Dennis looked down at it. “Never saw a cell like this before. Must be brand new.”
Shane reached over and took it out of his hand. “I’ll see ya at the studio in the morning.” Then he walked back to the Acura where Alexa was waiting.
Chapter 30.
INVITATION TO A SIDDOW
“I think we got him on RICO,” Alexa said as soon as they left Valentine’s estate. “Once we get the rest of the money, I can pay the budget office back and tomorrow you can start shutting down the movie.”
“Honey, what you did back there was brilliant. That extra money buys me a few days.” She turned to stare at him, so Shane rushed ahead. “Valentine wants me to go to Jersey to meet Don Carlo DeCesare. If I can get Little Caesar on tape offering us money, then we’ve got one of the biggest goombas in organized crime.”
“Shane …” It was said as a warning.
“It’ll only mean staying open till Monday, and I don’t think we’ll spend all that much money over the weekend. Check with Filosiani, see what he says.”
“He’ll say do it. He still hates the DeCesares from when he was in New York.”
“Look, we’ve got some serious money now. Valentine’s half a mil oughta see us through.”
Alexa nodded but said almost nothing all the way back to North Chalon Road. Once he pulled into the driveway and parked, she finally turned in the front seat to face him. “Look, I think I need to apologize to you.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’ve gotta say this.” She sighed. “You did the right thing on Farrell. You read something on him at that party, you looked into it, and it turned out to be true. I was wrong to make you promise not to check him out. I mean, if I really thought Farrell was so bulletproof, what was I afraid of? I’ve been thinking about it since you told me. I must have sensed something wrong, too. We’re cops; cops follow hunches. You did the right thing. It’s just …”
“You want her life to be perfect.”
“She’s due for some happiness, Shane.”
“Honey, there has to be a reason she keeps falling for these dirtbags with tans. It’s like she’s got some kind of tragic flaw.”
“I’ve never seen her so in love. Now one of us has to break this to her.”
“If you want, I’ll do it,” Shane said.
“No, I think it should be me.”
“Before you do, at least let me go to his bachelor party tomorrow night.”
“You don’t have to do that now.”
“Look, there’s still an outside chance that we’re wrong.” A puzzled expression crossed her face.
“I got the prints off the gold lighter he was using to light everybody’s cigars in the pool house. It’s possible somebody else handled it after he did.”
She continued to sit very still, afraid to invest any hope in that idea. They both knew that the facts were against them. Why would he be a clean screen on everybody’s computer unless WITSEC was controlling it? But for Nora’s sake, they were both praying for a long shot.
“I can get a fresh set at his bachelor party. This time, I’ll hand him a clean glass, make sure nobody else touches it, then we check it against the prints on the lighter. I think we should be absolutely, one hundred percent certain before we do anything.”
“I guess that makes sense.” She opened the door, got out of the car, and Shane followed.
Alexa took her briefcase out of the trunk, walked a few feet to the Crown Vic, then Shane opened the door for her.
“Y’ know, it would be nice to have a little winery up in Napa Valley, take Chooch there… .” Shane said. “Live a simple life without all these hairpin turns and abrupt stops. Being in this house makes me wonder if maybe we couldn’t have more in our lives.” Shane hated the sentence even as it was coming out of his mouth. But then he thought, what was wrong with trying to improve? Shane was tired of rubbing elbows with drug dealers and gang leaders. What had once seemed a noble profession now seemed like useless calisthenics.
“You’d die of boredom,” Alexa said, frowning.
“Probably right.” Then, to escape her look of disapproval, he changed the subject. “I gave Chooch’s plates and picture to CRASH. They’re gonna look around for him up in the Hills.”
“Whatta you really think he’s doing?”
“Amac doesn’t believe Delfina has been kidnapped, but I’m not so sure. I think there’s a good chance the Crips or Bloods snatched her to slow him down. I also think Chooch is out driving around looking for her. That’s what’s got me frightened.”
She thought about that for a few moments, nodded, then kissed him on the lips. “I’ll try and get home a little earlier … before midnight, if I can.”
