The waiter came back with our drinks on a serving tray. When he left, Sol continued with his story, telling me about how he worked for Sica’s lawyer, Sidney Grossman, and somehow managed to prove that Sica wasn’t involved with drug trafficking. Sica pulled a nickel for the tax rap. He’d just recently been released.
“So Jimmy, if he’d been convicted on the drug thing, he’d still be in the joint. He owed me one, and I called in the favor.”
C H A P T E R 18
Just beyond Capistrano Beach, I turned off the I-5 and took the longer route back to Downey, the highway running along the coast. The Spaniards, late in the eighteenth century, originally cut the road through the hills at the edge of the ocean and named it El Camino Real, the Royal Road. We paved it over and renamed it Pacific Coast Highway. Maybe the tranquility of the scenic drive would help alleviate my anxiety.
I drove into a cutout, a view spot on a high steep bank overlooking the ocean, and stared out at the sea. The sun was slipping below the horizon, its golden path glittering on the water. Huge breakers were rolling in from the south swell caused by Hurricane Estelle down in Mexico. The wind blew, carrying with it the salt-tinged fragrance of the Pacific. I stood at the edge of the bluff thinking about the greed and corruption of organized crime. I thought about the destruction, violence, and lives ruined. I thought about my discussion with Sol.
Sica had hinted to Sol that Karadimos was involved in activities that were not compatible with the Mafia’s traditional businesses. The Mafia’s code of silence prevented Sica from telling Sol specifics, but he let it be known that a territorial gang war was brewing between the mob and Karadimos. I asked Sol if he had any idea what the war was about. Sol said he didn’t know, but Sica summed it up in one word, “Bad news.” I pointed out that bad news is two words. Sol winked mischievously and said, “Yeah, but it’s not smart to argue with the godfather of the California Mafia.”
I realized Sol’s concerns about my safety were real.
Before we left the bar at La Costa, he convinced me to at least meet with Joe Sica. If he wanted to keep me alive for his purposes, so be it. As Sol had said, there was nothing illegal or unethical about staying alive. If Sica called, I’d hear him out, but wouldn’t ask for any favors.
The wind shifted. The golden path disappeared with the sun, and darkness crept over the horizon. I walked slowly back to my car.
When the phone rang, I was home drinking my second cup of coffee and working my way through the Sunday morning Times. The comics always came first, then the sports page. If I had time after it, I’d read the rest of the paper.
“You O’Brien?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Joe Sica. You’ll meet me at Alfred’s Pasta House on Atlantic Ave. in South Gate. You’ll be there at eleven this morning.”
Before I could answer, he hung up.
I looked at my watch: ten minutes after ten. I hopped into the shower, dressed, hit the road, and pulled into the parking lot with five minutes to spare.
I shouldered my way into the restaurant, packed with people. A jukebox blasted fifties rock and roll. The sensuous aroma of Italian cooking drifted in from the kitchen as waiters dashed from table to table with heaping plates of manicotti, lasagna, and veal parmigiana. Three bartenders poured drinks as fast as they could set the glasses on the bar.
The loud and rambunctious crowd consisted mostly of well-groomed Italian men, with a few women who looked like Vegas showgirls thrown in for color.
“Who’s dat bum singing?” I heard someone shout.
“Ricky Nelson,” someone else shouted back.
“Get ridda dat crap. Put on Frankie,” the first guy yelled.
Within seconds, Frank Sinatra’s smooth baritone voice crooning My Way floated in the air. The place erupted with a clamor of approval: “Sing it, Frankie,” “Way to go kid,” and “I’m doing it my way, too.” Fat guys with their arms in the air danced, weaving and swaying almost in time with the music. Quite a scene.
A tall man who looked as if he spent a lot of time pumping iron approached me. “You O’Brien?”
“Yeah.”
“The boss is in the office. Follow me.” He looked me over. “Are you packing?”
“Packing what?” I asked.
“No weapons in here. Not allowed.”
