Holding the pipe like a baseball bat, I waited. I figured when Karadimos heard the tractor start up he’d assume Gus was messing with the machine. After all, I should be dead by now.
I didn’t have to wait long. He immediately sent Angelo to find out why Gus would be driving the tractor around in the middle of the night. When Angelo came through the door, I was ready. He stuck his head and shouted, “Gus! Hey, asshole, what the hell is going on?”
He ventured a little farther into the yard, closing the door behind him. I took my best swing with the pipe, and he toppled to the dirt. He fell in a heap, not making a sound.
I quickly grabbed the.45 from his waistband and darted back to my place near the door, where I took a few deep breaths. Sweat ran down my face and mingled with the caked blood. The.45 felt heavy in my hand as I held it up. I couldn’t wait any longer; I had to get the drop on Karadimos. He’d likely be at his desk, going over the files. I kicked the door open and jumped in, gun leveled.
No Karadimos. My eyes swept the room. Nothing. Behind me, the dozer continued to rumble. Where the hell was he? Taking a crap?
I backed up and turned, holding the gun out in front of me. Karadimos stepped out from the corner of the building. He held his revolver straight out, aimed at my chest.
I flinched. “What the hell-”
His finger was wrapped around the trigger, the gun cocked. “Say goodnight, O’Brien. It’s time to turn out the lights-”
We both heard it at the same time: the loud crunching shriek of metal chewing metal.
“Shit! My goddamn car! The fucking dozer is running over my Mercedes-” As Karadimos flicked his eyes toward the metallic carnage, I shot him in the head.
I dropped the.45 as the distant sound of sirens wailing in the night came closer.
C H A P T E R 51
Light streamed in from the hospital room window. It was Friday, almost thirty hours after Sol and the cops found me staggering around Karadimos’s dead body. When he noticed my bloody face and dead eyes, Sol had one of the deputies rush me to the emergency room at St. Frances in Lynwood.
Dr. Kaufmann, a plastic surgeon, did what he could to heal my facial wounds and improve my appearance. He told me I should feel better soon and could be released in a day or so. Other than a few small scars, I’d look the same as before the trauma. I told him I’d slip him an extra fifty bucks to make me look more like Robert Redford.
“No dice,” he said, “not enough to work with.” But for twenty-five, he could make me look like Phyllis Diller. I passed on the deal.
I remained in the recovery room for hours after the surgery, then a couple of gurney jockeys wheeled me into a private room with a view. I couldn’t get out of bed to see the view, but they assured me it was nice. During Dr. Kaufmann’s most recent visit he indicated I was healing fast and could now have visitors. People had been waiting to see me, he said. He’d let them know I was awake.
Soon after the doctor left, Rita slipped quietly into the room. When she noticed my eyes were open and saw me smiling, she rushed to my side and took my hand.
“Oh, Jimmy, we’ve all been so worried. Sol has been here the whole time. He just went to get some coffee. He said you were almost killed. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.”
“You could take over the firm.”
“Don’t say that!” She tapped me playfully on the arm. “Sol told me some of it, but not how he knew you’d been kidnapped, or what happened at the yard.”
I gave her a sanitized version of the story, omitting the fact that they threw me into the garbage pit. But I did tell her about the shootout in Las Vegas, my discovery of Gloria’s briefcase, and my showdown with Karadimos and his thugs. Then I explained how Sol and the police found out I’d been captured and taken to Karadimos’s facility in Cudahy.
“Late Wednesday night Sol drove back from Vegas and stopped at Rocco’s for a quick drink before going home. He recognized a thug named Lenny parking my car in the lot and followed him into the bar.”
“I thought you didn’t let anyone drive your car,” Rita said.
“You’re right, and Sol knows that too. The guy took it after Angelo and Gus kidnapped me. Anyway, Sol grabbed Lenny and threatened to beat him to a pulp if he didn’t tell him what happened to me. It didn’t take long for the guy to spill his guts. Sol called the cops and they made a beeline for the refuse yard. They got there just in time. I’d lost some blood and was ready to pass out. Angelo had come to and was crawling around looking for a gun.”
