by J. L. Abramo
He climbed out of the taxicab, he paid the cab driver, and he watched the taxi pull away.
Then he casually moved toward the limousine.
The limo driver had been looking away. The taxi passenger was only a few feet from London’s driver when he spoke.
“Do you have a light?” he said.
The limo driver turned quickly, but not quickly enough.
The man who had suddenly materialized was pointing a .38.
“Do you have a weapon?” the man asked.
“Glove box.”
“You are going to get into the front seat and place both hands on the steering wheel. I am going to get into the seat behind you. I will not hesitate to shoot you if you deviate, understood?”
“Understood.”
“What can I call you?”
“Frank.”
“Now, Frank, you will slowly pass me the car key,” the man said, once they were in the vehicle.
Derek London’s driver complied.
“Will your employer do anything final before calling you?”
“Not likely. So, what now?”
“Now you place your hands back on the wheel. You will keep your mouth shut. And we will wait.”
While Derek London was refreshing my drink, I was afforded a minute or so to review my situation.
I was in a hotel room with a man who had orchestrated at least five murders in less than a week.
And I didn’t have him reaching for his checkbook.
I was convinced London’s chauffeur was more than just a driver, in the tradition of Carmine Cicero. I felt confident he was stationed just outside the door, waiting to be summoned in or waiting for me to try getting out.
I used the remaining moments of idle thought wondering if Ray Boyle had managed to follow us from the airport.
I was not very optimistic.
London handed me the drink and sat again, facing me on the matching upholstered chair.
“Would you like to know how this whole business began?” Derek London asked.
I was mildly curious.
I was guessing the authentic Daniel Gibson couldn’t care less.
And in this evening’s performance the role of Daniel Gibson, a.k.a. the last loose end, will be played by Jake Diamond.
“I came down here to end this business,” I answered. “Why would I want to know how it began?”
“I don’t know. Either you do or you don’t.”
“I don’t”
“I am going to tell you anyway, Daniel.”
That settled it. I had nothing smart to say, so I took a healthy swallow of bourbon and I waited.
“Do you know what a talent agent does?” he asked.
I knew what a talent agent was supposed to do, but in my personal experience they didn’t do much. I let him continue.
“I ran a small but successful agency. Did well enough to live in this unlivable city, put my wife and kids into a nice house in the Hills, employ a few domestics including a driver, gardener—and a young woman who did some cleaning, shopping, a little cooking and kept an eye on the kids.
“The girl was from Moscow. My wife found her through an employment agency that sponsored the relocation of foreign men and woman for domestic work here in the states. Marina was an exceptionally good worker, bright and likable. My wife and the children loved her. Then, after more than a year with us, she suddenly disappeared.
“We couldn’t understand, we paid her well, gave her a safe place to live, room and board, and treated her like a member of family, so we naturally assumed she had come to some harm. I was ready to report her missing to the police, but my driver assured me we would have better results finding her if I let him look into it. That driver was Carmine Cicero.
“A week later, Cicero took me to a nightclub. The place was jammed. We sat at a table, many young girls glided across the floor serving the patrons and being very friendly. Cicero pointed to the bar, and I saw Marina, dressed up like a street walker, working her charms on an older man. As I watched from across the room, Cicero told me how profitable it was, how the girls were luring big spenders into nightclubs up and down the coast. And how these clubs couldn’t find girls quickly enough to meet the demand.
“I confronted Marina. She was surprised and embarrassed to find me there. I simply asked her why. Marina simply answered she needed more money than she could make cleaning windows and needed it sooner to help her family back in Russia. I was not in a position to offer her an alternative. My business was floundering. Most of my clients weren’t landing any roles, and those who were doing well began moving over to larger agencies. I wished Marina good fortune. Carmine and I left the club.
“I had a lot of questions for Cicero as he drove me home. I was formulating an idea, and Carmine was quickly on the same page. I was thinking I might be in the wrong business. I was thinking perhaps I was representing the wrong kind of talent. What if I sponsored the placement of young women from Eastern Europe for jobs in the states, walking the floors of a nightclub, instead of walking the family dog. The stipulation was in the contract they signed, whether they fully understood or not, requiring the girls to work off their relocation costs. And we offered them a way to expedite the obligation working in the clubs. A majority of the girls voluntarily decided to stay on, the money was that good. Those who were very serious about getting out were let go after four months and referred to other employment agencies. There were no formal complaints.
“I made more in a year than I had in all my years as a talent agent, but I wanted more. I couldn’t meet the demand for these girls fast enough. By then I had learned Cicero possessed talents that went far beyond driving a limousine. We talked about the possibility of cutting through red tape in the immigration process by throwing cash around and Cicero said he could handle it. And as you well know, Daniel, he succeeded.
“And everything was peaches and cream, and fists full of cash, until a janitor at a hotel in San Francisco rang a bell and got Roberto Sandoval involved.
