I tensed. Jesus H. Christ, these guys know who I am.
“Who’s O’Brien?” I tossed out the question like I was asking a stranger for the time of day.
“Knock it off, asshole. We know all about you,” Willie said.
“Yeah, the boss’s been waiting for you to show,” Elvis added.
I walked back toward the office, the two guys crowding each side of me. The door wasn’t locked. I opened it and went in.
“You like wandering in my yard, O’Brien? Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong? Keep it up, shyster, and you’ll find out who you’re messing with.” Karadimos was about the size of Rhode Island, but not nearly as pretty. He stood behind the desk panting like a rabid hyena. Someone had turned on the air conditioner jammed into one of the windows, and it pumped full blast. The room was cold, yet Karadimos’s face glistened with a sheen of moisture.
“I need information about Senator Welch,” I said.
Karadimos charged around the desk and stopped when he was close enough for me to feel his hot breath on my face. He moved fast for a man his size. “You stay away from him! I got money in his campaign and I don’t want you messing around.”
“I have to talk to him, that’s all. He might know something about the Graham murder.”
“Listen, punk, I don’t want you screwing around with any of my politicians. I bought ’em, I own ’em, and I intend to keep ’em in office where they can do me some good. You hear me?” Karadimos jabbed his finger in my face. “It’s a disgrace what people like you will do to tarnish the reputation of our public servants.”
I didn’t say anything. Karadimos returned to his desk and snatched a Kleenex from a dispenser. He mopped his forehead and threw the tissue on the floor.
“Come here.” He pointed his finger at a spot on the desk. “I want to show you something.”
I took a step forward and looked down at what he pointed at: a tiny fruit fly, probably from all the rotten cantaloupes outside. “Yeah, what about it?”
The insect moved slowly across the surface of Karadimos’s desk. He peered down at it. “The fruit fly has a life expectancy of three days,” he said.
“So?”
Karadimos took his thumb and ground it out in an exaggerated fashion. “This one didn’t make it.” He looked up at me. “Get my drift?”
C H A P T E R 13
After leaving Cudahy I felt drained. I wanted to get home fast to shower and scrub the scent of the meeting off me. It wasn’t the odor of the trash yard that bothered me; I needed to purge the stench of Karadimos and all that he stood for.
I opened the door to my apartment and heard the phone. Running to the kitchen, I caught it on the fifth ring.
“Ah, Jimmy my boy.” It felt good to hear Sol’s friendly voice. “I knew I’d catch you at home. A single guy like you should be out and about, having a little fun on a Friday night, prowling those discotheque joints, maybe.”
“Nah, I don’t get out much anymore,” I said, while rummaging through a counter drawer with my free hand.
“Why not call that good-looking D.A. you’ve been seen breaking bread with? I hear she’s between guys. Chewed up the last one and spit him out.”
“Are you kidding me?” I found a leftover chocolate donut in the drawer next to a pair of pliers and took a bite.
“She’s the prosecutor on the Rodriguez case. It would be unprofessional,” I said while munching on the dry but tasty donut.
“I’ll have her home number for you by Monday,” Sol said, laughing.
“Aw, Sol, you’re something else.” The fantasy of a date with Bobbi flashed through my mind, a pleasant fantasy.
“Hey, Joyce phoned me at the track. Told me about the tail, guy in a blue Buick. She said she gave you the plate I.D. What’s up?”
I told him about the car tailing me for the last couple of days, and my hunch that Karadimos had something to do with it.
“Andreas Karadimos, the garbage guy?” Sol asked.
“Yeah, but there’s more. I went to see him…” I recounted my meeting with Karadimos. I didn’t tell Sol how stupid I’d been for breaking into the office, but I told him that I felt I was being threatened.
“I know Karadimos,” Sol said. “He’s a bad actor. Has a lot of gelt, but dirty hands. And not just from handling garbage, if you get my meaning.”
“I’d like to know about his connection to Welch.”
“Listen to me, Jimmy. Karadimos is dangerous. If you’re going to butt into his affairs, you’d better get some protection.”
