Shakedown (9 page)

"How about the name Ray Beadle?"

"I think that was the name of the guy who was supposed to have swung the bat. An ex-cop.

"What did she say about him?"

"She claimed she couldn't identify anybody because she was drunk. Even the victim wouldn't give a statement. The whole thing was a bag of worms. I kissed it off." He set the statuette in a box. "I can't decide whether to fill this thing with scotch or bourbon."

Later, Elliot came into the squad room to arrange red thumbtacks on an outdated Organized Crime graph he had pinned to the bulletin board.

"Someone coming from D.C.?" Novak said as he lifted his suit jacket from the coat rack.

"Head of OC Section from justice will be in tomorrow morning. The quarterly inspection."

Novak nodded, shrugged on his jacket.

"Briefings for the brass bore you, right?" Elliot said.

Novak shrugged. "I guess you could say that."

"This is a mistake," Elliot said. "Because in reality there is nothing else. I realized it as soon as I was sworn in as a U.S. attorney."

"I don't think I follow you."

"This is a job, a way to earn a living. And graphs, boards, bullshitting the people from D.C., this is what it's all about. You can make big cases, convict a hundred organized-crime figures, but no one really cares. The way to get promoted is by show and tell."

"I guess that's one way to look at it."

"When D.C. has a promotion to hand out, they don't check arrest statistics. They're looking for someone who can present himself, make a good show at Congressional budget hearings. Someone who looks the part. Sure, I'm interested in making cases, but looking the part is where it's at. Am I boring you?"

Novak smiled, shrugged.

"You've got a lot of leadership ability, Novak. If you'd play the game you could get promoted, become an agent-in-charge somewhere."

"I'll think about it," Novak said, though the idea disgusted him. In fact, Elliot disgusted him.

"During the inspection I'm going to be asked about the Bruno Santoro murder. What's the status?"

"Red and I are working on it, but as of right now there's nothing," Novak said.

Elliot stabbed another tack into the board. "We need to solve this one. Parisi meant this as a message. If we can't solve it, other witnesses will never come forward against him. He knows that."

"It'd be nice to know how Parisi found out about Bruno," Novak said.

"My guess is Parisi was using Bruno until things got too hot," Elliot said. "Parisi gives Bruno some info on one of his competitors, Bruno tells us. We were arresting people Parisi wanted to be arrested. How's that for a scenario?"

"If that was happening, Bruno would have realized it."

"I'm afraid I have little faith in informants," Elliot said.

Novak noticed that some of the names listed on the chart on the bulletin board were those of Las Vegas organized-crime figures who were dead. He wondered if the OC section chief would notice this when Elliot gave his quarterly enthusiastic briefing on the current Nevada organized-crime picture. He guessed not.

"Faith has nothing to do with it," Novak said. "It's just that I've been doing this for a long time and I think I would have been able to tell if an informant was taking me for a ride."

"I hope you don't take what I've said in any derogatory sense."

"I'll make the case," Novak said. "It might take a while, but I'll make the case."

"Love that spirit," Elliot said. "I'm behind you one hundred and fifty percent."

FIFTEEN

John Novak steered his G-car down a narrow street which was only a block or two from the casinos. It was lined with
 
recently built two- and three-story apartment houses-the stucco prefab variety that, like the plethora of casinos that had sprung up around town in the past few years, were designed for speed of construction. Flaking stucco was everywhere and cracks at window joints were clearly visible.

Novak pulled to the curb and turned off the engine. He found the name Florence Bradshaw on a mailbox at the entrance to the place, climbed a flight of stairs, knocked on the door of Apartment 7. The door was opened by a barefooted woman wearing shorts and a soiled T-shirt which clearly showed her nipples. Her lipstick was purple and her head was wrapped in a dye-stained white towel.

"Florence Bradshaw?"

She nodded.

Novak showed his FBI badge and identification card. "May I come in?"

"Do you have a search warrant?"

"No. I just wanted to ask a couple of questions."

"Questions about what?"

"About what happened outside the Plush Pony the night the man had his leg broken."

"You can ask your questions right here at the door."

Novak glanced both ways in the hall. "I think it might be better if we could talk where we can't be overheard," he said in his best disarming manner. Florence Bradshaw stared at him for a moment. He gave her a little smile. Hesitantly, she stepped back and allowed him inside. He closed the door softly as she moved to a cluttered end table, grabbed a pack of cigarettes, and lit up. "You can sit down if you want," she said with a mouth full of cigarette smoke.

"Thanks," Novak said. He ambled to a cigarette-burned dinette table, discreetly avoiding a yellowed brassiere that was lying on the floor. He sat down. The table was a sea of wadded-up Kleenex surrounding a ceramic bowl filled with a dark liquid. Next to the bowl was an empty box of hair dye, a sheet of newspaper, a Playgirl magazine.

"I'm assigned to the Federal Organized Crime Strike Force. We investigate extortion committed to collect debts. It's against federal law."

"Well, you must have a hell of a lot of business in this town."

