Guilty or Else jo-1

by Jeff Sherratt

  Rhodes took a sip. “Anyway, Charles Manatt asked me talk to you gentlemen.”

  “I need some background on Welch,” I said. “I’m the lawyer defending the man accused in the homicide of his assistant.”

  “I don’t know much about the murder, but I don’t think it will be an issue in the current campaign. We plan on running polls in the next few weeks.”

  “Going to run strictly on the issues?” I asked.

  “Of course. Welch’s political record will play well with the demographics.” His face took on a somber expression.

  “But we’ve heard rumors of his profligate behavior.”

  Sol looked at me and winked. “Yep, that’s Welch. He’s been known to profligate a lot.”

  Rhodes turned and glanced at Sol. “Well, that’s not exactly what I meant to say.”

  Sol laughed, and Rhodes eventually joined in.

  “He’s a real big profligator, all right,” Rhodes said, laughing some more.

  The bugle call interrupted our conversation, signaling that the horses were approaching the starting gate for the next race.

  “You gonna place a bet, Phil? You a gambling man?” Sol asked.

  “I don’t know anything about the ponies, and besides, I’m not much of a gambler.”

  “Well it seems to me your business is one big gamble. Spend two or more years on a campaign and it all comes down to one day in November.”

  “That’s true, Sol. But I get paid, win or lose. However, I’d be out of business if I lost too many.” He tapped the table a few times with his fist. “Knock wood, we’ve been fortunate, we rarely lose.”

  The bell sounded. Eight horses, with jockeys clad in colorful silks and clinging low on their backs, charged out of the gate. The race began, and even though we hadn’t made a bet, we stopped our conversation for the minute or so it took the horses to circle the track. The number four horse, Vince’s horse, finished second to last.

  The waiter appeared at our table. “Bring another round, Joe. But skip me,” Sol said, then turned to Phil. “I have to leave for a little while to make an important call, but feel free to order lunch.”

  “Thanks Sol, but I won’t be able to stay much longer. I have an appointment this afternoon down in San Diego. Possible donor; could be very fruitful.”

  Sol dashed off and I had to get the discussion back to Welch before Rhodes disappeared. I needed to get to the point, no finessing or beating around the bush. I wasn’t going to get anywhere by trying to cajole the information out of him. He would open up. Or maybe not. But I had to ask the questions burning in my brain.

  “Phil, do you know anything about Welch’s connection with Andreas Karadimos?”

  He shook his head. “Karadimos is a powerful figure in party politics, spreads his money around freely and he’s garnered a lot of influence, but there are other power brokers out there as well,” he said, glancing around nervously.

  “Karadimos is very powerful.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. I’ll rephrase it: do you think his influence with Welch has crossed the line? How much cash did Karadimos lay on the line?”

  His face tightened. “Why, the unmitigated gall. Who do you think you are, asking a question like that?”

  “Come on, Phil, you’ve studied Welch’s voting record, examined the committees he’s served on. You’re a pro. You’d see something if it was there.”

  The waiter returned with our drinks. Rhodes picked up his Scotch. “I think you’re out of line with your implications, Mr. O’Brien.”

  “Didn’t Manatt tell you to talk to me? Manatt’s the party chairman and you do want funding from the central party, don’t you?”

  Rhodes tossed back his drink. “Manatt can go fuck himself.” Rhodes slammed the glass on the table and left.

  I sat alone at Sol’s table knowing I’d hit a nerve with Rhodes. I pissed him off, sure, but indirectly I got the answer I was looking for. If Welch were on the level, he would’ve said so. I shifted my gaze to the table with the three Arabs laughing it up with Vincent James, the idealistic, honorable TV doctor. Is everything a veneer, an illusion, a deception?

  Yeah, I got what I came for. I smiled. Shine a light in the sewer and watch the rats scramble.

  C H A P T E R 16

  Sol returned from making the call. We ordered lunch. I had a club sandwich, coffee. Sol ordered a cold prime rib sandwich and a gin and tonic. He purposely didn’t tell me about the call. I was dying to find out but figured he’d clue me in when the time was right. Instead, we discussed my meeting with Rhodes, and his abrupt departure.