Once he was back inside the house, Shane was struck by a profound sense of loneliness. He walked through the halls looking for Carol’s cat and found Franco sitting on the kitchen counter. “Hope you washed your hands and feet before walking around up there.” The animal cocked his head, and then, almost as if he understood, started furiously licking his paws. “Too fucking late, buddy. Damage is done.”
He put Franco down, found the cat food, and set it out. Then he grabbed the last Amstel Light out of the fridge, sat in the living room, and tried to pull his thoughts together. He had trouble simmering on all burners. It seemed a reasonable assumption that Crip and Blood gangsters would research Amac’s family, his girlfriends and lovers, looking for any leverage they could use against him. His aunt had gone back to Mexico, but Delfina stayed behind, and now she was missing. Amac had told Shane he didn’t think she’d been abducted, but the more he thought about it, the more he knew that was probably bullshit. The last thing Amac would want right now was police interference in his personal revolution.
Shane dreaded the idea that Chooch might be driving around South Central asking questions, searching for her. But right now, there was nothing he could do to stop it. He didn’t know how to find his son, couldn’t even talk to him. All he had to ease his fears were the messages on the answering machine in Venice.
Suddenly Franco jumped into Shane’s lap and walked up his chest until he was standing up, nuzzling his face. Shane could smell cat food on Franco’s breath. Then, with Carol’s cat purring in his ear, Shane’s thoughts turned once more to her tragedy. Carol had paid the ultimate price. More depressing still, nobody had claimed the earthly remains of the prettiest girl from Teaneck, New Jersey. As a teenager she’d been sought after and adored; now she was just another dead junkie whore. The cop assigned to investigate her murder regarded it as a troublesome nuisance. Nobody wanted to pay for her funeral. Her value had slipped to zero.
Suddenly the doorbell rang.
Shane didn’t move; he was bone tired and didn’t want to answer it. The bell rang several more times. He had a sinking feeling he knew who was out there. He put Franco down, got to his feet, and crossed the room, again reholstering his 9mm Beretta Mini Cougar from his ankle to the handier spot at the small of his back. When Shane opened the door, Silvio Cardetti was on the porch cutting an ominous, garlic-breathing hole in the view.
“I figured it was one of you guys,” Shane said.
“Mr. Valentine wants you should go to a sit-down.” Only he pronounced it “siddown.”
“I just saw Mr. Valentine an hour ago.”
“He wants t’see you again.”
“Mr. Valentine oughta start scheduling regular business appointments instead of sending you guys out to ring my bell in the middle of the night.”
“Mr. Valentine don’t like scheduled appointments.”
“Yeah, well, I do, and right now I’m in for the night.”
“Here’s the deal on that,” Silvio said softly. “If Mr. V sends me out to do a job and I fuck it up, then I’m in the shitter. This is not good for my career, or my health. If you cause me this embarrassment, I will be forced to hold you personally responsible, which won’t be good for your career or your health.”
“You threatening me, Silvio?”
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“Fuckin’ A. Now, come on, don’t make this into something we can’t get over.”
Shane heaved a deep sigh. “Can I get my coat?” “You look fine to me. Let’s go.”
“Do I follow you?”
“Not this time.”
He led Shane over to a new blue Mercedes four-door. Two overdeveloped steroid cases in suits were standing in front; a third, even larger man was on the far side of the car. All three of these American buffaloes were on the balls of their feet, ready to rumble. Silvio opened the rear door, stepped back, then moved several feet away.
This felt bad to Shane—like a ride he wasn’t coming back from. Maybe Dennis had figured him out, maybe he had someone down at Parker Center who had blown Shane’s cover.
Everything told him not to get into the car. Nobody knew where he was going; he could disappear without a trace. Shane was still ten feet away from the two guys by the driver’s door when Silvio made a tactical mistake. He passed between those two gorillas and Shane. In that second, he was vulnerable. Shane was tempted to push Silvio into his backup and take off, try to get away, slip between houses. But some instinct stopped him.
Then the moment of Silvio’s vulnerability passed. Shane had to take the ride.
He smiled, then turned to get into the car. As he did, Silvio reached out and plucked the gun from Shane’s belt, disarming him. When Shane spun back, Silvio was holding the Mini Cougar. “We’re all friends. You ain’t gonna need this.”
