Guilty or Else jo-1

by Jeff Sherratt

  “A Coke, for me. Fix yourself anything you want. We’ll have our drinks in the other room.”

  Candi stood. The spaghetti straps held. Amazing.

  We moved into the living room, and she fixed the drinks at the bar. I took the Coke from her. She set her glass on the table and moved to the stereo.

  “Jeez, they must have a bazillion tapes here. I’ll put on something romantic.” A moment or two passed. Sinatra’s voice warbled from the stereo speakers. She turned back to me. “All you guys like Frank Sinatra.”

  I let the you guys remark pass. “Candi, sit down for a minute. We have to talk.”

  She picked up her drink, took a hard pull, and eased over to the couch. A lot of thigh showed when she sat and crossed her legs again. “You don’t like me?”

  “I don’t know you, but you’re very attractive.”

  “Nancy with the Laughing Face” filled the room. Candi could stay and have a drink, but after one more song, she’d have to leave.

  “You don’t like what I do for a living?”

  “I don’t care what you do,” I said. “But I care what I do.”

  The phone rang. I took a sip of my Coke and answered it.

  “Jimmy, they told me you checked in.”

  “Hang on, Sol. I’ll take the call in the other room.” I put him on hold, moved to one of the bedrooms and shut the door behind me. I grabbed the phone next to the bed and punched the blinking button. “Sol, what about Kruger?”

  “Clean up and change, we’ll talk in the bar. I’ll meet you in the Casbar Lounge in twenty minutes.”

  “Did they snatch him yet?”

  “It’s a long story. I’ll explain when I see you downstairs.”

  “Okay, but I’d like you to listen to the tape. I want you to tell me what you think. Later, when the cop comes on duty, we can play a portion for him over the phone. Maybe he’ll recognize Welch’s voice.”

  “Sounds good. But, Jimmy, I don’t want to use the hotel phones for that. Don’t want to go through the switchboard. Know what I mean? Bring the tape with you to the bar. We’ll find a payphone.”

  “See you in twenty minutes.”

  I walked back into the living room. Candi was still there, sitting on the couch, sipping her drink. “Thanks for stopping by, Candi. It’s been fun,” I said.

  She stood. “Maybe I could come back later? There’s a hot tub here in the suite, we could light some candles, sip some Champagne.”

  “Tempting, but no thanks.”

  She tossed back the remainder of her drink. Her hips did a little rumba as she strolled toward the door. She stopped about halfway, turned her head, and peered at me over her shoulder. “I guess I won’t see you again.”

  “We’ll always have Paris.”

  She left the room. The lock clicked as the door swung closed after her.

  I thought about Candi as I showered. Did all high rollers-and friends of high rollers-find a cold bottle of Champagne and a hot blonde in their rooms after they checked in? I dressed, grabbed my duffel bag, and left the suite.

  So this is what it’s like to be rich, I thought, as the VIP elevator descended: first-class service, and everybody addressing me by my name. Obviously, they knew Sol. He’s a true high roller; but how’d they know my name? They must have one hell of a system.

  At the Casbar Lounge, I stood behind a horde of people clamoring to get in. Hands from the crowd waved twenty dollar bills. The Asian maitre d’ and a few of his assistants held their ground, like sentries at the palace gate, staving off the barbarians while the royalty dined sumptuously inside the walls. The maitre d’ charged through the crowd, grabbed my arm, and propelled me toward the entrance.

  “Mr. Silverman is waiting,” he screamed.

  Waiters zipped around the barroom with drinks and plates of mouth-watering appetizers balanced on their arms. It was exciting. Bursts of laughter and jubilant conversation all but drowned out the jazz combo in the background.

  Sol, a napkin dangling from his neck, sat behind a table heaped with a potentate’s assortment of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. He stood to greet me with a baby back rib in one hand and a tall multi-colored drink in the other.

  “Jimmy, my boy. Sit and enjoy.”

  “What about Kruger?” I asked.

  “He didn’t show at his bartending job, called in sick. Might have to stick another night. Sica’s boys will grab him the minute he arrives.”

  “Oh, Christ. Are you sure he’ll show up?”