“Wow!”
“I have to ask you a question.”
“What, Jimmy?”
“I know they found Gloria’s briefcase in the office, but what happened to it?”
“Oh gosh! I didn’t tell you. The Sheriff’s Department turned it over to the D.A.’s office. You were still recovering from surgery and couldn’t be disturbed, so I called Bobbi Allen to remind her to make sure the charges against Rodriguez were dropped. After she goes through the stuff and does a preliminary check, she promised me she’d file a motion to dismiss all charges against him. Also, at the coroner’s inquest she’s going to recommend that the Karadimos shooting be ruled self defense.”
I took a deep breath. It had all been worth it. Rodriguez would go free. Still, I felt something wasn’t right.
“You won the case, Jimmy! Without even going to trial, you won the case.” Rita bent down and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m so proud of you.”
Sol appeared, carrying two cups of takeout coffee. He handed one to Rita. “Where’s mine?” I asked.
“Aw, Jimmy my boy; you’ve been lying around here being pampered long enough. You’ll have to get your own.”
I made a move to get out of bed. “Oh, damn,” I said and fell back down. “Not today, Sol.”
“I’ll get you a cup,” Rita said. Before I could stop her, she dashed out the room.
Sol pulled a tape cassette out of his pocket. “Found this before the cops did on Karadimos’s desk.”
“Jesus, is that the missing tape I recorded at Chasen’s?”
“Yes it is, buddy boy, and when you get out of here, we’re going to build a little fire.”
“Maybe roast some marshmallows.”
“I’m thinking hotdogs.”
I became serious. “Sol, you saved my life…”
“Yeah, we do that for each other. Don’t we?”
I just smiled.
“Hey, the story’s all over the news. Someone leaked it to the media.” Sol flashed a mischievous grin. “The cops are rounding up the rest of Karadimos’s bunch as we speak, and they’ve just arrested French. Welch seems to have skipped.”
“Probably heading for the Galapagos Islands,” I said.
“Here’s something you might want to know. I called the hospital in Vegas. It was touch and go, but Big Jake will survive. Be back kicking the shit out of people in no time.”
We heard a soft knock. Sol and I turned toward the door. Bobbi peered inside. “May I come in?”
“Sure,” Sol boomed, “why not?”
Bobbi stepped cautiously into the room, carrying a gift basket of flowers with a red balloon attached. “Hi, Jimmy. I brought you these.” She held out the flowers.
“Thank you,” I said. Sol placed the basket on a table against the wall.
She sat in the chair across from me, folded her hands in her lap, and glanced around the room. Just then, Rita returned with my coffee. She said hello to Bobbi and asked about the Rodriguez motion of dismissal.
“I filed it an hour ago. He’ll be released today.”
“That’s wonderful,” Rita said.
No one said anything for long seconds, until Sol broke the silence. “C’mon, little girl,” he said to Rita. “I’m going to buy you the best damn lunch you’ve ever had.” He slipped his arm around her waist and started moving her toward the door.
“Jimmy,” Bobbi said after they left.
“Yeah?”
She walk
ed to the window and stood looking out at my nice view, then turned. “I’m sorry that I doubted your integrity.”
“Well, it’s your job, I guess.”
She sat down again. “Fred Vogel, the jet mechanic from Long Beach, talked to Sergeant Hodges. He told him about the hidden meter. You were right. I’m really sorry.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter now,” I said.
“You brought down a massive criminal organization!”
“Rodriguez has been exonerated. That’s all I wanted.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s about it.”
“Maybe, when you’re feeling better…Well, maybe we can take in that movie we’d talked about.”
“Saw it already.”
I waited in the uneasy silence, then Bobbi stood and dusted off her skirt. “I have to go, Jimmy. But if you want to talk, I’m available.”
I nodded. “Thanks for stopping by.”
Bobbi left. The nurse soon came around and checked my blood pressure, the doc popped his head in the door and waved, and a candy striper bought me a pasty meal. I wasn’t hungry and the food tasted like stale pabulum, but I ate most of it anyway.
