amber knew better,” Foster continued to shake his head and looked to the floor. Taking another breath, he shared, “He gave her a song and dance about his life being in danger if he didn’t pay off his gambling debt and that the meth was the only way out. Well, she bought it. One warrant later and she was in the Clark County Detention Center waiting for her initial appearance.”
Leesa couldn’t help but ask, “Her boyfriend sounds small-time. Why didn’t he just make his bets at the casino? Why use a bookie?”
Ransom jumped in and answered, “Two reasons. Either he was betting on credit and didn’t have credit with the casino or he wanted the cash to remain under the table and away from the IRS. Or both.”
Foster nodded, “He was betting on credit.”
“So where does Gianni fall into all of this?” Leesa questioned.
Foster leaned forward in his chair, “Gianni said he could get me a good attorney for my daughter. All I had to do was take care of something for him. And he offered me $10,000 if I could do it without stirring up any dust in his employer’s direction.”
The pieces were starting to come together for Ransom. No doubt the gambling debt was owed to Sartori in the first place. Gambling action and laundering money through his restaurant was a common staple of the Las Vegas mob spiderweb.
“How do you think they found you in all of this?” Leesa continued with the questions to fill in the gaps.
“No offense to you two, but these guys really do their homework. They have their fingers in a lot of areas around Vegas, from the courts to the police department, all the way down to the trash collectors. It’s amazing how deep their resources go.”
“If only they used their powers for good instead of evil,” Ransom laughed at his own juvenile comment.
“Exactly,” Foster laughed and winced at the pain.
“Foster,” the guard in the corner barked, “time to wrap it up.”
Foster leaned on the metal table and stood up with an audible grunt. Ransom followed suit and stood with the assistance of the table and his cane.
“Foster?” Ransom got the man’s attention and asked, “Why come clean about all this now?”
Foster hesitated to answer, “My daughter’s safe now. It doesn’t matter what happens to me as long as she’s safe.” He turned to walk away and stopped again, turning his head back toward Ransom, “My daughter’s court case…”
Ransom furrowed his brow and waited for Foster to finish.
“…it was thrown out. She had a great attorney,” Foster raised an eyebrow, the cut above his brow bending to the wrinkle. “His name was Turing.”
23
Jimmy tapped the phone screen and ended the call before setting the phone on the table next to his notepad.
“Walsh and Gardner just left Foster at Southern Desert.”
Sartori nodded, “What did they talk about?”
“He didn’t know. The only thing he could make out was Gino’s and Gianni.”
Sartori sat quiet. Jimmy waited for instructions. He’d been with Sartori long enough to know to be patient with making suggestions. If Sartori remained quiet for at least 30 seconds, Jimmy knew he could prod him along, but not before then.
The quiet slipped into a minute and Jimmy took his cue, “Should we make a visit to Walsh or Gardner?”
Sartori leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips, “Tell Gianni I want to see him.”
24
Ransom and Leesa stepped from the cool air of the reception area to the dry heat of the parking lot. The black asphalt pulled at the soles of their shoes, the heat resonating from the dark surface, as they made a beeline for Leesa’s car. The rubber tip of Ransom’s cane made a popping sound against the tar with each accompanying step of his left leg.
Leesa got to the car and started the engine with Ransom climbing in the passenger side a couple seconds behind her. The initial blast of air from the vents was replaced by a teasing coolness. Leesa put the car in gear and pulled from the parking spot.
“Turing,” she muttered.
“Why didn’t I make the connection sooner?” Ransom kicked himself about Foster’s case from years ago.
“Did you know about Foster’s daughter?”
“No. Not until the other day when he mentioned her. That would have been useful at the time,” Ransom shook his head in frustration.
“Amber Blankenship.
Her last name doesn’t even rhyme with Foster,” Leesa tried to lighten the load.
“Every road keeps leading back to Turing.”
“Do you want to see him on his turf or ours?”
“His. It may put him a little more at ease.”
Leesa nodded in agreement and Ransom pulled his phone from his pocket. He searched for “Turing Law Office” and dialed the number that popped up, “Hello, I need to make an appointment with Mr. Turing…what’s this about? It’s about an old case he was handling…sure, I’ll wait…”
25
Gianni walked toward the table where Sartori and Jimmy were sitting, with Boots following close behind. The restaurant was empty of guests, the dinner crowd gone. Gianni reached the table and Boots returned to his spot on the wall behind Sartori and his partner.
Jimmy stood to greet Gianni and stretched out his hand toward the man for a handshake. Gianni was dressed in a dark blue suit. His top button was undone and void of a tie. His two day growth of dark stubble clung to his face in contrast to his well-kept black hair. The dim lights of the restaurant cast a shiny glow off the top of the hair product holding the strands in place. The only contrast to his dark hair were two lines of white in his beard near either corner of his mouth extending down his chin.
“Mr. Sartori,” Gianni nodded at his Boss.
“Gianni,” Sartori nodded back, “sit, sit.”
Gianni took a seat across the table from Sartori. The ever-present statues were posted up against the wall behind Sartori.