  “He’ll show. Quit worrying.”

  “Can’t they pick him up at his apartment?”

  “He gave a phony address on his job app. Nobody knows where he lives. I got my guys trying to find his place. But there are no listings anywhere for the guy, utilities, phone, nothing in either name, Fischer or Kruger. We’ll have to cool our heels for a while.”

  “In the meantime,” I said, “let’s go someplace quiet where you can listen to the tape.”

  “Sure, as soon as I finish my drink.”

  “Mitch, he’s the cop I told you about, might recognize Welch’s voice.” I looked at my watch: ten to seven. “We can call him as soon as he gets to work, the graveyard shift.”

  “Then we have plenty of time.” Sol finished his drink and ordered another one.

  A tall middle-aged man in an expensive suit walked up to our table, leaned down and whispered in Sol’s ear. Sol nodded once and the guy left.

  “Who was that? What did he say? News about Kruger?”

  “No, afraid not,” Sol said. “I should’ve introduced you. That was Johnny Hughes, casino manager-the real boss around here. The guy’s been in the gambling business since the early days. As a kid, he worked for Capone in Chicago. Knows how to take care of his customers.”

  “What he say?”

  “Said the staff is alerted about the call. They’ll let us know the minute it comes in.”

  We talked some more about Kruger, and the Sica boys. He laughed when I mentioned Candi, the blonde, in my room. I also told Sol about Big Jake following me up here.

  “It’s good to have him around,” Sol said. “He’s a bulldog. Once he gets his teeth into something, he won’t let go. Now let me have that tape recorder. I’ll keep it safe until we phone the cop.”

  “Don’t trust me? Think I’ll lose it? Cost me sixty bucks,” I said facetiously as I pulled the recorder out of my bag and handed it to him.

  Sol turned it over in his hand a couple times. “It’s small, isn’t it? Not much bigger than a pack of smokes. ’Course, in my business, they have professional recorders, much smaller. We have a few. Cost beaucoup bucks.”

  He flipped it open.

  “Yeah, well this one did the trick-”

  Sol looked up. “Okay, Jimmy, where’s the tape?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He stared at the opened tape recorder.

  “The goddamn cassette is missing.”

  C H A P T E R 45

  At 10:30 the next morning, Sol and Isat in the Sahara Hotel coffee shop going over the details of the night before.

  We discussed the mystery woman and the stolen tape. Candi told me that the hotel sent her. But after Sol discovered that the tape was missing, he’d summoned Johnny Hughes and asked him who the looker was that the hotel had sent to my room. Hughes knew nothing about her. The hotel hadn’t sent anyone.

  “I’ll say this: Karadimos has balls, sending her to room to snatch the tape,” Sol said.

  “How’d you figure out she worked for him?”

  “If the hotel sent her, Johnny would’ve known about it, and if she’d lied about that, what else did she lie about?”

  “Why didn’t he just send one of his goons?”

  “His men would have been noticed by hotel security. They know all the wise guys, part of the job. Besides, you might’ve been a little concerned if you’d discovered some big ugly gorilla with a reptilian brain lounging on your bed instead of a blonde bombshell.”

  “It did
n’t take long for you to figure it out, Sol.”

  “It was easy, a looker like that shows up in your room and doesn’t ask for money up front? C’mon, my boy. You’re not that good, are you?”

  “Thought I was.”

  Sol laughed. “Actually, Jimmy, hotel security caught the bellboy who gave her the key to your room. Candi went down on the poor schmuck in the employee locker room and he was putty in her hands, so to speak. The whole lascivious scene was captured on one of those new video cameras that the hotel had installed a few weeks ago. I saw the tape: disgusting!” Sol grinned.

  “He copped out about giving her the key?”

  “Yeah, spilled his guts. Once caught, he knew if he didn’t come clean, he’d be in one of those unmarked graves out in the desert.”

  Even with everything I heard about the plan to steal the tape, I still hadn’t gotten over the fact that I’d been an idiot to let it out of my sight. I told Sol I felt terrible about screwing up so badly.

  “Jimmy, it wouldn’t have been a good idea anyway to tell the cops about the tape. Remember, rule number one.”

