JO01 - Guilty or Else (12 page)

My eyes wandered around the Terrace Garden. Everyone was decked out in expensive clothes, dressed to the hilt. They obviously had plenty of cash to toss around. They wouldn’t even notice the loss of a couple hundred. That was just tipping money to these people. They were full of smiles and falling all over themselves with laughter. What a happy crowd. I knew money couldn’t buy happiness. I thought everyone knew that, but I guessed that these people hadn’t gotten the memo. Ignorant fools, thinking they were happy, probably going through their whole lives thinking they’re happy. It was sad. They’ll die without ever knowing they weren’t happy.

Sol had returned and slipped into his seat. Handing me a couple of parimutuel tickets, he said, “We’re down on the number three horse, Street Dancer, ridden by Jorge Torres.”

I stared at the tote board. “The favorite is the eight horse. He’s even money.” I wondered if Sol knew what he was doing. “But we’ve bet on Street Dancer?”

“Yeah, the morning line on Street Dancer was twelve-to-one. A long shot. But now he’s six-to-one. I only bet five, I didn’t want to drop the odds any farther.”

“Hundred?”

“Thousand. Your two hundred won’t affect the odds, but if I made a big bet, the odds would drop off the chart, would look funny.”

I looked at the program. “Windy’s Daughter is ridden by Eddie Cruz. It’s the heavy favorite, Sol. Do you think Street Dancer is a better horse than Windy’s Daughter?” Not that it mattered; he’d already bet our money on Street Dancer.

Sol chuckled. “You know better than that. Windy’s Daughter is a great horse, better than the one we bet on. But the jockeys decide who’s going to win the race, not the horses.”

I didn’t want to mention anything about the ethics of fixing horse races. Not with my two hundred on the line.

The horses pranced around on the track, wound up and fidgety, and soon they were set to go. The grooms shoved the last one into the starting gate. Taking a deep breath, I wondered if it would do any good to cross my fingers.

The bell rang. My pulse quickened. The racehorses jumped from the starting gate. The public address system bounced the announcer’s voice around the grounds, broadcasting the horses’ positions as they stormed down the track. Street Dancer was third around the far turn. It looked like Torres was pacing our horse well, but Windy’s Daughter was running first and running easy. They maintained their position down the backstretch and around the near turn until they entered the final straightaway.

Thundering down the homestretch, Windy’s Daughter held the lead, but our horse improved his position, second by a length. About one hundred yards from the finish, Street Dancer started to slow, bobbing his head. It was obvious that the better horse, Windy’s Daughter, would win the race. I would lose my money. My mind spun; maybe I could sell my car, move to a cheaper place, or whatever.

Then it happened. Cruz inexplicably stood in the saddle and tightened the reins.

A guy at the next table jumped up and screamed. “Look at that! Cruz missed the finish line. Thought he won the race. He’s done that before. God damn!”

At that moment, Torres gave Street Dancer his way and let him run. His powerful muscles rippled, and the thoroughbred’s synchronized legs were a blur as the magnificent animal charged at Wendy’s Daughter. He took the lead. And before Cruz could recover, it was over. Street Dancer won the race by a nose.

A deep resounding roar like an eight-point earthquake erupted from the fans. I bolted from my seat and looked out into the infield. My eyes and the eyes of 30,000 other fans were glued to the tote board. I waited for the official declaration that Street Dancer had won.

After a minute of dead silence, an aftershock rose from the crowd; my stomach lurched. The word INQUIRY flashed bright and red before my eyes. I turned to Sol. He was studying the dessert menu.

“They have a crème brûlée here that’ll knock your socks off. Where’s the waiter?” he said.

“Crème brûlée—dessert—what the hell! What about the inquiry?”

“A mere formality, my boy. Sit down, you worry too much.”

“It was no accident. Cruz stiffed the race,” I said.

“Of course he did. That’s why we didn’t bet on Windy’s Daughter,” Sol said.

“But how’d you know?”

“The good looking blonde is Cruz’s new wife. When she shows up with the big purse, it means the fix is on. The purse is full of money.”

“Okay, but how’d you know to bet on Street Dancer?” I asked.

“The teller at the $100 window is my friend, tells me which horse Cruz’s wife had bet on. Besides, The Cruiser only does this when Torres is riding in the same race.”

“Do they do this often?”

