Shakedown

by Gerald Petievich

  "That's him," Red Haynes said.

  Bruce O'Hara stared at them for a moment, then, followed by the studio cop, approached. The agents climbed out of the G-car.

  O'Hara led them into a carpeted and well-furnished mobile dressing room. Having offered them chairs, he tossed his kepi on a dressing table, lit a cigarette, paced a bit. "What brings the descendants of J. Edgar Hoover out here to this miserable suffering desert?" he said in a way that made Novak suspect he was worried about something rather than just curious.

  "During the course of an investigation it was reported to us that a man named Anthony Parisi had mentioned your name," Novak said. "Do you know him?"

  "Are you talking about the Parisi who's been in the newspapers recently? The Las Vegas mobster?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you know him?" Haynes said.

  O'Hara gave him a condescending look. "As a matter of fact I don't. What did he say about me?"

  "He said your name a few times while speaking on the phone."

  O'Hara smiled wryly. "And you were eavesdropping on him, right?"

  "Actually an informant told us he heard him."

  O'Hara took a puff on his cigarette, blew a thick smoke ring. "What did he say about me? Don't I have a right to know that?"

  "He just mentioned your name," Novak said, watching the smoke ring.

  "I was recently in Las Vegas. We were shooting some scenes near Boulder Dam."

  "But if you've never met the man, there probably would be no reason for him to be concerned with you shooting some scenes at Boulder Dam," Haynes said.

  O'Hara pulled a director's chair away from the wall and moved it closer to them. He sat down. "Who is this informant you're talking about? Or is that some big state secret?"

  "Bruno Santoro," Novak said.

  "This whole matter sounds a bit bizarre."

  "He was blown to bits. A car bomb," Haynes said.

  Bruce O'Hara furrowed his brow. "Am I in any danger?"

  Novak shrugged. "All we know is that Tony Parisi brought you up during the course of a conversation."

  Haynes cracked his knuckles. Bruce O'Hara cringed. "This is all very strange. I really don't know what to tell you," he said as if to close the conversation.

  Novak reached into his jacket pocket and removed a mug shot of Eddie Sands. He offered it to O'Hara. O'Hara took it to the dressing table. He removed a pair of French-frame eyeglasses from a leather case, put them on, examined the photograph. He swallowed, visibly lost color in his face, and sat down in his chair again. He handed the mug shot back to Novak. "Who is he?" he said, clearing his throat.

  "Eddie Sands, an ex-con and ex-cop ... one of Parisi's associates," Novak said.

  "Ever seen him before?" Haynes said.

  O'Hara removed his eyeglasses. "Can't say as I have." He returned the glasses to their case.

  "Can you think of any possible reason why Parisi would mention your name?" Novak said.

  O'Hara fidgeted in his seat, checked his wristwatch. Novak noticed that it was a gold Rolex. The thought passed through his mind that a real Foreign Legionnaire would never be able to afford such an expensive wristwatch.

  O'Hara left his seat again, moved to the window. The movie star stared out at the desert for a moment. "No, I can't," he said finally.

  "Have you ever had any business dealings with the Stardust Hotel and Casino?" Haynes said.

  Without averting his gaze from the window, O'Hara shook his head.

  "Have you been the victim of a crime recently?" Novak said.

  "No," O'Hara said without hesitation. He turned and moved to the dresser. He slapped on his kepi. Eying a mirror near the door, he adjusted the brim. "I'm sorry I can't help you, gentlemen, he said. The agents stood up and moved toward the door.

  "If there's anything you'd like to tell us, I promise it'll go no further," Novak said.

  "Sorry I can't help you, gentlemen," he repeated, making it clear that the meeting was ended. He reached for the door handle, opened the door.

  "Mr. O'Hara?"

  O'Hara turned.

  "Do you still live in Beverly Hills?"

  O'Hara nodded. "Yes, 11379 Rexford Drive."

  Novak handed a business card to O'Hara. "If you remember anything, I'd appreciate a call," he said.

