Shakedown

by Gerald Petievich

  Eddie Sands walked slowly along the edge of the terrace. He turned and shook his head. "Why are you offering this to me and not one of your people?"

  "You are one of my people."

  "You know what I mean."

  "Can you see Vito showing a badge?" Parisi said. He took a big puff on the cigar. "You're the expert on this shit. This is an art."

  "Are you sure Desmond has a hundred grand in the jug?"

  Parisi nodded. "People have checked this for me."

  Sands rubbed his chin. He stood up. "I don't think I want to do it," he said. "This guy is too high-profile."

  "You're talking about a hundred thousand fucking dollars," Parisi said.

  "Would you go back to the joint for a hundred big ones?"

  "This guy will pay like a slot machine. He's a fruit. If the public finds out he sucks cock he's finished. No more lunches at the White House, no more cover of Time magazine."

  "No thanks. Too risky."

  "I want you to think about it. Just think about it for a few days before you say no. I know you could pull this off with no sweat."

  "Like I said."

  Parisi raised his hands. "Okay, okay, I understand. But I want you to think about it."

  "Let me know when you have my money."

  "Huh?"

  "Let me know when the chips are downed and you have my money," Sands said.

  "Sure."

  "I'd like you to do this Desmond thing," Parisi added as Sands left the balcony.

  Sands walked through the living room, where Vito stood at the portable bar. Vito stared at him coldly. Sands stared back for a moment, then walked out.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Novak and Haynes had been summoned to Elliot's office. They left their desks and headed down the hallway.

  "I'll do the talking," Novak said. “Don’t let him piss you off. It's just the way he is."

  "Got a sec, fellas?" Haynes said in a credible imitation of Elliot. "I've got a couple of itty-bitty questions."

  They stepped into Elliot's office. Elliot, seated behind his sterile desk, smiled, waved a hand to offer chairs. "Just a couple of itty-bitty questions," he said as the agents sat down. Haynes cringed. Elliot opened a desk drawer, took out a pad and pen. "I want to be brought up to speed on the Parisi investigation."

  "The bomb that killed Bruno was a pipe bomb that's impossible to trace," Novak said.

  "What about the Corcoran brothers? They're bombers who work for the mob."

  "They were interviewed by the Treasury boys, the ATE They said they were playing canasta with their wives," Novak said in a businesslike manner, as if he were giving a presentation to a stranger, rather than to someone with whom he worked on a daily basis. "The wives corroborate the alibi. And no witnesses at the coffee shop could ID their photos."

  Elliot wrote on his pad, cleared his throat. "Do we have any sources into Parisi? Anyone who can help us monitor what he's up to?"

  Novak shook his head. "As far as the Parisi organization, Bruno was it."

  Elliot shook his head sadly. "Well, we can't just throw up our hands and give up." Having made the self-evident remark, he made a point of making eye contact with Novak, then Haynes. "What have you learned about Eddie Sands?"

  "We've seen him meet with Parisi," Novak said. "He has a girlfriend named Monica Brown, a con artist who's working a gold-mine scam-a daisy chain. Red talked to one of her victims."

  "And the Bruce O'Hara angle?"

  "He says he has no idea why Parisi would have mentioned his name."

  "I think you left one itty-bitty thing out," Elliot said. "The bug and wiretap."

  "Parisi didn't make any killer statements. Nothing that we could hang him with."

  "Is there some reason I wasn't notified that you intended to bug Parisi's hotel room? Like, I am the attorney-in-charge of this Strike Force."

  "I just forgot," Novak said, though the real reason was that he didn't want a dunce telling him what to do.

  "I forgot too," Haynes said.

  "I realize that under FBI and Strike Force regulations, you're not required to notify me of every investigative tactic you choose to employ, but I'm asking you as a favor to please keep me informed. This is why the Strike Force exists-to further cooperation among federal agencies in the fight against organized crime."

