The Predators

by Harold Robbins

  Sue Ellen smiled and watched him walk off. “He’s a sweet man,” she said. “It looks like you’ve known each other for a long time.”

  “We were in the army during the war together,” I said. “And that has been a long time. Tell me about yourself, Sue Ellen.”

  “Not much to tell,” she answered. “I was a beauty queen out of the heart of America, straight off a farm. I used to watch the planes that used to fly overhead when we were kids. I dreamed about California or New York. So I took my shot. And I found out that I was like a thousand other girls who had the same dream but without the talent to back it up.”

  “You’re looking good,” I said. “That’s not so bad.”

  Nicky quickly appeared and led us to the table. He smiled as I nodded in appreciation at the Plescassier bottle in the center of the table in front of us. I turned to Sue Ellen as Nicky took off and the sommelier took his place.

  “May I offer you something to drink?” asked the sommelier.

  “What’s your pleasure, Sue Ellen?” I asked.

  She laughed and leaned over toward me. “I’m a hooker. What do you think hookers at Nicky’s order?” She laughed.

  I turned to the sommelier. “A cold bottle of Dom Pérignon for the lady and a Glenmorangie neat.” I took a sip of the Plescassier that had been poured for me. It was right. Cool but not freezing.

  All sommeliers are full of shit. They all think they are contenders for the Oscar. This one thought he was Paul Newman. It didn’t work, though; the real one was sitting at one of the larger tables in the center of the dining room. With a flourish he placed two tulip champagne glasses in front of us. As he raised his eyebrow he placed the opened bottle of Cristale in front of us. He poured a small amount in my glass. I tasted the Dom Pérignon and nodded in approval. He then poured Sue Ellen a glass and then placed the Glenmorangie in front of me. He then turned and left with a happy swish.

  17

  I turned to her as she took a sip. “Like it, Sue Ellen?”

  “What’s not to like?” She smiled. “Thank you.”

  Dinner was simple. Each of us had Caesar salad. She had a New York, prime, medium rare. I had linguine with fresh clam sauce. We both ate as though we hadn’t eaten all day. As a matter of fact, I hadn’t and she probably hadn’t either.

  “This steak is delicious,” she said.

  “Nicky always brags about his steaks. He says he orders them from a butcher in New York.” I smiled. “I thought L.A. girls always ordered fish or chicken.”

  “My roots give me away. We used to have cattle and my daddy even butchered our own meat. We always had a freezer full of a side of beef.” She laughed. “After all, you ordered linguine, but you don’t look Italian.”

  “My specialty when I was a kid growing up in New York was a kosher hot dog with sauerkraut and Pepsi. In those years Pepsi came in a big bottle for a nickel. Coca-Cola was the same price, but came only in a small bottle.”

  She laughed. “We’re funny. Both from different parts of the country but here we are in L.A.”

  “That’s life,” I said, keeping my eye on the door. It was a bad habit I’d had for a long time. You never knew what was coming in the door.

  Sue Ellen was a bright lady. She watched me checking the door. “You’re nervous?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “Just careful.”

  “Maybe a wife or a girlfriend might be coming in?” she asked discreetly.

  I laughed. “No, nothing like that,” I answered honestly. I gestured for a waiter. “Would you like coffee and a brandy?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “Two coffees, and Hennessey XO.” I motioned for both of us to the waiter.

  “So what are you looking out for, Jerry?” she asked playfully.

  “You’re a nosy cunt,” I said.

  “I’m not a nosy cunt,” she said. “I just like to know more about a client I like.”

  “I’m glad you like me,” I said. “But I’m not a client.”

  She smiled. “Sorry. One C for dinner.”

  “That’s cheap,” I said. “I’m giving you five Cs.”