“Three years ago, my hottest actor was filming in Oakland. One night he was discovered in a hotel bed with a male prostitute. The detective who busted him called me from the hotel room. I knew immediately he was fishing. I asked him what it might take to make the incident go away. We settled on ten thousand dollars. The little fag rewarded me for saving his career by signing with another agency, but that’s another story. In any event, the detective was Marco Weido. So, when the problem of Roberto Sandoval came up, I felt Weido could take care of it. Cicero agreed, and we reached out to him.”
“So you put out a contract on Roberto Sandoval.”
“And Bigelow. And Justin Walker. And then Weido himself.”
London paused. He rose, walked across the room, and fixed another watered-down Scotch. During this short intermission in his epic tale I tried finding a more comfortable position in my chair, but I couldn’t locate one.
I had no idea why he was telling me all of this. Or I had an idea and didn’t care for it much.
I was wondering when Ray Boyle was going to burst into the hotel room with a gun in one hand and my return airline ticket to San Francisco in the other.
As it turned out, it was London who held a weapon in his hand as he walked back toward me with his fresh drink.
“I know Carmine Cicero is dead, Daniel,” he said.
I did the math. The two men who actually knew who they were working for were DOA, and he knew it. No one else could identify Derek London as the man behind the curtain. Except, now, I could. And I doubted it would make any difference to London that I was only pretending to be Daniel Gibson.
“Look,” I said. “This is not necessary. Just pay me what you owe me and I will disappear. Forever.”
“That is not going to happen, Daniel,” London said. “At least not as you describe it.”
“So, you are going to kill me?” I asked lamely.
“I will if I have to, but I prefer leaving it to someone more at ease with th
at sort of thing.”
“Like Cicero or Weido.”
“Or like the driver who brought you here.”
“Frank?”
“I see you got acquainted on the ride over.”
“What do you do about Frank? Frank is another loose end. Sooner or later you’ll have to do your own dirty work.”
It was as tough a delivery as I could muster. Travis Duncan would have been proud of me, if only for a moment.
London flashed an ugly smile.
“I will deal with that in my own time,” London said. “Does it matter that much to you who pulls your plug?”
Nice idiom.
“I’ll go with Frank,” I said.
London set his drink down, reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out his cell phone.
Derek London’s driver had been sitting perfectly still in the front seat of the limousine, with both hands motionless on the steering wheel. He felt the barrel of the gun softly kiss the back of his head before his cell phone rang a second time.
“Okay, Frank,” the man sitting behind him said. “Answer it, put it on speaker, and don’t be stupid.”
Frank took the call.
“Yes, sir?”
“It’s time we took our guest for that ride we talked about.”
“I’ll be right there.”
“Are you certain you weren’t followed?”
“Positive, sir. It’s clear out here.”
“Excellent, use the knock,” London said, and ended the call.
“The knock,” asked the man in the back seat.
“Two hard raps, three soft.”
“Very original. Was he talking about the long ride?”
“Yes.”
“Have you killed for him before?”
“No. I never killed anyone. I heard about the job, had a good idea about what he was looking for, and bluffed my way in. The money was great, and with Carmine Cicero on his payroll, I never thought it would come to this.”
“Cicero is dead.”
“Thanks for sharing.”
“I kind of like you, Frank. I really don’t wish for you to get hurt. So we are both going in there, and I will explain what I need you to do while we are on our way up.”
There was a rapping at the door of the hotel room. Two hard and three soft knocks. Very original. Not to mention I was already familiar with the secret code, having heard it used when I arrived. It was good old Frank.
“Don’t move,” London said.
I didn’t move.
He walked around me, his eyes and his gun trained on me all the way to the door. He opened the door with his back to it.
Frank walked in.
London handed Frank the gun.
“Keep him covered, I’ll get my things. If he moves, put one in his brain.”
Nice talk.
London started moving away and then Frank shocked the hell out of me. He took the gun off me and turned it on London.
“Hold on a minute, sir,” he said. “I think I hear something in the hall.”
“I thought you said it was all clear,” London said, turning to Frank.
And that’s when London noticed the tables had turned, so to speak. And that’s when Frank opened the door and I was truly astounded.
In walked Sergeant Roxton Johnson.
“Hit the road, Frank,” Johnson said, taking the gun.
Frank disappeared.
“Derek London, you are under arrest for conspiracy to murder.”
London didn’t know whether to shit or go blind.
“How did you get here,” I asked, finally coming out of my stupor.
“Private jet, I followed you in a cab from LAX. Good luck for you, Ray Boyle lost your scent.”
“Where is Boyle?”
“I don’t know, I’m guessing he’s out looking for you.”
“Why didn’t you call him?”
“I was afraid if the troops stormed in, I would lose the element of surprise.”
“How did you know Frank would cooperate?” I asked.
“I told him he could walk,” Johnson answered. He had not taken his eyes off London for a second. Had not even blinked. “When I gave him my handkerchief and told him to wipe down the limo, he decided to trust me, and trusting him was my best bet. I’ll call Ray as soon as I get handcuffs on this piece of crap. Boyle is going to eat this creep up alive.”