Sol was dead serious and it wasn’t like him to exhibit anxiety. I couldn’t think of a time when I heard him speak with an edge in his voice like this-unless, of course, he was talking about the IRS. “How serious is he about his threats? Does he follow through?” I asked.
“That yentzer is very serious. I’ve heard stories. Step lightly and watch your ass with this guy, Jimmy.”
“I’ve got the preliminary hearing coming up in a week. I can’t let that son-of-a-bitch slow me down.”
“Boychik, he won’t just slow you down; if you’re not careful, he could stop you in your tracks-dead.”
The dry donut felt like lead in my stomach. “Karadimos is that bad, huh?”
“I gotta be straight with you. He’s as bad as they get-wait a minute! I just had an idea. Yeah, it might work.” Sol paused for a moment. “Don’t let that fat-ass Greek worry you, Jimmy. It’ll be okay.” His voice held a hint of his usual confidence.
“Sol, what are you saying? Don’t let him worry me? My God, you just said he’s as bad as they come.”
“Jimmy, my boy, keep cool. I’ve got something in mind, but I’ve got to make a few phone calls. Anyway, here’s why I called you tonight: I want you to get down here tomorrow to meet a guy, a politico, a pro. He could shed some light on Welch and his campaign. You’ll have some fun too. Clear your mind for a day.”
“Joyce said you’re at the Del Mar race track.”
“You got it. I’m staying at the La Costa Resort. Meet me at ten-thirty in the hotel lobby. We’ll take the limo to the oval from there,” he said.
I sighed. Maybe Sol was right. A day off couldn’t hurt. “I’ll see you there.”
“And, Jimmy, one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Until I work out my plan, lock your door.”
C H A P T E R 14
Saturday morning, I jumped on the I-5 freeway at Lakewood and shot south. The speedometer needle swung through its arch, hovered at seventy for a while, then edged upward past eighty, fluttered, and settled in at eighty-five. I popped a Beatles tape into my eight-track, the “White Album.” “Back in the U.S.S.R.” and “Rocky Raccoon.” I beat my hand on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the music.
The Corvette screamed past the San Clemente turn-off, past the Western White House, and continued along the coast. Then at Oceanside, I rewound the tape and started it again. It was good.
I parked my Corvette in the lot at La Costa, walked past Sol’s limo sitting under the archway in front, and entered the hotel. Sol reclined in one of the club chairs clustered around the lobby, studying The Daily Racing Form.
“Jimmy, my boy, shalom.” Sol stood to greet me. He wore a lightweight white summer suit, a pink shirt with a blue collar, and a cream-colored tie. The suit coat fit in the shoulders, but I doubted he could button it.
“Thanks Sol, great view.” The lobby overlooked the resort’s Olympic-sized pool. He turned and glanced out the wall of windows. “Yeah, I think a-wow! Check that out. Is that bikini legal? Holy Christ!” The girl made Raquel Welch look like a boy.
Without turning back to me, Sol continued: “I’m glad you could get down here today, Jimmy…” He paused until the geezer with his arm wrapped around the young beauty’s bare waist walked out of our view. Then he pulled a paper scrap from his pocket. “Philip Rhodes is the guy who’s going to join us later at the track. He’s a political consultant, works with the Democrats. I d
on’t know him. But I’m told he’s sharp as they come. His public relations firm handled Cranston’s senatorial campaign. And get this: he’ll be handling Welch’s 1974 campaign.”
“He must know about the fundraiser last week,” I said.
“Sure. But I don’t know how much he’ll tell you about the Senator. Not in his best interests to rat him out, you know.” Sol stood. “But hey, let’s go. Time to head to the oval.”
“How’d you get the guy to come down here, anyway?” I asked as we strolled outside to the waiting limo.
“I called Chuck Manatt, the Democratic Party state chairman. He owed me a favor. And when Manatt tells a politico in his party to do something, they do it. Plus these guys are shnorrers, always looking for a hand-out for their clients.”
