Shakedown (3 page)

"Do you actually enjoy your work?" she said as she leaned her head on his shoulder.

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, if you finished law school you could be a lawyer."

Novak shook his head. "The whole judicial system makes me sick."

"But you are part of the judicial system."

"Wrong. The judicial system lets crooks out of jail. I put them
in
jail."

"So as a judge, I guess I'm the person who decides whether someone is or is not a crook."

"Wrong. You're someone who lets the crooks out of jail."

"I also send crooks to jail."

"Do you think Parisi is a crook?"

"Everyone knows he's a crook. He's probably the biggest crook in Las Vegas."

"Then why don't you put him in jail?" Novak said.

"Because it's not part of my job."

"But on the other hand, if I arrested him and failed to follow correct procedure you would let him out of jail, right?"

"That's our system."

"See what I mean?"

Though it was something she seldom did, Lorraine Traynor stayed the night.

FOUR

Early the next morning, Novak drove
Lorraine Traynor to the federal court-house. She said, "Don't be such a stranger," as she gathered up her briefcase and purse. She touched her lips briefly to his cheek, climbed out of the car. Novak checked his wristwatch, pulled into traffic. He believed in arriving early to meetings with informants.

And Novak knew informants were the name of the game. They were the lifeblood of every prosecution, and thus a constant source of strife and bitterness among the FBI, the Federal Bureau of Narcotics, the U.S. Treasury's Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, the investigative arms of the Internal Revenue Service and the Department of Labor-all the competing agencies that staffed the Organized Crime Strike Force.

Novak remembered that the Strike Force was originally founded in order to stop the bickering over federal informants. The plan was that each agency would assign one above-average, highly motivated special agent to work under seasoned government prosecutors. Thus cooperation among the agencies would force a united front against the sophisticated leaders of organized crime.

But in government work, as Novak had learned over the years, all such task forces eventually deteriorated into competing duchies of bureaucratic self-interest.

Therefore, rather than stopping the competition for informants, as was intended, the Strike Force institutionalized it. Rather than above-average, highly motivated special agents and seasoned prosecutors, the various law-enforcement agencies assigned agents who were either problem children, drones, or retired-on-the-job types. The prosecutor slots were filled with either young lawyers who'd worked on the last presidential campaign, oddball assistant U.S. attorneys who couldn't find any other way to get transferred out of Washington, D.C., or glory seekers who realized that the easiest way to get reporters to attend a press conference at the federal courthouse was to mention the words "organized crime."

A half hour or so later, John Novak was sitting in a window booth of the Highland Coffee Shop, a modern looking place located a mile or so off the Las Vegas Strip. Having finished breakfast, he kept his eyes on the entrance to the parking lot. As he sat there among tables filled with people reading glossy menus and eating mediocre food, he mused about how much time he'd spent in similar establishments during the last fifteen years-time spent not because he enjoyed greasy fare or the lingering smell of cigarette smoke, but because, whether it was in Newark, New Orleans, Miami, L.A., or Las Vegas, it was just plain safer to meet informants in public places.

Bruno Santoro's black Cadillac cruised by the front of the restaurant and into the parking lot. Novak checked his wristwatch. Bruno was on time.

Quickly, Novak left the table and moved to the cashier. He took bills from a well-worn leather case which also held his badge and identification card and paid up.

Outside, as Bruno parked his Cadillac, Novak stood near the entrance for a moment. He surveyed the lot carefully. Still trying to think of a new tack to use on Bruno, he moved across the parking lot to his government sedan, which was parked at the other end of the lot facing Bruno's car. He unlocked the driver's door, climbed in behind the wheel. Having given the lot another once-over, he pulled the headlight switch of the G-car: on and off twice. Immediately the headlights of Bruno's Cadillac returned the same signal.

The Cadillac pulled up next to Novak's car. The diminutive Bruno, wearing a rumpled sharkskin suit and eyeglasses with sleek frames matching his gray hair, exited the Cadillac and moved to the passenger side of Novak's car. He glanced about, straightened his silk tie unnecessarily, opened the passenger door, and climbed in. Immediately, he pulled a fresh package of Camels out of his jacket pocket.

"Parisi's been acting funny all week," Bruno said as he tore cellophane from the cigarette package. "And yesterday there was a car parked down the street from my apartment with two guys sitting in it. For all I know, Tony has paper out on me right this very minute. I might be a dead man already." He tapped a cigarette out of the pack, hung it on his lip.

"Maybe it's just your imagination."

Bruno flamed the cigarette with a gold lighter. He turned his head slightly and emptied his lungs of smoke. "Look, G-man," he said finally, "I don't have no imagination. I grew up in a reform school. I been with rounders the whole fuckin' fifty-three years of my life. I'm telling you the man is treating me differently."

"Differently like how?"

"He doesn't really tell me anything anymore. That's why all I've been able to get for you in the last couple of weeks is bits and pieces."

"So bits and pieces are better than nothing," Novak said.