  "He looked like he was going to faint dead away when you showed him the mug shot," Haynes said as they climbed into the government sedan.

  "We hit a nerve all right," Novak said. "We definitely hit a nerve."

  "I bet it has something to do with dope. Dope is ruining the world. It has ruined the world."

  "Eddie Sands has never been involved with narcotics," Novak said as they climbed into the sedan. "He went to prison for muscling people who owed Parisi money ... fixing cases for the mob." Novak started the engine. "That look on O'Hara's face meant that something is wrong," he said as he steered toward the highway.

  "We'll probably never find out what it is," Haynes said. "The bug on Parisi didn't do any good. No one in Vegas will say a word about him, including Eddie Sands. The bag job on his car was a waste of time. You didn't even get anything out of that waitress. We're spinning our wheels."

  The wind was blowing as Novak left the dirt road and returned to the highway. Large tumbleweeds crossed in front of the car, and he could feel the wind trying to move the vehicle into the oncoming lane.

  "Not really," Novak said. "We found out that Eddie Sands just got married."

  As Haynes turned to him with a puzzled look on his face, Novak pressed the accelerator closer to the floor.

  EIGHTEEN

  It was eight in the evening by the time Novak and Haynes arrived back in Las Vegas. Starving, they stopped at a fast-food place near the MGM Grand and picked up hamburgers and coffee. At the federal courthouse, Novak steered the G-car into a parking place. They went inside.

  In the Strike Force office, Novak shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it on the back of his desk chair. Haynes tore open the food bag and spread it out on his desk. He tossed a burger to Novak. Novak took a big bite of the burger, then opened the top drawer of his desk and removed a manila file folder labeled "Brown, Monica S."

  A sound came from the hallway. The door opened. Frank Tyde stepped into the room. "What were you guys doing over in L.A.?" he said.

  "Nothing much," Novak said, flipping through the file. Ignoring Tyde, Haynes ripped open a ketchup packet and emptied it on his burger.

  "Big day here. I spent the day filling out an expense voucher," Tyde said as Haynes took a big bite. "Then I got a shoe shine, bought some pencils at the government store, made a few phone calls."

  "Why are you still here?" Haynes said with his mouth full.

  "A guy from the New York office told me he'd try to get back to me today on a records check." He checked his wristwatch. "I'm waiting for him to call back."

  Haynes swallowed, sipped his coffee. "It's eleven P.M. in New York," he said. "The office is closed."

  Tyde folded up a newspaper that was spread out on his desk. He shrugged. "I know. But the three hours overtime I picked up waiting for the call maxes me out on overtime for the month."

  Novak continued to flip pages in Monica Brown's file. He stopped at a recent citizen-complaint report from the Salt Lake City FBI office. It read as follows:

  On August 12, one Mabel Kincaid (F, W, 63 yrs) was interviewed at the Salt Lake City Office at her request. She stated substantially as follows: On or about July 4-7 she visited Las Vegas, Nevada, to attend a quilting convention. While there she met Subject who told her she was an investment counselor specializing in investments for persons of retirement age, and described a trust involving the assets of a gold mine which was to be secretly sold by a member of a wealthy family and which would provide dollar-for-dollar profit for investors who were able to take advantage of this inside information.

  After Kincaid returned to Salt Lake City, she received a telephone call from Subject. Subject pitched her again with the investment and em
phasized that if she didn't act quickly the chance for a quick profit would be lost. After repeated telephone calls from Subject Kincaid finally sent a total of $3,000 by means of a U.S. Postal Money Order to Monica Butler, Las Vegas, RO. Box 5657. After Kincaid forwarded the money she never heard from Subject again. A check with the U.S. Postal Inspection Service, Las Vegas, revealed that P.O. Box 5657 was rented under the alias Monica Taylor. The driver's license used by the woman who rented the box (same general description as Subject) was determined to be bogus.