Shane was pushed into the backseat of the Mercedes, crushed between Silvio and a three-hundred-pounder.
The driver of the Mercedes put it in gear. As they pulled away, Shane saw Franco watching from the windowsill in the front hall, and he wondered if he would ever see Carol’s marmalade cat again.
Chapter 31.
RIDE TO NOWHERE
The three gunsels that Silvio brought with him all used cute nicknames. The driver was called “Cheese.” Next to him, in the passenger seat, was “Terminal Tommy.” The guy on Shane’s right was “Little Mo.” If there was a “Big Mo,” Shane sure didn’t want to meet him. Silvio Cardetti was “Silver.” These handles would probably render the bug in his StarTAC useless, but on the hope that they might slip and use real names, Shane reached down and surreptitiously turned on the cell.
They were on the Pasadena Freeway heading east. As they drove, his abductors kept up a constant flow of complaints about L. A. They were Jersey transplants who were pissed off about being stuck in a town they thought was full of faggots and butt-boys.
Then they were off the freeway, driving in Pasadena. In the front seat, a map-reading dilemma was unfolding. The driver was trying to find the Devil’s Gate Dam, while Silvio was looking in the Thomas Street Guide. They both frowned and scratched their heads like monkeys working on a puzzle.
Eventually the blue Mercedes was winding down into the arroyo. The Rose Bowl slid past on the right, then they were heading north toward the mountains.
“Supposed t’be up here somewhere. Supposed t’be like a little gate or something … takes you up to the dam,” Silvio said.
“Does Mr. Valentine always hold his business meetings in wilderness areas?” Shane was thinking his body wouldn’t be discovered until summer.
“Nobody’s talkin’ to youse, so shut the fuck up,” Silvio growled.
Climbing up out of the arroyo, they entered a wooded area where Shane saw a sign that read DEVIL’S GATE DAM.
“Mr. Cardetti, why are we going up here?” he asked, identifying Silvio for the StarTAC. Shane was beginning to panic.
“I’m tired of all the questions,” Silvio barked.
They were on graded gravel that quickly turned into rutted dirt. The car bounced and rocked over the uneven surface before finally coming to a stop by a pumping station.
“Guess we’re here,” Silvio announced.
All the enforcers opened their doors and Shane found himself alone in the car, dreading what was about to happen.
“Get out,” Silvio ordered.
Shane reached down to his belt and felt the StarTAC—it was warm and transmitting. He reluctantly got out of the car.
“That way.” Silvio pointed toward a narrow walkway that led across the top of the dam.
As Shane started toward the path, he again sensed that he had a chance to take off. None of his four escorts seemed to be paying close attention, and he thought he could make it into the woods bordering the path. But for some reason, he didn’t try. Some instinct held him back. It was almost as if Silvio was making it too easy. Shane climbed the few stairs, then walked out onto the lip of the dam.
His mouth had turned to paste. A light breeze ruffled his hair and cooled the sweat on his forehead. Off to his left he could see a small dammed lake. A bright threequarter moon lit the entire basin. As he neared the center of the walkway, he could see the outlines of two men looking at the twinkling lights of Pasadena. Silvio was lumbering along behind him, again blocking any chance of escape. As he drew nearer, Shane recognized Dennis Valentine standing next to a very thin man with a long string-bean neck. As Shane got closer, the man turned and Shane saw a look of abject terror in his pale gray eyes.
“Glad you could make it,” Valentine said sincerely. “You gotta be kidding. Four guys with guns? Like I had a choice.”
“Bullshit,” Dennis said, then turned to Silvio. “You gave him a choice, right?”
“Yes, sir,” the goon said. “He coulda split. Had two easy chances.”
“What’s this all about?” Shane finally asked, his heart still beating furiously.
“That was a good meeting we had earlier. Your wife is beautiful and smart, but you’re the one I’m gonna be close to. I always like to invite a guy I’m thinking about doing business with on a midnight ride. He’s got nothing to hide, he shows up. If he’s got a hidden agenda, he’s gonna take off running. You had two chances to escape, but you came through. Shit like this is ten times better than a polygraph.”
