“Yeah, a big guy, six-one, six-two, lots of dark wavy hair, a scar on his face.”
“Sounds like Angelo, one of Karadimos’s best persuaders. He’s only gonna send his primo guys from now on, now that they think I’m on the job.”
“You know the guy?”
“Yeah, he’s one of the ratfink soldatos that left Buscetta and joined up with that fat Greek.”
“I thought you were going to cover my ass!”
“You told me to take a powder, not hang around. Anyway, you’re in one piece, ain’t ya? So, what’s the problem?”
It wouldn’t do me any good to get hot; the damage was done. Besides, I did more or less tell Jake to stay away, which might have been a little hasty. “Want some breakfast?” I asked, angling my head toward the coffee shop.
“Thought you didn’t want to be seen with me, too low down for you.”
“No, not really, Jake. What I meant-”
“What I heard ’bout you lawyers is true.”
“Yeah, what?”
“Full of bullshit.”
I sighed. “Yeah, guess so.”
“Get in the car,” he said.
I climbed into the passenger seat. “Maybe I made a mistake about you, Jake, about not sticking close by.”
Jake’s massive hands gripped the steering wheel, squeezing and twisting the rim as he gazed out the front windshield. “I gotta keep outta sight. Joe wants it that way.
You won’t see me until I show up. No one will. Cops, Karadimos’s torpedoes, nobody. I’ll be invisible, but I’ll be there.”
It was hard to imagine a guy like Big Jake invisible. He’d be impossible to miss. He’d stand out like a dancing elephant among a bunch of scurrying field mice.
“Thanks, Jake, I appreciate your help, and I don’t dislike you. It’s just-”
“O’Brien, let’s get this straight. I don’t give a shit what you appreciate, and I don’t give a damn if you like me or not. Most people don’t. I gotta job to do, that’s all. Let’s leave it at that.”
I looked at Jake for a long moment, the ugly grimace on his face, and wondered about him. Did he have emotions-fears, highs and lows like the rest of us? Or was his life one deep, black pit of hostility? How did someone become so devoid of moral sensitivity? Was it a handicap to have a soul when one belonged to the mob? Or was it a benefit? He continued to stare out at the parking lot, at the people giving him dirty looks as they walked around his car blocking their path to the coffee shop.”
“Jake, how is this supposed to work?” I asked.
Without turning his head toward me, he said, “Told ya before. You do your thing and I’ll do mine. I’ll be there when I’m needed.”
“You think Karadimos and his gang would really use deadly force to stop me? Or are they just trying to scare me off?”
He wiggled his chunky fingers in a gimme manner. Jake had more muscles in his fingers that I had in my whole body.
“Lemme see the note, the one you got from Angelo.”
I pulled the paper out of my pocket and gave it to him. I had a newfound respect for Jake’s erudition. He read it without moving his lips.
“Yep, they’ll kill ya all right. That is, if you don’t stop messing with their shit.” He spoke without a trace of emotion in his voice.
“Are you serious?”
“Dead serious. But, I’ll stop ’em. I’m not sure why, but Joe wants to keep you alive, for a while anyway.”
“Suppose I can’t bring Karadimos down. What’s Sica going to do about him?”
Anger flashed from Jake like a spark from an electrical short. “Keep your trap shut. You got no lines. You ask no questions, goddammit!” He moved in closer. “I’ll say it again, don’t ask questions.” His face looked like a big red balloon ready to burst.
“I’m not going to ask any questions. Like you said, you do your thing, and I’ll do mine.”
“Okay, O’Brien, I gotta get outta here. Don’t call the cops about the car. Don’t want the bastards snooping around. They’d get in my way.”
At eight-thirty, I went back to my Corvette, cleaned up the glass, and set out for the office. Jake said he would follow me at a safe distance. He wanted to lay back and see if I was being shadowed by any of Karadimos’s heavy artillery.
Although I couldn’t kid myself about why Jake was trying to protect me, I knew it was a lot healthier having him around. But I also knew I was just a guy caught in the middle of the local Mafia and their new rivals. Things could change and I knew I was as useless and expendable as the Nehru jacket hanging in my closet.
C H A P T E R 24
When I arrived back at the office, Rita had the new coffeemaker assembled and plugged in. “Hey Boss, did you see the new coffeepot? It’s the latest thing.”
“Yeah, it’s super,” I said. “Do you think you can figure out how to make coffee with the thing?”
“Of course, a child could make a great cup with this pot,” she said as she scooped Yuban into the machine.
“Oh.”
“By the way, Joyce called. She said she has some more information about a company called Hartford something. She wants you to call her back. I’ll get her on the line if you want.”
“You work the coffeepot. I’ll call her myself.”
I remembered what Joyce told me about Hartford Commodities, the company that leased the Buick that had tailed me for a couple of days.
I picked up the phone and dialed. “Joyce, it’s me, O’Brien. Rita said you have some information.”
“It came this morning,” Joyce said. “Hartford Commodities, remember? Controlled by Triple A Holdings, Incorporated?”
“Sure, I remember. Triple A is the offshore corporation. Have you found out who the real owners are?”
“No, but they use Mutual Trust as their correspondent bank. Mutual is headquartered in Los Angeles. But here’s the important part: Thomas French, an attorney here in Downey, has fiduciary control over Triple A’s accounts. He handles all the transactions, including signing checks,” Joyce said. “There’s more. French also sits on the board of the Bank. Do you know this guy?”
Yeah, I knew French: Welch’s lawyer, the guy who gave me the brush-off. “I don’t know him personally, Joyce. But I know who he is.” I paused and thought for a second. “What kind of business is Hartford, anyway? What do they do?”
“It’s a produce company, started after the war by a guy named Sam Higgins. They import cantaloupes from Mexico. That sort of thing.”
“From Mexico?”
“Yes, but Hartford was sold to Triple A shortly after Higgins died a few years back. The documents relating to the Higgins estate and the company’s sale are missing. The secretary of state’s office is in the process of logging all their files into a computer. The missing documents will eventually show up. And when they do, I’ll call you.”
“How long will that take?”
“A few months, at most.”
“Oh.”
“Jimmy, if it’s important, Sol can assign an investigator to check out the company using the shoe leather approach.”
“What’s that?”
“You know, snoop around, go to the last known address, ask questions. Detective work, a real investigation. I just tapped into the records, had a friend in Sacramento pull the file.”
“Better wait on that, Joyce. I’ll talk to Sol first. By the way, did you find out anything yet about Fischer, the pilot?”
“No, sorry. It’s still early, but Sol has a couple of our best men working full time on it. I’ll call you soon as we get anything.”
I hung up, leaned back in my chair and reflected on the news, trying to make sense out of it.
The connections: Gloria Graham/Welch/Karadimos, and now French. The Saturday flight, not logged. Welch’s pressure on Johnson-Karadimos’s pressure on me. What about the bank? Cantaloupes from Mexico, Joyce said. What was I missing? I shook my head and tried to clear my mind; nothing came.
I remembered a guy from years back, a guy who might know something. I put my feet on the floor and reached for the phone.