This was like a bad B movie. “I don’t have a gun.”
I felt the eyes of the patrons on my back as we walked through the dining room toward the office. Iron Man knocked on the door.
“C’mon in,” a voice answered.
We walked into the small unpretentious office. An older guy about seventy but fit and trim nodded at me. He wore a checkered sport shirt, buttoned at the collar. The old man sat in a chair with his feet on the desk. Except for his nose, which looked like it had been broken a few times, he could have been someone’s gentle and loving grandfather.
“I’m Joe Sica,” he said. “Just so you know who you’re dealing with, I’m the capo crimini, the godfather around here. I control the territory. Sit down.”
“You have grandkids?” I asked.
“Yeah, why?”
“You have that look,” I answered.
“What look?”
“Like a grandfather.”
“I’m the godfather.”
“Hey,” I said. “Do the kids call you Grandfather, Godfather, or Grandfather Godfather?”
He gave me a blank stare. “You through with that shit?”
I realized this guy was nowhere near the benign elderly gent he resembled. His eyes were as hard and cold as a chrome-plated rock. “Ah, yeah, guess so.” Maybe I should watch my mouth.
“You’re a lawyer,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“I’m kinda like a lawyer too,” he said. “And we have laws.” He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a.38 caliber revolver. Bouncing the gun in his hand, he said, “In my business, la pistola dettava legge, do you understand?”
“I think I get the idea.” The B movie took a turn for the worse.
He put the gun back in the drawer and took out a cigar box. He opened it, looked in, fumbled around, and pulled out a dollar bill. He handed it to me. “Here, take this.”
I took the money. “What’s this for?”
“A lawyer is an officer of the court,” he said. “Supposed to tell the cops things they hear. I just paid you a fee, a retainer, now everything you hear or see is privileged, can’t tell nobody.”
What he said was not exactly true. If he were really my client, and told me about a crime he was planning to commit, then the privilege wouldn’t hold. I’d be obligated to report what I heard. However, this was not the time, I thought, to debate the finer points of legal canons.
“You’re not really hiring me, right?”
“Nah, Sol Silverman says you can be trusted, but I wanna cover the bases. Capish?”
“I understand.”
His dark, cold eyes met mine. “Get this straight. You know nothing, from nothing, about nothing. Am I clear?”
“I get the point.”
Sica snapped his fingers. Iron Man sprang to attention.
“Yo, Boss.”
“Vito, go get Big Jake. Bring him here.”
Vito split, and Sica turned to me. “We’ll talk about the Karadimos thing when Big Jake shows up.”
“Okay.”
“You want something from the bar.”
“Nope, I don’t drink.”
He looked at me. I looked at him. We both remained silent. We just sat there staring at each other.
After a short interval, I decided to say something to fill the void. I wanted to ask him if the mob had anything to do with the Kennedy assassination, but I thought this was not the time for that either.
“You’ve got a jumping joint here,” I said. “The place is packed.”
“Nah, this is a bust-out. Know what I mean? You know about a bust-out?”
“Kind of a going-out-of-business sale?”
“Oh,” I said.
“We take over the restaurant and throw a party for our friends and associates, a little R ’n R for the boys. We order booze and food from the previous owner’s suppliers on his credit. What we don’t use here for the party, we sell to other places that we do business with.”
“Sounds kind of penny-ante for guys like you.”
“We’re not businessmen. We don’t do everything just for money. Gotta have a little fun.”
I thought about what they did for fun. Run some guy out of business, destroy his life, and then throw a party in what’s left of his establishment.
“Fun?” I asked. “What about the ex-owner of this place? Is he having any fun?”
“Sentimental bullshit.”
“Yeah, maybe so. But his life is ruined, dead for all I know, while you and your men are laughing it up in his place of business.”
“Hey, kid, it’s what we do.” His eyes got hard and he reached into the drawer. I started to sweat. Was he going to pull out his pistola? Jesus Christ, me and my big mouth. Why can’t I just shut up?
