JO01 - Guilty or Else (10 page)

Finally, I reached the back door. I knew the kitchen had to have one, and I felt a moment of relief as I twisted the knob slowly and it turned. I gently pulled and prayed that the hinges wouldn’t squeak as it opened. I needn’t have worried about the hinges; the door wouldn’t budge.

I pulled harder; nothing. Panic set in. I yanked on the door with both hands. Sweat gushed from every pore of my body. No use, the door wouldn’t open. It must be dead bolted, with no key in the lock. Definitely a building and safety code violation. Perhaps, if I were caught here, I could make a deal with these guys. They’d let me go and I wouldn’t turn them over to the building inspector. That ought to bring them to their knees.

I stood as still as I could, breathing slowly, in and out. I hoped they couldn’t hear the drum beating in my chest. After a few minutes, I moved along the wall back toward the door to the front office. I figured I’d wait them out. The light was too dim in the room to read my watch, but I knew it must be close to five. Wasn’t five quitting time? The freeways were jammed at five, people heading home. But that was just dreaming. No telling how long I’d have to wait, and every minute I waited was a minute closer to being caught.

I was now close enough to the door to hear the voices. One guy did all the talking; he spoke with a nasal wheeze. It had to be Karadimos, the boss, because all he did was bellyache. I could hear two other guys, both grunting.

Karadimos continued to rant, complaining about the lack of payment from a number of his deadbeat customers. He bitched about the ineffective collection efforts of the two guys in the room.

“God damn it, I want that money. Explain the situation to ’em. Hell, use a little finesse; try the two-by-four approach.”

“Okay, boss,” The other voices said in unison.

“All right then, get on it tomorrow,” Karadimos said.

“Anyway, the men must be through unloading the stuff. Let’s go check it out.”

I didn’t hear the front door open, but I heard it slam shut. I didn’t know if all three guys had left, but I couldn’t wait around any longer. I had to make my move. Peeking through the opening, I didn’t see anybody in the office, so I made a dash to the front door, where I stopped. I didn’t hear a car drive off. They could be standing right outside the office.

I opened the door about an inch and looked around the edge. Nobody in sight. I slipped into the yard and crouched down behind a black Mercedes, my pulse racing. I took a couple of deep breaths, then glanced over the hood of the car.

The three men walked with their backs to me toward the bins of rotten cantaloupes.

I duck-walked along the side of the Mercedes and stopped at the rear bumper. I eyed the expanse of wide-open land between the yard and the gate; no cover. But I couldn’t stay here. Maybe I’d draw less attention if I just stood and calmly strolled across the yard to the exit.

I was wrong. Halfway there someone shouted, “Hey, who the hell are you?”

I spun around. Two guys came rushing toward me, a heavy guy wearing a dirty tan jumpsuit, and another guy who looked a little like Elvis Presley. He had a pompadour and bushy black sideburns; he even had on the same kind of gaudy peach-tinted sunglasses the King used to wear.

“Whaddya doing snooping around here?” the big guy said, shoving me in the chest.

“I’m not snooping. I came to see the owner.”

The heavy guy shoved me again, this time hard. I stumbled back a little, but quickly regained my balance. “You touch me again and I’ll knock you on your fat ass,” I said.

I didn’t know if I could knock the guy down, but I was pissed. Amazingly enough, my threat seemed to work, because he backed off a little.

“Leave him alone, Willie,” Elvis said to the guy in the jumpsuit. “We’ll take him to the boss.” He pointed toward the office. “Let’s go, O’Brien.”

I tensed. Jesus H. Christ, these guys know who I am.

“Who’s O’Brien?” I tossed out the question like I was asking a stranger for the time of day.

“Knock it off, asshole. We know all about you,” Willie said.

“Yeah, the boss’s been waiting for you to show,” Elvis added.

I walked back toward the office, the two guys crowding each side of me. The door wasn’t locked. I opened it and went in.

“You like wandering in my yard, O’Brien? Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong? Keep it up, shyster, and you’ll find out who you’re messing with.” Karadimos was about the size of Rhode Island, but not nearly as pretty. He stood behind the desk panting like a rabid hyena. Someone had turned on the air conditioner jammed into one of the windows, and it pumped full blast. The room was cold, yet Karadimos’s face glistened with a sheen of moisture.

“I need information about Senator Welch,” I said.

