Guilty or Else jo-1

by Jeff Sherratt

  I moved to the door and put my hand on the knob. Turning back, I looked at Welch and French. “I know about the cantaloupes,” I said and left the office.

  C H A P T E R 39

  “Mack the Knife” reverberated from the bar as I walked back into the dining room. The crowd was whooping it up for all they were worth. I found a spot where I could see the kitchen passage, and waited. Waiters scurried in and out, and after a long while-at least it seemed like a long while-French and Welch emerged.

  They brushed by me without looking and joined the group in the main dining room. I glanced around. The coast was clear. I raced into the kitchen and maneuvered around the prep counters, chefs and busboys nearly slipping on the tile floor, then darted though the double doors, heading back toward the office.

  When I reached for the knob, I paused. I hadn’t planned to leave my briefcase with the recorder running in the office after I left. I told myself I didn’t actually mean to eavesdrop on Welch and his lawyer. But I knew better. And I’d have been a fool not to take the opportunity when it popped up.

  The remark about cantaloupes came to me in a flash imports from Mexico. If the produce business was on the up and up, Welch and French would pass the remark off as a non-sequitur. But if they responded to it, I’d know for sure that they were partners, engaged in some sort of illegal activity.

  I opened the door and dashed into the office. Grabbing my briefcase, I darted through the kitchen again. I just wanted to get out of the restaurant-fast. Go somewhere and listen to the tape. I headed toward the front and pushed my way through the crowd. When I got closer to the main room, I saw Karadimos shoving guests aside as he elbowed toward me.

  Our eyes locked. I saw his fury and knew he must have figured something wasn’t right. He charged at me like a raging bull, bellowing; even his nostrils flared.

  A shout from the crowd rose above the clamor, “Andy, wait!”

  Karadimos jerked his head to the side and I followed his gaze. French shook his hand slightly, and nodded toward the small group with a TV camera in a circle of lights gathered around Mayor Sam Yorty. Karadimos would draw unwanted attention if he kept coming at me.

  He stopped. Looking around, he snapped his fingers at a couple of heavyweights leaning against the wall by the entrance. He pointed at me, and then made furious jabbing motions with his finger toward the front door. The hoods came alive like puppets on a string. They sprinted past the maitre d’s station and pushed their way outside.

  I backed up a few feet, turned, picked up my pace, and retraced my steps through the kitchen, running for the rear. The back door opened onto an alley littered with trash containers and empty boxes. I shot around the corner of the restaurant and entered the parking lot. My Corvette was parked close to the front near Beverly Boulevard.

  One of the parking guys ran toward me. “Hold it. What are you doing back there?”

  I pulled the car keys from my pocket, holding them in the air. “Going to my car.” I pointed to my Corvette. “I came out through the back door.” I kept moving. The valet turned and walked back toward the front of the lot.

  Karadimos’s men loitered on the sidewalk by the street. I spotted them and they spotted me. I made a dash for my car. I got there fast, but too late.

  One of the thugs grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. He came back with his right hand and took a roundhouse swing at me, but I blocked it with my forearm.

  The other guy tugged madly at the briefcase. I held on, jerked it free, and took a swipe at his head with it. I missed.

  Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a fist coming at me, heavy and fast, like a freight train. I whipped my head back. The punch grazed my jaw.

  All the color drained out of the night and the darkness turned white. I staggered, but I hung on to the briefcase when the other guy grabbed it again. Suddenly, I heard loud yells coming from everywhere. The noise reverberated in my head like shouts in a tunnel.

  “Watch out!”

  “Jesus! Crazy bastard-”

  “He ain’t slowing down.”

  “Get outta the way!”

  The tugging on my briefcase eased. I didn’t know how I was able to hang on to it, but I did. I shook my head. My vision cleared enough to see Big Jake’s Cadillac bounce over the curb, hurtle toward us, and screech to a stop right in front of Karadimos’s men.

  Before the thugs realized what was happening, Jake bolted from the Caddie. With his left hand, he grabbed the briefcase guy and flung him into a parked Bentley. The guy struck it hard and stayed down. Jake’s right hand was a steel fist that exploded violently into the other goon’s nose. It burst like an overripe tomato and blood pulsed out in a sickening stream. The guy dropped. He was down for the count.

