by J. L. Abramo
When Kutzen accepted a higher paying position as the Assistant Director of Janitorial Services at the Powell Hotel at Union Square, Roberto was sorry to see him leave.
Alexi Kutzen’s primary responsibility at the Powell Hotel was to make certain the janitorial staff were doing their jobs satisfactorily.
To that end, Alexi conducted a daily midday inspection of the common areas of the hotel. He began in the lobby and then walked the hallways from end to end and from floor to floor to verify the shared areas of the hotel looked their best.
During one such midday inspection, Kutzen ran into a young woman who was having difficulty persuading a soft drink vending machine to accept a well-worn dollar bill. Alexi took over the challenge and after a few attempts he accomplished the task, and handed the young woman a can of Diet Coke.
Her difficulty in pronouncing the two simple words Thank, you was all Alexi needed to determine the woman was from his part of the world.
“Pozhaluysta,” he replied.
The woman could not hide her pleasure, the excitement of meeting a fellow Russian.
Before long they were conversing like long lost friends.
Her name was Katya Ivanov. She came from Lobnya, a town seventeen miles north of Moscow, an area Alexi knew well. She reminded Alexi of one of his sister’s girls. He reminded Katya of one of her mother’s brothers.
She had come into the country, sponsored by a placement agency in Moscow, to take a domestic position in Los Angeles. She was excited about the possibility of earning enough money, in time, to bring her widowed mother and her younger sister over to the United States.
Katya expressed some concern about not having any family or friends for support, Alexi assured her she could call him at the hotel anytime she needed someone to talk with.
The following morning, Alexi saw Katya and two other young women in front of the hotel. Two men were talking nearby. Alexi had seen one of the men before. He had learned from the hotel concierge that the man worked at immigration services and had delivered Katya and the other girls to the hotel.
The three girls climbed into a waiting van, and the second man drove them off.
Alexi hoped Katya and the other girls would find good fortune waiting for them in Los Angeles.
A few days later, Alexi received a phone call at the hotel from Katya. She said she was confused. Instead of working as a housekeeper for a family down in L.A., she found herself serving drinks at a night club and would be required to do so until she worked off relocation expenses.
Alexi Kutzen did not like the sound of it, and promised he would look into it.
He called Roberto Sandoval.
Sandoval was suspicious also. He acquired personnel photos from the immigration agency and had Alexi go through them.
Alexi identified Daniel Gibson.
Sandoval called Gibson and asked Gibson to report to the D.A.’s office on the following Thursday to talk about a young woman named Katya Ivanov.
Gibson called the answering service in Los Angeles.
“When he called back, I told him about Sandoval,” Gibson said. “He told me he would take care of it.”
“Did he say how he would take care of it?” Lopez asked.
“No.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know. I have never met him or learned his name, I only spoke with him on the telephone—and he did most of the talking.”
“How were you enlisted?”
“Carmine Cicero. I was offered a great deal of money,” Gibson said. “All I had to do was flag the girls that were brought over and have them sent to me at my office.”
“And you took them to the Powell Hotel.”
“Yes. Then Cicero would pick them up at the hotel and he would transport them to Los Angeles. I was to receive five thousand dollars, in cash, for each girl. I still have fifty thousand dollars coming.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Lopez said. “How could you sell young girls like that, for any amount of money?”
“As far as I knew, they were being offered legitimate jobs in Los Angeles. All I did was cut through a lot of red tape to facilitate work visas.”
“I find your alleged ignorance hard to believe,” Lopez said.
“Believe what you will.”
“When was the last time you spoke to the man in Los Angeles?”
“He called just before you arrived at my house. He said he was having trouble reaching Carmine. Asked if I had heard anything from Cicero. I told him I had not.”
“What about Justin Walker?”
“I was asked to deliver twenty thousand to Walker but I had no idea what for,” Gibson said. “If you want to find the man behind this you need to find Cicero. I can’t help you.”
“Cicero is dead,” Lopez said. “And I think you can help.”
“How?”
“Call the answering service. When he calls back tell him you need to talk with him, face-to-face. Say you will go down to Los Angeles to meet him, tell him it concerns the D.A.’s office up here and Carmine Cicero. Insist you won’t discuss it over the telephone.”
“I won’t do that. I am sure he would never agree to such a meeting, except as a means to shut me up the way he has silenced everyone else who could lead to him. I am not willing to die in order to help you.”
“Is that your final answer?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are looking at a very dismal future, Mr. Gibson. And, for the record,” Lopez said, “I think you are a creep, and being in the same room with you has been repulsive. I hope you spend the rest of your sorry life behind bars.”
Lopez walked out of the interview room, slamming the door behind her.
“Why not tell him how you feel?” Johnson said.
“It’s not funny,” Lopez said, though she had to suppress a smile. “What now?”
“We call Boyle to fill him in, find out if he has any clever ideas.”
Lopez spoke to Ray Boyle.