  Novak nodded. Haynes checked his wristwatch.

  Elliot fumbled through his notes. "You've spent quite a bit of time checking up on this ex-policeman, Sands. What makes you think he can do us any good?"

  "He talks to Parisi. There's not that many people Parisi meets face to face."

  "So you think that you might be able to make Sands work for us?"

  "We're going to try."

  Elliot looked down as if to check his notes. "Is there anything you've developed of evidentiary value that we can use against Tony Parisi?"

  "Not at this point," Novak said.

  "I hope you realize this is a crisis."

  "Why?"

  "Unless we can solve the murder of Bruno Santoro, we can never hope to persuade another witness to point the finger at Tony Parisi."

  "We're doing everything we can," Novak said.

  "Don't misunderstand. As far as I'm concerned I couldn't find two better men anywhere in the country to have on this investigation. But there will come a time when we'll have to pay the piper."

  Haynes fidgeted at "pay the piper."

  "Are you saying you don't think we're conducting an adequate investigation?" Novak said.

  "Certainly not. But what I am saying is that a quarterly inspection is coming up and they may be expecting more than what we have been able to give them. The Attorney General has taken a personal interest in solving this one. If you'll remember, at the outset I insisted that the Las Vegas police not be included in the investigation - that the Strike Force handle the matter from start to finish. I stuck my neck out, risked liaison problems with the locals, so that we could handle this one on our own.

  "So we're handling it," Novak said.

  "I'm not criticizing either of you in any way, shape, or form. I'm with you one hundred and fifty percent. But I'm not the one who calls the final shot on this. Because of the headlines Parisi has been getting lately, it may be the Attorney General himself."

  "What do you think is going to happen?" Novak said.

  "Frankly, I think there is a possibility that the case may be taken away from you. Reassigned. I give you my word that I would fight this one hundred and fifty percent, but you should be aware that with the atmospherics in Washington as they are, this could come to pass.

  After the meeting, Novak and Haynes said nothing as they moved down the hallway from Elliot's office and into the squad room. Along-for-the-Ride Tyde was at his desk reading Playboy.

  "There's word you two might get replaced on the Bruno Santoro case," Tyde said the moment they stepped foot in the door.

  "Where'd you hear that?" Haynes said.

  Tyde gave a furtive glance toward the hallway, opened a desk drawer, removed a piece of paper, handed it to Novak. It was a wrinkled copy of a letter typed on Department of justice stationery. It read as follows:

  TO: OC Strike Force Chief Lionel R Chenoweth

  FROM: Special-Attorney-in-Charge Ronald R Elliot SUBJECT: Murder of Bruno Santoro

  John Novak and Garth Haynes, the FBI special agents assigned to the investigation of the car-bombing which caused the death of confidential source Bruno Santoro, have failed to come up with anything of evidentiary value whatsoever which traces back to OC target Anthony Parisi. At this time their investigation is stalled and lacks direction.

  Because I see the solving of this case as the highest priority of the Las Vegas Strike Force, I ask your concurrence in replacing Novak and Haynes. I feel that it is in the best interest of the Strike Force to do so.

  Unless you object, my plan is to replace Novak and Haynes with veteran Strike Force (U.S. Customs) Special Agent Frank Tyde, who I feel will be able to inject some
new impetus to the investigation. It's been my experience that often a case can be turned around 150 percent by assigning a new investigator to the case.

  Though my administrative plate is more than full, I intend to work closely with Tyde in the capacity of an investigator as well as that of a prosecutor until I am able to bring this case to a successful conclusion.

  I accept full responsibility for the lack of progress that has been made on this case up to the present time. Because I feel strongly that with this case rests the reputation of the Organized Crime Strike Force in the Las Vegas District, I assure you I intend to take whatever steps are necessary to bring the killer or killers to justice.

  (signed) Ronald P. Elliot,

  Special-Attorney-in-Charge

  "Where did this memo come from?" Novak said.

