Forward copy of this arrest report to Organized Crime Intelligence Division: Chagra hangs with heavy hoods in Hollywood/Beverly Hills. He is a dice hustler, a mechanic. Games are usually set up by someone else. Conventioneers or other suckers are invited to a game usually at a private home. Chagra is brought in with loaded dice, suckers are allowed to win a little, then fleeced. He takes a piece of the action. When there is no game in town, he acts as a middleman between burglars and Beverly Hills types who want their homes burglarized to collect the insurance. For a fee, he gives back the swag after the burglary and the victim collects the insurance claim. Sometimes he just sets up burg's. He doesn't do them himself, but farms out the address and steers the stolen property to his own fencing channels. For a while, he worked as a chauffeur for movie actor Rex Piper, who reportedly bought lots of stolen jewelry from him.
Carr copied Chagra's address off the bottom of the form. On his way out, he stopped by Della's desk.
"Ready for some more files?"
Carr shook his head. He handed her the mug shot of Bobby Chagra. "This is our boy."
She looked at the photograph and handed it back.
"Thanks for all the help," he said, stuffing the photo in his pocket.
She turned back to the computer screen. Her fingers moved on the keys. "I'll be ready at eight. Do you remember how to get to my house?"
"Of course," he said. Was it Highland Park or South Pasadena?
"Be there or be square," Delia Trane said in a Mickey Mouse voice. Her lips made a kiss movement.
Carr stopped at a pay phone in the downstairs lobby. He dropped a dime and dialed.
"Judge Malcolm's courtroom," Sally Malone answered.
"Hi."
"It's Friday afternoon," she said. "You're going to tell me that something came up at work and we're not going to be able to go out tonight, right?"
"How did you know?"
"Because I've known you for nine years of Friday nights. I had reservations for us at a real nice place too. I may just go anyway."
"I'm sorry, Sal. I'll stop over tomorrow and we'll make some plans. Maybe we can drive up to Santa Barbara for the day. How does that sound?"
"Unless you call me tomorrow morning and tell me that you're on a stakeout somewhere and you can't get away. Does that sound familiar?"
"What can I say?" Carr said, humbly.
"You could say that you miss me."
"I miss you."
"Sometimes I hate you. I really mean that." She hung up.
Back at the Field Office, Carr searched a telephone directory for Della Trane's address. It wasn't listed. He flipped through his address book, though he knew it wasn't there. Having completed this ritual, he opened his wallet and pulled out a stack of business cards, matchbook covers and other scribbled-on miscellanea. On his second tour through the material (on the way he tossed out four or five cards with names and numbers written on them he couldn't match with faces) he found a Ling's bar matchbook cover with Della Trane's name and address written on the reverse. It was Highland Park and not Pasadena. He breathed a sigh of relief.
No Waves stepped quietly into the office. "Cleaning out your wallet on government time?" His hands fiddled nervously in his pockets.
Carr ignored him. He dropped the matchbook cover in his shirt pocket and stuffed the wallet full again.
"Yoo-hoo."
Carr looked up, expressionless.
"Have you come up with anything on the Tony Dio angle? I say he's still the best suspect. Hiring a hit man to kill a federal witness is right down his alley. I smell 12 Cosa Nostra in this thing from top to bottom. It reminds me of when I worked in the New York Field Office."
Carr nodded. He knew that Waeves had been in charge of the Treasury vehicle fleet in New York.
"I want you to check the airports and see what you can put together," Waeves said, using his best intimidation voice.
"The airport?"
"Dio probably flew his hit man in the day before," Waeves said. "That's the way it's done." His hands worked feverishly in his pockets. Change rattled loudly. "So I want you to check with the airlines and see if this fellow Sheboygan flew in from out of town. I have a hunch. And you'd better get together with ... uh ... what's his name?"
"Hartmann."
"Right. Hartmann. To cover our asses, so to speak, we probably should offer him-"
"I've already offered him witness protection," Carr interrupted. "He declined."
"Do we have that in writing?"
"Have what in writing?"
