Shakedown (14 page)

TWENTY-TWO

The parking lot of the Stardust Hotel and Casino was full, and Eddie Sands had to park his car under an enormous billboard which faced the street. He looked up. The marquee had a ten-foot-high color cut-out of a curly-haired young comedian.

Carrying a cheap airlines flight bag-he'd picked it up at a tourist gift store on Las Vegas Boulevard-containing the counterfeit gaming chips, Eddie Sands moved through the sea of automobiles. Inside, he wandered through the busy casino to the elevator bank. He stopped where he knew he could be seen from the bar area. A minute or so later, Vito Fanducci approached him from out of the darkness of the bar. He was wearing a black sport coat and a white linen shirt buttoned at the collar. His purple birthmark looked as if it were growing from under his shirt like a disease. "Tony says you got something," Vito said.

"That's right."

He reached for the bag. "I'll take it."

Eddie Sands shook his head. "I'll give it to Tony."

"Do you know who I am?"

"You're not Tony."

Vito Fanducci stepped close to Sands. "I'm asking you a question, Slick."

"You're Vito Fanducci. Fuck you," Sands said. "Now tell Tony I want to see him."

Vito Fanducci's face became red as he glared at Sands for a moment. Then he headed toward an elevator. Without saying a word, he led Sands to Room 1487, unlocked the door, and gestured Sands inside. A shirtless Tony Parisi sat reading the newspaper on the balcony. Sands found himself staring at the yellowish flab which hung lewdly on Parisi's bloated torso.

"The feds are all over the place. I have to change rooms every couple of days to keep them off my ass," Parisi said without looking up from the newspaper. Then he slowly folded the newspaper, set it down on the table. He made a gimme gesture. Sands handed him the bag of counterfeit gaming chips. Parisi unzipped the case, reached in. He took out a handful of chips, examined them.

"This is all he had?"

"We cleaned him out," Sands said.

"The dumb shit actually believed you were the cops. This is beautiful."

"You should be able to off the chips at face value, right?" Sands said.

"Face value?" said Parisi with a look on his face as if Sands had spoken in Farsi.

"If I were you I'd have someone in the count room turn the chips to cash ... slip them into the system and let the casino take the loss, right?" Sands said.

Parisi reached to an ashtray and picked up a cigar, took a wet puff, blew out smoke. "Sounds like a good idea," he said.

"There's a couple hundred grand worth of phony chips. If you turn them for full value that means we have a big pie for us to cut up. Out of my hundred grand I'll take care of Ray Beadle."

Tony Parisi gave a wry glance to Vito Fanducci. "I'm glad you got it all figured out." Vito gave Sands a condescending grin.

Sands moved deliberately to Vito. "What are you smiling at, huh, sideshow freak? Huh, motherfucker?"

Vito's grin changed into a glare.

Sands felt the familiar sense of tingling in his fingers, the flush of awareness that precedes violence, the feeling that, as a cop working a radio car, he had had at least once a day. "I don't want any of your bun-boys around when you and I talk business," Sands said without taking his eyes off Vito Fanducci.

Parisi nodded toward Vito, who glared at Sands for a moment, then turned and ambled off the balcony into the room.

Parisi looked amused. He leaned forward, tapped his cigar into the ashtray.

"It's time you and I got something straight," Sands said.

Parisi shrugged.

"I'm no longer a cop hanging around you to make a few extra bucks."

"Don't let Vito bother you, you know?"

"I went to the joint and ate months without mentioning your name. That means I passed the big test. Now we deal direct, fifty-fifty splits. That's the way I want it."

Delicately, Parisi puffed on the cigar. "I don't own this place. The casino people don't want me here. The only way I stay in business is with muscle. And muscle costs money. Maybe you forgot that in the joint?"

"If you can't down the chips maybe I should take them to somebody else."

"Certain people have to be taken care of to get the chips laid down without complications. I spread money around so that the people in the count room are covered when the hammer drops. After all that is done real nice, I cut you in for half of whatever's left."

"And I just take your word for that?" Sands said.

"That is unless you'd rather go down to a crap table and pass 'em yourself... or drive around town peddling them for thirty percent on the dollar to junkies and whores. You wanna do that?"