  FOLLOW-UP INVESTIGATION

  Bureau records show names Monica Butler and Monica Taylor as aliases used by one Subject, whose true name is Monica Brown (FBI #591360087). Subject was investigated by the San Francisco field office for similar scam three years ago. San Francisco case was declined by the U.S. attorney due to lack of prosecutive merit in that Subject, though she had been investigated for numerous confidence games, had no prior conviction for a similar offense.

  CASE DISPOSITION

  Because victim has no witnesses to the alleged scam, U.S. attorney Salt Lake City has declined to prosecute Subject.

  Because U.S. attorney has declined to prosecute, no further investigation will be conducted. Info provided to Las Vegas for whatever disposition you deem appropriate.

  Frank Tyde shuffled to the front door. "See you tomorrow, guys.

  Neither man replied. Tyde opened the door and left.

  "I'm looking through Monica Brown's package again," Novak said.

  "I read it," Haynes said as he continued to eat. "Sounds like Salt Lake City kissed off a good case."

  "I think we should try to revive the issue."

  "How so?"

  "Victims of confidence games never tell the full truth the first time they are interviewed."

  "Gimme the game plan."

  "I think you should head for Salt Lake. Reinterview the victim. In the meantime, I'll stay here and set up on Monica Brown."

  "We're going to focus in on the girlfriend of a guy who we see meet once with Parisi?" Haynes said. "Aren't we getting a little off base?"

  "I don't think so," Novak said.

  It was as hot as Las Vegas could get.

  Heat rose from the asphalt in the parking lot of the Silver Dollar Motel, blinding sun ricocheted from the chrome and glass, and the air was hellishly dry. Monica pulled into a parking space which she knew Leo could see from his room and climbed out of her Porsche. Carrying a large, heavy straw purse, she ambled past the registration office to the pool. She sat down in a deck chair and kept an eye on Leo's room.

  Leo peeked from the blinds, disappeared. The door to his room opened and he shuffled out, wearing his uniform of Hawaiian shirt and soiled white trousers. As he headed in her direction, he looked about suspiciously in an attempt, she thought, to show what a cool operator he was.

  "I figured you'd be back," Leo said. He pulled up a deck chair, noted what appeared to be melted and dried ice cream stuck to its seat, shoved it away, and grabbed another. He sat down.

  "I don't really give a shit what you figured," Monica said.

  Leo looked at the dirty pool. "You are here for chips?"

  "How many have you got?"

  "Two hundred grand worth."

  "I'll take them all at twenty points."

  "That will cost you forty K."

  "I'm ready."

  Leo removed a package of cigarettes from his sagging shirt pocket, tapped out a cigarette. He removed a silver cigarette holder from a trouser pocket, blew into it, inserted the cigarette.

  "Did you hear what I said?" Monica said.

  He flamed the cigarette, sucked smoke. "Sounds like you have a backer."

  "That's right."

  "I don't want to meet anyone."

  "You don't have to," she said.

  "Your money man is going to trust you with the entire transaction?" Leo said as smoke wafted from his mouth. He waved his cigarette holder through it.

  "You show me the phony chips, I show you my buy money. We make the exchange, just like that."

  Leo shook his head slowly.

  "Why are you shaking your head?"

  "You show me your buy money. Then I show you the chips and we do the deal."

  "Okay."

  Leo seemed taken aback. "Just like that?"

  "I'm ready to deal. I didn't come here to sit by this scummy Pool."

  Leo looked around carefully. "I guess we should make arrangements to see your buy money."

  "Once I show you the forty thousand, I don't intend to sit on my ass and wait to get ripped off."

  Leo smiled. "You won't have to. Everything can be done in a matter of minutes. The chips are nearby."

  "So, for instance, if I was to show you forty grand right this very minute, when could you deliver?"

  Leo's expression turned serious. "Within five minutes."

  Immediately, Monica lifted the flap on her purse, showed him it was full of banded bills. She closed the flap. "I have a gun. If you're thinking about ripping me off, you'll have to kill me right here in public." She looked at her wristwatch. "You have five minutes."