“Can you do me a favor first?” I asked.
“I’ve already done you a favor, Diamond.”
“Will you put one more on my tab?”
“Sure. You deserve it. You really went out on a limb.”
I quickly crossed the short distance to London and hit him in the face with all I had. He went down like a bowling pin.
“Feel better now,” the sergeant asked, while he snapped the cuffs on.
“I will, as soon as my hand stops hurting,” I said.
An hour later, Johnson and I were in a taxi on our way to LAX for the return trip to San Francisco.
Derek London had been turned over to the LAPD. He was safe in Ray Boyle’s hands. Though, knowing how Lieutenant Boyle felt about the way London had exploited those girls, safe may not have been the most precise word for it. If there was a bright spot to any of it, it was that Boyle believed a very high profile trial would result in more public awareness of the problem, and increased diligence by authorities.
“Do you think London will be convicted?” I asked, sitting beside Johnson in the back seat of the cab.
“Slam dunk. With London in custody, Daniel Gibson will testify. And Gibson knows enough to make the case, especially now that he can swear to London’s confession.”
“Gibson didn’t hear London’s confession,” I said. “I know I can be fairly convincing at times, but let’s not forget it was me in that hotel room with London.”
“We made a deal with Daniel Gibson. He was in that hotel room with London.”
“I see.”
“Thanks for helping us wrap this up, Diamond. And for offering to help clear Lieutenant Lopez.”
“You’re welcome, but it’s not exactly all wrapped up.”
“What do you mean?”
“London knew Carmine Cicero was killed.”
“How could he have known?”
“He must have heard it from someone, and it wasn’t me.”
“That’s not possible. We kept it quiet. Only a handful of people knew about Cicero’s death. And all of those people were police.”
“I know.”
“That is really bad news, Diamond.”
“Sorry.”
THIRTY
I woke up on Sunday morning feeling pretty good although the time projected on the ceiling above my bed in bright green numbers still really annoyed me. But I had boldly faced danger, for the public good, and come away unscathed, if you didn’t count the bruised knuckles.
I dragged myself out of bed, threw on a robe, unplugged the table alarm clock and headed downstairs to whip up breakfast. Sergeant Johnson called, to thank me again for my help and bring me up to speed.
Johnson had wasted no time hooking up with Lieutenant Folgueras in an attempt to swiftly discover who had tipped London about Cicero’s demise. Aside from Folgueras, Lopez and Johnson, who were quickly cleared of suspicion, no one was told the identity of the other victim in the fatal shootout at Marco Weido’s house in Oakland. Even the Oakland crime scene investigators and medical examiner had been kept in the dark as to Cicero’s identity. Of the two Oakland uniformed officers who first arrived at the scene, only one had known Weido, had worked with Weido in the past.
The question arose, did Bruce Perry know Carmine Cicero as well.
Folgueras brought Officer Perry into his office and unceremoniously delineated the consequences of holding back. Perry folded like an accordion. Weido had enlisted Perry, offering a substantial reward, to keep an eye on the progress of Blake Sanchez who was fighting for his life in a hospital after using Weido’s weapon in a liquor
store robbery attempt. He also gave Perry the phone number of an answering service in Los Angeles to call if he had news and couldn’t reach Weido. Perry did in fact recognize Carmine Cicero, and Weido was out of the picture, so Perry called Los Angeles hoping to earn a bonus with the news of both their deaths.
“How is Lieutenant Lopez?” I asked Johnson, once he completed the update.
“I’m on my way to breakfast with Lopez now,” Johnson said. “I’m sure she will chew me out for going down to L.A. yesterday without her blessings.”
“Won’t Lopez be glad you saved my bacon, once again?”
“I’m not certain,” Johnson said, and he ended the call.
Good old Johnson, always the charmer.
I started a pot of coffee and then I crossed to the refrigerator hoping to find bacon.
Lieutenant Laura Lopez and Sergeant Rocky Johnson sat together in a window booth at Café DeLucchi on Columbus Avenue in North Beach.
“So,” Lopez said.
“So,” Johnson said.
“So, your wife is coming home today.”
“Yes. I pick her up at SFO this afternoon.”
“I’ll bet you are anxious to see her.”
“Even more anxious than I am to see the waitress bringing my sausage and swiss cheese omelet out of the kitchen.”
“Can I ask you a serious question, Rocky?”
“Shoot.”
“Did you think, at any time, I had something to do with Roberto Sandoval’s death?”
“I told you before, Laura, I didn’t know what to think. I was concerned, and the concern was about your well-being. Removing evidence from a crime scene is not characteristic behavior.”
“It certainly got you juiced up. Maybe I should behave out of character more often.”
“Don’t do me any favors,” Johnson said.
“Speaking of favors, it would have been good of you to tell me about your plan to visit Los Angeles.”
At last, thought Johnson.
“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I didn’t have much time to consult with anyone.”
“You found time to ask Yardley to hush it up.”