Rather than answer and lose face, Sands moved to the edge of the balcony. He stared down at the ribbon of highway that was Las Vegas Boulevard. In the parking lot of the Circus Circus Casino down the boulevard, trucks and cranes were building a temporary jumping platform which he had read was to be used by a motorcycle daredevil.

"What happened with Bruce O'Hara?" Parisi said, changing the subject.

"I changed my mind," Sands lied. "I'm not gonna hit him a second time."

"But you have the man in the jackpot."

"A rehash is too dangerous."

There was the sound of sirens in the distance: sirens in the desert.

Parisi left his seat, moved to the rail. "There's a touch that could be worth a hundred grand, maybe more, staying right here in the hotel."

"Who are we talking about?" Sands said.

"Of course, since we're equals now, if I give you the mark and the setup, then we split the shakedown money down the middle, right?" Parisi had a big, shit-eating smile.

Sands nodded.

Parisi shuffled to the sliding glass door, shoved it closed. He picked up a Time magazine off a lounge chair, held it up to show the cover, a portrait of a distinguished gray-haired man.

"I read his book. That's Harry Desmond."

"None other."

"What's the twist?" Sands said.

Parisi removed the cigar from his mouth. "He's a fruit. Can you imagine that? A multimillionaire who has lunch at the White House sucking a prick?" He laughed.

"How careful is he?"

"He don't troll around meeting strangers, if that's what you mean."

"What's the bait?"

"He has a chicken who works here in the hotel. A bartender. And the bartender belongs to the union. And the union belongs to my people. Isn't it nice how things work?"

"When I was on the police department, I heard the rumors that he was queer. But I also heard that he has bodyguards."

"The bodyguards aren't with him all the time."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I'm like friends with this fruit. He always asks my advice before he buys something in town."

"Where does he have his money?"

"This is the perfect part. When he's here at the Stardust, he likes to play craps. So he always carries a hundred-grand credit line at the cage. If he takes the bait, a hundred K is waiting right downstairs in the cage.

Eddie Sands walked slowly along the edge of the terrace. He turned and shook his head. "Why are you offering this to me and not one of your people?"

"You are one of my people."

"You know what I mean."

"Can you see Vito showing a badge?" Parisi said. He took a big puff on the cigar. "You're the expert on this shit. This is an art."

"Are you sure Desmond has a hundred grand in the jug?"

Parisi nodded. "People have checked this for me."

Sands rubbed his chin. He stood up. "I don't think I want to do it," he said. "This guy is too high-profile."

"You're talking about a hundred thousand fucking dollars," Parisi said.

"Would you go back to the joint for a hundred big ones?"

"This guy will pay like a slot machine. He's a fruit. If the public finds out he sucks cock he's finished. No more lunches at the White House, no more cover of Time magazine."

"No thanks. Too risky."

"I want you to think about it. Just think about it for a few days before you say no. I know you could pull this off with no sweat."

"Like I said."

Parisi raised his hands. "Okay, okay, I understand. But I want you to think about it."

"Let me know when you have my money."

"Huh?"

"Let me know when the chips are downed and you have my money," Sands said.

"Sure."

"I'd like you to do this Desmond thing," Parisi added as Sands left the balcony.

Sands walked through the living room, where Vito stood at the portable bar. Vito stared at him coldly. Sands stared back for a moment, then walked out.

TWENTY-THREE

Novak and Haynes had been summoned to Elliot's office. They left their desks and headed down the hallway.

"I'll do the talking," Novak said. “Don’t let him piss you off. It's just the way he is."

"Got a sec, fellas?" Haynes said in a credible imitation of Elliot. "I've got a couple of itty-bitty questions."

They stepped into Elliot's office. Elliot, seated behind his sterile desk, smiled, waved a hand to offer chairs. "Just a couple of itty-bitty questions," he said as the agents sat down. Haynes cringed. Elliot opened a desk drawer, took out a pad and pen. "I want to be brought up to speed on the Parisi investigation."

"The bomb that killed Bruno was a pipe bomb that's impossible to trace," Novak said.

"What about the Corcoran brothers? They're bombers who work for the mob."