“Nah, only once in a while. Maybe a couple times during a meet. Then six months will go by before they do it again, at a different track.”

“So today was the day, but you figured it out before his wife left for the window.”

“Sure, everything fit. Eddie Cruz was the heavy favorite. Torres was in the race, a long shot, and the blonde was here with her big purse. Didn’t you notice the purse didn’t match her outfit? Anyway, when Cruz’s wife started to leave the table with the purse, I knew the fix was on. Everything fit and it worked.”

“Except for the inquiry.”

“Well, Eddie the Cruiser was a little too obvious. The horse, Windy’s Daughter, wanted to run and win the race.”

Sol made eye contact with the waiter. He came over and we each ordered the crème brûlée.

A low murmur from the fans rumbled through the warm afternoon air. The sign on the tote board had changed from INQUIRY to OFFICIAL. Street Dancer was declared the winner and paid six to one. I jumped and shouted. By then I was a nervous wreck. But we won! My two tickets were worth over $1,400. I could keep my car and have money to defend Rodriguez, after all.

After I calmed down, I asked Sol about the inquiry. “It took a while for the stewards to decide who the winner was,” I said.

“Nah, there was nothing to decide. Who knows, maybe they’re in on the deal. Disgraceful…” Sol shook his head. “But, remember, most of the people bet on Cruz and the stewards wanted a cooling off period, that’s all. Didn’t want the crowd to riot, would be unseemly.”

I glanced around and saw people with angry faces ripping betting tickets to shreds. “But these are powerful people. Don’t you think they’ll be a little pissed?”

Sol smiled. “Who cares,” he said, as we got up to go cash in our tickets.

C H A P T E R 
17

We glided in the big
limo back to La Costa. The stereo played a ballad by Mel Tormé. I gazed out the window while Sol sipped Champagne, unusually quiet. I thought about my day at the races and the money I’d won. What a day.

The limo rolled onto the curved cobblestone driveway at the entrance of the resort. Guests in pairs strolled in and out of the wide, heavily carved doors leading to the lobby. The visitors seemed carefree and relaxed. A few couples, dressed in tennis whites, swished their rackets through the air, talking about their killer serves and dynamite backhands, no doubt.

I stood in the driveway next to the limo. Sol climbed out and one of the parking guys went to get my car. I was ready to get started on my trip back to Downey, back to reality.

“I had a great time. Thanks, Sol.”

“Sure,” he said. “By the way, Joe Sica has agreed to help you with Karadimos. All you have to do is say the word. That was my phone call today.”

I froze with my mouth open. Joe Sica was the godfather of organized crime in Southern California. The leader of what the media referred to as the Mickey Mouse Mafia.

I started to thaw. In fact, I started to sweat. “What? The mobster? Jesus Christ! I don’t want to be mixed up with those guys. They help me and I’ll owe them—forever.”

“Calm down, Jimmy, my boy. Let’s go in the hotel. We’ll talk it over in the bar. I need a drink and you can have coffee or something.”

“You hook me up with Sica and I may start drinking again.”

“Don’t make a decision about Joe until you hear me out.”

It was after six. High rollers back from the track filled the lounge. The happy hour was in full swing. A jazz trio belted out the old standards. A singer who sounded a lot like Billie Holiday sang “Body and Soul.” The crowd stopped lying about their winnings and listened. She was that good.

We found a table in the back, away from the people.

“Why? Why would you want to set me up with an animal like Joe Sica?”

“Because, I don’t want to see you get hurt. Karadimos is worse than the Mafia, a lot worse, and you need help to stay alive.”

“What can I say?”

“Nothing, just hear me out.” Sol stopped talking when the waiter came to take our drink order, a Coke for me, and Beefeater’s on the rocks for him. It was after six, time to start his real drinking. The wine, Champagne, and gin and tonics earlier in the day didn’t count.

“I called Joe while you were talking to Rhodes. There’s bad blood between the Mafia and Karadimos’s new gang, and you know the saying: ‘the enemy of my enemy’.” He searched my eyes for an answer.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I won’t get involved with those guys.”

“You won’t be involved. They’ll just kind of watch over things. Help out when you need a little protection. They know the territory and they know how Karadimos operates.”

“No.”