  I heard a man’s voice come from the front of our table. Intuition and instinct paid off. I saw the glint of the gun and rolled myself and Sue Ellen off the banquette. I kicked the table and it knocked the gun sideways as it hit the man’s arm. I felt the shot go off, but he had a silencer and it wasn’t heard. But I felt the bullet burn as it traveled along my left shoulder. I reached for the small .25 caliber that I always wore in my Italian boots. I shot the son of a bitch in the balls. He screamed and ran for the door, his hands cupping his crotch with blood dripping between his fingers. His feet barely touched the floor. He was out the door before anyone could stop him.

  I bent over and helped Sue Ellen up from under the table. “You okay, baby?” I asked.

  “I’m okay,” she said, her face pale. “But you’re bleeding through your jacket sleeve.”

  “I’m okay, it’s only a surface wound,” I said.

  * * *

  Nicky was right next to us before a crowd could begin to develop. A couple of waiters were with him. “Let’s get you into my office, and I’ve got my doctor in the restaurant now. I’ll bring him over.”

  “Good,” I said. “Give Sue Ellen a grand. Let your boys take her out the back way. Make sure that nobody gets any pictures of her.” I turned to her. “Don’t worry, you’ll be okay. Just don’t let anybody know that you were here.”

  She looked at me. Her mascara was beginning to run down her cheek. “Won’t I ever get to see you again?”

  “In time,” I answered. “Right now you gotta get out of here before the cops show up and bring you into it.”

  Nicky told the two waiters to get her out. He then led me to his office. He closed the door behind us. “Now, before the cops get here, what’s this all about?”

  “Water,” I said. “Believe it or not. Water is hotter than booze now.”

  18

  Nicky’s doctor was having dinner at the restaurant. The doctor was in Nicky’s office before the police got there. He helped me off with my jacket and shirt. “The jacket’s going to need some reweaving,” he said.

  “You a doctor or a tailor?” I snapped. My arm didn’t feel too good. It burned.

  “Calm down,” the doctor said, smiling. “My father was a tailor. I always check out the patient’s clothing. If it’s expensive I know they can afford me.”

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “I’m Dr. Kramer. I’m a surgeon,” he answered as he felt the flesh on my arm. He turned to Nicky. “Do you have a first aid kit?”

  “In the kitchen,” Nicky said. “I’ll get it.”

  After Nicky went for the first aid kit, the doctor looked down at me. “You’re lucky,” he said. “The bullet only grazed the fatty back part of your arm. If it had gone into the muscle you would really be unhappy.”

  In no time, Nicky was back with the first aid kit. Quickly, the doctor peroxided me, iodined me, held the edges of the wound tight, and wrapped the gauze and tape around my arm. “That’ll hold,” the doctor said. He gave me a card from his wallet. “I’ll be in surgery in the morning,” he said. “But I’ll be in the office after one o’clock. Come in then and I’ll change the dressing.”

  I looked down at the card. Dr. Kramer. Obstetrics and gynecology. I turned and looked up at him. “You’re a woman’s doctor,” I said.

  He laughed. “If you’re worried, come to my office in drag.”

  I laughed. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The doctor left and I turned to Nicky. “How come you told me that was your doctor?”

  “It’s my business,” he said. “You can’t believe how many of the girls ask me for a doctor. Who the hell knew I’d need a doctor for you tonight?”

  The police knocked on the door. Nicky let them in. Detectives Randall and Schultz. I showed them my driver’s license, gun permit, and business card.

 
; “It says on your card that you’re president of a water-distributing company,” Detective Schultz said. “What kind of water do you sell?”

  “French bottled water. We sell to restaurants, supermarkets, convenience stores.”

  “You mean something like Canada Dry?” Detective Randall asked.

  “Something like that,” I answered.

  “Is that why somebody wanted to pop you?” Detective Schultz asked. “For fucking bottles of water?”

  I looked at him. He didn’t know how right he was. “No,” I said. “Everybody knows I always carry a bundle of cash with me. That’s why I was given a gun permit.”

  “But the guy went after you in the middle of a restaurant,” said Detective Schultz. “Christ”—he motioned toward the restaurant—“in this place he could have hit any table and come up with big cash.”

