“Where you been?”
“Joe’s been a guest of the Feds,” Jake chortled. “Just got out. He’s been rehabilitated.”
“Very funny, Jake.” Sica started the car. “Let’s get down to business.” He backed out and we headed north on Atlantic. “O’Brien, I’ll give you a little background,” Sica said. “Karadimos wormed his way into my territory. Took some of my action. He’s outta control, gotta be stopped.”
“I thought you guys had ways of handling situations like that.”
“He’s too strong politically. I’ll tell you right out, if I had my way, he’d already be a new reef off San Pedro. He’s so fat, he’d be a navigation hazard, have to mark him on the Coast Guard charts.” He smirked.
Jake laughed. It was probably a good idea for Jake to laugh at Sica’s humor, kind of like Johnny Carson and Ed McMahon.
“I was going to have him taken care of. Had to get the okay, went to the council, all four godfathers from California. They said no. I’d have to find some other way. That’s where you come in.”
“Me?” I asked. “What do I have to do with this?”
“Silverman said you figure Welch had something to do with the bimbo getting whacked. Maybe he does. If Welch is involved, then so is Karadimos. Welch won’t take a dump without Karadimos giving the okay. You take Welch down, he’ll drag Karadimos with him.” He looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Maybe you’re full of crap. Who knows, but we’ll take the chance.”
We cruised up Atlantic and after about three miles, turned right on Florence Avenue and headed toward Downey. We turned left into the Don’s Market parking lot on the corner of Paramount and Florence.
Three Downey police cars were parked in front of Dave’s Donuts, adjacent to the grocery store. Joe and Jake got out of the car. I followed. Six cops sat at tables in front of the donut shop. They looked us over as we approached the takeout counter. A sergeant, with three hash marks on his sleeve, stood.
“Hey, Joe, what’s happening, my man? Haven’t seen you in a while,” he said.
Joe went over to the cop, made a fist with his hand, and tapped him playfully on the shoulder. “Been outta town, Mike. But hey, buddy, nail any bad guys lately?”
“Nah, nobody this morning. It’s Sunday, all the bad guys are in church. But someday I’ll nail you. Big collar like that and the brass hats will make me a lieutenant.”
“Aw, Mike, always the kidder.”
We went to the window. Sica and I had coffee. Jake ordered a dozen jelly donuts with a large Pepsi. Joe also bought donuts, five dozen assorted. He gave them to the sergeant.
“Here, Mike, take these to the boys at the station.”
“It’ll take more than donuts to get you off when I hook you up,” Mike the cop said.
“Consider it a down payment,” Joe said.
We pulled out of the lot and headed back the same way we came. Jake gobbled donuts, Sica drove, and I sat in the back thinking about the tightrope I was walking. I’d have to be careful. It would be easy to fall off and land on the wrong side.
“Jake, put the goddamn donut down and listen to me,” Sica said. “I want round-the-clock protection on O’Brien.”
“How long we gonna baby-sit this guy?”
“Until I say stop. And listen, you better not screw up like last time. Anything happens to him, you’ll be in deep shit.”
Screw up like the last time? What the hell was that about?
“Aw, Joe, I can handle a pussy like Karadimos.”
“It’s his soldiers I’m worried about.” Sica flicked his head in my direction. “They’re out to punch the counselor’s ticket. The Greek stole a few soldatos from Buscetta. I know those guys. They’re vicious, scary bastards.”
“Don’t worry about it, boss. Ain’t nobody I can’t handle. If those guys tries anything, I’ll cram my fist down their fuckin’ throats, rip out their fuckin’ hearts, and eat them raw while they watch.” Jake turned and looked at me over the seat-back. He took an immense bite out of a jelly donut. Purple jam oozed out and ran down his face.
My stomach was already doing somersaults listening to Sica speak casually about how Karadimos planned to have me whacked. But now the sight of Big Jake eating donuts made me want to puke.
C H A P T E R 20
I got up early Monday morning, had coffee, and took off for Long Beach Airport. I drove south on Lakewood Blvd., blowing by the massive Douglas Aircraft factory as I headed for the private aviation service center, Executive Aviation Company, on the south side of the field. Turning right on Spring Street I saw their sign bolted high on the side of a modern concrete building adjacent to runway 25L. I pulled into the parking area in front of the buff-colored structure and went to the reception counter in the lobby.
I remembered Executive Aviation’s calendar hanging in Karadimos’s office and figured that his business jet could be hangared there. If so, I might be able to find out if the jet plane had been flown back from Sacramento on the day of the murder.
I walked through the lobby and followed a sign pointing the way to the maintenance office. I went through a door and walked into the large, spotless, well-lit hangar. Floods high in the ceiling beamed down on five or six jets parked in the building. The airplanes were magnificent, all regal and sparkling, poised to propel you across the skies at a moment’s notice, streaking through the air at a velocity faster than a bullet shot from a high-powered gun. I strolled around and between the planes, running my hand over their glossy surfaces.
My reverie-Ace O’Brien of the Skies-shattered when I heard a shout.
“Hey, you, what are you doing in here?”
I turned toward the shout. “Looking for the maintenance manager.”
“That’s Fred Vogel. He’s in his office. Back there,” the voice said. I looked where he pointed, saw a glass-enclosed cubicle at the back of the hangar, and moved toward it. Inside, I saw a man sitting at a desk, talking on the phone while he puffed on a Marlboro. I could see the distinctive red and white flip-top box on his desk. I knocked on the door. He hung up.
“Come in!” he yelled.
I entered. “You Fred Vogel?”
“That’s me. How can I help you?” He squinted at me with one eye.
I didn’t think he’d give the information I needed to just anybody who walked in off the street, so I had to get clever. I pulled my insurance man’s business card out of my wallet and handed it to Vogel. “I’m Mr. Biddle. Here on official business.”
He handed the card back. “You’ll have to see Mr.
Damski, he’s the GM. He’s in charge of stuff like buying insurance.”
“No. That’s not why I’m here. You see, I’m doing a survey on…” I took an old phone bill out of my pocket and pretended to study it. “One Andreas Karadimos. He’s applied for a large life policy, double indemnity for accidental death.
I understand he keeps his airplane here and my company wants to be sure that it’s safe to fly, well maintained and all that.” I had Vogel’s attention and I almost started to believe the story myself. “I’m sure you can understand why we have to check on these things. Do you know this Karadimos person?”
“Karadimos, insurance? What’s this all about?”
“I want to see the logbooks for Karadimos’s plane.”
“What are you trying to pull?”
“Nothing. I’m an insurance investigator, doing my job.”
“What kind of horseshit are you feeding me, anyway?”
“Look, Mr. Vogel-may I call you Fred?” I’d try the friendly approach, first name basis. Always works. Turn on the old charm and smile. “I really need to check the flight logs.”
He stubbed his cigarette out in a rusty piston sitting upside down on his desk, and stood. “Listen to me, Mac. I don’t know who you are. I don’t give a damn what you want. Just get the hell outta here.”
So much for the charm. “OK, the name’s O’Brien. I have to see about a flight that Karadimos took to Sacramento.”
Vogel picked up the Marlboro box, opened it, and fiddled inside it with his finger. “This is about the girl’s murder, ain’t it?”