Shakedown

by Gerald Petievich

  Sands yanked the gun away.

  He worked the trigger until the gun was empty. Vito screamed as the bullets hit him. His body twisted, convulsed, and his head slammed loudly against a window. Finally, he stopped moving and there was a long, wet gasp as the last air he would ever emit came from his lungs. His body went slack.

  The interior of the upturned car was filled with the smell of gunsmoke and blood.

  Eddie Sands disentangled himself, reached for Beadle, who was lying slumped beneath him. He slid his hand under Beadle's collar, touched his carotid artery. Nothing. "Ray. Ray," he said. Then saw the hole in the back of Beadle's head. "No. Oh, God, no," he said.

  Sands found himself scrambling, crawling upward and out of the passenger window of the wrecked sedan as if death would take him too if he lingered. He dropped into sagebrush, backed away from the wreckage.

  The desert was still, and for as far as he could see there was dark gray landscape broken only by a string of telephone poles and wires wetted with moonlight. Regaining control of himself, he checked to see if he was injured. Nothing but a few scrapes. He hurried up an embankment to the roadway.

  For a moment, he just stood there hyperventilating, sick with fear, as he ran through the details of what happened. There were headlights in the distance, and he suddenly realized he was still holding the gun in his hand. He hurried back down the embankment, waited as he heard the sound of the car coming closer. Finally, the car sped by. He looked about. The wrecked sedan had ended up lower than road level in the sagebrush, hidden from view of those passing on the highway, at least until morning.

  His mind raced. He forced himself to return to the wreckage, climbed back inside. With some difficulty, he removed Beadle's gun holster and badge. He shoved them in a side pocket of his suit jacket. He used a handkerchief to wipe his fingerprints from the barrel and trigger guard of Vito's gun, then dropped it near his hand. He climbed back out of the wreckage.

  He told himself that there was nothing to tie him to the wreck and the bodies. Beadle had rented the car under his own name. He started to run toward Las Vegas, stopped himself, slowed down to a deliberate pace. It took him two hours to make his way back, keeping out of sight of cars and trucks passing on the highway. Finally, he reached the edge of the Strip.

  From a service station, he called a taxi. On the trip back to Monica's apartment to pick up his car he told an amused driver that he'd had a fight with his wife about losing his paycheck at the crap table and that she had taken the car and headed back to L.A.

  He was lucky at the city jail-the cop on duty remembered him and opened up the visiting room of the women's section. As Monica sat down on the bench opposite him on the other side of the glass partition, Sands thought she looked ill.

  "How did it go?" she said.

  "Ray's dead."

  "Jesus. What happened?"

  "I took the money to Parisi. Then he tried to hit me," Sands said, his voice cracking. "Ray got shot."

  "Why would Parisi try to hit you if you already gave him his money?"

  "Somebody must have put some paper on me."

  "But who...?"

  "Doesn't really matter. The point is, Parisi has paper on me and I'm dead, hon."

  "What about my bail?"

  "Parisi's got the hundred grand. I would never be able to come up with enough collateral without him."

  Monica lowered her head. After a moment, she looked up. There were tears in her eyes. "Poor Ray," she said.

  "I'm gonna have to do it, hon.," Sands said.

  "You mean..."

  "I'm gonna have to deal with the feds."

  "If you take the stand, things will never be the same. Your name will be shit."

  "It's the only way to get you out."

  "You don't have to do this for me. With good time and all, I'll probably end up doing less than two years." She swallowed hard. "It's not that long."

  Sands felt the taste of tears in his throat. "I'm no good without you," he said.

  "Oh, Eddie, I'm so afraid."

  "I am too, hon. But there's no other way."

  She sobbed. He reached out to comfort her and touched glass.

  "I know you really love me, baby," she cried. "You would never do this if you didn't love me."

  At a pay phone just outside the visiting room, Eddie Sands thumbed through a soiled telephone book, found the number for the FBI. He dialed, asked to speak with Agent Novak. An operator asked his name and the number of the phone he was calling from. As Eddie Sands gave the information to her, he realized he was shaking so badly he could hardly hold the phone receiver. The operator told him Novak would call him back in a few minutes.

  As Eddie Sands set the receiver back on the hook, he surveyed the graffiti scrawled on the wall near the phone. "Fuck Apartheid." "Chuey eats it." A few names and phone numbers, attorneys and bail bondsmen. Above the instrument itself, written in backhand script, was a message: "Leroy Stane is the rat who put my man inside." Eddie Sands wondered whether he should call Leroy Stane, whoever the fuck he was, and ask him what it was like to be a snitch.

  The phone rang. Sands let it ring three times before he picked up the receiver. It was Novak.

  "We need to talk," Sands said.

  "About what?"

  "About what you want from me."

  "Can you come to the office?"

  "No."

  "Then meet me at the Mobil service station at the end of the Strip," Novak said. "The one with the big signboard. I'll be parked in back."