  I knew what he was going to say. “That’s rule number two.”

  “All right, rule number two: Don’t put yourself in the slammer to get your client out.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I wasn’t going to turn over the tape. At least, I don’t think I would’ve.”

  Before he could reply, the bar manager rushed to our table with a telephone. “Phone’s for you, Mr. S.,” he said as he plugged it into the jack.

  “This is it, Jimmy.” Sol grabbed the phone and, after a few grunts and okays, he slammed the receiver down. “Let’s go. Sica’s men have Kruger stashed at the Lake Mead Lodge. Bungalow, number six.”

  I shot out of the booth and made a dash for the exit, Sol beside me. “How far is it?” I asked on the fly.

  “About thirty miles.”

  My Corvette was parked under the canopy. Someone had washed it during the night. “The keys,” I hollered to the valet, pointing at the car. He tossed them to me. I caught them and jumped into the driver’s seat. Sol got in the passenger side. He boomed directions and held on as I weaved through traffic. I hung a right onto Boulder Highway, then punched it.

  The Vette fishtailed through the turn, but it held the road tight. I straightened out and accelerated to ninety. I ran a red light in Henderson and screamed through the town.

  I heard the sirens before I saw the flashing red lights in the rearview mirror. Damn, I thought, cops on my ass. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw two police cruisers bearing down on us, closing fast.

  “Better pull over, don’t make it worse,” Sol said.

  “Yeah, guess so.”

  I did as he said, but the cruisers didn’t slow down. They closed the gap and blew by me going about a hundred.

  “What the hell?” I said.

  “What’s that all about?” Sol asked.

  “Did you see the markings on the squad cars?”

  “Yeah, Clark County Sheriff’s Department.”

  Just as I was about to pull back onto the road, a third cop car zoomed past us, going in the same direction as the others.

  “Something’s up, Sol.”

  “Yeah, don’t like it.”

  We drove through the quiet town of Boulder City at a respectable speed. I turned off the thoroughfare at Lakeshore Road. To the right I saw the intense blue expanse of Lake Mead shimmering in the afternoon sun. We wound down the desert slope to the valley below and onto a road that fronted the recreational area. Close to the lodge entrance, a sheriff’s cruiser with its red lights flashing straddled the gravel road. A deputy-a large economy-sized guy-leaned on the hood. As the Vette crawled closer, the deputy raised his chubby hand, palm out. I stopped the car.

  “I’ll see what’s up. Wait here.” Sol climbed out and walked toward the cop. “What’s going on?” he asked the guy.

  “Road’s closed.”

  “Why?”

  “Police activity at the lodge.”

  “What do you mean?” Sol asked.

  “Just what I said, police activity. What are you doing here anyway?”

  Sol flashed his PI credentials. “We’ve got business at the lodge.”

  The big cop stood straight and tugged at his Sam Browne belt. Without taking his eyes off Sol, he reached into the squad car and pulled out the radio mike. “Okay buddy, stay right there. Don’t move.”

  He keyed the microphone. “Roy, it’s me, Wally. I got a private dick over here. The guy says he’s got business at the lodge. Might have something to do with the shootout.”

  When he said shootout, my stomach lurched.

  The radio crackled. “Hold him there. I’m on my way.”

  I scrambled out of the Corvette, my shoes crunching on the gravel as I walked toward them. “Sounds like there was a gunfight at the lodge,” I said.

  “Yeah, a bad one,” the cop said.

  We turned toward an approaching patrol car, which roared up and stopped, sending sand and gravel flying. A tall officer wearing a crisp uniform with sharp creases climbed out. The lieutenant bars on his collar gleamed in the sun.

  “What have we got here?” he asked.

  “These guys were going to the lodge.” Wally, the deputy, pointed at Sol. “That one’s a private peeper.”

  “What went down at the lodge, lieutenant?” Sol asked.

  “About twenty minutes ago, three or four men approached bungalow six and shooting started. We think the four men inside the unit were the targets. That’s all we know right now.” The lieutenant shrugged. “Could be a drug thing.”

  “Anybody hurt?” I asked.

  “Yeah, two guys. One fatality.”