As we approached the limo, the chauffeur opened the rear doors. We climbed into the backseat. The limousine pulled slowly away from the hotel. A small refrigerator stood nestled between the black leather seats. Sol removed a bottle of chilled Champagne and opened it with a festive pop. He grabbed a flute glass from another hidden compartment and filled it half full.
“Too bad you quit drinking, Jimmy. This is supposed to be good stuff. Never had it before.” He examined the label. “Krug, Rheims, 1962. Sounds okay.” he said. “Bought ten cases. A guy I know from the track needed some cash in a hurry.”
“He bet his money on de bobtail nag?”
“He should’ve bet on de bay.”
“Doo-dah.”
“Oh! De doo-dah day.” We laughed.
Just south of Batiquitos Lagoon, we turned left onto the I-5 from La Costa Ave. and continued on toward Del Mar.
“Yesterday, you said you might have a plan to keep Karadimos off my back while I check out Welch,” I said as Sol took a sip of the champagne. “Said you were going to make some phone calls.”
“Hmm, not too shabby.” He raised his glass up to the light streaming in from the window, examining the pale liquid as if he were Pierre Cartier appraising a diamond.
“Hey, look at the little bubbles.”
“Sol, the plan?”
“Yeah, the plan.” He took another sip. “I left a few calls, need to talk to some people I know. They’ll get back to me,” he said, still studying the glass. “In the meantime, be careful and remember, your phones are probably tapped. Is the Buick still shadowing you?”
“No, I haven’t seen it since the meeting.”
“That means they’re not being obvious, but they’re still watching you.”
“Why would Karadimos hassle me?” I asked. “It’s just a political campaign, for chrissakes.”
“Karadimos does a lot of business with the government, legit and otherwise. He plows a lot of cash into certain campaigns and not all of the money is spent on the election.”
“What happens to the money that’s not spent?”
Sol took another sip. “You know, this stuff’s not half bad.”
“What about the money?”
“I didn’t pay that much-”
“Not the Champagne, Sol. The political contributions.”
“Oh yeah. The candidates keep it, of course,” he said.
“They keep it? Then what’s the difference between a bribe and a contribution?”
“I’m afraid, not much. The leftover money isn’t supposed to be touched until the candidate retires from office.” Sol held his arms out. “But do they check?”
“So let me get this straight. Karadimos is giving money to political campaigns, buying influence. Nothing illegal there. Lots of people do that. But with Welch, he gives a lot more. Makes me think he’s involved with the Senator in something deeper.”
“People have disappeared trying to investigate Karadimos’s business. And I mean his legitimate businesses. Jimmy, if you started messing with his illegal stuff…” Sol’s voice trailed off. He took another sip of the Champagne and then said, “Let’s just say Karadimos might get a little irked.”
C H A P T E R 15
We exited the I-5 at Del Mar and swept into the valet parking at the racetrack. A deep blue sky arched above and a refreshing breeze blew in from the nearby ocean. No smog, gorgeous weather, with the temperature in the low seventies; perfect. The weather had to be perfect; this heavy-moneyed crowd wearing outfits that cost more than my car wouldn’t have it any other way.
Sol scattered cash, giving money to the parking attendants, and to a guy at the security checkpoint who said, “Good morning” in a pleasant sort of way as he stamped our hands. I also saw the folded $50 bill he slipped to Goldie, the maitre d’ of the Terrace Garden, as he escorted us to a table with a direct view of the finish line.
Goldie wore a dark suit, white shirt, and knit tie. His coal-black hair formed a widow’s peak low on his forehead and was plastered down and swept straight back. All the hair needed was a blaze of gray streaking through it and he would be perfect to play Count Dracula in a B-flick made by Ed Wood. When he smiled-which was probably often with people handing him money all day-his front tooth, the gold one, glittered.
Goldie departed and was replaced by our waiter. Sol ordered a Beefeaters and tonic, I ordered black coffee. Within minutes, a tall, well-built guy with a deep tan approached our table. “Hey Sol, whaddya say?”
“Vince, good to see you. Sit. Got any word on the next race?”
