Shakedown (10 page)

SIXTEEN

It was Sunday.

Eddie Sands, whose body clock was still on prison time, woke up early and spent an hour or so reading the newspaper, sipping coffee, and munching cinnamon toast, things he had often dreamed of doing when he was in prison.

Monica, barefooted and wearing a loose-fitting robe, wandered through the living room into the kitchen. She picked up the coffeepot off the kitchen stove, poured a cup. She yawned. "I had a weird dream last night. I was floating across Las Vegas in a hot-air balloon and people were shooting at me with rifles, trying to kill me. The bullets were coming through the floor of this wicker-basket thing under the balloon, so I was hiding in a corner of the basket." She blew on the coffee.

"What finally happened?" he said, after a while.

"I was pressing so hard against the side I could feel the wicker biting into my face. The bullets kept popping through the floor closer and closer to me ... ping, ping, ping. All of a sudden, the side of the basket breaks open and I go tumbling out. As I was falling through the air I was trying to scream, but I had no voice." She sipped coffee.

A telephone rang. Sands picked up the receiver.

"Is this Edward Sands?"

"Who's calling?"

"Special Agent Novak, FBI. I'd like to get together with you for a few minutes today."

"What about?" Sands said after a pause.

"I'd prefer to talk in person. Can you meet me in my office at the federal courthouse ... say in an hour?"

Another long pause.

"I guess so," Sands said.

"I'll give your name to the guard at the back door." The phone clicked. Sands eased the receiver down to the cradle. "The FBI wants to talk to me."

"Oh, no. Oh, God."

He left the table, moved across the living room to the window. "If they were going to arrest me they wouldn't have called. They would have come here."

"This is Sunday," she said. "They wouldn't be working on a Sunday if it wasn't something important." She came to him. "What if it's Bruce O'Hara? What if he went to them?"

"The feds like to play head games. They like to fuck you around. There is nothing to worry about," he said, though he knew there was.

He showered, shaved, and dressed carefully, taking his time because he didn't want to let the feds think he had hurried to meet them. But on the other hand, he didn't waste a lot of time. He certainly knew it wasn't a good idea to piss off a cop.

As he drove into the rear parking lot of the modern Las Vegas Federal Courthouse, Sands checked his wristwatch. It had been slightly over an hour since he'd received the phone call. He parked his car in the near-empty lot and made his way to the rear door of the building. A uniformed building guard unlocked the door from the inside. Sands gave his name. The guard, a sleepy-eyed black man, led him to the fourth floor. The guard knocked on a door marked "Organized Crime Strike Force," then withdrew. Almost immediately, Novak opened the door. He introduced himself courteously, without offering his hand, then led Sands into an interview room off the reception area. He closed the door behind them.

"I hope I didn't alarm you," Novak said, as they both took seats at the table, which had nothing on it except an ashtray.

"What's up?"

"Your name came up during the course of an investigation," Novak said offhandedly. He shrugged off his suit jacket, hung it neatly on the back of a chair. "Kinda hot in here. Care to take off your coat?"

Sands, who was becoming irritated, shook his head no.

"You were just released from Terminal Island."

"That's right. And I used to be a Metro detective, and I just got out of the joint, and it's Sunday, and you called me down here to ask me some questions. So go with the questions."

Novak nodded politely. "I checked your file," he said. "You were convicted of doing some favors you shouldn't have done for Tony Parisi-for giving him inside information on police investigations, fixing cases for people who worked for him. He must have trusted you."

"That was before I got caught."

Calmly, Novak folded his hands. "What are your plans now that you're out?"

"Haven't made any plans."

"Have you seen Tony Parisi since you were released?"

"I've seen a lot of people since I got out. I don't keep a list."

"Tony's done real well in the past couple of years. He's used his muscle in the right places. In fact, you could say he's got a lock on the town. The casinos are bending over for him. In Las Vegas he's the man to see."

Eddie Sands drummed his fingers absentmindedly, then thought better of giving away the fact that he was nervous. He stopped.

"Having been a Metro detective," Novak continued, "you know how it is when somebody gets big in town. The analysts in D.C. write up an organized-crime profile. Then they lean on the Strike Force to do something about it. They want results."

"What exactly are we talking about?"

"Pardon me?"

"Am I being investigated?"

"No, just Tony Parisi."

"Then what say we cut the smokescreen bullshit and get to the point?" Sands said.

"I apologize for taking your time on a Sunday," Novak said. "The reason I called you down here was to give you an opportunity to assist in the Parisi investigation. We're looking for someone who can help us put the picture together on Parisi."

"Okay, you're looking for a super-snitch who can do Tony Parisi. Well, I don't know anything about Parisi, and even if I did, I would rather eat a hundred miles of shit than rat on someone. See, nobody likes a stool pigeon. Not cops, not crooks. Nobody in the whole wide world, including you, has any respect for a goddam rat."

"I'm talking about paying a sizable reward for each piece of information, plus expenses. Putting you on the federal payroll," Novak said.

"You must think you're talking to some clown you picked up off the street."

"No, I think I'm talking to a guy with a lot of street sense. That's one thing cops like you and me have that no one else in the world can buy-street sense. We know how the game is played."