"They were interviewed by the Treasury boys, the ATE They said they were playing canasta with their wives," Novak said in a businesslike manner, as if he were giving a presentation to a stranger, rather than to someone with whom he worked on a daily basis. "The wives corroborate the alibi. And no witnesses at the coffee shop could ID their photos."

Elliot wrote on his pad, cleared his throat. "Do we have any sources into Parisi? Anyone who can help us monitor what he's up to?"

Novak shook his head. "As far as the Parisi organization, Bruno was it."

Elliot shook his head sadly. "Well, we can't just throw up our hands and give up." Having made the self-evident remark, he made a point of making eye contact with Novak, then Haynes. "What have you learned about Eddie Sands?"

"We've seen him meet with Parisi," Novak said. "He has a girlfriend named Monica Brown, a con artist who's working a gold-mine scam-a daisy chain. Red talked to one of her victims."

"And the Bruce O'Hara angle?"

"He says he has no idea why Parisi would have mentioned his name."

"I think you left one itty-bitty thing out," Elliot said. "The bug and wiretap."

"Parisi didn't make any killer statements. Nothing that we could hang him with."

"Is there some reason I wasn't notified that you intended to bug Parisi's hotel room? Like, I am the attorney-in-charge of this Strike Force."

"I just forgot," Novak said, though the real reason was that he didn't want a dunce telling him what to do.

"I forgot too," Haynes said.

"I realize that under FBI and Strike Force regulations, you're not required to notify me of every investigative tactic you choose to employ, but I'm asking you as a favor to please keep me informed. This is why the Strike Force exists-to further cooperation among federal agencies in the fight against organized crime."

Novak nodded. Haynes checked his wristwatch.

Elliot fumbled through his notes. "You've spent quite a bit of time checking up on this ex-policeman, Sands. What makes you think he can do us any good?"

"He talks to Parisi. There's not that many people Parisi meets face to face."

"So you think that you might be able to make Sands work for us?"

"We're going to try."

Elliot looked down as if to check his notes. "Is there anything you've developed of
evidentiary value
that we can use against Tony Parisi?"

"Not at this point," Novak said.

"I hope you realize this is a crisis."

"Why?"

"Unless we can solve the murder of Bruno Santoro, we can never hope to persuade another witness to point the finger at Tony Parisi."

"We're doing everything we can," Novak said.

"Don't misunderstand. As far as I'm concerned I couldn't find two better men anywhere in the country to have on this investigation. But there will come a time when we'll have to pay the piper."

Haynes fidgeted at "pay the piper."

"Are you saying you don't think we're conducting an adequate investigation?" Novak said.

"Certainly not. But what I am saying is that a quarterly inspection is coming up and they may be expecting more than what we have been able to give them. The Attorney General has taken a personal interest in solving this one. If you'll remember, at the outset I insisted that the Las Vegas police not be included in the investigation - that the Strike Force handle the matter from start to finish. I stuck my neck out, risked liaison problems with the locals, so that we could handle this one on our own.

"So we're handling it," Novak said.

"I'm not criticizing either of you in any way, shape, or form. I'm with
you one hundred and fifty percent.
But I'm not the one who calls the final shot on this. Because of the headlines Parisi has been getting lately, it may be the Attorney General himself."

"What do you think is going to happen?" Novak said.

"Frankly, I think there is a possibility that the case may be taken away from you. Reassigned. I give you my word that I would fight this
one hundred and fifty percent,
but you should be aware that with the atmospherics in Washington as they are, this could come to pass.

After the meeting, Novak and Haynes said nothing as they moved down the hallway from Elliot's office and into the squad room. Along-for-the-Ride Tyde was at his desk reading
Playboy.

"There's word you two might get replaced on the Bruno Santoro case," Tyde said the moment they stepped foot in the door.

"Where'd you hear that?" Haynes said.

Tyde gave a furtive glance toward the hallway, opened a desk drawer, removed a piece of paper, handed it to Novak. It was a wrinkled copy of a letter typed on Department of justice stationery. It read as follows:

TO: OC Strike Force Chief Lionel R Chenoweth

FROM: Special-Attorney-in-Charge Ronald R Elliot SUBJECT: Murder of Bruno Santoro

John Novak and Garth Haynes, the FBI special agents assigned to the investigation of the car-bombing which caused the death of confidential source Bruno Santoro, have failed to come up with anything of evidentiary value whatsoever which traces back to OC target Anthony Parisi. At this time their investigation is stalled and lacks direction.