  “So Rhodes just got up and left?” Sol asked.

  “Might have been something I said.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I asked him if his squeaky-clean candidate took bribes.”

  “Think it upset him?”

  “Might have.”

  Sol grinned. “Well, some people are just too sensitive.”

  All of a sudden, he stared intently over my left shoulder. “Hold it!” he shouted.

  “What?”

  “Jimmy, get ready to make some money. I think it’s on.”

  “What do you mean? What’s on?”

  He grabbed the racing program, flipped it to the fifth race. “Yes, this is what we’ve been waiting for.” He slapped the pamphlet on the table and quickly glanced around. “Okay, Jimmy, look at that table one down and two over to your right.” He indicated a table behind me. “Do you see it?”

  I turned and looked. “The table with the three good-looking ladies?”

  “Jesus! Don’t be so obvious. Quit staring.”

  I turned back to Sol. “What about them?”

  “Did you see the blonde, the girl with the big purse? Hold it! She’s getting up. Hurry, follow her; she’d recognize me. If she gets in line at the $100 betting window, come and get me, fast. If she goes to the $2 window, forget about it.”

  The blonde’s chiffon skirt swayed in a fascinating rhythm as I followed her out of the Terrace Garden and into the cavernous barroom. She stopped, coolly glanced around, focusing on me for a moment. I moved toward the bar and sat down, taking a quick look out of the corner of my eye.

  Apparently satisfied that I was nobody, she started walking again. Heads turned as she waltzed past the other male patrons drinking at the long bar. Then she veered left at the wide corridor that led to the betting area.

  The blond stopped at the $100 window. I turned to get Sol and saw him lurking behind a column next to a potted rubber plant.

  He rushed up to me, wiggling his fingers. “C’mon, Jimmy, gimme your $200.”

  “It’s all I got. I need the money to defend Rodriguez.”

  “Gimme the goddamn money! Hurry!”

  I pulled the bills out of my pocket and reluctantly handed them over. I started to ask about the bet, but he was gone.

  I wandered back to our table and waited. I’d given him all the money I had, money to pay some bills, money I needed to defend Rodriguez. The two hundred I gave to Sol was supposed to last until I could arrange for a loan on my car, which would take a while. I had no clients other than Rodriguez, and defending a murder rap would take not only a lot of money, but all of my time.

  My eyes wandered around the Terrace Garden. Everyone was decked out in expensive clothes, dressed to the hilt. They obviously had plenty of cash to toss around. They wouldn’t even notice the loss of a couple hundred. That was just tipping money to these people. They were full of smiles and falling all over themselves with laughter. What a happy crowd. I knew money couldn’t buy happiness. I thought everyone knew that, but I guessed that these people hadn’t gotten the memo. Ignorant fools, thinking they were happy, probably going through their whole lives thinking they’re happy. It was sad. They’ll die without ever knowing they weren’t happy.

  Sol had returned and slipped into his seat. Handing me a couple of parimutuel tickets, he said, “We’re down on the number three horse, Street Dancer, ridde
n by Jorge Torres.”

  I stared at the tote board. “The favorite is the eight horse. He’s even money.” I wondered if Sol knew what he was doing. “But we’ve bet on Street Dancer?”

  “Yeah, the morning line on Street Dancer was twelve-to-one. A long shot. But now he’s six-to-one. I only bet five, I didn’t want to drop the odds any farther.”

  “Hundred?”

  “Thousand. Your two hundred won’t affect the odds, but if I made a big bet, the odds would drop off the chart, would look funny.”

  I looked at the program. “Windy’s Daughter is ridden by Eddie Cruz. It’s the heavy favorite, Sol. Do you think Street Dancer is a better horse than Windy’s Daughter?” Not that it mattered; he’d already bet our money on Street Dancer.

  Sol chuckled. “You know better than that. Windy’s Daughter is a great horse, better than the one we bet on. But the jockeys decide who’s going to win the race, not the horses.”

  I didn’t want to mention anything about the ethics of fixing horse races. Not with my two hundred on the line.

