“Nothing, just hear me out.” Sol stopped talking when the waiter came to take our drink order, a Coke for me, and Beefeater’s on the rocks for him. It was after six, time to start his real drinking. The wine, Champagne, and gin and tonics earlier in the day didn’t count.
“I called Joe while you were talking to Rhodes. There’s bad blood between the Mafia and Karadimos’s new gang, and you know the saying: ‘the enemy of my enemy’.” He searched my eyes for an answer.
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I won’t get involved with those guys.”
“You won’t be involved. They’ll just kind of watch over things. Help out when you need a little protection. They know the territory and they know how Karadimos operates.”
“No.”
“Goddammit, they can protect you. If you aren’t concerned about yourself, think of your client. You’d be no good to Rodriguez, dead.” Sol paused, set his drink on the table, and leaned into me. “Hey, maybe you wanna quit the case.”
“Aw, Christ, you know I’m not going to walk away. But why do you say Karadimos is worse than Sica? Am I going from the frying pan?”
“Look Jimmy, I know these guys-”
“Mobsters are your buddies?” I asked in a sarcastic tone.
“You know better than that. I’m surprised at you. I don’t do business with them directly. I work for their lawyers. Like I do for you and your clients. Except they pay me.”
“Touche,” I said.
“Well, sometimes I do get involved with Sica. I go to his restaurant.” He picked up his Beefeaters and took a sip. “He’s got the greatest seafood bistro on the planet. He comps me, everything on the house.” Sol’s face brightened. “Hey, Jimmy, I’ll take you there. You won’t believe the abalone-”
“Sol, please.”
“Okay, but listen to me, you’ve gotta trust me on this.”
“You know I trust you, but these guys are Mafia. Christ almighty.”
“Let me tell you how I met Joe Sica.” Sol looked around carefully, then lowered his voice. “It was a few years back. The Feds had him dead bang on a tax rap. He was going down, five years minimum for that. But they were also going to nail him with a laundry list of other charges having to do with drugs.”
The waiter came back with our drinks on a serving tray. When he left, Sol continued with his story, telling me about how he worked for Sica’s lawyer, Sidney Grossman, and somehow managed to prove that Sica wasn’t involved with drug trafficking. Sica pulled a nickel for the tax rap. He’d just recently been released.
“So Jimmy, if he’d been convicted on the drug thing, he’d still be in the joint. He owed me one, and I called in the favor.”
C H A P T E R 18
Just beyond Capistrano Beach, I turned off the I-5 and took the longer route back to Downey, the highway running along the coast. The Spaniards, late in the eighteenth century, originally cut the road through the hills at the edge of the ocean and named it El Camino Real, the Royal Road. We paved it over and renamed it Pacific Coast Highway. Maybe the tranquility of the scenic drive would help alleviate my anxiety.
I drove into a cutout, a view spot on a high steep bank overlooking the ocean, and stared out at the sea. The sun was slipping below the horizon, its golden path glittering on the water. Huge breakers were rolling in from the south swell caused by Hurricane Estelle down in Mexico. The wind blew, carrying with it the salt-tinged fragrance of the Pacific. I stood at the edge of the bluff thinking about the greed and corruption of organized crime. I thought about the destruction, violence, and lives ruined. I thought about my discussion with Sol.
Sica had hinted to Sol that Karadimos was involved in activities that were not compatible with the Mafia’s traditional businesses. The Mafia’s code of silence prevented Sica from telling Sol specifics, but he let it be known that a territorial gang war was brewing between the mob and Karadimos. I asked Sol if he had any idea what the war was about. Sol said he didn’t know, but Sica summed it up in one word, “Bad news.” I pointed out that bad news is two words. Sol winked mischievously and said, “Yeah, but it’s not smart to argue with the godfather of the California Mafia.”
I realized Sol’s concerns about my safety were real.
Before we left the bar at La Costa, he convinced me to at least meet with Joe Sica. If he wanted to keep me alive for his purposes, so be it. As Sol had said, there was nothing illegal or unethical about staying alive. If Sica called, I’d hear him out, but wouldn’t ask for any favors.
The wind shifted. The golden path disappeared with the sun, and darkness crept over the horizon. I walked slowly back to my car.
When the phone rang, I was home drinking my second cup of coffee and working my way through the Sunday morning Times. The comics always came first, then the sports page. If I had time after it, I’d read the rest of the paper.
“You O’Brien?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Joe Sica. You’ll meet me at Alfred’s Pasta House on Atlantic Ave. in South Gate. You’ll be there at eleven this morning.”
Before I could answer, he hung up.
I looked at my watch: ten minutes after ten. I hopped into the shower, dressed, hit the road, and pulled into the parking lot with five minutes to spare.
I shouldered my way into the restaurant, packed with people. A jukebox blasted fifties rock and roll. The sensuous aroma of Italian cooking drifted in from the kitchen as waiters dashed from table to table with heaping plates of manicotti, lasagna, and veal parmigiana. Three bartenders poured drinks as fast as they could set the glasses on the bar.
The loud and rambunctious crowd consisted mostly of well-groomed Italian men, with a few women who looked like Vegas showgirls thrown in for color.
“Who’s dat bum singing?” I heard someone shout.
“Ricky Nelson,” someone else shouted back.
“Get ridda dat crap. Put on Frankie,” the first guy yelled.
Within seconds, Frank Sinatra’s smooth baritone voice crooning My Way floated in the air. The place erupted with a clamor of approvaclass="underline" “Sing it, Frankie,” “Way to go kid,” and “I’m doing it my way, too.” Fat guys with their arms in the air danced, weaving and swaying almost in time with the music. Quite a scene.
A tall man who looked as if he spent a lot of time pumping iron approached me. “You O’Brien?”
“Yeah.”
“The boss is in the office. Follow me.” He looked me over. “Are you packing?”
“Packing what?” I asked.
“No weapons in here. Not allowed.”
This was like a bad B movie. “I don’t have a gun.”
I felt the eyes of the patrons on my back as we walked through the dining room toward the office. Iron Man knocked on the door.
“C’mon in,” a voice answered.
We walked into the small unpretentious office. An older guy about seventy but fit and trim nodded at me. He wore a checkered sport shirt, buttoned at the collar. The old man sat in a chair with his feet on the desk. Except for his nose, which looked like it had been broken a few times, he could have been someone’s gentle and loving grandfather.
“I’m Joe Sica,” he said. “Just so you know who you’re dealing with, I’m the capo crimini, the godfather around here. I control the territory. Sit down.”
“You have grandkids?” I asked.
“Yeah, why?”
“You have that look,” I answered.
“What look?”
“Like a grandfather.”
“I’m the godfather.”
“Hey,” I said. “Do the kids call you Grandfather, Godfather, or Grandfather Godfather?”
He gave me a blank stare. “You through with that shit?”
I realized this guy was nowhere near the benign elderly gent he resembled. His eyes were as hard and cold as a chrome-plated rock. “Ah, yeah, guess so.” Maybe I should watch my mouth.
“You’re a lawyer,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“I’m kinda like a lawyer too,” he said. “And we have laws.” He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a.38 caliber revolver. Bouncing the gun in his hand, he said, “In my business, la pistola dettava legge, do you understand?”