by Stuart Woods
“Oh, I can do better than that, Mr. Ippolito,” Stone said. “I can arrange for you to buy Mr. Calder’s stock for cash, and at a reasonable price. No need to give him Albacore stock when that stock is going to go through the roof.”
“Now that is interesting,” Ippolito said.
“In fact, I can help you buy nearly all, perhaps all of Centurion’s stock, including Louis Regenstein’s shares.”
“You amaze me, Mr. Barrington. How did you suddenly acquire all this influence?”
“I have replaced Billy O’Hara in Mr. Regenstein’s affections,” Stone said.
“That’s what I came to tell you, Oney,” Sturmack interjected. “Regenstein fired O’Hara yesterday, and I haven’t been able to find him.”
Stone had an idea. “You won’t find him,” he said.
“Why not?” Ippolito asked.
“Because Mr. O’Hara expired last night, during a conversation I was having with him. He’s where you believed me to be.”
“He’s dead?”
“Regrettably, yes.”
“And you killed him?”
“Not until he had told me everything he knew about you and your plans for Centurion—also about the murders of Vincent Mancuso and Manolo Lobianco.”
Ippolito thought about that for a moment, then he stood up, walked to the window, and beckoned for Stone to join him.
Stone walked over, stood next to Ippolito, and looked out at the view.
Ippolito put a hand on Stone’s shoulder and pointed. “There’s Centurion Studios,” he said, indicating a large mass of land and buildings a few miles away. “And over there is Century City, one of the most successful real estate developments in the history of Los Angeles. What I’m going to do is to build something twice as large and twice as valuable. It’s going to make billions of dollars over the next ten years or so, and a very select group of people are going to be allowed to participate in that. Is that what interests you, Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes,” Stone replied, “it is.” And as he spoke he saw something besides the view outside Ippolito’s window. He had changed his focus, because something much closer had caught his eye. He leaned slightly toward the window and concentrated. What he saw was, imbedded in the tinted glass, a screen of tiny wires, smaller than human hairs. He suddenly understood that the radio signal from the transmitter he wore was not going to be heard outside this office.
Ippolito returned to his seat and motioned for Stone to return to his.
“And I think I can tell you how you’re going to finance all this,” Stone said, mindful that the tape recorder in the heel of his other shoe was still operational.
“Please do,” Ippolito said.
“You’re somehow laundering—I haven’t quite figured out how—millions, perhaps billions of dollars in income from loan sharking, drugs, and probably casino skimming, considering Mr. Sturmack’s connections in Las Vegas, and you’re pumping it into Albacore, then using the laundered money for acquisitions like Centurion. How much more land have you bought up around the studio?”
“Oh, parcels amounting to around two hundred and fifty acres.”
“My God,” Sturmack said. “Don’t tell him things like that!”
“David, shut up, I’m talking,” Ippolito said. “Mr. Barrington is not going to reveal a word of this to anybody; it would not be in his best interests, would it, Mr. Barrington?”
“Not if you and I can come to an arrangement,” Stone said.
“Tell you what,” Ippolito said, standing. “David and I are going to a meeting that bears on our conversation. Why don’t you join us? You’ll learn a lot more about what we’re doing.”
For a moment Stone was alarmed, but he knew that Rick’s men and the feds, when they began receiving transmissions from his wire, would move with them. “I’d like that,” he said. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” Ippolito said. He pressed the buzzer under his desk again, and Tommy and Zip appeared. “Escort Mr. Barrington to transportation,” he said. “We’re all going together.”
“This way, Mr. Barrington,” Tommy said, indicating the side door.
Stone stood up and walked toward the door, followed by Ippolito and Sturmack. He was expecting a private elevator, but instead, the door led to a hallway, which led to a staircase going up. They were already on the top floor, and this did not seem like a good idea to Stone.
“Tell me,” he said to Ippolito as they walked up the stairs, “have the police ever gotten wind of what you’re up to?”
“Certainly not,” Ippolito said. They emerged onto the rooftop, where a helicopter was waiting, its blades beginning to turn.