  The horses pranced around on the track, wound up and fidgety, and soon they were set to go. The grooms shoved the last one into the starting gate. Taking a deep breath, I wondered if it would do any good to cross my fingers.

  The bell rang. My pulse quickened. The racehorses jumped from the starting gate. The public address system bounced the announcer’s voice around the grounds, broadcasting the horses’ positions as they stormed down the track. Street Dancer was third around the far turn. It looked like Torres was pacing our horse well, but Windy’s Daughter was running first and running easy. They maintained their position down the backstretch and around the near turn until they entered the final straightaway.

  Thundering down the homestretch, Windy’s Daughter held the lead, but our horse improved his position, second by a length. About one hundred yards from the finish, Street Dancer started to slow, bobbing his head. It was obvious that the better horse, Windy’s Daughter, would win the race. I would lose my money. My mind spun; maybe I could sell my car, move to a cheaper place, or whatever.

  Then it happened. Cruz inexplicably stood in the saddle and tightened the reins.

  A guy at the next table jumped up and screamed. “Look at that! Cruz missed the finish line. Thought he won the race. He’s done that before. God damn!”

  At that moment, Torres gave Street Dancer his way and let him run. His powerful muscles rippled, and the thoroughbred’s synchronized legs were a blur as the magnificent animal charged at Wendy’s Daughter. He took the lead. And before Cruz could recover, it was over. Street Dancer won the race by a nose.

  A deep resounding roar like an eight-point earthquake erupted from the fans. I bolted from my seat and looked out into the infield. My eyes and the eyes of 30,000 other fans were glued to the tote board. I waited for the official declaration that Street Dancer had won.

  After a minute of dead silence, an aftershock rose from the crowd; my stomach lurched. The word INQUIRY flashed bright and red before my eyes. I turned to Sol. He was studying the dessert menu.

  “They have a creme brulee here that’ll knock your socks off. Where’s the waiter?” he said.

  “Creme brulee-dessert-what the hell! What about the inquiry?”

  “A mere formality, my boy. Sit down, you worry too much.”

  “It was no accident. Cruz stiffed the race,” I said.

  “Of course he did. That’s why we didn’t bet on Windy’s Daughter,” Sol said.

  “But how’d you know?”

  “The good looking blonde is Cruz’s new wife. When she shows up with the big purse, it means the fix is on. The purse is full of money.”

  “Okay, but how’d you know to bet on Street Dancer?” I asked.

  “The teller at the $100 window is my friend, tells me which horse Cruz’s wife had bet on. Besides, The Cruiser only does this when Torres is riding in the same race.”

  “Do they do this often?”

  “Nah, only once in a while. Maybe a couple times during a meet. Then six months will go by before they do it again, at a different track.”

  “So today was the day, but you figured it out before his wife left for the window.”

  “Sure, everything fit. Eddie Cruz was the heavy favorite. Torres was in the race, a long shot, and the blonde was here with her big purse. Didn’t you notice the purse didn’t match her outfit? Anyway, when Cruz’s wife started to leave the table with the purse, I knew the fix was on. Everything fit and it worked.”

  “Except for the inquiry.”

  “Well, Eddie the Cruiser was a little too obvious. The horse, Windy’s Daughter, wanted to run and win the race.”

  Sol made eye contact with the waiter. He came over and we each ordered the creme brulee.

  A low murmur from the fans rumbled through the warm afternoon air. The sign on the tote board had changed from INQUIRY to OFFICIAL. Street Dancer was declared the winner and paid six to one. I jumped and shouted. By then I was a nervous wreck. But we won! My two tickets were worth over $1,400. I could keep my car and have money to defend Rodriguez, after all.

  After I calmed down, I asked Sol about the inquiry. “It took a while for the stewards to decide who the winner was,” I said.

  “Nah, there was nothing to decide. Who knows, maybe they’re in on the deal. Disgraceful…” Sol shook his head. “But, remember, most of the people bet on Cruz and the stewards wanted a cooling off period, that’s all. Didn’t want the crowd to riot, would be unseemly.”

  I glanced around and saw people with angry faces ripping betting tickets to shreds. “But these are powerful people. Don’t you think they’ll be a little pissed?”

