Shakedown (7 page)

"You haven't changed a bit, Eddie."

"Yes I have. I've changed into a guy that's headed for the five-dollar tables rather than the slot machines. I'm through being a stooge for the police department or Parisi or anyone else." Eddie Sands drained the vodka from his glass. His lips burned.

"Ain't this a bitch. You and me sitting here on our sorry asses talking shit...just like old times."

"Are we still a team?" Sands said.

"Come to think of it, that sorry-assed pension check of mine doesn't go very far in this goddam town...partner."

ELEVEN

It was seven in the morning and every seat on the flight to L.A. was filled. The passengers, Eddie Sands thought, looked tired and hungover, and had that forlorn expression peculiar to gamblers and losers.

During the short flight, Sands and Ray Beadle, both dressed in suits and ties, talked mostly of their years on the police department: the time they bugged the room of a New Jersey hood and overheard him in a spirited session of anal sex with a young male prostitute; the time they got so drunk at a police retirement party that when they left they couldn't find their police sedan in a crowded casino parking lot. Cop talk.

Once in L.A., having rented a car with a cash deposit, Sands steered out of the airport road and onto a freeway heading north. He noticed that Beadle kept rubbing his hands nervously on his pant legs.

"What happens if this sorry-assed motherfucker just flat freaks out and calls the cops?" Beadle said.

Sands smiled. "Why would he want to do that?" he said calmly.

"Don't fuck with me like that, partner. Anything can happen. You know that."

Sands kept on driving.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Relax."

At Sunset Boulevard, Sands steered off the freeway and headed east a few miles along the northern edge of the sprawling UCLA campus, then down into a Beverly Hills residential area. Even though he'd been there only once, Sands was able to find Bruce O'Hara's home without a single wrong turn.

He glanced at Ray Beadle, who looked slightly pale, and knocked loudly on the door. His heart was pounding. There was the sound of footsteps. The door opened. Bruce O'Hara was dressed in a red jogging suit.

"I'm sorry to bother you so early, Mr. O'Hara," Sands said.

O'Hara's gaze moved slowly from Sands to Beadle.

"This is Captain Powers," Sands said politely. "He's in charge of the department's Detective Bureau. He asked to speak with you." Beadle nodded.

The movie star glared at Sands. "You told me this was resolved."

"It is, sir, but there's been a development that we need to bring to your attention."

Bruce O'Hara just stood there glaring for a moment. Finally, he opened the door fully, allowed them to enter. Having closed the door behind them, he led them into the living room.

"Is there anyone else here, sir?" Sands said.

O'Hara shook his head. "What is it?" he said impatiently.

"We've had some trouble with the...uh...woman whom we discussed."

"Exactly what does that mean?" O'Hara said as he reached for the cigarette box on his coffee table.

"It's her lawyer, Barbara Harris," Beadle said. "She's hard-balling."

O'Hara lit a cigarette. "I was told that you would be responsible for anything further," he said. "That you people would handle this sort of thing."

"At that point we thought we had everything under control," Beadle said. "Barbara Harris is the one who's thrown a monkey wrench in the works. She wants more money for her client."

Bruce O'Hara ran a hand through his hair. Deliberately, he sat down on the sofa. "You people are cops. Can't you just ... do something to scare her?"

"This lady shyster has been around Las Vegas for a long time. The bitch knows how to count. If she's not taken care of, she won't hand us up...just you."

O'Hara snuffed out the cigarette in the ashtray. "Shit. Goddammit."

"She's pushing for a hundred thousand," Ray Beadle said.

"Out of the question," O'Hara said. "Totally out of the question. I won't pay it."

"As I was saying, that's what she is
pushing
for. But I think we can get her to settle for less...a lot less."

O'Hara stood up, paced across the room.

"The captain and I figure that if we take her fifty and tell her that's all she's gonna get, she'll take it and that will be that," Sands said. "But if we don't do something you can be damn sure she'll make a move."