He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Then he said, “The owner came to us. Needed money. He knew the rules going in, knew we weren’t humanitarians. We lived up to our end of the deal. He didn’t.” Sica shrugged his shoulders. “Whaddya want from me? Do I look like Mother Teresa?”
I didn’t see any rosary beads. “No, you’re too tall, but maybe a little in the face.”
“Wise guy,” he chuckled. “But you got guts. I guess you’re okay.”
The clamor from the dining room stopped, as if someone hit the eject button on a tape deck. Sica jumped to his feet, went to the door, opened it a crack and peeked out. “It’s no big deal, but we’ve got company. When they come in here, don’t say anything.”
“Who-”
“Just don’t say anything.”
He went back to the desk and sat on the edge, striking a blase pose. The office door opened. Two men wearing conservative three-piece suits entered the room. One of them had a small notebook in his hand, the kind that would fit in the inside pocket of a suit coat. He was scribbling in the book. The other guy moved slowly around the office, looking things over, fingering the desk and riffling the paper on it.
Sica sat there, calmly staring at the ceiling.
“Okay, Joe, what are you goombahs doing here, another bust-out?” the suit without the notepad asked.
“We have a legal right to be here. The owner gave me the keys, told me to watch the place. Nobody invited you. Now get the hell out. You’re bad for business,” Sica said.
“Where’s the guy who owns this joint?”
“He’s on vacation.”
The suit asking the questions pointed his head in my direction. “Who’s he?”
“Nobody,” Sica said.
“Who are you?” he asked me.
“I told you he’s nobody.” Sica planted his feet on the floor. Expanding his chest, he said, “Now, unless you got a warrant, get the fuck outta here.”
The two men casually glanced around. The scribbler put his notebook away and they both strolled out of the room.
When the door closed after the men left, Sica asked, “You park your car in the lot?”
“Yeah, why?”
“They got your plate number. They’ll run it, find out who you are.”
I didn’t need that. Just by being here I was digging a deep hole. Maybe I’d already dug it too deep to climb out of when this thing is over. Sica must have felt my concern.
“Hey, kid, it’s no big deal. The FBI gets their kicks outta hassling me. That’s all.”
The noise, laughter, and Sinatra’s voice, louder than before, resumed. Someone shouted, “The Feebs have left the building.”
A few minutes later, the door banged open. The biggest, meanest looking guy I’d ever seen stood in the doorframe staring at me. He must be the muscle in this organization, the guy who hangs the rats on hooks. He could do it one handed.
“Hey, boss,” he mumbled, nodding at me. “Who’s the prick?”
C H A P T E R 19
Big Jake looked tough, like he could knock down a building. It was easy to see how he got his name. I didn’t know about the Jake part, but the big part was obvious. He was massive. I guessed nearly four hundred pounds. He stood at least six-foot five, his legs were short for a man this size, but his arms were longer than normal. If he’d had a lot of hair, which he didn’t, they’d call him Big Jake the Gorilla. I didn’t ask him if he wanted a banana.
“We gotta help this guy,” Sica said.
“If you says to help, den we help,” Jake said.
“O’Brien’s a lawyer, having trouble with Karadimos.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“The usual shit.”
“I’d like to stomp Karadimos, smash him like a cockroach.”
“We help him…” Sica did a hand waffle. “He helps us. Might get rid of Karadimos that way.”
“No shit?” Jake said.
“Yeah, you don’t think I want to help this guy because I like lawyers. I hate the bastards.” Sica looked at me. “No offense, O’Brien.”
Yeah, sure. “None taken,” I said.
“Let’s go, Jake. We’re taking a ride. You too, O’Brien. I don’t want to talk in here. Know what I mean?”
Sica’s gold-colored Cadillac Sedan DeVille was in the lot. The car looked brand new, not a scratch on it. The paint gleamed and the white sidewall tires still had the little rubber tidbits sticking out from the tread. The only problem: this model was five years old.