Because I see the solving of this case as the highest priority of the Las Vegas Strike Force, I ask your concurrence in replacing Novak and Haynes. I feel that it is in the best interest of the Strike Force to do so.

Unless you object, my plan is to replace Novak and Haynes with veteran Strike Force (U.S. Customs) Special Agent Frank Tyde, who I feel will be able to inject some new impetus to the investigation. It's been my experience that often a case can be turned around 150 percent by assigning a new investigator to the case.

Though my administrative plate is more than full, I intend to work closely with Tyde in the capacity of an investigator as well as that of a prosecutor until I am able to bring this case to a successful conclusion.

I accept full responsibility for the lack of progress that has been made on this case up to the present time. Because I feel strongly that with this case rests the reputation of the Organized Crime Strike Force in the Las Vegas District, I assure you I intend to take whatever steps are necessary to bring the killer or killers to justice.

(signed) Ronald P. Elliot,

Special-Attorney-in-Charge

"Where did this memo come from?" Novak said.

"His wastebasket. I check it every day."

"Did he ask you about taking the case?"

"Not a word. And if he does, I'll immediately go on sick leave. Why should I break my ass on a case? I already have my twenty years in."

"What else have you found in his wastebasket?" Novak said.

"Nothing much. Memos for the record which make him sound like the hardest-working prosecutor in the world. Grocery lists. Shit like that."

Haynes shook his head. "That backstabbing, two-faced prick."

Novak checked his wristwatch. It was noon - time for court to recess. He removed a few sheets of blank paper from a desk drawer, stuffed them into a manila folder to take with him, and took the elevator to the second floor. There he weaved through the surge of people exiting courtrooms into the corridor and made his way to a door at the end of the hall which had a television camera mounted above it. He pressed a buzzer, looked up to the camera. The door lock snapped. He stepped into a small carpeted reception area.

From behind a polished wooden desk a young greasy-haired male clerk wearing a sport jacket with wide lapels and shoulder pads asked if he could help him.

Novak showed his ID. "John Novak," he said. "I have an affidavit for a search warrant."

The clerk looked up at a government clock on the wall, twisted his pinky ring, daintily pressed an intercom buzzer. "FBI Agent Novak is here with a search warrant."

"Send him in," said Lorraine Traynor in a perfunctory tone.

The clerk motioned to the door. Expressionless, Novak walked across the room, opened the door, and stepped into the judge's chambers. Shelves of law books covered the walls, and there was an abundance of greenery, potted and hanging plants which he knew Lorraine Traynor insisted upon caring for herself. Novak tossed the folder he was carrying into a wastebasket.

Lorraine Traynor was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, next to a pile of law books. Her judicial robe was hanging over the high-backed leather chair behind her desk. She was wearing a yellow camisole and matching skirt. "How is the bombing case going?" she said.

"It's going," Novak said. He shrugged off his suit jacket, tossed it on a sofa. "But Elliot is trying to make points with justice by asking that Haynes and I be replaced on the investigation."

"How do you know that?"

He sat down on the carpet next to her, leaned against the bookcase. "He wrote a memo saying he intended to take personal charge of the investigation."

"Government prosecutor vying for promotion."

"You guessed it."

"Is there any way I can help?"

"Before you were appointed, you worked in the same law firm as the Attorney General, right?"

She nodded. "You want me to get the reassignment quashed."

"I wouldn't ask you."

"But it would be okay if I volunteered for the job. Right?"

Novak nodded.

"What should I say to him?"

"Tell him Elliot is a bureaucratic climber and is using the Bruno Santoro case to show off for the department. Ask him to send word to the Strike Force that he thinks it's better for the original investigators on the case to continue on."

"I should never get involved in something like this," Lorraine Traynor said. "I guess you know that."

"That's why I would never ask you."

Novak pulled her to him, kissed her fully on the lips. He tasted lipstick. "I love you," he said.