Karadimos charged around the desk and stopped when he was close enough for me to feel his hot breath on my face. He moved fast for a man his size. “You stay away from him! I got money in his campaign and I don’t want you messing around.”

“I have to talk to him, that’s all. He might know something about the Graham murder.”

“Listen, punk, I don’t want you screwing around with any of my politicians. I bought ’em, I own ’em, and I intend to keep ’em in office where they can do me some good. You hear me?” Karadimos jabbed his finger in my face. “It’s a disgrace what people like you will do to tarnish the reputation of our public servants.”

I didn’t say anything. Karadimos returned to his desk and snatched a Kleenex from a dispenser. He mopped his forehead and threw the tissue on the floor.

“Come here.” He pointed his finger at a spot on the desk. “I want to show you something.”

I took a step forward and looked down at what he pointed at: a tiny fruit fly, probably from all the rotten cantaloupes outside. “Yeah, what about it?”

The insect moved slowly across the surface of Karadimos’s desk. He peered down at it. “The fruit fly has a life expectancy of three days,” he said.

“So?”

Karadimos took his thumb and ground it out in an exaggerated fashion. “This one didn’t make it.” He looked up at me. “Get my drift?”

C H A P T E R 
13

After leaving Cudahy I felt
drained. I wanted to get home fast to shower and scrub the scent of the meeting off me. It wasn’t the odor of the trash yard that bothered me; I needed to purge the stench of Karadimos and all that he stood for.

I opened the door to my apartment and heard the phone. Running to the kitchen, I caught it on the fifth ring.

“Ah, Jimmy my boy.” It felt good to hear Sol’s friendly voice. “I knew I’d catch you at home. A single guy like you should be out and about, having a little fun on a Friday night, prowling those discotheque joints, maybe.”

“Nah, I don’t get out much anymore,” I said, while rummaging through a counter drawer with my free hand.

“Why not call that good-looking D.A. you’ve been seen breaking bread with? I hear she’s between guys. Chewed up the last one and spit him out.”

“Are you kidding me?” I found a leftover chocolate donut in the drawer next to a pair of pliers and took a bite.

“She’s the prosecutor on the Rodriguez case. It would be unprofessional,” I said while munching on the dry but tasty donut.

“I’ll have her home number for you by Monday,” Sol said, laughing.

“Aw, Sol, you’re something else.” The fantasy of a date with Bobbi flashed through my mind, a pleasant fantasy.

“Hey, Joyce phoned me at the track. Told me about the tail, guy in a blue Buick. She said she gave you the plate I.D. What’s up?”

I told him about the car tailing me for the last couple of days, and my hunch that Karadimos had something to do with it.

“Andreas Karadimos, the garbage guy?” Sol asked.

“Yeah, but there’s more. I went to see him…” I recounted my meeting with Karadimos. I didn’t tell Sol how stupid I’d been for breaking into the office, but I told him that I felt I was being threatened.

“I know Karadimos,” Sol said. “He’s a bad actor. Has a lot of gelt, but dirty hands. And not just from handling garbage, if you get my meaning.”

“I’d like to know about his connection to Welch.”

“Listen to me, Jimmy. Karadimos is dangerous. If you’re going to butt into his affairs, you’d better get some protection.”

Sol was dead serious and it wasn’t like him to exhibit anxiety. I couldn’t think of a time when I heard him speak with an edge in his voice like this—unless, of course, he was talking about the IRS. “How serious is he about his threats? Does he follow through?” I asked.

“That
yentzer
is very serious. I’ve heard stories. Step lightly and watch your ass with this guy, Jimmy.”

“I’ve got the preliminary hearing coming up in a week. I can’t let that son-of-a-bitch slow me down.”

“
Boychik
, he won’t just slow you down; if you’re not careful, he could stop you in your tracks—dead.”

The dry donut felt like lead in my stomach. “Karadimos is that bad, huh?”

“I gotta be straight with you. He’s as bad as they get—wait a minute! I just had an idea. Yeah, it might work.” Sol paused for a moment. “Don’t let that fat-ass Greek worry you, Jimmy. It’ll be okay.” His voice held a hint of his usual confidence.

“Sol, what are you saying? Don’t let him worry me?
My God
, you just said he’s as bad as they come.”