  "His wastebasket. I check it every day."

  "Did he ask you about taking the case?"

  "Not a word. And if he does, I'll immediately go on sick leave. Why should I break my ass on a case? I already have my twenty years in."

  "What else have you found in his wastebasket?" Novak said.

  "Nothing much. Memos for the record which make him sound like the hardest-working prosecutor in the world. Grocery lists. Shit like that."

  Haynes shook his head. "That backstabbing, two-faced prick."

  Novak checked his wristwatch. It was noon - time for court to recess. He removed a few sheets of blank paper from a desk drawer, stuffed them into a manila folder to take with him, and took the elevator to the second floor. There he weaved through the surge of people exiting courtrooms into the corridor and made his way to a door at the end of the hall which had a television camera mounted above it. He pressed a buzzer, looked up to the camera. The door lock snapped. He stepped into a small carpeted reception area.

  From behind a polished wooden desk a young greasy-haired male clerk wearing a sport jacket with wide lapels and shoulder pads asked if he could help him.

  Novak showed his ID. "John Novak," he said. "I have an affidavit for a search warrant."

  The clerk looked up at a government clock on the wall, twisted his pinky ring, daintily pressed an intercom buzzer. "FBI Agent Novak is here with a search warrant."

  "Send him in," said Lorraine Traynor in a perfunctory tone.

  The clerk motioned to the door. Expressionless, Novak walked across the room, opened the door, and stepped into the judge's chambers. Shelves of law books covered the walls, and there was an abundance of greenery, potted and hanging plants which he knew Lorraine Traynor insisted upon caring for herself. Novak tossed the folder he was carrying into a wastebasket.

  Lorraine Traynor was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, next to a pile of law books. Her judicial robe was hanging over the high-backed leather chair behind her desk. She was wearing a yellow camisole and matching skirt. "How is the bombing case going?" she said.

  "It's going," Novak said. He shrugged off his suit jacket, tossed it on a sofa. "But Elliot is trying to make points with justice by asking that Haynes and I be replaced on the investigation."

  "How do you know that?"

  He sat down on the carpet next to her, leaned against the bookcase. "He wrote a memo saying he intended to take personal charge of the investigation."

  "Government prosecutor vying for promotion."

  "You guessed it."

  "Is there any way I can help?"

  "Before you were appointed, you worked in the same law firm as the Attorney General, right?"

  She nodded. "You want me to get the reassignment quashed."

  "I wouldn't ask you."

  "But it would be okay if I volunteered for the job. Right?"

  Novak nodded.

  "What should I say to him?"

  "Tell him Elliot is a bureaucratic climber and is using the Bruno Santoro case to show off for the department. Ask him to send word to the Strike Force that he thinks it's better for the original investigators on the case to continue on."

  "I should never get involved in something like this," Lorraine Traynor said. "I guess you know that."

  "That's why I would never ask you."

  Novak pulled her to him, kissed her fully on the lips. He tasted lipstick. "I love you," he said.

  She nuzzled his shoulder. "I love to hear you say that, John. I love you too."

  "I wish you weren't a judge," he said.

  "I guess it would make our relationship much simpler."

  "Maybe we should stop worrying about what other people think," Novak said. He released her gently, stood up, moved to the window, stared out. She followed him. He turned to her, and for a moment they just stood there looking at each other. It was still in the room; the only sound was of the traffic outside.

  "I've been single for the last twelve years," he said. "My marriage lasted less than a year. I never tried to make it work, because I was an FBI hotshot and marriage was at the bottom of my list of priorities. I've changed over the years. I'm arresting the same people over and over again ... for the same crimes. I guess what I'm saying is that I'm ready to..."

  She touched her hand to his lips. "I've dreamed of being with you, too."

  He took her hand away. "Then what are we waiting for?" he said.

  She turned away from him. "We need more time with each other before we make any decisions."

  "It's not that."