"So waking up in the morning is better than sleeping with the fishes."

"What have you heard this week?" Novak said.

"Like I said ... bits and pieces. Something about Tony paying off somebody on the Federal Prison Board."

"You mean the Federal Parole Board," Novak said.

"Whoever does the springing of people from federal joints."

"Who does Tony want sprung?"

"It's somebody who's gonna work for him, or do something for him, make some money for him. Some shit like that. I don't have a name." Bruno puffed more smoke. He coughed softly.

"Anything else?" Novak said.

"Bruce O'Hara."

"I take it you mean the movie actor?"

Bruno gave an impatient nod. "After my shift at the blackjack table I'm sitting at the bar in the Stardust. Tony gets a call. I hear him say the guy's name."

"That's all? He just mentioned his name?"

Bruno nodded. "I want off the fucking hook," he said after a pause. "Things are too hot for me and I want out."

Expressionless, Novak folded his hands. "I thought we had a deal."

"When we made our deal you promised me I could pull out if things started getting hot. You said I could pull out anytime I wanted."

"I need you in there with him. You're my only source of information."

"You told me that when the time came you would move me. You promised to set me up with a new identity."

Novak nodded slowly as he tried to think of a way to change the subject.

Bruno tapped ashes into the dashboard tray. "I kept my part of the bargain. I've been a rat against Tony. I helped you lock up three people who work for him. Now I want a moving van and a new name."

"The deal was that if I fixed things with the Strike Force attorneys and convinced the judge to let you stay on the street, you would do Tony for me."

Bruno rubbed his eyes, ran fingers through his hair. "I've tried. I've done every fuckin' thing I can think of to help you make a case on him. You know that."

"I can't ask the judge to suspend your sentence because you were trying to put Tony in the joint. She'll laugh at me. You know how federal judges are."

Bruno stared out the window. "I know how you feds are too," he said finally. "You like to squeeze people for everything you can get."

"If you suddenly just drop out of sight, Tony'll know it was you.

"By then I'll be in the wind."

"I think you're worried about nothing," Novak said. "If Tony had put out a contract on you, I would have heard about it from another source already. These things get around."

"So if you got so many rats on the street, why do you need me?"

Novak massaged the steering wheel. "All I'm asking is that you keep your ears open for one more week. Then, if you still want out, I'll take you into the witness protection program. That's a promise."

Bruno looked at his cigarette. "That's the same double-talk you gave me last week."

Because it was, Novak said nothing.

"I shoulda known you people would end up fucking me in the ass," he said. "If I had it to do over I would just go do my time instead of putting all my friends in jail."

"All I'm asking is one more week."

Bruno opened the wind wing and pushed the cigarette out. He fidgeted. "You'd do anything to get Tony. You could care less what happens to me." Rapidly, he lit another smoke.

Novak bit his lip for a moment. "You refused to testify about Tony before the federal grand jury. So the attorney-in-charge of the Organized Crime Strike Force won't approve witness protection."

"Fuck the attorney-in-charge," Bruno said angrily. "You gave me your word. That's why I went along with what you wanted me to do. I believed you."

"All I'm asking is a few more days."

For a moment, Bruno Santoro examined his well-manicured dealer's nails. Then he reached for the door handle.

"It'll look better for the judge if you testify against Tony in front of the federal grand jury," Novak said. "It'll help your case."

Bruno shook his head in dismay. He took two deep puffs on his cigarette. "It's always just one more thing," he said sadly. "Every time we meet you squeeze me for one more thing."

"You can testify in secret."

"Tony has ways of finding out shit like that," Bruno said after a while.

"But like you said, by then you'll be in the wind."

Bruno took a deep drag from his cigarette. He rolled the window down and flicked it a long way. "Are you telling me that if I testify I won't have to go to the joint?"

"I can't make you any promises-"

"Is that what you're telling me?" Bruno interrupted.

Novak nodded.

Bruno swallowed and cleared his throat.

"When I was twenty years old this family guy who was running broads calls me into his restaurant. He tells me a guy named Guido fucked him out of some money and went to Florida. The family guy asks me if I want the contract. I'm hungry. Guido is an asshole. So I take the paper. I find Guido in Florida, case the place where he was staying. He was with his kids." Mournfully, Bruno shook his head, stared into the distance.

"What happened?" Novak said.

"That night I checked into a motel and I tried to get my balls up-to talk myself into doing it, you know? The family guy keeps calling me. I kept putting him off, picking up the gun, putting it down. But I just couldn't do it. Even though I knew I wouldn't be able to show my face in the neighborhood ever again, I still fucking couldn't kill anyone." He turned to face Novak. "If I woulda been smart, instead of coming to Vegas I woulda joined the navy or something. My father wanted me to join the navy. Fuck."

"The grand jury meets tomorrow." Novak said. "I'll pick you up here."

Bruno sat there a moment. "It's the last thing I'm doing for you people," he said.

Then he opened the passenger door and climbed out.