Taken aback, Kabekoff rose slowly from his chair.
"Bail is set in the amount of five hundred thousand dollars' corporate surety," she said. "The clerk will call the next case."
"Thank you, your honor," Elliot said. The bailiff moved toward Monica.
Kabekoff sprang to attention. "Your honor. May I be heard, your honor?"
"Do you have something new to add to the case at hand, Mr. Kabekoff?"
"Your honor. Five hundred thousand dollars?"
"Do you have anything new to add to this matter, Mr. Kabekoff?"
"No. No, your honor."
"Then this matter is concluded. The clerk will call the next case."
As she was led toward the door to the holding area,
Monica's eyes were on Sands. Sands moved toward the rail. The bailiff opened the door to the holding area, ushered her inside.
Sands hurried to the courtroom door, caught up with Kabekoff. "I want you to appeal that bail," Sands said.
"I knew there was something fishy as soon as I saw a Strike Force attorney standing there for a routine bail setting," Kabekoff said. "But five hundred thousand dollars? Outrageous! They're trying to squeeze her for information."
"I want you to appeal," Sands said.
"I will. But I have five other cases to handle today before I get around to the paperwork. And I must tell you, this judge said the right things to make the bail stick."
"Shit," Sands said.
"Didn't you use to be on the police department?" Kabekoff said as Eddie Sands left the courtroom.
The street was one Eddie Sands was familiar with.
He climbed out of his car and moved briskly down the sidewalk, past dingy storefronts-an office of a lawyer who, Sands knew, dealt a little cocaine to supplement his income, a professional debt-collection agency whose employees used phony names when dealing with the public, a twenty-four-hour-a-day marriage chapel whose fly-specked bay window displayed a soiled, heart-shaped satin pillow resting on a stand, a Western Union office that reportedly did the largest money-order business of any in the world.
The office next door to the marriage chapel had burglar-alarm tape around the perimeter of its bay window and flaking gold letters which read "Joey Giambra-Bail Bonds." Sands opened the door, entered. The tiny office, which had nothing in it except a desk, a gray metal filing cabinet, a couple of chairs, and an oversized racehorse calendar on the wall, smelled of stale cigar smoke. The place was the way Sands remembered it. Joey Giambra, a diminutive middle-aged man with a waxy stayed-up-all-night complexion, was sitting at the desk.
"Eddie Sands. I used to be with the department."
Without standing up, the expressionless Giambra gave Sands a weak handshake. "I remember you," he said. "Intelligence. Your partner was Ray Beadle." He nodded to a chair. Sands sat down.
"I've got a problem," Sands said.
"Most people do who come here."
"The FBI arrested my wife on a humbug ... something about a fraud. It's a nothing deal. But they set a high bond on her because they're trying to squeeze me.
"How much are we talking about?"
"Five hundred thou."
"Five hundred? Which judge set it?" he asked, his loose false teeth making a clacking sound.
"Judge Traynor."
"She doesn't set 'em like that very often." Giambra's lack of expression changed into a sardonic smile. Using his thumbs, he pushed his upper dental plate back into position.
"I'm told you're the only bondsman in town who can handle a bond that big."
Giambra picked up a pen and a pad of paper. "How much cash you got?"
"Thirty-five grand."
Giambra noted the amount on the pad. "How much property?"
"No property."
"No property? Cars?"
"No cars."
"Jewelry?"
Sands shook his head.
Giambra set the pen down. "Looks like we're about four hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars short of collateral."
"I didn't come here to talk about any fucking collateral. My wife is in jail and I want her out."
Giambra tore off the sheet of paper, crumpled it, then threw it into a wastebasket. "Can't risk it," he clacked.
"I was a cop in this town. You've seen me around for years.
"If I post a yard and your old lady decides not to show up for trial I'm outta business."
"You have my word she'll show up. You can ask about me. The people know me."
Giambra stood up, adjusted his crotch. "If Eddie Sands is solid with the people, then he should have no problem getting a cosigner for the bond. Or you can wait for an appeal. Bonds get lowered eventually."
"I want her out. I want her out right now."
Giambra's wax mask made an expression that meant he had heard it all before, a thousand times. "I bet it's strange for you to be on the other side like this. I mean, after all the people you arrested."
Sands stood up as his anger welled. Joey Giambra stopped smiling as Sands moved closer to him. "Nothing personal," Giambra said. "You know how it is in this town. One day a guy's a headliner, the next day he's a friggin' lounge show. Nothing personal."
Without saying anything, Eddie Sands turned away.
"If you get something together, come back and see me," Giambra said.
Down the street at the modern twelve-story building that was the Las Vegas City jail, Sands showed his driver's license to a deputy sheriff, filled in a visitors form. The deputy pointed down a hallway to a door marked "Visitors." He made his way into the room. There were nine fixed metal stools facing a bulletproof glass partition. Only one was not occupied. He sat down and waited.
About fifteen minutes later Monica came to the window. She sat down across from him. Her hair was matted and she wore no makeup. As they picked up telephones, he noticed that the green prison gown she was wearing was fully two sizes too large for her.
"Are you okay?" he said and immediately realized that the question sounded stupid.