"My bet is that the sorry-assed bitch will peddle the story to the
National Enquirer,"
Beadle said. "That's why we feel it's better to have her inside the tent pissing out rather than outside the tent pissing in. So to speak."

"What's to stop her from making demands on me again?" O'Hara said after a while.

"That's not her style," Beadle said. "I've known the sorry-assed shyster for many a moon. She's reasonable. She'll settle for a piece of the pie. I personally guarantee it."

"What I'm finding out here is that personal guarantees don't mean shit."

"We're trying to do the best for all concerned, Mr. O'Hara," Sands said. "It's just that human behavior is unpredictable."

Bruce O'Hara reached for the cigarette box, snatched another smoke. He lit up again, walked to the window, and looked out at his well-manicured lawn. "What happens if I just tell this lawyer to go straight to hell?"

"We take a chance of losing control of the situation. But it might work...all or nothing."

"I really have no choice, do I?" O'Hara said. Sands noticed the crack in his voice.

"It's entirely your decision, sir," Sands said in his best in-command tone. "And I want you to know that if you decide to refuse to pay her and let the story come out, the captain and I intend to return the money you provided us. We'll return every dime."

Sands and Beadle drove O'Hara to the bank, where he withdrew fifty thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills, then dropped him back at his residence. With the bag of money on the seat between them, Sands steered out the circular driveway and down the street. "That one about pissing out of the tent was great," he said.

Beadle grinned proudly, leaned back in the seat, and laughed.

Along with the rest of the passengers on the flight from Los Angeles, Sands and Beadle waited anxiously at the baggage area. Finally, the suitcase in which Sands had put the fifty thousand dollars made its way onto the conveyor belt. Sands breathed a sigh of relief. He reached down, picked it up, carried it outside.

Sitting in his car in the parking lot, Sands counted out fifteen thousand dollars for the grinning Beadle, who, as he was handed each stack of bills, thumbed them like a bank teller.

"I never thought it could be that easy," Beadle said.

"It's a great life, partner."

After dropping Beadle off at the Plush Pony, Sands drove to an exclusive jewelry store at the Hilton Hotel and purchased a gold necklace for cash. On his way to Monica's apartment, he was careful to maintain the posted speed limit, mindful of the money he was carrying in the trunk. He parked the car in the carport and hurried upstairs with the suitcase. Monica was sitting in front of the television. She was wearing a shortie nightgown.

"Hi, babe," she said.

He opened the suitcase, poured the cash onto the floor in front of her. She stared at the money for a moment, then came to her feet and embraced him.

Sands picked up the phone, dialed a number.

"Who are you calling?"

"Big Bruce," he said to Monica. "You do the blow-off." He handed her the receiver, moved to an extension phone, picked up the receiver as O'Hara answered.

"Mr. O'Hara. This is Barbara Harris of Harris and Goldfarb. You needn't say anything over the phone, sir. I'm calling to let you know that I have received the item you sent and that my client and I are fully satisfied. You will hear nothing of the matter ever again." As she spoke, Sands fastened the gold necklace around her neck.

"Uh...thank you. Thank God this thing could be worked out," O'Hara said.

Monica took Sands's hand, thanked him with her eyes.

"Thank you, Mr. O'Hara," she said. "I'm pleased that the matter was resolved discreetly. Goodbye, sir."

"Yes. Goodbye. And thanks again."

The phone clicked. Sands and Monica set their receivers down quietly. He moved to her. Reaching behind her, he slipped his hands under her panties, pulled her to him. "Thirty-five thousand buckaroos, lady."

They kissed passionately. "I love the necklace."

"What should we buy, hon?" he whispered as their lips parted.

"What I want only costs thirty-five dollars."

"Name it."

"A marriage license," she said.

Their eyes met, and for a moment Monica's face held the precise expression he had imagined during the interminable days and nights he had spent in his prison cell, the totally feminine, submissive, nurturing, loving, trancelike look that had been designed by the forces of nature to bring men to women.

