by Rex Burns
Sliding along the gritty coldness of the cement floor onto the gravel of the alley, she listened for the sound of another shot or, worse, footsteps running toward the garage. The only noises were the yap and howl of neighboring dogs startled into barking, and the voices of a television program behind one of the fences. Low against the curve of the rear fender, Julie reached up to blindly lift the hatchback’s handle. The latch clicked and she shoved the door up slightly, hand groping into the wall recess for the pistol wrapped in its small towel. A crackling noise made her lower the door quickly to turn off the dome light and, one eye peeking past the rear bumper, she saw down the alley a lightless car slowly backing toward her. The silhouette of a hunched head and shoulder leaned out of the driver’s window. It was too dark to glimpse more than the lumpy figure, and as Julie rolled back into her garage, the muzzle flash blinded her and she felt the hair on the side of her head lift suddenly and heard the thunk of a round tear through a board. It whined up into the night sky. The dogs’ frenzied barking reached a higher pitch and from one of the back porches a bright light flashed across a lawn and a man’s voice called, “What’s going on out there!”
Julie blinked rapidly to clear the blossoming red and yellow glare from her eyes. But all she could see was a quick flash of brake lights and the shadowy car spinning its wheels to spit gravel in a frantic sprint down the alley. She ran a few steps after it, the still-wrapped pistol in her hand. But the vehicle was gone, rocking in a fast turn at the street. Its tires squealed on macadam as the engine rapped hotly and it disappeared.
“Hey—what’s going on?”
In the dark, a man’s shadowy head poked over his fence. “That you, Miss Julie? You OK?” The dog, somewhere at the bottom of the fence, barked excitedly.
A deep breath controlled most of the shakiness in her voice. “Some prankster, I think, Mr. Poletta.”
“Sounded like shooting to me. You want I should call the police?” He spoke toward his feet. “Hush, Scooter. Hush now.”
“No. It was just a car backfiring. It’s gone now.”
“Scared the heck out of Scooter.”
“Me too—don’t worry. And tell Mrs. Poletta there’s nothing to worry about.”
“You’re sure, now?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“OK.” The dog gave one last indignant bark. Mr. Poletta’s silhouette turned back toward the lit porch.
And Julie, looking down the black alley to where the car had disappeared, ran a finger over her still tingling scalp and slowly became aware of the chill stiffness that had gathered along her spine.
21
“Did you get a look at him?”
“Not him, not his car.” Julie drew a deep breath and let it out slowly so its nervous sound would not go over the telephone to her father. The bullets had missed. You don’t worry about the ones that missed—it’s the next one coming you want to focus on. When she had been a little girl, she’d heard her father’s voice in the living room say that to some guest. The wry laughter of both male voices had been punctuated by the clink of ice in their glasses. “What about you, Dad? Anyone giving you trouble?”
Raiford tried to control his breathing, to let the shock of her news drain away and his pulse slow. “Nothing as exciting as your adventure. What about Chertok’s secretary—have you checked on her?”
“I called just after it happened. She’s fine.” Julie had not told Caitlin the reason for her call. “I didn’t file a police report. They’ll never find the slugs, and it’s not worth the time and paper. But if he’s after me, he might come after you.”
“He’s after you, Julie. It has to be the same guy who followed you from Ms. Morgan’s house, and this time it wasn’t just a warning.” He interpreted the telephone’s silence as agreement. “Maybe you should back away from this—”
“Dad.”
He knew that had been the wrong thing to say even as he spoke. “Please don’t be stubborn, Julie. I’m very worried.”
“It worries me, too, Dad. But it also warns me. I will be careful. But if I can’t handle something like this, I shouldn’t be in the business.”
Raiford sighed. “We’ve been sticking our noses pretty deep into Chertok’s business,” he hinted.
Julie had been considering that fact. “Maybe it’s time to dig a little deeper.”
“Things are already stirred up enough!”
“What things? And why? We don’t know, do we?”
“If you’re thinking of calling the Gaming Commission, it probably won’t do any good. They’ve had eight months to check out InterMountain for their license. If anything has been found, they would have rejected the application already.”
She had been thinking about the state Gaming Commission—once again, her father’s thoughts and hers ran parallel—but his angle of vision was not exactly hers. “I can do it quietly.” It wasn’t what but how she intended to do it quietly that would worry her father. So she said nothing about it.
Julie pursued it the next morning with a call to the news department of the Denver Post. “Gargan? It’s Julie Campbell.”
The reporter’s voice took on a note of warmth. “The lovely Julie! Please tell me you’re hungering for my body!”
“Sorry, Gargan. I’m on a low-fat diet.”
“Ouch!”
“But I do have a story that might interest you.”
“Everything you have interests me. Now tell me you’ve solved our fair city’s latest homicide, much to the chagrin and embarrassment of our legal minions.”