"We ought to have his refusal to accept protection in writing," Waeves said with his mouth formed into a sardonic smile. "This will be CYA for us if anything happens to him. Cover your ass is the name of the game in any case involving organized crime. Once when I was working in New York we had a case that-"
"No problem," Carr said. You'll forget you asked in a day or two. "Is there anything else?"
No Waves cleared his throat. He gave the change in his pockets a healthy jingle, then pulled a pipe out of his shirt pocket. He shoved it in the side of his mouth. "Be sure and use an OC suffix."
Carr furrowed his brow.
"On your report number," Waeves said. "Add the letters OC to the end. OC stands for 'organized crime'. This came out in the revised Manual of Operations." Waeves rattled change with both hands. Pipe jutting, he sauntered back down the hallway.
****
EIGHT
THE RUSH-HOUR traffic had just ended. Charles Carr steered through the Mulholland Pass past signs for a high-priced hilltop condominium development constructed on what he knew was the site of an abandoned public dump. There was a warm breeze; Mojave Desert air wafting, at its own speed, across L.A.'s landscape of ranch-style homes, fast-food stands, parking lots and gas stations on its way to the ocean.
Delia Trane sat beside him. She wore a low-cut black dress with an open back that revealed a deep and even tan. Her perfume mingled with the summer air rushing in the wind-wings, as did the smell of alcohol on her breath. Earlier, when he picked her up at her tiny two-bedroom place in Highland Park, he could tell immediately that she'd been drinking.
So far, the conversation had been small talk about police acquaintances: rumors of promotion and demotion.
"No more shoptalk," she said finally.
"That's a deal."
"Do you remember the first time you met me?"
"Sure."
"I doubt that. But I remember. It was in Chinatown. I was with a group of friends. We'd just come from a retirement party and we were gassed. We needed another drink like we needed a hole in the head. You were sitting at the bar with your partner. You know why I liked you? Because you could carry on a decent conversation and you weren't crazy. Most of the men I meet are crazy. I mean that. Either married and on the make or just plain crazy. It seems like the men I meet are either one-night-stand artists, or I end up sitting there all night trying to make conversation while they stare at my tits. I mean how would you like it if I sat here staring at your crotch?" She leaned over and mocked a groin stare.
Carr laughed. "I see what you mean."
"I didn't really think you'd call me. Men always take numbers and never call. Isn't that right?"
Carr shrugged.
"I've been married four times," Della Trane said,"...all policemen. One is a captain now, one is a sergeant, one was killed in a shoot-out and one retired on a disability. He was a beeroholic. Not an alcoholic; a beeroholic. He used to drink a six-pack of those large cans of beer on his way home from the station house. For him it was just a warm-up. He gained lots of weight and finally took the cure, but by then things were finished between the two of us." She stared out the window for a moment. "Where are you taking me? I hope it's not straight back to your apartment. When I go out with a cop, nothing surprises me."
"Trust me," Carr said jovially. He swung the sedan onto a transition road that led to the Santa Monica Freeway.
A few minutes later Carr turned off the free
way at Pacific Coast Highway and wound along some narrow streets to the strand. Having parked in a lot near the decrepit Santa Monica Pier, he helped Della Trane out of the car. She held his hand tightly as they wandered toward a small building. Over the bay window facing the ocean hung a sign that read Prince Nikola of Serbia-Yugoslav Food.
Carr opened the front door and they stepped into a restaurant that consisted of ten or so tables with checkered tablecloths and a tiny wine bar. On the walls were black-and-white framed photographs of a shaved-head, muscle-bound wrestler in aggressive poses. In the photos, his midsection was adorned with a metal-studded championship belt. The only hair above his chest was bushy Slavic eyebrows.
The crowd in the place was a potpourri of Muscle Beach types, young people who looked like college students and a few red-cheeked Yugoslavs that looked enough like Prince Nikola of Serbia to be relatives.
"I used to see him on TV," Della said.
Prince Nikola of Serbia strode from the kitchen carrying bottles of red wine. He wore a form-fitting T-shirt and butcher-style apron. His eyebrows were sprinkled with gray, and he looked heavier than in the championship photos. "Charlie, long time no see!" He flung an arm around Carr's shoulder, almost throwing him off balance.