  “It was his hard luck,” I answered. “If he had been polite I might have just given the money to him.”

  The telephone rang and Nicky answered it. He handed it over to Detective Randall. Randall listened for a moment, then put the telephone down and looked at me. “We just heard from the emergency room at Cedars; they took a guy in who has one of his testicles shot off.”

  “So?” I asked.

  “Did you do it?” Schultz asked.

  “What would you do if a guy was shooting at you?” I asked.

  “Give me your gun,” Randall said. He looked down at the gun, then back at me. “He’s lucky you didn’t have a magnum. In that case he would have lost both balls and his prick.”

  A uniformed policeman came into the office. He held up a small cellophane bag. “I just dug this out of the back of the leather banquette. It looks like a thirty-eight bullet.”

  “I didn’t know that you were an expert,” Schultz said, annoyed. He took it from the policeman, who left; he then turned to me. “With a bullet like that, the guy meant business. You sure you don’t know of anything he might have been after?”

  “No,” I said flatly. “You’ve got him in custody, why don’t you find out what he has to say.”

  Randall turned to me. “We’d appreciate it if you could stop in at the station tomorrow and give us a statement. By that time, we’ll probably be able to give you back your gun.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said.

  Nicky and I watched the policemen leave; then he turned to me. “I’ll drive you home, if you’d like.”

  “I’m okay,” I said. “But I want to make sure that neither the bartender or the sommelier says anything about the girl.”

  “My staff is smart,” Nicky said. “There will be no problems about that.” He hesitated a moment. “But someone is after you—what are you going to do?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” I said. Nicky gave me one of his shirts to wear. It was tight but I slipped on my jacket. “Give me the bill for the repairs.”

  “Forget it,” he said. “That’s what insurance is for. Besides, you’ve already given me twenty grand.”

  I looked at my watch. It was a few minutes to nine. “I’m going home,” I said to Nicky. “If there’s any calls for me tell them that I’ve already left.”

  “Check,” Nicky said. “Sure you’re okay to drive?”

  “I’m okay, thanks.” I started out the door.

  Nicky held up his hand. “Maybe you should go out the private entrance. It’s on the side street. I’ll have the parking attendant bring your car over to you.”

  I looked at Nicky. He was smart. It was a big enough problem that there had been a shooting inside the restaurant. It would be too much if I got splattered at the entrance of the restaurant. Nicky didn’t want to take any chances. I started to laugh. “Nicky,” I said. “You haven’t changed.”

  He laughed and led me to the back door of his office. I followed him down the side of the lobby of the office building where the restaurant was located. Nicky took out a set of keys and opened one of the doors. “The building side doors are always locked at night. Just wait here and I’ll send the car over,” he said.

  The car was there in a few minutes. It was the same valet who had taken the car from me when I pulled up earlier. “Here you are, Mr. Cooper, no dings or scratches on the car.”

  I slipped him another twenty. The car didn’t have a scratch and I wished that I didn’t have one. The arm was sore.

  19

  I drove down the hill from Sunset Boulevard to Santa Monica Boulevard. I picked up the telephone in the case under my seat and called the Plescassier warehouse. I would have liked to go down there and make sure everything was okay, but I was in a Rolls. The warehouse was in Watts and that was not the right neighborhood to park a Rolls.

  A heavy voice answered the phone. “Plessycassy Company.”

  “Joe,” I said, recognizing the voice of our night watchman. I almost laughed: he could never pronounce the name of our company. “Buddy around?”

  “He left about seven, Jerry,” he answered.

  “All the trucks in? Everything locked up?” I asked.

  “Everything okay here, Jerry,” he answered. “Is there anything wrong?”

  “I don’t think so, Joe,” I said. “Just make sure you have the place locked up good. I’m gonna call Buddy at home and have him get you some extra men at night.”

  “Don’t worry, Jerry,” he said in a reassuring voice. “I got everything under control. I’ve got my ol’ police positive right here with me.”