  Jake turned and ran back to his car. “Get outta here, O’Brien, ’fore the cops come.”

  A crowd started to form. But they scattered when Big Jake stomped on the gas, screaming backward, without looking, at about ninety miles an hour right out of the lot and onto the boulevard. He whipped the car around, made a skidding U turn, and disappeared down the street. The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds.

  I pulled my Corvette onto Beverly, turned right, and headed west. In my rearview mirror, I saw two squad cars, red lights flashing, swerve into Chasen’s parking lot. I glanced at the briefcase resting on the passenger seat, and my jaw didn’t hurt so much anymore.

  C H A P T E R 40

  At Sunset Boulevard, I turned left and drove west to PCH. I followed the coastline north and cruised past the Palisades, then Malibu, and soon I was beyond Point Mugu.

  A jade green florescence shimmered on the breakers as they rolled onto the shore fifty feet to my left.

  I merged onto US 101 and drove until I came to California Street in Ventura. I exited and stopped at the first motel I saw. After checking in, I dead-bolted the door. I had to get away and wanted to go away from Downey. I figured someone at Chasen’s might have gotten my license number, and I didn’t want the police pounding on my door.

  I wanted time to analyze the tape and plan my next move. The motel was typical for a beach town: a dozen or so tiny cottages, built in the 1940s, surrounding a gravel parking lot. The neon sign in front by the office flickered and buzzed like fireflies gone mad. Each cottage had a double bed with a single thin blanket, a lamp with a forty-watt bulb that barely cast enough light to read by, and a black and white TV resting on a veneer-covered plywood dresser. The room was perfect.

  I set my briefcase on the bed, sat down, and removed the recorder, anxious as I rewound the cassette. I hit the play button and skimmed the first part, where I was in the room. At the point where I made the remark about the cantaloupes, I hit stop. I stood, walked around the room, went into the bathroom, and splashed water on my face. Why was I stalling? I told myself to get in there and turn it on. I took a deep breath, sat down, and pushed the play button again.

  I listened to ten or fifteen seconds of silence. Then Welch’s voice erupted, “What does he know?”

  “Nothing, he’s fishing, that’s all.”

  I’d been holding my breath, and when I heard what Welch and French said, I exhaled. Goddamn, I knew it. I stood, flexed my hands, and paced as I listened to the rest.

  “What do you mean, fishing? Did you hear him, the cantaloupes? He’s not fishing; he’s off the boat and on the shore. I’m telling you he knows what’s going on, and I don’t like it-”

  “Calm down, Berry. Karadimos has everything under control, but what was he talking about when he said something about a letter to the girl?”

  “Who knows? I don’t give a shit about that. But, damn it, I’m concerned. Listen, French, you’re in this too. I thought you guys were gonna get rid of him.”

  “Look, it isn’t that easy. We’ve tried. He’s got help from Sica’s gang.”

  “Can’t you blow up his car or something? Jesus Christ Almighty!”

  “Berry, we don’t want any more bodies lying around. We’re in enough
trouble with Graham’s murder. We’ve got to snatch O’Brien and get rid of him in Mexico. Turn him over to our partners down there. Nobody will know what happened to him and I doubt that anyone will care.”

  Thanks a lot, French, I thought. We’ll see who cares about you when all this comes out.

  “What about that other guy? What’s his name, the pilot?”

  “Kruger. We’re looking for him now. He won’t be back.”

  “He knows all about it. He helped set it up. Are you guys sure you’re going to find him? I’m worried as hell.”

  “Come on, Senator, get out and do your thing. There are important people here tonight. Karadimos is counting on you to stay in office, so you can win the big one down the road.”

  “I want out. You guys can keep the money. I’m going to be the fucking governor of California in two years for Christ’s sake. You listen to me-I want out now!”

  “It’s not healthy to talk like that, Welch. How do you think you got here?”

  “Did I hear what I think I heard? Are you threatening me?”