“Great,” Stone said. “If the police aren’t on to you, then I think you can pull off this deal. Where are we going in this helicopter?”
“You’ll see,” Ippolito said, but his words were drowned out by the helicopter’s rotors as they started to spin.
62
In the garage, Rick Grant and Dino listened to their radio as the elevator doors opened and closed, as people got on and off. Then they heard Stone say, “I’m here.”
“Jesus,” Dino said, “that’s some wire. I want some of those for my people.”
“Shhh,” Rick said. “He’s in the reception room.”
They could hear Stone begin to announce himself to the receptionist, then stop. They heard the receptionist tell Sturmack to go into Ippolito’s office, then heard Stone speak again to the receptionist. There were some soft footsteps, then nothing but low-level static.
“They found the wire,” Dino said, opening the car door. “Let’s go.”
“No, wait. Nobody has searched him; we’d have heard that. He’s just in a place that’s blocking the transmission. Wait and listen.”
They began to hear snatches of words, nothing intelligible, just a word or two at a time.
“At least he’s got them talking,” Rick said. “We’ve still got the tape to fall back on.”
They continued to listen to the static, with an occasional word coming through. “Maybe the problem is between us and the van,” Rick said. “Let’s get out there.” He got out of the car and started out of the garage, with Dino right behind him.
Rick crossed the street, walked around the van, and rapped sharply on its sliding door. The door opened a crack. “It’s Grant and Bacchetti,” Rick said. “Let us in.”
The door slid back, Rick and Dino crowded in and the door closed behind them.
“Are you getting anything from Barrington?” Rick asked.
“No, just a word now and then. Something’s screwing up the transmission.”
“I don’t like this,” Dino said. “I think we ought to go in.”
“Not yet,” Rick replied. “At least we know they’re talking. If we hear anything that sounds like trouble, I’ll give the word, but not until then.”
The static continued for a couple of more minutes, then suddenly stopped.
“I can hear them now,” the radio operator said.
“Turn that thing up,” Rick commanded.
They could hear footsteps on a hard floor, then the sound of people climbing steps, then Stone’s voice, loud and clear. “Have the police ever gotten wind of what you’re up to?”
Rick grabbed his handheld radio. “This is Grant,” he said, “it’s a go! Everybody move!”
Dino grabbed his arm. “Wait, listen.”
Stone’s voice came again. “Where are we going in this helicopter?” Then the sound of the rotor, spinning faster and faster.
“Oh, shit!” Grant hissed. He threw open the door of the van, stepped out, and looked up. A large black helicopter was rifting off the roof of the Safe Harbor Bank building. He stepped back into the van. “Put me on the command channel,” he ordered the operator. The man turned a knob and nodded.
“This is Lieutenant Richard Grant,” Rick said. “Patch me through to aviation.”
A moment later a woman’s voice came on. “LAPD aviation.”
“This is Lieutenant Richard Grant. Let me speak to your watch commander now.”
“Yes sir, putting you through to the watch commander.”
“Aviation watch commander,” a man’s voice said.
“This is Lieutenant Richard Grant; I’m speaking for the chief of detectives. A large black helicopter has just taken off from the Safe Harbor Bank building in downtown L.A., heading in a south-southwesterly direction. I want you to put everything you’ve got in the air and intercept that helicopter. Do not, repeat do not fire on it; one of our people is aboard. I want it forced down, and if it’s heading toward Mexico, under no circumstances is it to be allowed to cross the border.”
“Roger, I read you, Lieutenant,” the watch commander said.
“How many aircraft can you muster on this?”
“I’ve got two choppers on the pad, fueled and ready to go, and four others in the air in various places. I’ve also got two fixed-wing aircraft flying traffic.”
“Put them all on it. I want a maximum effort.”
“Roger, sir.”
“Remember, don’t let them cross the border; alert air traffic control not to issue any clearances to a chopper headed south, you read me?”
“Loud and clear, sir; we’re on it.”