A messenger walked in carrying an enormous wreath with a wide ribbon draped across it. I opened the card: I know you won’t forget our favor. It was signed, Joe Sica.
Am I now obligated to the mob? Wasn’t getting rid of Karadimos enough? I glanced again at the wreath and wondered if the resemblance to a funeral arrangement was intentional.
Friends from long ago and people I didn’t know sent cards and gifts. Later in the day, I even received a handwritten card from Judge Bob Johnson. It said, “Our little misunderstanding about the case was forgiven.” The schmuck even asked me to endorse him in the next election.
After reading the get-well cards, I put them on the nightstand next to my bed and took a nap. That night I turned on the TV mounted high on the wall. A comedian on the Dick Cavett show, a guy named Foster Brooks, was hilarious. He did a funny drunk routine.
I turned off the TV and glanced at the stack of gifts. My gaze landed on a leather-bound copy of Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass.” Picking the book up, I fiddled around with it, absently flipping through the pages. I put it down and stared at the ceiling. I couldn’t concentrate. I felt restless, as if I had missed an important detail. What was it?
I drifted off again, and after a half hour of restless sleep, I bolted up in bed. Thoughts and ideas came to me at a mile a minute. I shuffled through the stack on the end table and found the envelope I was looking for. Of course! The handwriting matched the envelope that I had found at the murder scene.
The pieces began to fall into place. I’d make one phone call, and it would finally be over. I couldn’t do anything until I got out of the hospital. But it could wait. I knew it could wait.
I rolled over on my side and fell sound asleep.
C H A P T E R 52
On Sunday afternoon, two days later, we gathered at Rocco’s for a luncheon that Rita had arranged in my honor. Half of Downey turned out, including Judge Bob Johnson, Joe DiLoretto, the mayor, and Richard Conway, a reporter for the L.A. Times. Rita had even invited Mabel, our answering service lady. At the last minute, I’d asked Rita to invite another guest. He hadn’t arrived yet.
I worried about Rodriguez and Bobbi being at the same lunch. However, when Bobbi arrived, she rushed over and apologized to him. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the smile on his face as he shook her hand.
When Rita invited her to the luncheon, Bobbi had called and asked if her presence would make me uncomfortable. Knowing I’d been harsh with her at the hospital, I said it would be fine.
Sol, being Sol, made sure that Rocco’s was well stocked with Dom Perignon and Beluga caviar. He even brought a few pounds of his special blend of Jamaican Blue Mountain Coffee and arranged to have the restaurant’s spunky piano player entertain us. Everyone howled at the guy’s fractured song routine.
Bobbi approached me with a bewildered smile on her face. “Alone again, Ralph?” she asked.
“Could be our song,” I said.
“It would be charming,” she said, “but when are we going to have that talk?”
“Soon.”
Sol worked the room with Rodriguez under his wing. Joyce followed with a pen and notebook in hand. I asked Rita what the heck was going on. “It’s wonderful,” she said. “Sol is lining up gardening business for Mr. Rodriguez. He’s already got him the City of South Gate contract and he’s now working on Downey.”
Mabel, the answering service lady, stopped by my table. “How’s it feel to be a big shot?” she asked.
I’d never met Mabel in person. She was just a voice on the phone that nagged me from time to time. She had dyed red-orange hair and her make-up was overdone.
“Mabel, I’m not a big shot. I just do my job and try to survive like millions of people do every day.”
She turned to walk away, but then stopped. “You big shots are all the same, full of bullshit.” Her grin belied her words.
“You know, Jimmy,” Rita said a few seconds later, “Mabel came by the hospital, stuck around while you were in surgery, but she had to leave to handle her business. She’s a good person, you know.”
“Yeah, it was nice of her to be there.”
“When I pass the bar and become your associate, we should hire her.”
“What?”
“Those new answering machines are wiping out her business. And we’ll need someone to answer the phones.”
“Where’s the money going to come from?”