"May I call you Tex? The nickname was in the police report."

She came to the dinette table and flicked an ash into a plastic ashtray brimming with purple-lipsticked butts.

"Might as well," she said nervously. "That's what everybody else calls me." She pulled a chair back from the table, sat down.

"Tex, there's a chance that you might get called before a federal grand jury to testify about who broke that man's leg."

"I got nothing to testify to because I didn't see a damn thing. I was drunk."

"You were working that night."

"That doesn't mean I wasn't drunk."

"Funny things happen around a bar all the time. I wouldn't blame anyone for not wanting to get involved. Particularly when it involves some heavies ... leg breakers."

Tex removed the towel covering her wet hair. With cigarette dangling, she dipped the comb in the bowl, then ran the dripping implement through her hair. She tapped the comb on the newspaper. It made a line of black dots. "If somebody don't pay their gambling debts in this town and get theirselves in trouble it's none of my damn business." She set the cigarette in the ashtray, took a few more comb strokes.

"The U.S. attorney-in-charge of the Strike Force is making a big issue out of the case," Novak said. "He wants to make an example out of witnesses like yourself who refuse to make statements against leg breakers."

She stopped combing. "What do you mean, make an example?"

"He says that if people won't do their citizen's duty he'll swear them in in front of a federal grand jury anyway, and if they refuse to testify he'll throw them in jail for contempt." Novak reached into his suit jacket, took out a subpoena. "I'm sorry. This isn't my idea." He set the subpoena on some wadded Kleenex next to the bowl of dye.

Her eyes were on the subpoena. "There's people around the Plush Pony who'd kick my ass if they so much as heard I was within a mile of a federal grand jury. They would kick my ass till my nose bleeds. Or worse.

"Maybe the subpoena will make it easier for you. No one could blame you for testifying to keep yourself out of jail."

"Don't give me that thing. I'll leave this town before I'll testify."

"This is a federal investigation. If you left town a material-witness warrant would be issued for you. You'd be arrested and brought back."

Tex tossed the comb down on the newspaper. "I haven't done anything wrong," she said, her voice cracking. "Why should I have to testify?"

Novak sat there a moment as if he was making up his mind. Then he picked up the subpoena. "Could I trouble you for a cup of coffee?" he said.

"Coffee?"

"I could sure use a cup."

Tex left the sofa. She found a clean cup in the cupboard, spooned in instant coffee, added water, set the cup inside a microwave oven. She closed the oven door. The microwave hummed. She looked at him. He slipped the subpoena back into his suit jacket.

"I don't know the man who got his leg broke. He was in the bar and that's all I know," she said, facing the oven.

"I'm not interested in the victim, only in the leg breakers."

"The FBI man who interviewed me that night...Mr. Tyde? He wasn't very interested. He only stayed a few minutes."

"Do you know a man named Ray Beadle?"

"No."

The microwave oven stopped humming. She opened the oven door, took out the coffee, set it in front of him. He thanked her.

"He hangs out in the Plush Pony," Novak said.

"I'm a cocktail waitress. I may have served him. You take sugar?"

Novak shook his head. "Black's fine." He sipped the bitter coffee. "A lot of ex-cops hang out there, right?" he said.

"That's why I like working there. I don't have to worry about getting raped," she said, sitting down at the dinette table. "And if I wanna make it with someone I don't have to worry about getting AIDS." She picked up her comb, dipped it.

"If you could help me clear up a few things, maybe it wouldn't be necessary for you to testify. Whatever you tell me would be just between the two of us."

"I don't know."

"I'm trying to give you some slack. If I wasn't, I could just serve the subpoena on you and let nature take its course.

"Ray Beadle is a real honest-to-Christ gentleman. He and I had a few drinks one night and ended up here at two in the morning. Rather than trying to put the make on me, he just had a drink and left. I thought that was damn nice. It's not often I get treated like a lady."

"Have you heard the name Eddie Sands?"

"I may have."

"What's he into?"

With her hair hanging dark and wet, Tex reached for her cigarette. It had gone out. She relit the butt, blew smoke. "I don't have no idea what he's into. Eddie ... well, I guess you know he just got out?"

"Right."

"He could have taken Ray down with him when he got arrested. Ray told me that."

"On what?"

"They were into some shakedowns and stuff when they were on the police department. They would take a guy's money and then let him go."

Tex picked up the bowl, carried it, moved across the room to the kitchen counter. She poured the hair dye over the dirty dishes piled in the sink.

"What else do you know about Eddie Sands?"

"He just got married to a woman named Monica Brown. She pulls confidence games. That's what I've heard."

"What variety?"

"Phony stock and investments, I think. Eddie's really in love with her. I can tell that kind of thing. God knows

I've been in love enough times myself " She took a big drag from her cigarette and smashed it into the ashtray.

"Thanks for taking the time to talk to me," Novak said as he stood up. He made his way to the door.

"That's all? I'm not gonna have to testify?"

"Tex, never say that a fed hasn't done you a favor."