  "I don't want us to end up hurting each other," she said.

  "It's not that either," he said. "You're caught up in what other people think. You're worried that if we were married you'd have to drag a low-ranking FBI drone with you to dinner parties. 'And our guests tonight are her honor judge Lorraine Traynor and her GS-13 husband, who is neither a legal eagle, nor a casino executive, nor some asshole who happened to be born rich."'

  "I'm sorry to hear that's what you think of our relationship," Lorraine Traynor said. She turned to face him. Their eyes met.

  She had looked at him like that the first day he had testified in her court, and the time he had seen her sitting alone in a restaurant near the courthouse a few weeks later and asked if he could join her. He found himself breaking into a wry grin. She smiled.

  Novak took a few steps to the door.

  "Are you going?"

  With his eyes on hers, he turned the latch, locked the door.

  Lorraine Traynor removed her thick eyeglasses. "You're crazy," she said in a conspiratorial tone.

  Novak removed his gun and handcuffs, set them on the sofa, moved across the room to her, took her in his arms. As his lips sought hers, he reached under her skirt and maneuvered his hand under her panties. Gently he massaged her. She moaned softly and spread her legs a little. As she began to clutch him tightly, he felt wetness, readiness between her legs.

  "No," she whispered.

  "Yes."

  "I'm not going to do it here," she said.

  As she tried to push him away, he dropped with her to the plush carpet. His tongue found her neck.

  "You're such a pervert," she said breathlessly.

  Soon, Lorraine Traynor tugged on his belt, pulled down his trousers, freed him. He rolled onto his back, lifted her violently onto him. She caught her breath and closed her eyes. She dug her nails into his forearms as he plunged into her with measured strokes, the way he knew she liked it.

  She began to breathe faster.

  To keep the reception clerk outside the door from wondering what was going on, they covered each other's mouth as they experienced simultaneous orgasm. Then she leaned down, rested her head on his chest, hugged him tightly.

  "Don't ever do this again. I mean it," she said.

  "Sorry."

  She hugged him tighter.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  After a few minutes, they got up from the carpet and cleaned up in the bathroom which adjoined the chambers.

  Novak put his gun and holster back on as Lorraine Traynor combed her hair at the mirror.

  "Are you coming over Sunday?" she said. "I thought we could barbecue."
>
  "Wouldn't miss it."

  "Bring steaks."

  "Yes, your honor," he said on his way out the door.

  On Sunday morning, Novak rose early. He drove to the Strike Force office and let himself in. He strolled through the office to make sure no one was there. At a wall of filing cabinets, he unlocked a file drawer labeled "Parisi Organization -Closed Cases." He pulled out every file in the drawer and stacked them on his desk. He sat down, picked up one of the files, thumbed pages. Having reviewed it thoroughly, he set it aside. From the top desk drawer he took out a tablet and made brief notes.

  During the next several hours, he did the same with every file he had removed from the drawer. By three o'clock he had completed his notes:

  CASE TYPE

  SUSPECT

  Dispo

  1.Extort casino mgr

  Parisi assoc.

  Case dismissed

  2. Beating/Taxi Union officer

  Parisi assoc.

  Case lost on appeal

  3. Tampering/fed. witness

  Parisi

  Grand jury – no bill

  4. Bribe police officer

  Parisi assoc

  Case dismissed

  5. Tax evasion

  Parisi assoc.

  (Nolle pros)

  6.Transport stolen securities

  Parisi assoc.

  Susp. Now fugitive

  7.Interstate Trans. Aid Racketeering

  Parisi

  Case lost on appeal

  He tore the sheet from the yellow pad, shoved it into his pocket. Novak returned the files to the filing cabinet. He checked his wristwatch. He was almost late to meet Lorraine.

  On the patio of Lorraine Traynor's home, Novak dropped thick steaks on the barbecue grill. They sizzled. He picked up his third beer, took a sip.