"Let's get married right now," he found himself saying.

"Do you mean that?"

"I've never meant anything more in my life. I love you.

She hugged him desperately. "I don't ever want to be away from you," she said.

TWELVE

Sands drove to City Hall to get a marriage license, then to the Plush Pony to pick up Beadle, the best man. They drove down the Strip to the Church of the Heather Wedding Chapel, a tiny building with a tiny steeple, located in a corner of the gigantic parking lot surrounding the Sands Hotel and Casino.

Inside, standing before a miniature altar which faced empty miniature pews, a tuxedoed hillbilly with a greasy pompadour and liquor on his breath administered brief vows. Sands and Monica kissed.

Outside, Ray Beadle popped the cork on a bottle of champagne he had brought with him, and the three drank from the bottle on the way back to the Plush Pony. There Beadle dragged them to the crowded bar and ordered drinks for the house. He introduced them to the bar regulars, including some ex-cops who remembered Sands. As the night wore on, and as Tex, the purple-lipped cocktail waitress, brought endless rounds of drinks and bottles of champagne to their table, Eddie Sands felt he was back in the real world, for the first time since he'd been released from Terminal Island.

It was six-thirty in the morning.

Novak pulled the G-car to the curb in front of Haynes's home. Haynes shuffled out the front door with a steaming cup of coffee in each hand. Novak unlocked the door from the inside, shoved it open. Haynes handed a cup of coffee to Novak, climbed in. Novak pulled away from the curb.

In a few minutes they were out of the residential area and headed out of town.

Novak sipped his coffee, felt its warmth spread to his insides.

Red Haynes blew on his coffee. "With Bruno dead, we're no closer to making a case on Parisi than we were a year ago," he said.

Novak nodded. "You're right."

"And after what happened to him we'll probably never be able to convince anyone to testify against Parisi."

"We'll find someone," Novak said.

Haynes muttered something, blew on his coffee a couple of times, took a sip.

Novak steered onto open highway. The trip to Los Angeles took about four and a half hours. A mile or so south of the Los Angeles Coliseum, Novak steered onto an off-ramp to Central Avenue, a wide street extending through the Watts area, L.A.'s black ghetto. They cruised slowly along the avenue past run-down pool halls, shine parlors, liquor stores, storefront churches, and boarded-up establishments of all kinds. As they passed groups of people lingering on the sidewalks, they sensed hostile looks.

Haynes pointed across the street to a car lot with six or seven passenger cars on it, most of them several years old. "There it is," he said. The faded wooden sign read "Mel's Used Cars and Rental Service." There was a small house trailer in the middle of the lot.

Novak made a U-turn and pulled to the curb in front of the place. They climbed out of the G-car, approached the trailer. The door was open. Inside, sitting at a card table reading a newspaper, was a bald, bespectacled black man who looked to be about Novak's age. He wore a faded black suit, white shirt, and bow tie. They stepped inside the trailer. The black man set the newspaper down.

Novak reached into his suit jacket for his badge.

"You don't have to show me no badge," the man said.

"Is this Mel's Rental Service?"

The man nodded. "That's right. And I be Mel."

Novak stepped to the card table, showed a card on which he had noted the license number of the car he had seen leaving the Stardust parking lot. "We'd like to find out who rented the car that bears this license plate," he said as the man eyed the card.

"Like to help you out, but all the leasing records done burned up in a fire."

Haynes and Novak looked at each other.

"So you don't know who you've leased cars to?" Haynes said.

"Not until all the records get restored."

"When will that be?"

"Might take years. Fire is a terrible thing."

Novak glanced about the office. There was not a scrap of furniture in the room.

"How long have you been out?" Novak said.

"Outta what?"

"Out of the joint."

"How can you tell I done been in the joint?"

"Same way you could tell we're cops, I guess."

Novak turned, walked out of the trailer. Haynes followed. They moved toward the G-car.