Then she called me with the invitation to her office.
When I arrived at Vallejo Street Station, Sergeant Johnson and Lieutenant Lopez walked me through the epic tale of Roberto Sandoval, Alexi Kutzen, Katya Ivanov, Carmine Cicero, Weido and Walker and Gibson and the man with no name.
It was a narrative that would have impressed Hugo.
Finally, they told me what Ray Boyle had suggested.
I was as enthusiastic about the prospect as Daniel Gibson had been when he was offered the very same opportunity and had turned it down emphatically.
But, how could I say no?
Actually, I could think of a hundred ways to say no.
“What the hell,” I said instead.
My ability to stay out of trouble lately convinced me I was destined for a trip to Los Angeles.
Lopez had me use Gibson’s cell phone to make the call to the answering service in L.A.
The conversation with the operator who answered was short and sweet. I identified myself as Daniel Gibson. She assured me the message would be promptly forwarded.
While we waited at the station for a return call, all of my travel itineraries were arranged.
Roundtrip airfare and ground transportation in L.A. would be provided courtesy of the Los Angeles Police Department.
Transportation to and from SFO would be provided free of charge by the San Francisco Police Department.
I was being treated like a V.I.P.
I was feeling like a sucker.
Twenty minutes after leaving the message, Daniel Gibson’s cell phone rang. Judging from his articulate speech, the man was no Russian or Italian mafia thug. He spoke intelligently and clearly. He agreed to the meeting in Los Angeles without any argument, which, if Daniel Gibson knew anything about it, was not necessarily a good sign.
I told him when my flight was scheduled to arrive in Los Angeles. He told me to call him as soon as the plane landed, at which time he would let me know exactly where the meeting would take place.
And that was that.
Sergeant Johnson would drive me out to SFO and Lieutenant Ray Boyle would pick me up at LAX.
I would be discreetly followed to the rendezvous, I would be well protected from any possible harm, and then the bad guy would be apprehended and brought to justice.
A piece of cake.
One far less appealing than Zeppole di San Giuseppe.
Johnson and yours truly were on our way to San Francisco International Airport.
“So, a chance encounter between a young Russian woman and a hotel janitor brought Roberto Sandoval into the picture.”
“And got him killed,” Johnson added.
“Do you have enough to nail this guy?”
“Once we get the records from the answering service, and with Gibson’s testimony, the short answer is yes.”
“Why not just wait for the phone records?”
“It would take some time,” Johnson said. “And Ray Boyle is not one to wait when it comes to taking a murderer off the street. Are you beginning to feel uneasy about this?”
“I never felt easy about it.”
“We just need the man to expose himself, once he has been identified, you are finished.”
Johnson’s choice of words was not very comforting.
I was putting myself in the position Daniel Gibson was willing to do anything to avoid. The man who I was going to meet would consider Gibson the last loose end unless I, in the acting role of a lifetime, could convince him it was Carmine Cicero he needed to worry about.
I suddenly remembered I was still carrying Johnson’s back-up weapon. I reached into my jacket pocket, pulled it out and handed it over.
“Would have made it interesting on the security check-in line at the airport,” I said.
I also remembered I had left the Hunchback sitting on the table in my office and that realization was more disarming.
An airplane ride without a good book is like a day without sunshine, or without a cigarette.
Johnson dropped me off in front of the terminal and wished me luck.
I hoped luck would not be necessary.
The terminal was jammed. It took nearly thirty minutes to check-in, make it through the security check point, and find my way to the departure gate. Sergeant Johnson had insisted we allow at least ninety minutes. I had a little more than an hour to kill. I picked up a copy of The New Yorker at a newsstand. I liked the cartoons.
After leaving Diamond at the airport terminal, Johnson called Desk Sergeant Yardley.
“Vallejo Street Station.”
“It’s Johnson. What’s the word?”
“Ready to go when you are,” Yardley said. “You have less than ten minutes.”
“Tell him I’m on my way.”
“Copy that,” Yardley said. “What if Lieutenant Lopez begins asking where you are?”
“Tell her anything except where I am.”
Once in the air, I wondered what might happen if the man in L.A. did not believe I was Daniel Gibson.
Or what would transpire if he did believe I was Gibson.
Or if it would make any difference if Ray Boyle couldn’t stay close enough to watch my back.
And what Quasimodo would do if it was Esmeralda instead of Jake Diamond confronting a man who made Archdeacon Frollo look like a boy scout.
I decided I was thinking too much.
I ordered bourbon over ice from a flight attendant and I went back to the magazine cartoons.
TWENTY NINE
Ray Boyle’s instructions had been explicit.
Diamond was not to call the answering service until Ray met Jake at the airport. Ray needed to know the location of the meeting before Diamond left LAX.
Jake exited the plane and began walking from the gate to the arrivals area in Terminal 7. Daniel Gibson’s cell phone rang before Jake reached the terminal atrium.