  “Good,” I said, and put down the phone. I had forgotten that Joe was a retired policeman. I picked up the phone again to call Buddy.

  Buddy’s wife, Ulla, answered. “Buddy’s gone out,” she said. “I think he was on his way to see you.”

  “If you hear from him, let him know I’m on my way home,” I said.

  “Okay, Jerry,” she said. “Don’t forget, I’ve invited you for Norwegian dinner. You haven’t seen your godchildren for several months. They’re getting bigger every day.”

  “I won’t forget. As soon as things slow down a little bit, I’ll take you up on dinner. You know I love your cooking.”

  I turned off the telephone and put it back under the seat and got into the lane to turn west onto Fountain.

  Even at this hour Santa Monica was jammed. Gridlock at nine in the evening. The light changed and I turned down Fountain to Wilshire and made it home in about ten minutes.

  Buddy was sitting in the lobby waiting for me when I came into the high-rise apartment building. He looked at me worriedly. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m okay,” I said. “Let’s get up to the apartment.” We got into the elevator and I pressed the sixteenth floor. I had one of the four penthouse apartments in the building. It was a good setup. Maid and laundry service. They had an in-house restaurant that delivered by reservation to your apartment. Bar service twenty-four hours a day. Plus each apartment had a complete gourmet kitchen.

  We went into the apartment and headed straight for the bar. I fixed us both a scotch on the rocks. “Some shithead took a pop at me in Nicky’s restaurant.”

  “I know,” Buddy said. “I called Nicky. He told me what happened.”

  “Ulla said you were on your way to talk to me. What’s going on?” I asked.

  “We have trouble with the distributors,” he answered. “It was like an earthquake today. Every one of the distributors, all twenty of them, called in this afternoon.”

  “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  “Muscle,” Buddy said flatly.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Every one of the distributors said that two men came to their warehouses and told them that there was enough French waters on the market and they were replacing them with Italian water, something called ‘Dolce Alps.’ Outside they had a small truck and without another word they had their helpers bring in the Italian water and take out all of the cases of Plescassier.”

  “That’s it?” I said. “None of the distributors gave them an argument. Did they think we h
ad sent them?”

  “They didn’t know what was happening. They’re salesmen, not goons. They said it all happened so fast,” Buddy said.

  I shook my head in confusion.

  “Here’s the really strange thing. It all happened within the same hour. That means that it is a big operation. It took at least sixty to eighty men to hit everybody at once.”

  “That means they also had a list of all of our distributors,” I said. “Somebody must have gotten into our files.” I poured another drink for myself. “A big operation,” I said. “And also someone may be after my ass.”

  “You might have a few guys after you,” Buddy said annoyingly.

  I looked at him. “Any of the distributors get a tag number on any of these trucks?”

  “Two of them,” he answered. “Rental trucks. Budget and Ryder. All with Nevada plates.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll call Moe in Vegas tomorrow and find out who rented the trucks. Meanwhile, let’s get the vans out first thing in the morning to replace the bottles of Plescassier and pull out the Italian water and dump it in the city dump.”

  “We don’t have enough people working for us to get it done,” Buddy answered.

  “There’s enough unemployed in Watts to fill every job in Los Angeles. And I also want some muscle boys left at the plant in case we have any trouble there,” I said.

  “I’m going to need a lot of currency,” he said.

  “That’s no problem, I’ve got plenty of cash,” I answered.

  “That’s not the tough one to cover. The big currency is cocaine,” he said.

  “Do whatever you have to do,” I said to Buddy. “Pay for it. But cover your ass. Also, let’s get your wife and kids out of town. Let her go to her mother’s home in Norway for a month. I’m sure the kids would want to go.”

  “You think it’s going to get that rough?” Buddy asked.

  “Could be,” I said.

  “Sounds like the old days.” Buddy smiled.

  “Yeah,” I said. “First thing I have to do is call Jimmy Hoffa. He’ll talk to Giancana in Chicago. They all have big investments in Vegas.”