“Nope. Maxie the tout isn’t around, but I’m gonna go with the four horse.” Vince held up the Racing Form. “I handicapped it myself.”
“Oh, I see.” Sol said, and sighed.
“What? You don’t think I have a chance?”
Sol ignored the question. “Vince, I want you to meet Jimmy O’Brien.” Sol turned to me. “Jimmy, say hello to Vincent James. Used to play Dr. Riley on TV, remember?”
Vince had dark brooding eyes, was impeccably dressed, and it looked like he retained a very expensive barber.
“Yeah, sure. How you doing?” I asked.
He gave me a passing glance and then put his binoculars up to his eyes, aimed at the tote board in the infield. He leaned closer to Sol without lowering the glasses. “I have a message for you,” he said quietly.
“Oh yeah, what?”
“I went to a party last night, mutual friend’s house.”
Vince set the binoculars on the table and took a fast look around. “The man said you were trying to reach him.”
“You were at Sica’s house?” Sol asked.
“Yeah, not so loud, Sol, Christ. Anyway, I hung around a while. He likes me to show up at his parties. I guess I’m kind of a decoration.” He lowered his head for an instant, and then brought it up. “What the hell, he helps me out from time to time.”
“Sure,” Sol said. “He figures celebrities like you add a lot of class. Which you do.”
“Thanks. Anyway, he said for you to call him.” Vince slid a scrap of paper across the table. “He’ll be at this number at one-thirty today. Said not to call from the track. Use an outside payphone.”
Sol picked up the paper and put it in his jacket pocket. It was ten minutes to post time and the horses were on the track.
Vince headed for the pari-mutuel windows to place his bet. I noticed that Sol’s Racing Form remained unopened on the table.
“You’re not going to handicap the race?” I asked.
“Nope, not betting this race or the daily double.” Sol sipped his gin and tonic. “We got a system working, my boy.” He glanced from side to side and leaned forward. “You’re going to make some money today. But we can’t let anybody in on it,” he whispered.
“System? What kind of system? Don’t they have a saying about gamblers with systems?”
“That they do, but this one works. It’ll only be for one race, later in the day, but we’ll clean up.” Sol’s eyes sparkled and he gave me a mischievous grin. “How much money did you bring?”
“Only a couple of hundred, but it’s all I got and it’s gotta last.”
“Don’t worry about it; this is money in the bank.”
“How does it work?”
“Not now, Rhodes is going to show up any minute. But I’m going to need your help to pull it off.”
“Sure, Sol,” I said, but I worried about betting the last of my money on a sure thing.
Vince returned a moment later with a stack of parimutuel tickets about an inch thick. “I bet five large. Ran into the Arab downstairs, lent me the money.” He glanced at a nearby table. “But I have to sit with him and his friends. See you around, Sol.”
“What’s the story with Vince,” I asked, after he left again. “He’s not a bad guy.” Sol shook his head. “Used to be on top of the world. But unfortunately, he got the gambling bug and now owes his soul to the mob. They take all his TV residuals, leave him enough to live on, but he has to borrow money to gamble. Don’t loan him a dime, Jimmy. He’ll never pay it back.”
“He gave you a message, something about a guy named Sica. What’s that about?”
“Later, this is probably Rhodes coming.” Sol nodded toward the aisle behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder. A tall man about forty, wearing a business suit and spit-shined, wingtip shoes strode confidently toward our table with Goldie at his side.
“Excuse me, are you Mr. Silverman?”
“You’re Philip Rhodes?”
“Yes. But please, call me Phil.”
Sol offered him chair and he sat down. He ordered a single malt Scotch on the rocks, and after a few minutes of chatter, we got down to business.
“So, I understand you handled Senator Cranston’s winning bid for the senate seat,” I said.
“Yes, and we’ll be managing the governor campaign for the Welch organization. Some powerful people want us on the team.” He paused for a few seconds when the waiter brought his drink. “It’s still very hush-hush. We haven’t announced it yet. We won’t let it be known until after he wins re-election to the state senate.”
“We won’t say anything,” Sol said.
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