  TWENTY-NINE

  Eddie Sands cruised into the driveway entrance of the service station. The lights in the station were off, but from above, an enormous illuminated billboard, depicting a dripping bikini-clad blonde lounging next to the Tropicana swimming pool, bathed the lot in weak gray light. He pulled past the gas pumps.

  Novak's car was parked behind the station. Sands parked next to it, turned off the engine. He climbed out, looked about, wandered to the front. Novak was not there. He headed back toward his car. As he passed the corner of the station building he heard a noise like a door creaking.

  The barrel of a gun touched his neck.

  "Easy, Eddie," Novak said.

  Sands stood still as he was frisked. "Clean," Haynes said. Novak stepped in front of Sands. "Nothing personal," Novak said. He shoved his revolver back into a holster. He was wearing a sport coat and an open-collar shirt.

  "It's just that our doctor recommends that we shouldn't allow bullets to enter our bodies," Haynes said.

  "Don't get the idea that I came here to bend over for you feds," Eddie Sands said.

  Novak reached into the side pocket of his sport coat, took out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Sands. Sands accepted. Novak flamed a lighter, moved the light close to the end of Sands's cigarette. Sands puffed. Then Novak lit his own.

  "I'm willing to do something for you people, but I want some guarantees," Sands said.

  "Like what?"

  "I want Monica released, out of jail, and all charges on her dropped immediately."

  "In exchange for what?"

  "In exchange for Parisi's head." He took a deep drag on the cigarette, blew smoke.

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means I can tell you how he runs the casino skim operation, how his organization is run, where his juice comes from. The works."

  Novak sauntered to his car, leaned on the fender. "Are you offering to testify against him in front of a federal grand jury?"

  "I don't want to testify."

  Novak puffed smoke. "The only way I can put Parisi away is with an indictment. To get an indictment someone has to testify."

  "People know me in this town."

  "I know it's not an easy decision," Novak said.

  Sands realized his hands were sweating.

  "I'm offering to give you enough information to put him in the joint. I just don't want to do it on a witness stand ... on front street."

  "Front street is where all the bi
g cases are made."

  "So you're telling me that if I won't go before a grand jury then there's no deal?"

  "That's right. Monica will have to take the fall."

  "I know what you're doing," Sands said. "I know your fucking game."

  "The decision is yours," Novak said. With a roar, a trailer truck sped past the service station.

  "What I want is my wife out of jail."

  "What I want is you before a federal grand jury. Without that we can't do business."

  "Let's say I agree to the grand-jury bit," Sands said. "Would you let Monica out?"

  "I could get the bail lowered. She'd be released on her own recognizance."

  "I want the charges dropped completely."

  "As soon as your grand-jury testimony was completed, all charges on her would be dropped," Novak said.

  "If I testify, I want immunity from prosecution on anything I testify about."

  "Sounds fair enough."

  "And I want a new identity for Monica and me. We want to be placed in the witness protection program."

  "That can be arranged," Novak said.

  "Then we have a deal?"

  John Novak took one last puff on his cigarette, dropped it, crushed it with his heel. He looked Eddie Sands in the eye. "We have a deal," Novak said. "Do you know where the Wheel of Fortune Motel is?"

  Sands nodded.

  "Go straight there. Rent two rooms. Register one under the name Novak, the other under a phony name. Wait there for me."

  Sands headed toward his car, climbed in.

  "Do you think Elliot will go for the deal you just made?" Haynes said.

  Novak just stood there in thought for a moment. "I'm not sure Elliot actually wants anyone to take the stand against Parisi."

  Haynes stepped closer. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?" he said in a somber tone.

  Novak looked his partner directly in the eye.

  "Elliot's no dummy," Haynes said. "If you're right, you'd never be able to prove it. Not in a million years."

  "It might be worth a try," Novak said.

  "You're serious about this."

  "You don't have to help. It's strictly up to you."

  "You can count me in one hundred and fifty percent,"

  Haynes said with his best Elliot smile.

  "We're gonna have to move fast, Red."

  About twenty minutes later, John Novak stood alone at the telephone booth at the corner of the service station's lot. He dropped change, dialed a number. The phone rang.

  Elliot answered. He sounded fully awake.

  "This is Novak. Sorry to bother you so late, but we need to talk. Eddie Sands has turned. He's ready to testify against Parisi."

  "Where are you?"

  Novak told him. Elliot said he'd be right there.

  Less than twenty minutes later, Elliot drove into the service station and parked his station wagon next to a gas pump. Novak moved to the vehicle, opened the door, climbed in.

  Elliot turned off the engine.

  "How did you get Sands to turn?"

  "I promised to drop charges on his wife and give him immunity."

  "I love it."

  "And put him in the witness protection program."

  "No problem whatsoever."

  "When do you recommend we put him in front of a grand jury?" Novak said.

  "If we get into a big rush and throw him in front of a grand jury before we have a case ready, it could hurt us in the long run."

  "Until we have him on the stand there's no way to lock in his testimony."

  "I'm not sure when the next grand jury will-"

  "I checked," Novak interrupted. "The grand jury is scheduled to meet at eleven a.m."

  "Of course," Elliot said. He studied Novak for a moment, then gave his key ring a little twirl.