"Being an informant is too far for me to go, Novak. That's the name of that motherfucking tune."

Novak took a government ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket. He set it on the table, spun it like a propeller. "Somebody will."

"Huh?"

"What I'm saying is that
somebody will
go that far. Somebody who has a problem and wants it solved, somebody who wants to make a lot of government reward money. Somebody who Tony stepped on, maybe a competitor, will come out of the woodwork and set Tony up.

Eddie Sands cleared his throat. He feigned being attentive, the way crooks used to with him when he was on the police department.

"It happened to Al Capone," Novak continued. "It happened to Joey Gallo. And it'll happen to Tony Parisi. One of Tony's friends will turn, and Tony will go to the joint."

Eddie Sands gave a scornful laugh. "So what? Do I give a shit about Tony Parisi? Go ahead and lock him up.

"Before Tony is locked up, there'll be a big grand-jury investigation. People will be named. A lot of them will go to prison. The question is, on which side of the witness stand would you rather be?"

"When I was a cop I used to give that same little lecture to bullshit people into becoming informants," Sands said. "I had a lot of luck with it." He considered laughing as he made his point, thought better of it, and just smiled instead.

"How did you treat those who wouldn't cooperate?" Novak said. His expression was icy.

There was a long silence. They stared at each other, neither one flinching or blinking.

"I guess that means you're gonna try to squeeze me into being an informant," Sands said.

"Thanks for coming in," Novak said.

Sands rose, moved to the door. Novak kept his eyes on him all the way out of the room.

Outside in the courthouse parking lot, Red Haynes, having used a Slim Jim lock-picking device to gain entry, sat in the front seat of Sands's car. He examined the miscellanea in the glove compartment, carefully piling the items on the seat next to him in the same order as he had removed them, all the while keeping his eye on the door of the building that faced the parking lot.

When he found something important, he noted it on a pad which he kept in his shirt pocket. So far, the list read:

1. One receipt for a necklace costing $3,467.57 from David and David, a jewelry store located in the Hilton Hotel on the Strip.

2. One map of Beverly Hills, bearing a penciled circle on Rexford Drive.

3. Car-rental papers reflecting that Sands had rented the car in Los Angeles under his own name.

4. One credit-card sales receipt reflecting a purchase of gasoline at a service station in Beverly Hills.

He was just about through when the building guard exited the door of the courthouse, looked in his direction, and putting two fingers to his lips, gave a whistle, then hurried back inside.

SEVENTEEN

Haynes shoved the items back in the glove compartment, stepped out of the car, and closed the door carefully. As he moved quickly across the parking lot and around the side of the building, he saw the guard open the door. Eddie Sands stepped out and headed toward his car.

At the front door of the courthouse, which faced Fremont Boulevard, Red Haynes let himself in with a key.

Novak was waiting in the lobby. "Come up with anything?"

Haynes pulled out his pad. "Not a hell of a lot. He rented the car a week before he was released. Filled the tank in Beverly Hills once. Has a Beverly Hills map with a mark on Rexford Drive. He bought a thirty-five-hundred-dollar necklace two days ago at the Hilton."

Novak nodded.

Haynes shoved the notebook back in his shirt pocket. "What did he have to say?"

Novak moved to the glass door facing the street. He watched as Eddie Sands drove out of the parking lot and entered the stream of traffic on the busy boulevard. "He says he doesn't want to play informant. He's a stand-up guy.

"Now what?"

John Novak was in a trance. "Parisi helped Sands get out of the pen," he said. "Parisi mentions the name Bruce O'Hara in front of Bruno. Sands gases up his car in Beverly Hills, while he's on prison work release."

"Dope. It must have something to do with dope," Haynes said. "Bruce O'Hara is probably a dope addict, like everybody else in Hollywood. A nose-packer. Who the hell knows?"

Novak shrugged, continued to stare at nothing in particular. "So let's ask him."

The next day, in the desert about a hundred miles east of Los Angeles, Novak made a left turn off the interstate highway and, following the directions given him over the phone by Bruce O'Hara's Hollywood secretary, continued along a dirt road leading toward the base of a small mountain range. Haynes pointed to a solitary, weather-beaten single-story dwelling far in the distance, amid sagebrush and cacti.

"That's the kind of place I'd like to live in when I retire," Haynes said.

"There's nothing out here."

"That's the point. No neighbors. No relatives. No crooks. No Elliot. Just peace and quiet twenty-four hours a day."

"You'd go crazy."

"I already am crazy."

Novak said nothing.

"Can you imagine this bearded wimp who's never worked a day in his life getting paid to sit behind a desk and tell people to run if they feel stress?"

To Novak's right, near some large sand dunes, was a formation of film trucks and other studio vehicles. Novak maneuvered the G-car over to the trucks. He stopped in front of a middle-aged uniformed studio cop who was rubbing a piece of ice across his sunburned forehead. Novak showed his badge. "FBI. We're here to see Mr. O'Hara." Without replying, the studio cop turned and marched toward a sand dune where a group of camera and sound technicians were arranged around three men costumed in the kepis and short-sleeved khaki uniforms of the French Foreign Legion. He waited as a man with a clapper moved in front of the camera. The studio cop said something to one of the men. The man turned in the direction of the G-car.

