“Yesterday, you said you might have a plan to keep Karadimos off my back while I check out Welch,” I said as Sol took a sip of the champagne. “Said you were going to make some phone calls.”
“Hmm, not too shabby.” He raised his glass up to the light streaming in from the window, examining the pale liquid as if he were Pierre Cartier appraising a diamond.
“Hey, look at the little bubbles.”
“Sol, the plan?”
“Yeah, the plan.” He took another sip. “I left a few calls, need to talk to some people I know. They’ll get back to me,” he said, still studying the glass. “In the meantime, be careful and remember, your phones are probably tapped. Is the Buick still shadowing you?”
“No, I haven’t seen it since the meeting.”
“That means they’re not being obvious, but they’re still watching you.”
“Why would Karadimos hassle me?” I asked. “It’s just a political campaign, for chrissakes.”
“Karadimos does a lot of business with the government, legit and otherwise. He plows a lot of cash into certain campaigns and not all of the money is spent on the election.”
“What happens to the money that’s not spent?”
Sol took another sip. “You know, this stuff’s not half bad.”
“What about the money?”
“I didn’t pay that much-”
“Not the Champagne, Sol. The political contributions.”
“Oh yeah. The candidates keep it, of course,” he said.
“They keep it? Then what’s the difference between a bribe and a contribution?”
“I’m afraid, not much. The leftover money isn’t supposed to be touched until the candidate retires from office.” Sol held his arms out. “But do they check?”
“So let me get this straight. Karadimos is giving money to political campaigns, buying influence. Nothing illegal there. Lots of people do that. But with Welch, he gives a lot more. Makes me think he’s involved with the Senator in something deeper.”
“People have disappeared trying to investigate Karadimos’s business. And I mean his legitimate businesses. Jimmy, if you started messing with his illegal stuff…” Sol’s voice trailed off. He took another sip of the Champagne and then said, “Let’s just say Karadimos might get a little irked.”
C H A P T E R 15
We exited the I-5 at Del Mar and swept into the valet parking at the racetrack. A deep blue sky arched above and a refreshing breeze blew in from the nearby ocean. No smog, gorgeous weather, with the temperature in the low seventies; perfect. The weather had to be perfect; this heavy-moneyed crowd wearing outfits that cost more than my car wouldn’t have it any other way.
Sol scattered cash, giving money to the parking attendants, and to a guy at the security checkpoint who said, “Good morning” in a pleasant sort of way as he stamped our hands. I also saw the folded $50 bill he slipped to Goldie, the maitre d’ of the Terrace Garden, as he escorted us to a table with a direct view of the finish line.
Goldie wore a dark suit, white shirt, and knit tie. His coal-black hair formed a widow’s peak low on his forehead and was plastered down and swept straight back. All the hair needed was a blaze of gray streaking through it and he would be perfect to play Count Dracula in a B-flick made by Ed Wood. When he smiled-which was probably often with people handing him money all day-his front tooth, the gold one, glittered.
Goldie departed and was replaced by our waiter. Sol ordered a Beefeaters and tonic, I ordered black coffee. Within minutes, a tall, well-built guy with a deep tan approached our table. “Hey Sol, whaddya say?”
“Vince, good to see you. Sit. Got any word on the next race?”
“Nope. Maxie the tout isn’t around, but I’m gonna go with the four horse.” Vince held up the Racing Form. “I handicapped it myself.”
“Oh, I see.” Sol said, and sighed.
“What? You don’t think I have a chance?”
Sol ignored the question. “Vince, I want you to meet Jimmy O’Brien.” Sol turned to me. “Jimmy, say hello to Vincent James. Used to play Dr. Riley on TV, remember?”
Vince had dark brooding eyes, was impeccably dressed, and it looked like he retained a very expensive barber.
“Yeah, sure. How you doing?” I asked.
He gave me a passing glance and then put his binoculars up to his eyes, aimed at the tote board in the infield. He leaned closer to Sol without lowering the glasses. “I have a message for you,” he said quietly.
“Oh yeah, what?”
“I went to a party last night, mutual friend’s house.”
Vince set the binoculars on the table and took a fast look around. “The man said you were trying to reach him.”
“You were at Sica’s house?” Sol asked.
“Yeah, not so loud, Sol, Christ. Anyway, I hung around a while. He likes me to show up at his parties. I guess I’m kind of a decoration.” He lowered his head for an instant, and then brought it up. “What the hell, he helps me out from time to time.”
“Sure,” Sol said. “He figures celebrities like you add a lot of class. Which you do.”
“Thanks. Anyway, he said for you to call him.” Vince slid a scrap of paper across the table. “He’ll be at this number at one-thirty today. Said not to call from the track. Use an outside payphone.”
Sol picked up the paper and put it in his jacket pocket. It was ten minutes to post time and the horses were on the track.
Vince headed for the pari-mutuel windows to place his bet. I noticed that Sol’s Racing Form remained unopened on the table.
“You’re not going to handicap the race?” I asked.
“Nope, not betting this race or the daily double.” Sol sipped his gin and tonic. “We got a system working, my boy.” He glanced from side to side and leaned forward. “You’re going to make some money today. But we can’t let anybody in on it,” he whispered.
“System? What kind of system? Don’t they have a saying about gamblers with systems?”
“That they do, but this one works. It’ll only be for one race, later in the day, but we’ll clean up.” Sol’s eyes sparkled and he gave me a mischievous grin. “How much money did you bring?”
“Only a couple of hundred, but it’s all I got and it’s gotta last.”
“Don’t worry about it; this is money in the bank.”
“How does it work?”
“Not now, Rhodes is going to show up any minute. But I’m going to need your help to pull it off.”
“Sure, Sol,” I said, but I worried about betting the last of my money on a sure thing.
Vince returned a moment later with a stack of parimutuel tickets about an inch thick. “I bet five large. Ran into the Arab downstairs, lent me the money.” He glanced at a nearby table. “But I have to sit with him and his friends. See you around, Sol.”
“What’s the story with Vince,” I asked, after he left again. “He’s not a bad guy.” Sol shook his head. “Used to be on top of the world. But unfortunately, he got the gambling bug and now owes his soul to the mob. They take all his TV residuals, leave him enough to live on, but he has to borrow money to gamble. Don’t loan him a dime, Jimmy. He’ll never pay it back.”
“He gave you a message, something about a guy named Sica. What’s that about?”
“Later, this is probably Rhodes coming.” Sol nodded toward the aisle behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder. A tall man about forty, wearing a business suit and spit-shined, wingtip shoes strode confidently toward our table with Goldie at his side.
“Excuse me, are you Mr. Silverman?”
“You’re Philip Rhodes?”
“Yes. But please, call me Phil.”
Sol offered him chair and he sat down. He ordered a single malt Scotch on the rocks, and after a few minutes of chatter, we got down to business.
“So, I understand you handled Senator Cranston’s winning bid for the senate seat,” I said.
“Yes, and we’ll be managing the governor campaign for the Welch organization. Some powerful people want us on the team.” He paused for a few seconds when the waiter brought his drink. “It’s still very hush-hush. We haven’t announced it yet. We won’t let it be known until after he wins re-election to the state senate.”