“Hey, while you’re at it, have me picked up downtown. Where can your man land?”
“How many people, sir?”
“As many as it will hold.”
“I’ve got one in the air near MacArthur Park right now; it can take two besides the pilots.”
“We’re on the way.” Rick turned to a cop. “Crank this thing up and get me to MacArthur Park! And keep monitoring Barrington’s wire!”
Somebody slammed the door, and the van made a U-turn. Somebody put a flashing light on top and turned on a siren.
“I knew he shouldn’t have gone up there alone,” Dino said.
63
Stone sat on one of two leather-upholstered bench seats, between Tommy and Zip, while Ippolito and Sturmack occupied the opposite bench. It was remarkable how quiet it was inside the machine, he thought. The rotors were a distant thump.
“Where to, Mr. Ippolito?” the pilot asked over his shoulder.
“Ensenada,” Ippolito answered. “Maximum speed.”
“I’ll have to call ATC for a clearance,” the pilot said.
“Fuck the clearance; you get down low over the water and you get us to Ensenada fast. What’s our ETA?”
“That will take just a minute, sir.”
Sturmack spoke up. “Oney, what are you doing? Why do you want to go to Ensenada?”
“Because Tijuana is too obvious.” He picked up a cell phone fixed to a bulkhead and punched in a number. “This is Mr. Ippolito,” he said. “I want the G-5 off the ground immediately; file for Ensenada, full fuel, you got that?”
There was some sort of reply from the other end.
“Thirty minutes is too long, make it fifteen. I’ll meet the airplane there.” He hung up.
“Oney,” Sturmack said, “I don’t get it; why are we headed for Mexico?”
“Come on, David, you’re not that stupid. Do you think Barrington is dumb enough just to walk into my office with no backup? He didn’t kill Billy O’Hara, he’s not the type. O’Hara has spilled everything, and I’d give you odds my office is swarming with cops right this minute.”
Stone smiled. “Good guess,” he said.
“What about my wife?” Sturmack asked. “I can’t just leave her.”
Ippolito handed him the phone. “Call her and tell her to get the next plane to Panama; we’ll only be in Ensenada long enough to change aircraft.”
Sturmack began dialing.
Stone looked out the window. They were crossing the coast now, at about a thousand feet, he reckoned.
“Charlie,” Ippolito yelled, “get this thing down on the water, do you hear me? The cops have choppers too, you know.”
The helicopter began a rapid descent. Stone watched the masts at Marina Del Rey flash by.
Sturmack handed the phone back to Ippolito. “I can’t believe we’re just running,” he said. “I’m seventy years old; I don’t want to live in Panama.”
“We’ll be headed south from there,” Ippolito said. “You can pick your country; I’ll send you wherever you want to go in the G-5. Besides, it may not be over; we may be able to come back when the lawyers get a grip on this.”
Stone spoke up. “No, it’s over, Oney; within twenty-four hours they’ll have it all. There’ll be nothing left but a shell.”
“I’ll get to you in a minute,” Ippolito said. He dialed another number. “Hello, this is Onofrio Ippolito; let me speak to Martin Barone.” He listened for a minute, then disconnected. “Was Marty at his office?” he asked Sturmack.
“Yes, I was with him before I came to your office.”
“Then the cops have got him; they’re answering the phone there.”
“That’ll be the FBI,” Stone said, “along with the IRS. They’ve not only got Barone, they’ve got all his computers. Oh, and don’t bother to call Albacore; it’s the same there and at the bank. There is no longer any safe harbor for you, Oney.”
Ippolito glared at Stone for a moment, then turned to the pilot. “Charlie, you got that ETA for Ensenada?”
“One hour and forty-one minutes, sir,” the pilot said.
“How far offshore are we?”
“About five miles.”
“How fast you going?”
“A hundred and thirty-five knots.”
“At what speed is it safe to open the door back here?”
“I’d have to hover for that, sir.”
Ippolito looked at Stone again. “Hover, Charlie,” he said.