“It’ll work out. Someone or something is watching over you. You’ve got that little halo above your head.”
“Does it glow?”
She laughed. “Oh, Boss.”
At one-thirty, my special guest arrived. I pulled Bobbi aside, told her what was on my mind, and asked her to stick close to Mitch the cop for a while. I introduced Mitch to a few guests then I took him to meet Sol.
“Mitch, say hello to my best friend. Sol, he’s the officer who took the anonymous call that morning. Been on the force less than four months, but his career is about to skyrocket.”
“Good for you, Mitch,” Sol said, then turned to me. “How’s he going to do that?”
“You’ll see.” I glanced around the room. Judge Bob Johnson sat alone in a booth in the back of the room, his hands wrapped around a tall drink. I saw Bobbi and Mitch sit in the booth next to his. “C’mon, Sol, let’s go talk to the judge.”
“Jimmy, it’s always a pleasure to see you,” Johnson said when we slipped into his booth. “You too, Silverman.”
“Not always, Bob.”
“Excuse me?”
“I got your card, in the hospital. Wrote it yourself, very thoughtful.”
Johnson paused for half a beat. I felt that he sensed something was up. “Figured you’d like it. Now, what’s the matter? Don’t want to endorse me?”
“I don’t endorse murderers.”
“What!”
“You were having an affair with Gloria Graham. She was sleeping with a married man who was running for reelection. That’s you, Bob. You’re on the ballot in November, too. But two weeks ago, you sent her a Dear John letter. Was she going to expose you, Bob? Is that why you killed her?”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“You flew to the fundraiser with Welch and Karadimos that weekend.”
“That’s right, you dumb bastard. I was in Sacramento at the time-”
“You weren’t at the Saturday night dinner.”
“Of course I was-”
“Saw Robert Goulet and the comic, Foster Brooks? He did his famous drunk routine. Remember, you said he was hilarious. Isn’t that right, Bob?”
“Yeah, very funny, like you are right now. Are you drunk?”
“Foster Brooks wasn’t there, Bob. He canceled at the last minute. You wouldn’t know that because you were flying the jet back at the time.”
&
nbsp; “The pilot flew the jet-”
“Death bed confession: he didn’t fly it.”
Johnson gulped his drink. Sol sat there in shocked silence. He knew this was my play, a little grandstanding, but he would know I deserved a little payback for what I went through because of Johnson.
“Get out of my booth, you goddamn bastard.”
“You flew jets in Korea, Bob. You were the only one on the trip who knew how to fly a jet, and you flew down Saturday, killed her, and searched the house. You found the letter, but couldn’t find the envelope.”
“Karadimos searched the place-”
“He couldn’t fly a jet. Karadimos didn’t even know it was flown that Saturday night until he got the gas bill on Monday. He didn’t make the anonymous call. I talked to the police dispatcher when I was in the hospital and had him listen to the police tapes of Karadimos’s voice. Wasn’t him.”
“You crazy bastard!”
“You even sent thugs to trash my office. They stole the Rodriguez file. But worse, they tore up my 1951 Angels team photo. They didn’t have to do that, Bob.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You shouldn’t have pressured me to plead Rodriguez out.”
“You can’t prove anything.”
“You killed the girl, Bob. Had to get back fast, didn’t have time to do a thorough search, and the envelope was still there, sitting on her dressing table.”
“God almighty-”
“I saw it. It’s in your handwriting, just like the card you sent me.”
“Jimmy, listen to me-”
“And the gift-Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. It must be your favorite. I saw the card you sent her, with the quote from To a Common Prostitute. Is that how you saw her, Bob?”
“For chrissakes, O’Brien!”
“You called the police from Sacramento that morning. Shouldn’t have done that, Bob. The call was long distance and it’s obvious whoever made the anonymous call was the killer.”
“Wasn’t me!”
“I’ve got proof.”
“Karadimos…Welch…” he stammered.
“Give it up, Bob.”
There was a long pause, Johnson glared at me, his chest expanding and deflating erratically, as if his body tried to adjust to what his mind already knew.
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