Shane nodded and his heart began to slow.
“Thanks, Silvio. You can go wait in the car,” Dennis said, and the bodyguard left the three of them standing on the lip of the dam.
Dennis turned back to the view. “Y’know, I almost bought a place out here. Pasadena reminds me a lot of my home in Saddleback, New Jersey. You should see some of the big houses they got down by the Ritz Carlton Hotel over there.” He pointed southeast. “Lotsa trees. Not flat, like Studio City or Sherman Oaks. This Pasadena Realtor with great tits showed me around and I almost made an offer on a place on Hillcrest. Same house they used in the movie Bugsy. The movie audience thought it was Beverly Hills, but they shot it out here. Warren Beatty goes up to the front door, rings the bell, and tells the guy, ‘I’m gonna buy your house.’ I loved that scene. Fuckin’ thing isn’t even for sale and Beatty says to the guy, ‘How much? I’m gonna buy your house.’ ” He was smiling at Shane and suddenly Shane was smiling back.
Why he suddenly found that cinematic act of extortion funny eluded him. He was probably still so juiced on adrenaline overload that his relieved senses were experiencing a catharsis.
“Decided in the end I hadda be on the west side, in Pacific Palisades or Bel-Air,” Valentine continued. “It’s a profile thing. Only dentists and geeks from Cal-Tech live in Pasadena. But I’ll tell ya, that was some joint. Warren says to the guy, ‘How much? I’m gonna buy your house… Priceless. I love that kinda shit.”
“Who is this with you?” Shane finally asked to get them off of Bugsy, or real estate, or whatever it was they were discussing.
“This is Leland A. Postil, the new president of the International Alliance of Stage and Theatrical Employees.”
Shane reached out and shook hands with the thin, terrified man.
“How you doin’?”
Postil’s face twitched, but he didn’t speak.
“He’s fine,” Dennis answered for him. “Lee finally gets it, don’t ya, Lee?” No response from IATSE’s new president. “Lee�
��s a patriot. No kidding. He tells me about how film and TV sell American values to the world, right, Lee?”
“Uh … I I. .” Postil’s voice was almost inaudible in the cold night.
“He told me that movies export the way we are, and how we behave, or some shit like that. How’d that go again, Lee?”
Now Postil seemed to focus. He found his voice, which, like his body, was thin and reedy. “What I told Mr. Valentine is that films are America’s most important export. Not so much as an economic resource but because they export U. S. culture. Our film and TV entertainment make the rest of the countries on the planet, even Communist nations like China, covet our American lifestyle.”
“Yeah, China. Tell him about the Hunter thing.” Dennis grinned.
“Yes, well, the TV show Hunter, starring Fred Dryer, was on in China in the mid-eighties. First American TV show to ever play there. The producers didn’t get much money for it, ‘cause the TV business in China is small and government-owned. But that show had a huge cultural impact. After it ran, democracy gained a foothold. There is a good cause-and-effect case to be made that the rise of democratic thought in China paralleled the popularity of that show.” Lee Postil was coming to life now. “The Chinese people saw Hunter driving around in Bel-Air, saw the big homes, and it made them want democracy. After Tiananmen Square, the Chinese government threw the show off the national network, and it never played there again.”
Shane smiled, but wondered why the hell were they standing on the lip of a dam in Pasadena in the middle of the night, talking about Hunter broadcasts in China?
“I love that story,” Dennis said, smiling. “The Neural Suifer will export the shit outta American culture. That’s why it’s so important IATSE cuts us a deal to get it shot for short dollars. Right, Lee?”
“Yes. I think a similar case can be made, but—”
“No buts, Lee. Movies are power, man.” Dennis was grinning broadly. His alabaster teeth gleamed dangerously. “The Neural Suifer is American culture,” Dennis enthused. “It’s about our psychological beginnings, our racial misunderstandings, our tortured journey out of darkness. And Lee knows that without his help, this testament to American values may never be seen by the Chinese or the emerging African nations. Am I right here, Lee?”
Hollywood Tough (2002) Page 21