Rather than answering his question, she just stared blankly at him. Her chin quivered. She ran a hand through her hair, took a deep breath in order to compose herself "Can you get the bail lowered?"
"It'll take some time," he said.
Monica covered her eyes for a moment. She wiped tears.
"Murderers don't get bonds that high."
"The feds are doing this to make me talk," Sands said.
Monica Brown took a Kleenex from the pocket of her smock. She wiped her nose. "I know this sounds crazy, but I want to ask you a question."
"Go, hon."
"Is there anything you can give them?" she said. "I know you could never be a snitch or anything like that, but isn't there some information you could give them about Parisi that could have come from somewhere else?"
"Answering one question leads to answering another. It would never work."
"I can't sleep or eat in here. This place is full of dykes."
"I'm gonna get you out," he said.
"Please don't do anything crazy to get me out of here."
"I want you to relax, hon. I'll have you out of here in a day or two."
"I love you, Eddie."
"I love you too," Eddie Sands said. He felt like breaking through the glass with his hands and pulling her to him.
Sands moved along the sidewalk to his car. He stopped, looked back at the jail. He ran his hands through his hair a couple of times, then wandered across the street and into a bar. There were no customers in the place. A gray-haired bartender approached. Sands ordered a double shot of whiskey. The bartender poured the drink, set it on a cocktail napkin. Sands downed it. The whiskey burned his tongue and the back of his throat. His eyes watered.
"You okay, buddy?" the bartender said.
Sands didn't answer. After a while, he set money on the bar to pay for the drink. From a pay phone just inside the door, he dialed the number of the Stardust Hotel. When the operator came on the line he asked for Tony Parisi.
>
TWENTY-SIX
It was midday. Eddie Sands, with the air conditioner in the car on high, waited in the parking lot of the Desert Inn golf course. He had parked in a space next to a tall wire-mesh fence which paralleled the course, giving him a view of both the entrance to the parking lot and the palm-lined course itself. He checked his wristwatch again, watched a golf cart full of garishly dressed golfers cruise past a sand trap.
Parisi was late.
After a while, a Cadillac pulled into the parking lot. As it cruised toward him he recognized Parisi in the driver's seat. The Cadillac pulled into the space next to him.
Tony Parisi climbed out. He looked around cautiously, flicked ashes from his cigar, then motioned to Sands. Sands got out and joined him. Together, they began walking along the fence.
"What's the big emergency?" Parisi said.
"The feds arrested Monica on wire fraud."
"What's the bail?"
"Five hundred grand."
"You should be able to get it lowered."
"I tried, but the judge, some woman named Traynor, won't go for it," Sands said.
"What are you gonna do?"
Sands stopped walking. Parisi turned to face him.
"I ... uh ... I want you to go the bail for her."
"Five hundred large? Get serious."
"One phone call and a bondsman would do it for you. You have the juice to get her out."
Tony Parisi looked at his cigar, then at the golf course. "Like the wise man said, what the fuck is in it for me?"
"I'll shake down Harry Desmond for you. You said he's good for a hundred thousand. It'll be all yours."
"If Monica doesn't show for court, then I owe the bondsman five hundred."
"You have my word she'll show up for court. You'll make a hundred grand on the deal."
Tony Parisi gave him a condescending smile. "This broad means a lot to you, doesn't she?"
"You stand to make a hundred grand," Sands said, ignoring the comment.
Parisi bared his teeth as he puffed his cigar, emitted smoke slowly for a moment, then blew it all out. "When will you be ready to shake Desmond?"
"I'm ready right now."
"I'll arrange that Desmond's bodyguard won't be with him tomorrow night," Parisi said. "And I'll see to it that the people in the cashier's cage at the Stardust don't ask a lot of questions if Desmond makes any special requests." Parisi stared at the golf course. He puffed on his cigar.
"I need to meet the decoy," Sands said.
"His name is Skippy. He works station three at the casino bar. I'll prime him to expect a visit from you."
Nothing else was said as they walked back toward the cars. Parisi reached into his right trouser pocket. He pulled out a master key for the Stardust Hotel, handed it to Eddie Sands. "Bring this and the hundred grand back to me and I'll have Monica bailed out in an hour," Parisi said. He opened the door of the Cadillac, climbed in, lowered the window, stuck out his hand. "Good luck, kid," he said. They shook hands.
Sands was surprised that even on such a hot day Parisi's hand was completely dry and cool.
After the meeting with Sands, Tony Parisi drove down the Strip a few blocks. He turned right and, a block or so down the road, pulled into a supermarket parking lot, parked, turned off the engine. He sat for a moment keeping his eye on the driveway entrance to the parking lot until he was satisfied that no one had followed him.
He climbed out of the Cadillac, made his way across the parking lot to a bank of pay phones near the entrance. He pulled a slip of paper from his wallet. It had Mickey Greene's phone number on it. He dropped change and dialed. Greene's secretary came on the line. He gave his name. The line clicked.
"Hello, my friend," Mickey Greene said.
"I've found that boat you were looking for," Parisi said. "The owner is in town. But I don't know for how long. Are you still interested in buying?"