When I started to open the front passenger door Sica said, “Jake won’t fit in the back seat.” Sica and Big Jake climbed into the front. I opened the rear door and got in. The interior was as pristine as the exterior.
“Joe, you sure keep this car in great shape,” I said, making small talk.
“It’s been in storage while I’ve been away.”
“Where you been?”
“Joe’s been a guest of the Feds,” Jake chortled. “Just got out. He’s been rehabilitated.”
“Very funny, Jake.” Sica started the car. “Let’s get down to business.” He backed out and we headed north on Atlantic. “O’Brien, I’ll give you a little background,” Sica said. “Karadimos wormed his way into my territory. Took some of my action. He’s outta control, gotta be stopped.”
“I thought you guys had ways of handling situations like that.”
“He’s too strong politically. I’ll tell you right out, if I had my way, he’d already be a new reef off San Pedro. He’s so fat, he’d be a navigation hazard, have to mark him on the Coast Guard charts.” He smirked.
Jake laughed. It was probably a good idea for Jake to laugh at Sica’s humor, kind of like Johnny Carson and Ed McMahon.
“I was going to have him taken care of. Had to get the okay, went to the council, all four godfathers from California. They said no. I’d have to find some other way. That’s where you come in.”
“Me?” I asked. “What do I have to do with this?”
“Silverman said you figure Welch had something to do with the bimbo getting whacked. Maybe he does. If Welch is involved, then so is Karadimos. Welch won’t take a dump without Karadimos giving the okay. You take Welch down, he’ll drag Karadimos with him.” He looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Maybe you’re full of crap. Who knows, but we’ll take the chance.”
We cruised up Atlantic and after about three miles, turned right on Florence Avenue and headed toward Downey. We turned left into the Don’s Market parking lot on the corner of Paramount and Florence.
Three Downey police cars were parked in front of Dave’s Donuts, adjacent to the grocery store. Joe and Jake got out of the car. I followed. Six cops sat at tables in front of the donut shop. They looked us over as we approached the takeout counter. A
sergeant, with three hash marks on his sleeve, stood.
“Hey, Joe, what’s happening, my man? Haven’t seen you in a while,” he said.
Joe went over to the cop, made a fist with his hand, and tapped him playfully on the shoulder. “Been outta town, Mike. But hey, buddy, nail any bad guys lately?”
“Nah, nobody this morning. It’s Sunday, all the bad guys are in church. But someday I’ll nail you. Big collar like that and the brass hats will make me a lieutenant.”
“Aw, Mike, always the kidder.”
We went to the window. Sica and I had coffee. Jake ordered a dozen jelly donuts with a large Pepsi. Joe also bought donuts, five dozen assorted. He gave them to the sergeant.
“Here, Mike, take these to the boys at the station.”
“It’ll take more than donuts to get you off when I hook you up,” Mike the cop said.
“Consider it a down payment,” Joe said.
We pulled out of the lot and headed back the same way we came. Jake gobbled donuts, Sica drove, and I sat in the back thinking about the tightrope I was walking. I’d have to be careful. It would be easy to fall off and land on the wrong side.
“Jake, put the goddamn donut down and listen to me,” Sica said. “I want round-the-clock protection on O’Brien.”
“How long we gonna baby-sit this guy?”
“Until I say stop. And listen, you better not screw up like last time. Anything happens to him, you’ll be in deep shit.”
Screw up like the last time? What the hell was that about?
“Aw, Joe, I can handle a pussy like Karadimos.”
“It’s his soldiers I’m worried about.” Sica flicked his head in my direction. “They’re out to punch the counselor’s ticket. The Greek stole a few soldatos from Buscetta. I know those guys. They’re vicious, scary bastards.”
“Don’t worry about it, boss. Ain’t nobody I can’t handle. If those guys tries anything, I’ll cram my fist down their fuckin’ throats, rip out their fuckin’ hearts, and eat them raw while they watch.” Jake turned and looked at me over the seat-back. He took an immense bite out of a jelly donut. Purple jam oozed out and ran down his face.
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