  “No. No, of course not. It’s our partners south of the border. They’re pressing us, but we have to keep things closed down until it blows over. So let’s not say anything about quitting right now.”

  “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  The tape continued. I heard the office door open, slam shut then nothing. I snapped off the recorder and stared at the machine for a long time. Now I knew for sure what I only suspected before. Karadimos was importing drugs, and French and Welch were in it with him.

  I quit pacing and sat on the edge of the bed. A minute later, I heard a noise outside. My heart thumped. I darted to the window, pulled back the skimpy curtain, and peeked out.

  It was nothing, some guy and his frumpy wife banging their luggage as they checked into the cottage next door.

  I thought about French and Welch and the image they projected. Concerned citizens, stalwarts of the community. I shook my head. Thomas French, the Boy Scout, the winner of the good citizen award, the speaker at Downey High’s commencement last June. Excerpts had been reprinted in the Downey Enterprise. The title: ‘The Challenges Facing Youth in Today’s Changing World.’

  Next year, he could update it a bit. ‘The Challenges Facing Youth in Blowing up a Car.’

  It would get more than a write-up in the Enterprise, might even make the Times. I was sure it would. I listened to the tape again and realized just how hot it was. I could get burned just touching it. It’d blow everything wide open.

  But if I turned the tape over to the court, I’d lose my license when they found out what I’d done. Was I willing to sacrifice my career, and possibly go to jail, to save Rodriguez? That’s a question they didn’t answer in law school.

  C H A P T E R 41

  Sitting in the motel room, I heard the ocean waves pound the shore as I played and replayed the tape. I listened carefully to the words, the hidden meanings and inflections.

  I’d hear something, stop, rewind the tape, and play it again. I listened to the words that weren’t there and tried to connect the dots. The most incriminating thing on the tape was the part about blowing up my car.

  My wild remarks about Karadimos and the cantaloupes had paid off. Welch had become rattled and started spilling his guts. French mentioned that Karadimos had “partners in Mexico.” I drew the only possible conclusion: his drug smuggling operation was based somewhere south of the border. The fact he was involved with drugs would explain the mob war and the money. I tried to figure out what French would say if the conversation ever became public. How could he and Welch explain it?

  I knew the tape-even illegally recorded-would ruin Welch’s political career. But there was nothing on the tape to prove that Rodriguez was innocent. If even a modicum of evidence appeared on the tape hinting at his innocence, then a copy would already be on the L.A. Times editor’s desk. I’d lose my license but my client would go free. As determined as I was to see Welch and his cronies face a court of law, I didn’t think I could destroy my career to ruin Welch.

  No; my obligation was to Rodriguez, and I wasn’t a crusader. I dismissed the thought of sending the tape anonymously to the Times or the police. Too many people would know where it had come from: Phil Rhodes set up the meeting, the staff at Chasen’s saw me with a briefcase, and even Rita knew. I wouldn’t allow her to commit perjury if it came to that.

  The sun was rising by the time I dropped on the bed and plunged into an exhausted sleep.

  I woke up a couple hours later and for an instant, didn’t remember where I was. I jerked up and wiped the sleep from my eyes. The cassette recorder sat on the bed next to me.

  My face hurt and I was a mess, wrinkled and disheveled from sleeping in my clothes. I hadn’t planned on being away from home and didn’t pack anything; no toothbrush, razor, not even a comb. I glanced around the room, saw the phone, and lunged for the receiver. Dead, no dial tone. What the hell was this place, the Bates Motel?

  Using the bathroom, I threw water on my face, tried to comb my hair with my fingers, and slowly rubbed my sore jaw. A bruise had formed. I thought it fit in with the rest of my look.

  Leaving the motel room, I started walking, going nowhere really, just walking and thinking. I wanted to turn the tape over to the D.A.’s office immediately. I wanted to see Welch and French rot behind bars, but my mind told me hold off. The tape had been illegally obtained; I’d be charged with a crime and might even go to jail if it came out. I’d have to find another way.

