Shakedown (17 page)

"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 Desert 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."

"Toothpicks?"

That night, Sands and Beadle, dressed in business suits, stood near a bank of slot machines watching the bar and the nearby bank of elevators. Because a dinner show had just gotten out, the casino was crowded. Beadle reached into his coat, took out a clear plastic envelope which was marked with a stick-on evidence tag, handed it to Sands. Sands took Desmond's check from his shirt pocket, slipped it into the evidence envelope, sealed the flap. He slid the envelope into his jacket pocket.

"My sorry ass is nervous as hell," Beadle said.

"That's part of it," Sands said without taking his eyes off the elevators.

"Very funny."

The elevator doors opened. A gray-haired man wearing dark glasses stepped off, moved toward the bar. It was Harry Desmond.

At the bottom of the carpeted steps leading to the bar area, Desmond stopped, shuffled about for a moment until Skippy noticed him. Their eyes met immediately. Desmond moved back to the elevator bank. Skippy said something to the other bartender, ducked under the bar. He hurried to the hall, where a small group had gathered to wait for an elevator. Neither man spoke. When an elevator arrived, Desmond and Skippy got on along with the others.

Sands and Beadle hurried to the elevator bank. They watched the light above the elevator door as it moved horizontally from number to number. The elevator was stopping at almost every floor. Another elevator arrived. The doors opened. They stepped in. Sands pushed the button for the second floor. The elevator ascended. He and Beadle stepped off, inspected the carpet outside the elevator. Nothing. They stepped back in the elevator and proceeded to the next floor. There they checked again.

They repeated this procedure nine times.

On the eleventh floor, Sands spotted a few toothpicks lying on the carpet outside the elevator. He motioned to Beadle. They separated, moved different ways along the hallway, checking near each door. As Sands reached the center of the hallway, Beadle made a pssst sound. Sands headed back in his direction. Beadle, looking pale and nervous, pointed to the threshold of Room 1198. There were four or five toothpicks on the carpet in front of the door.

Having glanced both ways to see that no one else was in the hallway, Sands placed his ear to the door. There were muffled sounds he couldn't make out. He pulled the master key from his pocket. Making as little noise as possible, he eased the key in, turned. The lock clicked. He shoved the door violently.

Sands and Beadle ran into the room. A nude Skippy was perched on the end of the bed. Harry Desmond, also naked, was kneeling at his feet, blowing him.

"Police officers!" Sands said.

Harry Desmond made an animal yelp as Skippy pulled away.

Beadle grabbed Skippy by the arm, flashed a badge. "You're under arrest for forgery, clown. Get some clothes on."

Harry Desmond, in the manner of an embarrassed child, turned toward the wall, covered himself.

"There must be some mistake, officer," Skippy said, probably because he'd heard someone say it in a movie.

Beadle shoved him backward onto a pile of clothes on the bed. "I said get dressed, asshole."

"Okay, okay," Skippy said. He picked up a pair of trousers and began to dress.

"Let's see some ID," Sands said to Harry Desmond, who was still facing the wall. He was shaking.

"I'm... Harry Desmond. May I get dressed?"

"Oh. Mr. Desmond. Sure," Sands said.

Avoiding eye contact with Sands, Harry Desmond stepped to the dresser. He kept his head down as he quickly slid his skinny legs into his trousers, shrugged on his shirt. "I think we'd better talk in private, Mr. Desmond," Sands said.

Desmond stared at Sands for a moment; he looked as if he was going to faint. Sands nodded toward the bathroom. As Desmond reluctantly followed him in, Ray Beadle snapped handcuffs on Skippy.

Sands closed the door. The bathroom walls were mirrors. "We had no idea you would be here, Mr. Desmond. I'm ... uh ... sorry."

"What is happening?" Harry Desmond said. Carefully, he lowered himself onto the edge of the bathtub.

Sands reached inside his suit jacket, pulled out the clear plastic envelope containing the check Skippy the bartender had given him, and showed it to Desmond. Desmond reached out to take it. Sands pulled it back. "Sorry, sir. It's evidence."