  "Sands will be a better witness than Bruno could ever have been," Novak said. "Parisi got him out of the joint. He was on Parisi's payroll when he was a cop. He can sink the ship."

  "I understand how anxious you are to get him on the stand, but my best advice is to proceed carefully. A series of appearances before the grand jury-"

  "I just got off the phone with the Bureau agent-in-charge," Novak lied. "He agrees with me that the grand jury as soon as possible is the best way to go."

  "And if I disagree?"

  "He's willing to phone D.C. and wake people up, let them decide."

  "No need for a Bureau-Strike Force squabble. I'm behind you a hundred and fifty percent. If you feel that strongly, we'll put Sands on the stand immediately."

  Novak unlocked the car door. "I'll have him debriefed fully by eleven a.m.," he said.

  "Considering the circumstances, it's probably better to put him on the stand cold."

  "You don't want me to debrief?"

  "If he's our ticket to putting Parisi away, then let's not give the defense the opportunity to say we coached his testimony."

  "Not even-"

  "I feel strongly that the best way to go is to put him on the stand cold. Keep him on ice. Don't let him speak to anyone before eleven."

  Novak shrugged. "If you think that's what we should do," Novak said.

  Elliot gave him a friendly cuff on the shoulder. "By the way, congratulations on turning the most important witness in the history of the Las Vegas Strike Force. I mean that."

  "Thanks," Novak said. He opened the door and climbed out of the station wagon. His mind raced.

  "One more thing," Elliot said.

  Calmly, Novak turned, leaned down to the open passenger window.

  "I'll take care of the paperwork to get formal witness protection authorized, but in the meantime it's best if you stay with him personally. If he starts to get cold feet, you can hold his hand."

  Novak nodded. "Sure."

  "I think it's best to stay away from the federal courthouse. Someone might see him."

  "I'll take him to a motel."

  "As soon as you get a room I want you to call me."

  "Sure."

  Elliot looked as if he wanted to say something else. He started the engine. "One more itty-bitty thing," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the engine. "I didn't get a chance to tell you today, but I was able to quash the suggestion from D.C. that you and Haynes be pulled off the case."

  "Thanks," Novak said, though he felt like grabbing Elliot and pulling him through the window. Elliot gave a little salute, drove out of the service station.

  Novak stood there in thought as Elliot's car moved down the highway. The station wagon's taillights faded into the distance and finally disappeared.

  Novak's attention turned to the parking lot of the auto-parts store down the street. Vehicle headlights came on, and Haynes steered out of the darkened parking lot onto the highway. He cruised directly to the service station, squealed brakes as he came to a halt. Novak met him as he climbed out of the driver's door.

  "He left his house about three minutes after you phoned him," Haynes said. "I followed him from his house to a convenience market." Haynes reached into his shirt pocket, removed a small notebook. "A market at 85463 Boulder Highway. He parked, made a call from a pay phone-a short call-then he headed straight here. I stayed way back. He never made the tail."

  "How far was the telephone booth from his place?" Novak said.

  "Four, maybe five blocks -right after you come out of the residential area onto the highway. At first I thought he was going to meet someone, but he just made a quick call."

  "Right to Tony Parisi."

  "I hope you're right."

  "I want you to stop by Metro PD," Novak said. "Borrow three of their walkie-talkies, a mouthpiece transmitter, a couple of shotguns, and a box of shells. Don't go to the office. And talk to no one."

  "I get it."

  "We need another man. Roll out Frank Tyde. Don't call him. Pick him up at home. Head for judge Traynor's house."

  "Judge Traynor's house?"

  "She'll be expecting you," Novak said.
<
br />   THIRTY

  The Wheel of Fortune Motel, like a lot of the motels which existed solely because of their proximity to the downtown Las Vegas casinos, had seen better days. The balconies of the three-story rectangular structure looked out at slow-moving glitter-gulch traffic, an undersized swimming pool surrounded by a chain-link fence, and a sprinkling of old cars in the parking lot, but the rates were affordable to down-on-their-luck gamblers and FBI agents trying to keep within the limits of their expense allowance.

  Novak parked his car near the registration office where it could be easily spotted from the street. He checked his wristwatch. It was one in the morning. He made his way to Room 27, knocked on the door.

  Eddie Sands let him in. Novak immediately locked the door behind him, then checked the door to the adjoining room to make sure it was unlocked. Sands, wearing socks without shoes, returned to a small sofa.

  Novak moved to an end table, picked up the phone receiver. He dialed. As the phone rang, Novak noticed that the television was tuned to a talk show. A man who had won an egg-eating contest was being interviewed by the gray-haired host. Elliot answered. "Novak here. I've got Sands at the Wheel of Fortune Motel, Room 27."

  "Thanks for keeping me informed. Everything okay?"

  "Fine."

  "Try to get some sleep," Elliot said. "I'll see you in the grand-jury room." The phone clicked.

  Novak set the receiver down.

  "Who was that?" Sands said.

  "The attorney-in-charge of the Organized Crime Strike Force."