  Sol smiled. “Who cares,” he said, as we got up to go cash in our tickets.

  C H A P T E R 17

  We glided in the big limo back to La Costa. The stereo played a ballad by Mel Torme. I gazed out the window while Sol sipped Champagne, unusually quiet. I thought about my day at the races and the money I’d won. What a day.

  The limo rolled onto the curved cobblestone driveway at the entrance of the resort. Guests in pairs strolled in and out of the wide, heavily carved doors leading to the lobby. The visitors seemed carefree and relaxed. A few couples, dressed in tennis whites, swished their rackets through the air, talking about their killer serves and dynamite backhands, no doubt.

  I stood in the driveway next to the limo. Sol climbed out and one of the parking guys went to get my car. I was ready to get started on my trip back to Downey, back to reality.

  “I had a great time. Thanks, Sol.”

  “Sure,” he said. “By the way, Joe Sica has agreed to help you with Karadimos. All you have to do is say the word. That was my phone call today.”

  I froze with my mouth open. Joe Sica was the godfather of organized crime in Southern California. The leader of what the media referred to as the Mickey Mouse Mafia.

  I started to thaw. In fact, I started to sweat. “What? The mobster? Jesus Christ! I don’t want to be mixed up with those guys. They help me and I’ll owe them-forever.”

  “Calm down, Jimmy, my boy. Let’s go in the hotel. We’ll talk it over in the bar. I need a drink and you can have coffee or something.”

  “You hook me up with Sica and I may start drinking again.”

  “Don’t make a decision about Joe until you hear me out.”

  It was after six. High rollers back from the track filled the lounge. The happy hour was in full swing. A jazz trio belted out the old standards. A singer who sounded a lot like Billie Holiday sang “Body and Soul.” The crowd stopped lying about their winnings and listened. She was that good.

  We found a table in the back, away from the people.

  “Why? Why would you want to set me up with an animal like Joe Sica?”

  “Because, I don’t want to see you get hurt. Karadimos is worse than the Mafia, a lot worse, and you need help to stay alive.”

  “What can I say?”

  “Nothing, just hear
me out.” Sol stopped talking when the waiter came to take our drink order, a Coke for me, and Beefeater’s on the rocks for him. It was after six, time to start his real drinking. The wine, Champagne, and gin and tonics earlier in the day didn’t count.

  “I called Joe while you were talking to Rhodes. There’s bad blood between the Mafia and Karadimos’s new gang, and you know the saying: ‘the enemy of my enemy’.” He searched my eyes for an answer.

  “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I won’t get involved with those guys.”

  “You won’t be involved. They’ll just kind of watch over things. Help out when you need a little protection. They know the territory and they know how Karadimos operates.”

  “No.”

  “Goddammit, they can protect you. If you aren’t concerned about yourself, think of your client. You’d be no good to Rodriguez, dead.” Sol paused, set his drink on the table, and leaned into me. “Hey, maybe you wanna quit the case.”

  “Aw, Christ, you know I’m not going to walk away. But why do you say Karadimos is worse than Sica? Am I going from the frying pan?”

  “Look Jimmy, I know these guys-”

  “Mobsters are your buddies?” I asked in a sarcastic tone.

  “You know better than that. I’m surprised at you. I don’t do business with them directly. I work for their lawyers. Like I do for you and your clients. Except they pay me.”

  “Touche,” I said.

  “Well, sometimes I do get involved with Sica. I go to his restaurant.” He picked up his Beefeaters and took a sip. “He’s got the greatest seafood bistro on the planet. He comps me, everything on the house.” Sol’s face brightened. “Hey, Jimmy, I’ll take you there. You won’t believe the abalone-”

  “Sol, please.”

  “Okay, but listen to me, you’ve gotta trust me on this.”

  “You know I trust you, but these guys are Mafia. Christ almighty.”

  “Let me tell you how I met Joe Sica.” Sol looked around carefully, then lowered his voice. “It was a few years back. The Feds had him dead bang on a tax rap. He was going down, five years minimum for that. But they were also going to nail him with a laundry list of other charges having to do with drugs.”