Rick and Dino piled into the police helicopter, and the machine rose into the air. The noise was deafening. Rick put on a headset and handed one to Dino.
“Where to, Lieutenant?” the pilot asked.
“South by southwest; we’re looking for a large executive helicopter, black in color.”
“That sounds like the Safe Harbor Bank chopper,” the pilot said, picking up speed. “I know a lot of the local choppers by sight, and that’s the only black one I can think of.”
“That’s the one,” Rick said. “Can I hear your radios on this thing?”
“Yes sir.”
“You listen for reports of that chopper; we’ve got everything we can muster in the air, looking for it.”
“Yes sir.”
“Pilot, if you were running for the border now, how would you do it?”
“I’d get out over the water and stay low, under the radar, sir.”
“Do it.”
It was clear to Stone that he was not going to make it to Ensenada, let alone to Panama. The helicopter was slowing rapidly. Stone reached into an inside pocket for his handkerchief and mopped his brow. When he replaced the handkerchief his hand came out holding both Mont Blanc pens.
Ippolito looked at Tommy and Zip. “When this thing is hovering, open the door, shoot Barrington and throw him out. And don’t make a mess in the helicopter, you got me?”
Both men nodded.
Stone had two shots to fire, and there were four men in the helicopter with him. Sturmack was still looking ill and didn’t seem much of a threat; Ippolito probably wasn’t armed. Tommy and Zip certainly were. He could go for the pilot, but that would just take everybody with him; he didn’t want to go at all.
They were hovering now. Zip reached out and slid back the door of the helicopter, and when he sat back, there was a gun in his hand.
Go for the weapons, Stone thought. He quickly raised both hands under the chins of the two goons and squeezed both pens. There was a very loud noise and blood and brains were suddenly everywhere. Stone reached over and took the gun from Zip’s dead hand.
David Sturmack’s face changed from ill to horrified. He began clawing at his chest as if he wanted to dig out his heart.
Ippolito looked at
him with disgust. “I should have known you weren’t up to this, David,” he said, then he grabbed Sturmack by the shoulder and pushed him out of the helicopter.
Stone watched him fall the fifty feet into the water, and that was a mistake. Suddenly Ippolito was all over him. The man was solidly built, and he was motivated. Stone was taking punches to the head from Ippolito’s right, while his left had hold of the barrel of the automatic in Stone’s right hand.
Stone fought back with his left, landed a couple of punches, but was taking more than he was giving. He took a hard fist to the temple, and his vision went blurry, then he was on the floor of the helicopter, on top of the corpses of Tommy and Zip, and Ippolito was on top of him, flailing away. Stone managed to turn on his left side, bringing Ippolito down to his level and limiting the power of his punches.
Then Ippolito gave up throwing punches and used his right to help his left hand deal with the gun. He grabbed hold of it with both hands and yanked, and it went off with a roar.
Stone saw the back of the pilot’s head explode.
The helicopter began to rotate, at first slowly, then faster and faster.
Stone couldn’t tell whether it was going up or down, until it hit the water with a crash. With the rear door open, the machine had no chance to float. Stone forgot about Ippolito and started trying to get out. The gun left his hand; he didn’t know if Ippolito had it or if it was going to the bottom.
Stone broke the surface. He seemed always to be doing that, he thought. How many good suits had he ruined? The black helicopter was gone now, but somehow it was still making noise; the air was filled with the sound of the rotor.
Then, as Stone watched, Ippolito broke the surface some six feet in front of him. He looked very angry, and he was holding Zip’s automatic, which, Stone reckoned, still had another twelve or fourteen rounds in the clip. Stone ducked under the water.
His eyes were open, and he saw something good: the water just next to Ippolito exploded, and the pistol that had been in the banker’s hand was sinking fast.
Stone surfaced. Above and in front of him was an LAPD helicopter; Rick Grant was sitting in its open door, his feet on the strut below him and a shotgun in his hands. The shotgun was pointed at Ippolito, who was angrily treading water.