  “Any names?”

  “You guys know anything about this?” the lieutenant asked. “You seem mighty interested.” Sol and I didn’t say anything. “Okay, let’s see some ID.”

  We handed him our identification. He studied our licenses, then peered at Sol over the rim of his Ray-Bans.

  “You’re Sol Silverman, the investigator?”

  “Yeah, that’s me.” Sol pointed at me. “And this is my friend, Jimmy O’Brien, criminal lawyer.”

  The lieutenant glanced at me. “Never heard of you, but I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Silverman. I’m Roy Garza. Good to meet you.” Sol shook his hand. “Sheriff Lamb mentions the big case every now and then. Remember, back in the sixties, the singer’s kid who’d been kidnapped?”

  “Yeah, it was pretty basic. Just a day’s work.”

  “You working on a case that has something to do with this, Mr. Silverman?”

  Sol was quiet for a moment. He glanced around and seemed to focus on a hawk circling over a rocky hill in the distance. He turned back to Garza.

  “Look, Roy, Jimmy may have a conflict of interest talking to you about this, but I’ll make you a deal. You tell me what you know, and if I can fill in any details without compromising Jimmy’s client, I will. You know I’m a straight arrow.”

  The lieutenant thought for a moment, then nodded. “We don’t know a lot. A few witness reports, but as I said, four shooters approached cabin six, and shots were fired. When the smoke cleared, one guy inside was dead and another wounded. Fat guy took four hits, but he’s still alive. The wagon hauled him to the emergency room at Valley Hospital in Vegas. Everyone else split before we arrived on the scene.”

  “Can you give me the names of the two guys who were shot?” I asked with some reluctance.

  “Yeah, just a minute.” He retrieved a notebook from his car. “The wounded guy had a gun permit.” The lieutenant fingered through a couple of pages of his pad. “Name’s Cohn, Jacob Louis. Let’s see, oh yeah, the fatality was Fischer, Ronald.”

  Fatality. The words hit me like a Winnebago. I slumped against the cop car. Sol looked at me for a moment, and then turned back to the lieutenant.

  “The dead guy’s real name was Kruger,” he said.

  C H A P T E R 46

  A jackr
abbit jumped in front of my Corvette as I turned the car around to head back to the hotel. The creature froze in the middle of the road and stared at me, its ears straight up, as if to ask, “What now, Jimmy?” Without Kruger there’s no case. I had no answer and the rabbit bounced away, disappearing into the scrub.

  We were quiet on the drive back to the hotel. At the Sahara, Sol and I walked slowly through the entrance doors. In the lobby, before we parted ways, Sol said, “So long, Jimmy. See you back in Downey.” He paused and put a hand on my shoulder. I guess my anger and disappointment was written on my face. “Can’t win them all, my boy. But don’t worry. We’ll come up with something.”

  “Yeah, I know. We’ll come up with something.” But I knew how hopeless it would be to develop a new angle now, especially with time running out. Karadimos had won.

  Sol said he’d drive to the sheriff’s office and give them a statement. He would tell them what we knew. It wasn’t much. Karadimos’s men gunned down Kruger to keep him quiet, but we had no proof to offer the law. The shootout would go into the books as another gangland dispute, or a drug deal gone sour. That would be that, case closed.

  Later that afternoon I checked out of the hotel. The valet gave me directions to Valley Hospital, and I drove there. The white concrete building was awash in the bright Nevada sun, and the hot blacktop in the lot was soft underfoot as I walked toward the entrance.

  In the stark lobby, people slouched in functional furniture, waiting the endless wait for news of loved ones engaged in life-or-death struggles. In here the shameless fantasy of the Las Vegas pleasure palaces ended and the harsh reality of life played out. Like the gambling tables, there are winners and losers, but there are no comp’d drinks or show tickets. They even have clocks on the walls.

  A young woman with curly short hair and blue eyes greeted me at the information desk. “May I help you?” she asked politely.

  “I need to see Jacob Cohn.”

  She thumbed through a large Rolodex. “I don’t see anyone with that name here. When was he admitted?”

  “Sometime earlier this afternoon. Gunshot wounds.”