Carr introduced Della Trane.
"Welcome to Nick's, beautiful lady." He dragged them through a swinging door into a spotless kitchen. "Look who comes to see us!" Nick said. A woman with hefty arms and shoulders turned from a stove. She had strong features and wore her hair braided and pinned closely to her head. Wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, she rushed to Carr. After bussing him on the cheek, she scolded him for not visiting more often.
Nick hustled them back into the restaurant, seating them in a corner booth that Carr knew was reserved for family. He rushed about setting the table with plates of French bread, green onions, garlicky black olives. "I'm so sorry about Jack," he said as he uncorked a bottle of wine. He shook his head as he filled wineglasses, then rushed off to the kitchen.
Della Trane took a big drink of the wine and set the glass down, licking her lips. "My first husband was Nick's size. He was a motor cop. We had a big wedding in the Police Academy rock garden. Chief Parker himself came." She took another sip. "It seems like such a long time ago," she said, wistfully. Having taken another healthy sip or two, she excused herself to the ladies' room.
Nick of Serbia came to the table with an appetizer plate of goat cheese and crackers. Carr asked him to sit down. He slipped Bobby Chagra's mug shot out of his shirt pocket and handed it to him.
The wrestler stared at the photograph. He snapped his fingers. "Beverly Hills Athletic Club," he said. "When I work there as a gym instructor, he work in bar. He used to work nights. This is six years ago, maybe seven. He worked there for just a little while. His nickname is Bones. I can't remember his real name."
"What kind of a guy is he?" Carr said.
"Sunnabitch is no good. He's a garbage can. I tell you truth."
"What's he into?"
"He used to set up crap games at the club. All the big shots would -play in the locker room on Friday nights ... big money ... hundred-dollar bills. Judges, doctors, movie stars, they all used to play. Once I see Frank Sinatra in the game. He stayed for just a few minutes, then leaves. I ask him why he didn't play longer. He say to me, 'Nick, you ever seen the magician pull rabbit out of a hat?' That's when I first knew something was wrong. The big shots played every week. They'd lose five, maybe ten thousand without batting eye. Finally, somebody figured out that the game was fixed. It was a big scandal. Grand jury investigation, stories in the newspaper. Big-shot movie producer lost hundred grand in one night -and called the cops. Bones got fired."
"Any friends?"
Nick of Serbia shook his head. "He always had lots girl friends, though. He always talk about how he fucks them, you know ... she did this to me, I did that to her. It's all he talks about. He's like a little boy. He was always trying to fuck the daughters of movie stars. He met them at the Bel Air parties catered by the club. Once the sunnabitch asked me if I wanted to help him steal one of the Rolls-Royces parked outside. He is a garbage can ... a big damn phony like everybody else in Beverly Hills. The people who really have money aren't that bad. It's the rest of the goldbricks, the ones who use ten towels to dry off. They all want special treatment. I tell you truth: the peanut seller at the Olympic Auditorium, where I wrestle, makes more in tips in one night than I made in the five years I worked in Beverly Hills. I tell you truth." Nick laughed uproariously. "Now I'm big shot. When customer give me shit, I put 'em in hammerlock and toss their ass out front door." Another burst of laughter. "I break their damn neck with the Boston Crab!" With catlike speed, he interlaced fingers and leaned back. His biceps flexed.
Carr chuckled.
"This Bones," Nick said, "what did he do?"
"I just need to ask him some questions," Carr said. "Is Bones the kind of person who'll answer questions?"
Nick of Serbia shook his head. "I would say no," he said. "When the cops came to the club to ask about the dice game, he told them to go to hell."
"If you hear anything about what Bones has been up to recently, I'd appreciate a call," Carr said.
"I check around for you." Nick excused himself as more customers came in the door.
Della returned to the table and immediately hoisted her wineglass. "Here's to ya," she said, and tossed back half a glass. Carr noticed that she had reapplied makeup. She dabbed her lips with a napkin, leaving a lipstick stain. "My third husband loved wrestling," she said, gazing at one of the wrestling photos on the wall. "He knew it was phony, but he loved it anyway. Isn't that crazy?"