Julie had met Gargan when he was writing a series on the private security business. His slant had been that the phenomenal growth of the industry was due to ineptness and waste in police departments around the country, and particularly in Denver. Fortunately, Gargan was among the many people despised by Denver Homicide Detective Gabe Wager, so it had not taken too much effort to convince Wager that comments about any lack of ability among Denver’s finest had been Gargan’s and not hers. “How about organized crime moving into Black Hawk and Central City.”
There was a short pause. “Tell me more.”
“Ever hear of Sid Chertok?”
“Who hasn’t?”
She told Gargan about the man’s Chicago background and his shadowy financial ties to mob-run businesses.
“Any evidence that the mob’s financing this project?”
“Only a hint or two. But it’s worth a closer look.” She added, “That’s a lot of start-up cash to come up with on a fairly risky project.”
The telephone was silent again. Then Gargan began talking more to himself than to Julie. “They just had a big merger up there… . Two of the biggest casinos were bought up by a third—some outfit from Texas … ‘Arizona Bullion,’ I think they’re called.” Then to Julie, “But Chertok himself seems clean, right?”
“Has to be, to get a license. But he does spend time with one Paul Procopio.” She spelled the name and listed the extent of that man’s experience with the legal system.
“Evidence?”
“Bernie Riester: public documents and news files.”
Bernie’s name stirred only Gargan’s professional jealousy. “Well, that’s something I can check out. But Chertok can always claim he didn’t know anything about Procopio’s record.” He asked, “Does this Procopio have any official position with InterMountain?”
“Not on paper. But the office secretary says he comes in on a regular basis and uses the office telephone. My guess is he’s the mob rep. Keeps an eye on the books.”
“But Ron Hensleigh’s never been connected in any way with organized crime.”
“Neither has the Honorable Roger A. Morrow.”
“The state senator? What’s he have to do with this?”
“He’s also a frequent visitor to InterMountain’s offices.”
“Has
he ever been seen with Procopio?”
“I hear they all have lunch occasionally.”
“Witnessed?”
“Not by me,” Julie had to admit. “But if they go to a public place …”
“Yeah. But everybody’s got to eat, even senators.” Gargan spoke to himself again. “Central City, Black Hawk. Both towns have gone through half a dozen mayors. They keep getting involved in sweet real estate deals with casinos.”
“They can’t do that?”
“Not while they’re in office—conflict of interest. But that’s where the money is—and a lot of it.” He added, “And both towns are in State District Thirteen.”
“Morrow’s district?”
“Yeah. But the prohibition applies only to city officials, so a state senator can make deals with whoever. And Morrow’s on the Senate Transportation Committee.” The line was quiet again. “All right—I smell smoke, but I don’t see any fire yet. I’ll dig around a little and see what I can find out.”
That was all Julie wanted from the reporter who was not noted for his discretion. “If I run across anything else, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, Julie. I owe you dinner and drinks—how soon do you want to collect?”
“When you win the Pulitzer.”
“That’s a definite date!”
It certainly was: never. She hung up and gazed out the tall, arched window and thought. InterMountain was now threatened with publicity, and if Chertok was behind the shooting, the heat might make him call off the assailant. But even if it didn’t work, it felt good to go on the offensive—against anyone. Which is what she told her father when he came into the office later in the morning.
The big man leaned against the wall near the window, holding his body stiff as if nursing a sore back or a pulled muscle somewhere. He wore a sweat suit and had a towel wrapped around his neck. Patches of dark told Julie that he had just done his five-mile run, but the exercise had not lessened his concern. “Suppose it doesn’t work that way, Julie? Suppose Chertok’s not behind the assaults on you? Suppose his feelings get hurt and he wants to get even?”
“Dad, he’ll be too busy putting out that fire to worry about us. And speaking of being busy, what have you come up with?”
Raiford told her what he’d found out from George and the other wrestlers on last night’s card. “In short, Salazar’s working on a program to develop local names.”
“Taking over Lidke’s idea?”
“Taking over his wrestlers, too. And just like Lidke dreamed, it could turn into big bucks. But it will be the FWO circus, not the Greco-Roman wrestling Lidke wanted.” Raiford slowly twisted his torso and winced. “You know, Julie, if it wasn’t Chertok who sent somebody after you, maybe it was somebody in American West.”
“Why?”
“Maybe there’s something in the American West contract that Lidke might challenge.” Raiford shook his head. “There has to be some strong reason why someone would try to kill you—someone is really worried about what we’re doing.”
Julie leaned back in her swivel chair and stared at him for a long moment. Then she pushed one of the memory buttons on the telephone. Bernie Riester was out of town on another of her speaking engagements, but her assistant told Julie that they had not yet found anything on Joanna Louise Gerwig. “We can expand the search, if you want us to, Miss Campbell.”