"You gonna just walk away?" Haynes said.

"Yes."

"I say we go back in there and turn that monkey upside down."

Novak unlocked the driver's door. "He's just a body paid to sit by the phone. They wouldn't leave him there if he knew anything."

They climbed in the G-car. Novak started the engine.

"A license number used to be a good clue," Haynes said.

"Time's are changing."

"For the worse."

The trip to Terminal Island Federal Prison took less than a half hour, straight down the freeway to its end. There, in the prison administration building, Novak and Haynes went through the usual routine of showing identification, signing various logs and forms. Finally, a young khaki-uniformed prison guard showed them down a well-waxed hallway to a door marked "Assistant Warden." He opened the door. A man with short, thick arms and a fireplug torso stood up from a cluttered desk and introduced himself as Ralph Dandridge. Novak noticed that the collar on his short-sleeved white shirt was frayed.

Dandridge offered seats.

Novak sat down in a chair in front of a barred window. Below, on a diamond which was part of the prison recreational yard, men dressed in blue denim played softball. "We're looking for someone who we believe may have been released from here recently," he said. "We're trying to put a name with a face."

"What else can you tell me?"

"I know what the guy looks like. He might be a confidence type. That's about it."

"When do you think he was released?"

"Within the last couple of weeks. Just a guess."

Dandridge nodded. He turned, grabbed a thick three-ringed notebook from a shelf behind his desk. He handed it to Novak. "This has a mug shot and identifiers on every inmate released during the last three months." Novak turned pages. In the center of each page was a photo of a sad-looking man. Page after page of sociopaths, deviates, freaks, killers, all of whom, dressed in anything other than prison denim, would be indistinguishable in a crowd. After turning fifty pages or so, Novak found the man he had seen leaving Tony Parisi's room at the Stardust. The name printed on the top of the page was Sands, Edward L. "This is the guy," he said.

Dandridge left his seat, came around the desk to see. "Eddie Sands," he said. "Las Vegas police detective. Or was. He was released on parole August twenty-ninth."

"What can you tell me about him?" Novak said.

"When he first came in we put him in protective custody because he was an ex-cop," Dandridge said. He moved to a metal filing cabinet and pulled open a drawer. "But he asked to be let out on the yard right away. I couldn't believe it." He pulled out a file, carried it back to his desk, and sat down.

"What happened?" Novak said.

"Strangely enough, there were no problems," Dandridge said, opening the file folder. "Even though he was an ex-copper, nobody on the yard so much as gave him a dirty look."

Red Haynes cracked his bony knuckles. "You saying the man had some horsepower behind him?"

Dandridge nodded. He leaned back in his chair. "Instead of making him eat dick, the other prisoners kept out of his way right from the beginning. They showed respect like they do to the heavies. This was right from the get-go."

"Did he hang around with anyone in particular?" Haynes said.

"The man was a loner. Or at least he was while he was in here. But when he needed something he went to the guineas-the Mafia assholes. I've got quite a few of 'em here. This Sands had access. In fact, they even assigned him a slave."

"A slave?" Novak said. "A gofer. Somebody to carry messages, run errands for him. That kind of shit. His name is Lopez, Pepper Lopez. He's a doper."

"We'd like to talk to him," Novak said.

"Lopez was released on parole a couple of days before Sands. He served five years."

"Who visited Sands while he was in here?" Novak said.

Dandridge flipped pages in the file again. He stopped. "A woman named Monica Brown visited him almost every other week...and he received a lot of letters from her." He picked up a pen and wrote on a note pad. He tore off the sheet and handed it to Novak. It read: "Monica Brown. 37654 Tropicana Lane, Las Vegas."

"What's Sands been up to?" Dandridge said.

"Believe it or not, that's what we're trying to figure out," Novak said.

Dandridge closed the file folder. "Nothing would surprise me. His parole release came earlier than it should have. It looked like a fix. Don't quote me on that."