"Where did you get that check?"

"Skippy has been forging your checks all over Las Vegas. The total is up to nineteen thousand dollars."

"I didn't even know I had checks missing."

"The bank caught it. The signatures were dissimilar. We traced him back here, followed him to this room."

"What's going to happen now?"

"We book Skippy for forgery and write a report," Sands said. "As the victim, I'm afraid you'll have to come down to the office with us."

"I don't want this to go any further. They're my checks. I choose not to file a complaint."

"It's not that easy, Mr. Desmond," Sands said. "The bank has been in touch with your business manager in Beverly Hills. He said he wanted the forger arrested. A complaint was signed on your behalf."

Desmond turned to Sands. "Uh ... this is all a misunderstanding. I want to end this right here," he pleaded.

"We've just made a legal arrest and placed a man in handcuffs," Sands said. "We can't just take the cuffs off, walk away, and forget it. I have to write a report and-"

"Officer, if we go down to your office this whole matter will make the newspapers. I insist that you release the man in the other room and drop the charges. Do you understand that?"

"Sir, a felony crime has been committed," Sands said. "There are certain things I'm required to do."

Desmond, gathering his executive composure, stood up, took a deep breath. "Officer, I am a personal friend of the governor of this state. I know every politician in this city by his first name, I think it would be best for you to just let this matter drop,"

"I understand your ... uh ... sense of embarrassment, Mr. Desmond, but this isn't just some minor business deal you can turn your back on," Sands said. "This is a matter of law. As a law-enforcement officer I have certain responsibilities. If I don't carry them out and the police department finds out, then I get embarrassed. Or maybe fired."

Harry Desmond shook his head. "I'm not going to leave this room. I've committed no crime."

"Mr. Desmond, I'm trying to be reasonable with you. But don't push it too far."

Desmond used the back of his hand to wipe a fine line of perspiration from his upper lip. "I hope you realize who you are dealing with."

"To me, you're nothing but a run-of-the-mill queer."

"If I refuse to make a complaint you have no right to arrest anyone," Desmond said, ignoring the remark. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

Sands closed the cover on the toilet. He sat down, faced Harry Desmond. Because of the mirrors in the room, there were -reflections of both of them from all angles. He glared at Desmond. "You'll come with me. One way or the other."

Desmond made a funny sound as he tried, but failed, to clear his throat. "I apologize if I sounded hostile, officer," he said. "But can't you just walk out of here and leave me alone?"

"Yes, I can. I also can throw handcuffs on you and book you into the queen tank at the county jail. The bottom line is, what's in it for me and my partner?"

Harry Desmond swallowed, cleared his throat. "This whole thing is a setup. You waited until you knew he was coming to be with me."

"Even if we did, it doesn't change your predicament, does it?" Sands said.

"I'd like to discuss alternatives."

"There are only three alternatives. One, we book jocko in there for hanging paper and you for sodomy.

Two, we just book jocko and write a report which lists you as the victim. Three, in order to avoid publicity, my partner and I stick our necks out and try to sweep this whole incident under the table."

"I would appreciate any consideration you could offer. "

"The price is a hundred grand," Sands said. "That's fifty for my partner and fifty for me. Any less and it's not worth the risk."

"Now I get it," Desmond said with a tinge of weakness in his voice. The perspiration had reappeared around his mouth. "This is nothing more than a shakedown. Blackmail."

"You're a big businessman. I'll bet you've squeezed a few sacks yourself on the way up."

Harry Desmond stared at his reflection in the facing mirror for a while. "Blackmail goes against everything I stand for," he said.

Sands stood up, yanked handcuffs off his belt. "In that case, let's go to jail, fucker."

Desmond stared at the handcuffs. "I'll pay each of you ten thousand dollars."

"This is Las Vegas," Sands said. "The big town. People playing keno win more than that every hour downstairs in the casino."