"That's him," Red Haynes said.

Bruce O'Hara stared at them for a moment, then, followed by the studio cop, approached. The agents climbed out of the G-car.

O'Hara led them into a carpeted and well-furnished mobile dressing room. Having offered them chairs, he tossed his kepi on a dressing table, lit a cigarette, paced a bit. "What brings the descendants of J. Edgar Hoover out here to this miserable suffering desert?" he said in a way that made Novak suspect he was worried about something rather than just curious.

"During the course of an investigation it was reported to us that a man named Anthony Parisi had mentioned your name," Novak said. "Do you know him?"

"Are you talking about the Parisi who's been in the newspapers recently? The Las Vegas mobster?"

"Yes."

"Do you know him?" Haynes said.

O'Hara gave him a condescending look. "As a matter of fact I don't. What did he say about me?"

"He said your name a few times while speaking on the phone."

O'Hara smiled wryly. "And you were eavesdropping on him, right?"

"Actually an informant told us he heard him."

O'Hara took a puff on his cigarette, blew a thick smoke ring. "What did he say about me? Don't I have a right to know that?"

"He just mentioned your name," Novak said, watching the smoke ring.

"I was recently in Las Vegas. We were shooting some scenes near Boulder Dam."

"But if you've never met the man, there probably would be no reason for him to be concerned with you shooting some scenes at Boulder Dam," Haynes said.

O'Hara pulled a director's chair away from the wall and moved it closer to them. He sat down. "Who is this informant you're talking about? Or is that some big state secret?"

"Bruno Santoro," Novak said.

"This whole matter sounds a bit bizarre."

"He was blown to bits. A car bomb," Haynes said.

Bruce O'Hara furrowed his brow. "Am I in any danger?"

Novak shrugged. "All we know is that Tony Parisi brought you up during the course of a conversation."

Haynes cracked his knuckles. Bruce O'Hara cringed. "This is all very strange. I really don't know what to tell you," he said as if to close the conversation.

Novak reached into his jacket pocket and removed a mug shot of Eddie Sands. He offered it to O'Hara. O'Hara took it to the dressing table. He removed a pair of French-frame eyeglasses from a leather case, put them on, examined the photograph. He swallowed, visibly lost color in his face, and sat down in his chair again. He handed the mug shot back to Novak. "Who is he?" he said, clearing his throat.

"Eddie Sands, an ex-con and ex-cop ... one of Parisi's associates," Novak said.

"Ever seen him before?" Haynes said.

O'Hara removed his eyeglasses. "Can't say as I have." He returned the glasses to their case.

"Can you think of any possible reason why Parisi would mention your name?" Novak said.

O'Hara fidgeted in his seat, checked his wristwatch. Novak noticed that it was a gold Rolex. The thought passed through his mind that a real Foreign Legionnaire would never be able to afford such an expensive wristwatch.

O'Hara left his seat again, moved to the window. The movie star stared out at the desert for a moment. "No, I can't," he said finally.

"Have you ever had any business dealings with the Stardust Hotel and Casino?" Haynes said.

Without averting his gaze from the window, O'Hara shook his head.

"Have you been the victim of a crime recently?" Novak said.

"No," O'Hara said without hesitation. He turned and moved to the dresser. He slapped on his kepi. Eying a mirror near the door, he adjusted the brim. "I'm sorry I can't help you, gentlemen, he said. The agents stood up and moved toward the door.

"If there's anything you'd like to tell us, I promise it'll go no further," Novak said.

"Sorry I can't help you, gentlemen," he repeated, making it clear that the meeting was ended. He reached for the door handle, opened the door.

"Mr. O'Hara?"

O'Hara turned.

"Do you still live in Beverly Hills?"

O'Hara nodded. "Yes, 11379 Rexford Drive."

Novak handed a business card to O'Hara. "If you remember anything, I'd appreciate a call," he said.

"He looked like he was going to faint dead away when you showed him the mug shot," Haynes said as they climbed into the government sedan.

"We hit a nerve all right," Novak said. "We definitely hit a nerve."

"I bet it has something to do with dope. Dope is ruining the world. It has ruined the world."

"Eddie Sands has never been involved with narcotics," Novak said as they climbed into the sedan. "He went to prison for muscling people who owed Parisi money ... fixing cases for the mob." Novak started the engine. "That look on O'Hara's face meant that something is wrong," he said as he steered toward the highway.

"We'll probably never find out what it is," Haynes said. "The bug on Parisi didn't do any good. No one in Vegas will say a word about him, including Eddie Sands. The bag job on his car was a waste of time. You didn't even get anything out of that waitress. We're spinning our wheels."

The wind was blowing as Novak left the dirt road and returned to the highway. Large tumbleweeds crossed in front of the car, and he could feel the wind trying to move the vehicle into the oncoming lane.

"Not really," Novak said. "We found out that Eddie Sands just got married."

As Haynes turned to him with a puzzled look on his face, Novak pressed the accelerator closer to the floor.