  Leo stared at her for a moment. Slowly, he stood up, looked about carefully. There was no movement in the parking lot. Suddenly a nearby door opened. Two swim-suited young black boys rushed out of a pool-front room yelling. They ran to the pool, jumped in, and began splashing about.

  Leo turned, moved deliberately toward his room. At the door, he stopped, noted that Monica was still sitting by the pool. He unlocked the door, entered the air-conditioned room. Cautiously, he moved to the window, looked out again. He told himself that Monica was too confident, moving too fast... but he had seen the money. Nervously, he checked his watch. "Fuck it," he said out loud. He hurried to a door leading to an adjoining room, unlocked it. Inside the other room, which a friend had rented for him, he flicked the air-conditioning control to the off position. He stepped up onto the bed, removed the grate from the overhead air-conditioning duct, and dropped it onto the bed. Carefully, he reached inside the ceiling space and, one by one, took out four heavy packets of counterfeit gaming chips. He set them on the bed, refixed the grate. Quickly, he gathered up the packets of chips and made his way back into his room. He dropped the packets into a plastic laundry bag. Carrying the bag, he moved to the front door and opened it.

  Standing in front of the door were two men dressed in business suits. The younger man flashed a badge. "Nevada State Gaming Commission," he said. The older, crew-cutted man standing next to him slammed a fist into his chest and knocked him violently backward into the room. He dropped the gaming chips as both men lunged for him. His face was shoved against a wall and he felt fingers searching his waistband, legs, and torso. His right arm was twisted behind his back. Handcuffs were snapped on his wrists. He was shoved into a chair with such force that it hurt his tailbone. He felt flushed, nauseated.

  Eddie Sands leaned down, picked up the plastic laundry bag. He opened the bag and looked inside, dumped the contents of the bag onto the bed. Using a penknife, he slit open one of the packets. Gaming chips fell out. Sands picked up one of the chips, held it up to the light of the window. He made eye contract with Leo. "What's your name?" he said.

  Leo swallowed twice, and looked up at Ray Beadle. "Can I have a cigarette?"

  Beadle socked him squarely on the nose, flipping him backward off the chair and onto the carpet.

  "Leo Gordon. My name is Leo Gordon."

  Sands moved to the bed, sat down. He looked at Leo.

  "Where are the rest of the chips?" he said.

  Leo didn't answer.

  Beadle moved to the dresser. He picked up a Coca-Cola bottle, lobbed it directly at Leo. The bottle made a bonk as it struck him squarely on the forehead. Leo yelped and cringed.

  "My partner asked you for the rest of the chips," Beadle said.

  "There aren't any more!" Leo said.

  "Where did you have them hidden?" Beadle demanded.

  Leo's terror-filled eyes turn
ed toward the door leading to the adjoining room. Beadle grabbed him by the hair and shoved him into the room. Leo nodded toward the air-conditioning duct. "In there," he said.

  Beadle stepped onto the bed, ripped the grate away from the ceiling. The duct was empty.

  "And now the cash," Sands said.

  "The cash?"

  "That's right, asshole, the cash," Beadle said as he stepped off the bed. "The money you've made peddling chips."

  Leo didn't move. Sands reached into Leo's rear trouser pocket, pulled out his wallet. Inside were three hundred-dollar bills. He pulled them out, tossed the wallet onto the bed. "Is this all?"

  "Do I get a receipt for that?"

  Beadle punched Leo in the stomach. Leo dropped to his knees, gagged, tried to catch his breath.

  Sands shoved the bills into his pocket. "Don't make us tear this room apart."

  "That's all the money I have," Leo sputtered. "So help me." His eyes were watering from the blow.

  "Mr. Gordon, you're under arrest for the felony crime of possession of counterfeit gaming chips," Sands said as he reached into his shirt pocket, took out a small card. He read: "Before we ask you any questions you must understand your rights. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court or other proceedings. You have a right to a lawyer. If you do decide to answer you can stop the questioning at any time to consult with a lawyer. If you cannot afford a lawyer and want one, one will be appointed for you at no cost. Do you understand those rights?"

  Leo Gordon nodded his head. "Yes."