“Yes?”
“Welcome to Los Angeles, Mr. Gibson.”
“Thank you.”
“I arranged for a driver. Look for a man holding a sign bearing your name. He will take you to me.”
“I was just about to call you,” Jake said. “I expected I would be waiting a while to hear back. I was planning to have a drink at the airport and find my way to you on my own.”
“Well, that won’t be necessary now, will it?”
“You didn’t need to go to the trouble.”
“No trouble at all. If you need a drink, I can take care of that as well. Locate my driver. I look forward to meeting you very soon.”
And the line went dead.
Jake saw the man with the sign first. Then he spotted Ray Boyle. Boyle was moving to meet him. Diamond turned away from Boyle, making a big deal of waving his arm at the driver while he signaled with his other arm that Ray should back off.
Boyle saw Jake greet the driver and watched as they both walked toward the terminal exit. Boyle was unprepared. All he could do was follow at a distance.
Once outside the terminal, the driver opened the back door of a limousine parked a few feet away. Jake climbed in and his chauffeur moved around the car to the driver’s door.
A man entered a taxicab standing a hundred feet behind the limo.
“Follow that car,” the man said.
“Are you joking?” the cabbie asked.
“I couldn’t be more serious.”
The limousine began to pull away.
The taxi followed.
When Ray Boyle exited the terminal, Jake was gone.
“Fuck,” Boyle said, loud enough to turn the heads of a group of Japanese waiting to board an airport shuttle van.
Ten minutes later, the limousine pulled into the parking area in front of the Sheraton Gateway Hotel less than a mile from the airport.
The driver escorted me to a room on the third floor and he tapped lightly on the door.
The man who opened the door was very well dressed, and he looked about as threatening as Regis Philbin.
He flashed a perfect talk-show host smile.
“Wait out front,” he said to the driver. “Keep your eyes open. Make sure you weren’t followed.”
The driver walked off.
“Please come in, Mr. Gibson,” my host said.
He moved aside to let me pass and closed the door behind us.
“Daniel,” he said, “my name is Derek London. May I offer you a drink, the room is well stocked.”
London.
Marco Weido’s famous last word.
I had learned what I had been sent to learn.
Mission accomplished in record time.
And an ideal time to get the hell out of there.
Victor Hugo said, During a wise man’s whole life, his destiny holds his philosophy in a state of siege.
I said, “Bourbon, rocks.”
London poured two tiny bottles of Booker’s over ice. He handed the drink to me and invited me to take a seat.
The choice was between an upholstered chair and a matching upholstered chair.
Eeny meeny miney mo.
I sat.
London poured a drink for himself. Glenlivet and soda, also known as a senseless waste of fine Scotch. He settled into the other chair, facing me.
“So, Daniel,” London began. “What is it we could not discuss over the telephone?”
I employed all the skills I had developed in a remedial English class at City College of New York and my acting classes in California to sound like someone who was not born and raised in Brooklyn.
And all I had picked up from Travis Duncan about sounding more confident and tougher than I really was.
“I thought I could get what I need more expediently if I talked with you face-to-face,” I said.
“And what is it you need?” London asked.
“I need the balance of the payment you owe me, and I need to get out.”
“Get out.”
It sounded like a question. I would have been much happier if it was a request.
“Get out of our arr
angement, and get out of the country.”
“Out of the country?”
“Yes. And quickly. And I recommend you consider doing the same.”
“May I ask what brought this on, Mr. Gibson?”
I had liked it better when he was calling me Daniel.
“Carmine Cicero was picked up by the police.”
“How do you know that?”
“They granted him a phone call, he called me.”
“Why would he call you?”
“I suppose it was simply a matter of convenience. I would guess he was looking for someone who might come to his rescue in a timely manner. I sent a lawyer over to try to help smooth out the bumps, but it isn’t going to stall the cops for very long. They have Cicero cold on two murders in Oakland—a small timer named Bobo Bigelow and a police investigator named Marco Weido. It’s just a matter of time before Carmine gives us both up.”
“Cicero has no idea who I am, only what I look like.”
“They will subpoena the answering service and have Cicero identify your photo.”
“The answering service cannot identify me either,” London said. “In fact, the only person who can truly identify me is you, Daniel. Would you care for another drink?”
The taxi that had followed the limousine to the hotel sat tucked away in a parking spot a good distance from the hotel entrance.
Meter running.
The passenger in the back seat of the cab had watched the limo driver escort Diamond into the hotel and come out alone a few minutes later.
The limousine driver moved his car to a parking space across from the entrance and remained in the vehicle.
“Are we going to sit here all day?” the cab driver asked ten minutes later.
They watched as the limo driver climbed out of his car, leaned up against the driver’s door, and lit a cigarette.
“Do you smoke?” the passenger asked the taxi driver.
“Yes.”
“You can drop me off at the front entrance now. Let me have a cigarette, put it on my tab.”