“Goddammit, they can protect you. If you aren’t concerned about yourself, think of your client. You’d be no good to Rodriguez, dead.” Sol paused, set his drink on the table, and leaned into me. “Hey, maybe you wanna quit the case.”

“Aw, Christ, you know I’m not going to walk away. But why do you say Karadimos is worse than Sica? Am I going from the frying pan?”

“Look Jimmy, I know these guys—”

“Mobsters are your buddies?” I asked in a sarcastic tone.

“You know better than that. I’m surprised at you. I don’t do business with them directly. I work for their lawyers. Like I do for you and your clients. Except they pay me.”

“Touché,” I said.

“Well, sometimes I do get involved with Sica. I go to his restaurant.” He picked up his Beefeaters and took a sip. “He’s got the greatest seafood bistro on the planet. He comps me, everything on the house.” Sol’s face brightened. “Hey, Jimmy, I’ll take you there. You won’t believe the abalone—”

“Sol, please.”

“Okay, but listen to me, you’ve gotta trust me on this.”

“You know I trust you, but these guys are Mafia. Christ almighty.”

“Let me tell you how I met Joe Sica.” Sol looked around carefully, then lowered his voice. “It was a few years back. The Feds had him dead bang on a tax rap. He was going down, five years minimum for that. But they were also going to nail him with a laundry list of other charges having to do with drugs.”

The waiter came back with our drinks on a serving tray. When he left, Sol continued with his story, telling me about how he worked for Sica’s lawyer, Sidney Grossman, and somehow managed to prove that Sica wasn’t involved with drug trafficking. Sica pulled a nickel for the tax rap. He’d just recently been released.

“So Jimmy, if he’d been convicted on the drug thing, he’d still be in the joint. He owed me one, and I called in the favor.”

C H A P T E R 
18

Just beyond Capistrano Beach, I
turned off the I-5 and took the longer route back to Downey, the highway running along the coast. The Spaniards, late in the eighteenth century, originally cut the road through the hills at the edge of the ocean and named it El Camino Real, the Royal Road. We paved it over and renamed it Pacific Coast Highway. Maybe the tranquility of the scenic drive would help alleviate my anxiety.

I drove into a cutout, a view spot on a high steep bank overlooking the ocean, and stared out at the sea. The sun was slipping below the horizon, its golden path glittering on the water. Huge breakers were rolling in from the south swell caused by Hurricane Estelle down in Mexico. The wind blew, carrying with it the salt-tinged fragrance of the Pacific. I stood at the edge of the bluff thinking about the greed and corruption of organized crime. I thought about the destruction, violence, and lives ruined. I thought about my discussion with Sol.

Sica had hinted to Sol that Karadimos was involved in activities that were not compatible with the Mafia’s traditional businesses. The Mafia’s code of silence prevented Sica from telling Sol specifics, but he let it be known that a territorial gang war was brewing between the mob and Karadimos. I asked Sol if he had any idea what the war was about. Sol said he didn’t know, but Sica summed it up in one word, “Bad news.” I pointed out that bad news is two words. Sol winked mischievously and said, “Yeah, but it’s not smart to argue with the godfather of the California Mafia.”

I realized Sol’s concerns about my safety were real.

Before we left the bar at La Costa, he convinced me to at least meet with Joe Sica. If he wanted to keep me alive for his purposes, so be it. As Sol had said, there was nothing illegal or unethical about staying alive. If Sica called, I’d hear him out, but wouldn’t ask for any favors.

The wind shifted. The golden path disappeared with the sun, and darkness crept over the horizon. I walked slowly back to my car.

When the phone rang, I was home drinking my second cup of coffee and working my way through the Sunday morning
Times
. The comics always came first, then the sports page. If I had time after it, I’d read the rest of the paper.

“You O’Brien?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Joe Sica. You’ll meet me at Alfred’s Pasta House on Atlantic Ave. in South Gate. You’ll be there at eleven this morning.”

Before I could answer, he hung up.

I looked at my watch: ten minutes after ten. I hopped into the shower, dressed, hit the road, and pulled into the parking lot with five minutes to spare.

I shouldered my way into the restaurant, packed with people. A jukebox blasted fifties rock and roll. The sensuous aroma of Italian cooking drifted in from the kitchen as waiters dashed from table to table with heaping plates of manicotti, lasagna, and veal parmigiana. Three bartenders poured drinks as fast as they could set the glasses on the bar.