“Jimmy, my boy, keep cool. I’ve got something in mind, but I’ve got to make a few phone calls. Anyway, here’s why I called you tonight: I want you to get down here tomorrow to meet a guy, a politico, a pro. He could shed some light on Welch and his campaign. You’ll have some fun too. Clear your mind for a day.”

“Joyce said you’re at the Del Mar race track.”

“You got it. I’m staying at the La Costa Resort. Meet me at ten-thirty in the hotel lobby. We’ll take the limo to the oval from there,” he said.

I sighed. Maybe Sol was right. A day off couldn’t hurt. “I’ll see you there.”

“And, Jimmy, one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Until I work out my plan, lock your door.”

C H A P T E R 
14

Saturday morning, I jumped on
the I-5 freeway at Lakewood and shot south. The speedometer needle swung through its arch, hovered at seventy for a while, then edged upward past eighty, fluttered, and settled in at eighty-five. I popped a Beatles tape into my eight-track, the “White Album.” “Back in the U.S.S.R.” and “Rocky Raccoon.” I beat my hand on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the music.

The Corvette screamed past the San Clemente turn-off, past the Western White House, and continued along the coast. Then at Oceanside, I rewound the tape and started it again. It was good.

I parked my Corvette in the lot at La Costa, walked past Sol’s limo sitting under the archway in front, and entered the hotel. Sol reclined in one of the club chairs clustered around the lobby, studying The Daily Racing Form.

“Jimmy, my boy,
shalom
.” Sol stood to greet me. He wore a lightweight white summer suit, a pink shirt with a blue collar, and a cream-colored tie. The suit coat fit in the shoulders, but I doubted he could button it.

“Thanks Sol, great view.” The lobby overlooked the resort’s Olympic-sized pool. He turned and glanced out the wall of windows. “Yeah, I think a—wow! Check that out. Is that bikini legal?
Holy Christ!
” The girl made Raquel Welch look like a boy.

Without turning back to me, Sol continued: “I’m glad you could get down here today, Jimmy…” He paused until the geezer with his arm wrapped around the young beauty’s bare waist walked out of our view. Then he pulled a paper scrap from his pocket. “Philip Rhodes is the guy who’s going to join us later at the track. He’s a political consultant, works with the Democrats. I don’t know him. But I’m told he’s sharp as they come. His public relations firm handled Cranston’s senatorial campaign. And get this: he’ll be handling Welch’s 1974 campaign.”

“He must know about the fundraiser last week,” I said.

“Sure. But I don’t know how much he’ll tell you about the Senator. Not in his best interests to rat him out, you know.” Sol stood. “But hey, let’s go. Time to head to the oval.”

“How’d you get the guy to come down here, anyway?” I asked as we strolled outside to the waiting limo.

“I called Chuck Manatt, the Democratic Party state chairman. He owed me a favor. And when Manatt tells a politico in his party to do something, they do it. Plus these guys are
shnorrers
, always looking for a hand-out for their clients.”

As we approached the limo, the chauffeur opened the rear doors. We climbed into the backseat. The limousine pulled slowly away from the hotel. A small refrigerator stood nestled between the black leather seats. Sol removed a bottle of chilled Champagne and opened it with a festive pop. He grabbed a flute glass from another hidden compartment and filled it half full.

“Too bad you quit drinking, Jimmy. This is supposed to be good stuff. Never had it before.” He examined the label. “Krug, Rheims, 1962. Sounds okay.” he said. “Bought ten cases. A guy I know from the track needed some cash in a hurry.”

“He bet his money on de bobtail nag?”

“He should’ve bet on de bay.”

“Doo-dah.”

“Oh! De doo-dah day.” We laughed.

Just south of Batiquitos Lagoon, we turned left onto the I-5 from La Costa Ave. and continued on toward Del Mar.

“Yesterday, you said you might have a plan to keep Karadimos off my back while I check out Welch,” I said as Sol took a sip of the champagne. “Said you were going to make some phone calls.”

“Hmm, not too shabby.” He raised his glass up to the light streaming in from the window, examining the pale liquid as if he were Pierre Cartier appraising a diamond.

“Hey, look at the little bubbles.”

“Sol, the plan?”

“Yeah, the plan.” He took another sip. “I left a few calls, need to talk to some people I know. They’ll get back to me,” he said, still studying the glass. “In the meantime, be careful and remember, your phones are probably tapped. Is the Buick still shadowing you?”