Nothing was said for a moment. Finally, Mickey Greene cleared his throat. "Absolutely. We're talking about the same price?"
"If you want the boat the price is doubled. You want to discuss it with your people and call me back?"
"We'll pay the price."
"Then you're telling me to go ahead with the deal?"
"Go ahead. It's a definite go."
"He expects a down payment soon," Parisi said.
"I'm coming over for the weekend."
"That should work out fine."
Then, without saying anything further, Tony Parisi set the phone back on the hook. He relit his cigar and stood there for a moment wondering what he would eat for lunch. Having decided on steak, he blew a little smoke and headed back to his car.
That night, in the Stardust Casino, Eddie Sands sidled up to the bar. The bartender approached. Sands noticed that his face was lightly sprayed with pockmarks, a feature he hadn't noticed before, probably because of the lack of light in the bar. "Are you Skippy?" he asked.
"I thought you might be the one Tony told me about," Skippy said. "I've seen you before." Eddie Sands didn't offer his hand. Nervously, Skippy folded his arms across his chest.
"When's the last time you were with Harry Desmond?"
"I'm nervous about this whole thing, man."
"Didn't Tony tell you to trust me?"'
"He said that you would handle everything. But I can't help being jumpy."
"Relax, Skippy. I just have a couple of questions."
"You're just like a cop. I mean like really."
"How about a little scotch?" Sands said. Skippy picked up a glass and a metal scoop. Expertly, he loaded the scoop with ice, dropped it into a glass. He poured a drink, set it in front of Sands. Sands took a little sip. "When did you first meet Desmond?"
"I worked some private cocktail parties he had in one of the suites. Afterward, when everyone else was gone, we just talked. He said he had trouble sleeping. I could tell he wanted to..."
"So now you're close," Sands said. "How does he let you know when he wants to get together?"
"He calls me at the bar. Or sometimes he comes down. He wears dark glasses around the hotel because people recognize him. He gets interviewed on a lot of TV shows."
"When you and he get together," Sands said, "does he have you come to his room?"
Skippy pursed his lips and shook his head. "Never," he said. "He's very discreet. He doesn't want to be seen with a ... gay. He rents a room for us on another floor."
"Exactly what is the procedure?" Sands said in an impatient tone.
"He'll call me at the bar and ask if I can get away for an hour. I say yes. He comes down to the bar and stands at the elevators over there. I leave the bar and we both get on the same elevator. I get off at the floor he does and follow him to a room. Sometimes he won't even go into the room if there's other people in the hall. Like I say, he's ultra-discreet. Ultra-closet."
"How does he pay you?"
"Cash."
"The cash ... does he take it out of a wallet?"
"Yes."
"What kind of a wallet is it?"
Skippy picked up a bottle, poured himself a drink. "It's a long one. Like a checkbook wallet."
"Is there a checkbook in the wallet?"
"I think so. Yeah, I'm pretty sure."
"How often does he usually want to see you when he stays here?" Sands said.
"Once a day. Usually in the middle of the evening," Skippy said with a wry smile. "He finds me irresistible. See, I'm Portuguese. And he told me he loves Portuguese men.
Eddie Sands sipped scotch. "Is there any way you could take a look at his checkbook without him knowing it?"
"He always showers after. He's a cleanliness nut."
"Tonight, if you can do it without any problem, I want you to get me one of his checks. Just one. Take it out of the back of the checkbook, not the front."
"No problem. Then what?"
"We'll talk again tomorrow morning."
TWENTY-SEVEN
The next morning, Sands had breakfast at the Dese
rt Inn. Though it was an all-you-can-eat buffet, he only picked at his food. He had slept fitfully most of the night, and he had a headache.
Skippy the bartender, wearing white trousers and a windbreaker, entered from the casino, spotted Sands, and headed for the table. He sat down. Sands thought he looked rested.
"How did everything go?" Sands said.
Skippy looked around, reached into his windbreaker, took out a racing form. He handed it to Sands. Discreetly, Sands looked at the opened form. Inside was a personal check which was imprinted:
HARRY DESMOND
MR. ENTERPRISE INC.
Personal Account
"You did good, Skippy," Sands said.
Skippy smiled. "That's what Harry said, too." He let out a high-pitched laugh.
Sands removed a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket, handed it and the racing form containing the check back to Skippy. "I want you to make out the check to ... uh ... the Desert Inn for six thousand dollars. Sign Desmond's name.
"Can I get in trouble for doing this?"
"This is something Tony Parisi wants you to do, Skippy. Would you like him to tell you in person?"
Skippy complied, then handed the pen and the racing form containing the check back to Sands. Sands shoved the items into his inside coat pocket.
"Can you tell me exactly what is going to happen?" Skippy said.
"You just do your thing again tonight. Make sure he stops by the bar to pick you up. In the room it's better if both you and he have no clothes on."
"That's no problem. He makes me strip the moment we walk in the door. He can't wait to get down."
"I want you to relax and just react the way you would if something like this were to really happen."
"The whole thing isn't going to work, you know," Skippy said.
"What makes you say that?"
"When we leave the bar you won't know what room we're going to."
"That's where the toothpicks come in."
Shakedown Page 15