  A marine layer, low clouds and fog had rolled in from the ocean, and the sky was overcast and gloomy. I walked slowly past shops lining California Street, typical for a beach resort: a surfboard store, and a place selling souvenirs, stuff to send to your Aunt Tillie back home in Grundy Center, Iowa. She’d love a printed T-shirt, a mug; I heart Ventura, or some such bullshit on it.

  I walked all the way to the ocean; the tide was out along the wide beach. At the waterline, I took off my shoes and waded in the cold water rippling at the edge of the hard wet sand.

  I figured Karadimos knew about the tape by now. He’s smart, and his instinct would have told him something was up. The way I clutched the briefcase when his goons attacked me would’ve clued him in about the recording-he would’ve questioned French and Welch thoroughly-but he wouldn’t tell anyone, that’s for sure. I turned and headed back to the motel, the Cozy Corner. I had only one chance-find Kruger before Karadimos found him.

  I checked out of the room, shoved the recorder into my briefcase, and stashed it behind the driver’s seat of my car. I drove to a nearby Denny’s coffee shop, wondering whether the police had hit my apartment last night. I’d ask Sol to check his sources and see if there were any warrants out on me because of the fight.

  After ordering coffee and eggs, I called Sol at his home from the payphone, but he wasn’t there. He wasn’t at his office either. I left a message, and then called Rocco’s. They hadn’t seen him since lunch Friday. I called Joyce back, told her to try Sol’s mobile car phone. No luck.

  “It’s urgent, Joyce,” I said. “Keep trying.”

  “Sure, Jimmy. I’ll stay on it. Where will you be if I reach him?”

  “I’m laying low. Cops might be looking for me. But I’ll check back.”

  I went back to my table and the waitress appeared with my breakfast. She also handed me a copy of the Times a customer had left. I glanced at the paper while I ate and found a small article buried deep inside the middle section, near the obituaries: Drunken Brawl in Parking Lot at Gala Fundraiser.

  The article went on to say, “Two unidentified men were taken into custody Saturday night after a brawl erupted in the parking lot of Chasen’s restaurant. The posh Beverly Hills eatery was holding a private fundraiser hosted by the Re-elect Welch Committee. According to Philip Rhodes, the event chairman, the incident in the parking lot was not related to the affair going on inside at the time. The two men involved were released and no charges were filed.
”

  The article gave me some comfort. I didn’t have to worry about the police, so I drove back to my apartment.

  On the way, I constantly checked my rearview mirror. If Karadimos’s thugs had followed me last night, I’d be dead meat. I didn’t see them now either, but they could be out there just the same.

  I thought about Karadimos’s two goons and the battle in Chasen’s parking lot. The image of Jake’s Cadillac bouncing over the curb and charging in like the Seventh Calvary made me chuckle. I thought, what the hell, maybe it didn’t hurt having him on my side. And when I parked in front of my apartment building, I felt doubly glad to see him sitting in the Caddie across the street, giving me a thumbs-up.

  Upstairs, I bolted the door, stashed the tape recorder in my closet, and spent the rest of the day calling around trying to find Sol. Nobody had seen him.

  I fell asleep before dark, rolled over twenty-four hours later, made some kind of weird noise and fell back to sleep again.

  C H A P T E R 42

  Monday morning; how in hell had that happened? Was I asleep or unconscious? Must’ve needed it. A ringing phone would have woken me up. That meant I still hadn’t heard from Sol. I cleaned up, grabbed the tape recorder and drove to his office. I wanted to find him and go over the tape. Joyce met me in the lobby again.

  “Jimmy,” she said. “I know you’re worried, but sometimes Sol has to get away and relax, escape the pressure of running such a large concern. He’s done this before. He’ll turn up. He’s never gone for more than a few days.”

  Christ almighty, this is not the time for him to run away and relax. “He would’ve called, left a message, something.”

  Joyce just looked at me for a moment before she spoke. “You know Sol. Expect the unexpected.” She smiled.

  I couldn’t wait around any longer. I had to do something. I called Rita at the office and told her I’d be tied up for a while. She reminded me about the motion to exclude the jailhouse witness. I was supposed to work on it over the weekend. I hadn’t, of course. To my surprise, she’d already typed it up on pleading paper and filed it with the court.