The cost of which would not be covered by any client’s bill because there wasn’t any client. “Keep digging, please.” She hung up and rattled the computer keys for the telephone number of the Columbine Arena. John Hernandez answered and Julie identified herself. “Just one question, Mr. Hernandez—”
“Why the hell should I talk to you?”
“Because what you say might help clear up a couple of murders.”
“What?”
“Murders. I’m very serious. Two people have been murdered. Now, you told me you received a call before I visited you. That person advised you not to rent to Rocky Ringside Wrestling, am I right?”
“Goddamn it, I already told you—”
“It’s all right, Mr. Hernandez. I’m not working for Rocky Ringside anymore. Their business has been sold to American West. Was it someone who said they spoke for Mr. Chertok?”
“I ain’t said anybody—”
“You said it was a woman. You said she told you that Rocky Ringside’s insurance was not comprehensive. Did she at any time mention Mr. Chertok’s name? My guess is she did not. Am I right?”
Julie thought the man’s silence confirmed her guess.
“Chertok’s a big name, Mr. Hernandez. He carries a lot of weight in the booking business. I can understand your reticence. But if his name was not mentioned, it will not harm him to say so. It can only help him, in fact.” She waited, but the man remained silent. “Two murders, Mr. Hernandez. Two men leaving behind wives and children. Do you have any idea who did call you?”
“His secretary.”
That wasn’t what Julie expected to hear. “Chertok’s secretary?”
“That’s right, Miss Know-It-All. Said I shouldn’t waste my time contracting with Rocky Ringside because their insurance was no good. Told me to hold off because there would be a new and better local promotion looking for an arena on an exclusive basis.”
“His secretary? She said she was Chertok’s secretary?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hernandez.” Julie slowly placed the receiver on the cradle and stared at her father.
It couldn’t have been Caitlin Morgan. Julie didn’t think it could have been the woman. But her father asked “Why not?” and Julie had no answer.
“Think about it, Julie. Chertok hears about some possible deal between the FWO and American West. He wants to protect the FWO’s future interest in any local productions. Hey—suppose Chertok is American West! Suppose he put together American West when he heard that the FWO was looking for a local affiliate?”
“I just don’t have the feeling she’s been lying.”
“This game is full of good liars, Julie.”
That was true.
“Or maybe she told you only as much as Chertok wanted her to tell you. It’s a good-paying job, right? She doesn’t want to lose it.”
“But why have her tell me anything at all?”
“So he can control what you know. And,” Raiford added, “through his secretary, he finds out where you are with the Lidke case.” He asked, “Does his secretary know that I’m with Salazar?”
“No.”
“I haven’t been shot at, have I?”
“But we come back to ‘why,’ Dad. If Chertok is with American West, then he already has the local wrestling scene sewn up. He has no need to kill Huggins or me.”
“Think, Julie: the lawyer knew who the American West principals are, and you talked with him. Chertok can’t know how much Huggins told you.”
But the pieces still didn’t fit together. “Even if Chertok is American West, it’s no crime to outmaneuver your opposition or even buy it up. And Chertok needs a low profile because of his gambling venture. A casino can make as much in a week as his wrestling promotion makes in a month.”
“But suppose he only gets five percent of the casino’s profits versus a hundred percent of the profits from his wrestling promotion? And name me a crook who doesn’t think every penny’s worth grabbing. All Chertok had to do is ask a little help from Chicago. That way he doesn’t know who the hit man is or even who hired him to go after you. He’s clean.”
“If that guy had been a professional, I wouldn’t be here now.”
They bickered a bit about whether a professional killer would have fired at Julie from so far away with a handgun, and whether or not he would have used a silencer. Raiford said there were dumb professional killers just like there were dumb everything else, and maybe Julie just ha
d the bad luck to get hit on by a loser. But neither of them came up with an answer, and they both felt tired and frustrated. Like, Raiford sighed, they were trying to shovel sand uphill.
Raiford had a lunch meeting with Salazar—George called to say it was very important, and that he’d be there, too, but remember: with Salazar everything was Dutch treat. Julie struggled to focus on the routine paperwork that multiplied unaccountably. But, finally, she gave in to the thought that kept nagging at her concentration and called Chertok’s office. Caitlin Morgan answered that Mr. Chertok was still out to lunch and she was free to talk.
“Has your business been good lately?”
“It’s getting better. The worse the economy is, the more people seem to want entertainment.” She added, “And September and October are big months on college campuses—musical acts, usually—and next spring’s bookings look good, too. Why do you ask?”
“Have you dealt with the Columbine Arena?”
The line was silent a moment. “Is that the one on East Colfax?”
“Yes. Has Chertok done any business with them?”
“Not that I know of—not since I’ve been here. But it wouldn’t surprise me if he has in the past. Sometimes he wants a smaller venue if an act might not draw well. Five hundred seats full looks better than a thousand half empty, he says.”
“Have you talked with John Hernandez lately?”
“Who?”
“The manager of Columbine Arena. John Hernandez.”