Carr nodded. "I haven't seen you at Ling's lately," he said, trying to change the subject.
She sipped again. "Too much shoptalk in there. After my last divorce, I used to go to a lot of the cop hangouts, but everyone I met seemed to know one of my ex-husbands. So I started hitting the places in West L.A. I met nothing but creeps with gold chains and open-collared shirts. All they could talk about was skiing or buying property. I stopped going out all together. Finally, when I couldn't stand it anymore, I started going out with this divorced guy who lives across the street from me. He turned out to be a real butt. He's one of those people who keeps a budget. He actually makes a note of every dime he spends. If he buys a pack of cigarettes he actually makes a note of it on a little calendar in his kitchen. I think he's a neurotic." Della picked up the wine bottle and filled her glass close to the rim. "Oops." Hefting the glass with both hands, she drank off a half inch or so.
Nick brought a steaming platter of fried fish, bowls of boiled potatoes, string beans and salad. Carr ate heartily as Della pushed food around her plate and finished the bottle of wine. By the end of the meal her lips were purple. "I just love this place," she said. After dessert, Carr went through the ritual of trying to pay for the meal while Nick threatened to crush him with a bear hug if he left money on the table. Finally the men shook hands and Della took Carr's arm on the way out the door. Once in the sedan she slid next to him, kissing him on the cheek.
"Would you mind too much if we took a drive along the coast? I haven't done that in years." Her words were slurred and the wine had flushed her cheeks. Somehow, the color in her face made her look younger.
"Sure," Carr said. Carr found his way through some side street to Pacific Coast Highway. He turned north and they drove for a while without saying anything. The air was comfortably cool and there was the sound of waves breaking along the rocks.
"Funny," Della said. "I'm willing to make commitments in a split second, and you wouldn't commit yourself to someone at the risk of the death penalty. You've never been married, have you?"
Carr shook his head.
"I guess that's just the way it is between men and women."
"Men and women are at war these days. It's a game of who can rip off who first."
Della nodded in agreement.
In Malibu, they passed a restauran
t whose exterior was covered with synthetically weathered wood and decorative anchors. A coiled rope over the door spelled The Galley.
"Let's stop in there for a drink," Della said. "Please."
"I don't think you need any more to drink."
"Don't be an old klutz," she whispered in his ear.
Inside, the floors and walls were bare planks. There were lots of cheap oil paintings of sailing ships and a few diver's masks lamps for decoration. Because of the hour, there were empty tables next to the windows. A young man wearing a sea captain's cap seated them. Della ordered a rusty nail with double scotch. Carr asked for coffee. Outside, in the ocean's blackness, a silhouette of what looked like a cruise ship moved slowly along the coastline beyond a well-lighted offshore oil rig whose metal structures had been camouflaged with painted partitions in an attempt to make it look like a tiny, palm-treed island.
"It almost looks real," Della said.
"The ship or the oil derrick?"
She slapped his hand playfully.
"No matter what it looks like," Carr said, "it's still an oil derrick ... an oil derrick built right smack in the middle of the ocean view so somebody could make a buck."
The waiter brought drinks. "Pretend it's not there," she said, taking a couple of sips.
Impulsively she put her hand in his. "Thanks for not being crazy. All the men I've been out with lately seem crazy.
A few minutes later the maitre d' walked by them leading three women to a table. One of the women was Sally Malone. She stopped and stared at Carr for a moment, her lips quivering. She said something to her friends, then turned and quickly headed toward the door.
Carr excused himself from the table and followed Sally out the door. Jogging a few steps, he caught up with her in the parking lot as she fumbled for car keys. He grabbed her by the arm.
"Don't touch me," she said as if he were a leper.
He turned her toward him. Her eyes were closed tightly in anger. "You humiliated me in front of my friends," she said through gritted teeth. "I told them that you had broken our date tonight because you were working."
To Die in Beverly Hills Page 10