A shout from the crowd rose above the clamor, “Andy, wait!”
Karadimos jerked his head to the side and I followed his gaze. French shook his hand slightly, and nodded toward the small group with a TV camera in a circle of lights gathered around Mayor Sam Yorty. Karadimos would draw unwanted attention if he kept coming at me.
He stopped. Looking around, he snapped his fingers at a couple of heavyweights leaning against the wall by the entrance. He pointed at me, and then made furious jabbing motions with his finger toward the front door. The hoods came alive like puppets on a string. They sprinted past the maitre d’s station and pushed their way outside.
I backed up a few feet, turned, picked up my pace, and retraced my steps through the kitchen, running for the rear. The back door opened onto an alley littered with trash containers and empty boxes. I shot around the corner of the restaurant and entered the parking lot. My Corvette was parked close to the front near Beverly Boulevard.
One of the parking guys ran toward me. “Hold it. What are you doing back there?”
I pulled the car keys from my pocket, holding them in the air. “Going to my car.” I pointed to my Corvette. “I came out through the back door.” I kept moving. The valet turned and walked back toward the front of the lot.
Karadimos’s men loitered on the sidewalk by the street. I spotted them and they spotted me. I made a dash for my car. I got there fast, but too late.
One of the thugs grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. He came back with his right hand and took a roundhouse swing at me, but I blocked it with my forearm.
The other guy tugged madly at the briefcase. I held on, jerked it free, and took a swipe at his head with it. I missed.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a fist coming at me, heavy and fast, like a freight train. I whipped my head back. The punch grazed my jaw.
All the color drained out of the night and the darkness turned white. I staggered, but I hung on to the briefcase when the other guy grabbed it again. Suddenly, I heard loud yells coming from everywhere. The noise reverberated in my head like shouts in a tunnel.
“Watch out!”
“Jesus! Crazy bastard-”
“He ain’t slowing down.”
“Get outta the way!”
The tugging on my briefcase eased. I didn’t know how I was able to hang on to it, but I did. I shook my head. My vision cleared enough to see Big Jake’s Cadillac bounce over the curb, hurtle toward us, and screech to a stop right in front of Karadimos’s men.
Before the thugs realized what was happening, Jake bolted from the Caddie. With his left hand, he grabbed the briefcase guy and flung him into a parked Bentley. The guy struck it hard and stayed down. Jake’s right hand was a steel fist that exploded violently into the other goon’s nose. It burst like an overripe tomato and blood pulsed out in a sickening stream. The guy dropped. He was down for the count.
Jake turned and ran back to his car. “Get outta here, O’Brien, ’fore the cops come.”
A crowd started to form. But they scattered when Big Jake stomped on the gas, screaming backward, without looking, at about ninety miles an hour right out of the lot and onto the boulevard. He whipped the car around, made a skidding U turn, and disappeared down the street. The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds.
I pulled my Corvette onto Beverly, turned right, and headed west. In my rearview mirror, I saw two squad cars, red lights flashing, swerve into Chasen’s parking lot. I glanced at the briefcase resting on the passenger seat, and my jaw didn’t hurt so much anymore.
C H A P T E R 40
At Sunset Boulevard, I turned left and drove west to PCH. I followed the coastline north and cruised past the Palisades, then Malibu, and soon I was beyond Point Mugu.
A jade green florescence shimmered on the breakers as they rolled onto the shore fifty feet to my left.
I merged onto US 101 and drove until I came to California Street in Ventura. I exited and stopped at the first motel I saw. After checking in, I dead-bolted the door. I had to get away and wanted to go away from Downey. I figured someone at Chasen’s might have gotten my license number, and I didn’t want the police pounding on my door.
I wanted time to analyze the tape and plan my next move. The motel was typical for a beach town: a dozen or so tiny cottages, built in the 1940s, surrounding a gravel parking lot. The neon sign in front by the office flickered and buzzed like fireflies gone mad. Each cottage had a double bed with a single thin blanket, a lamp with a forty-watt bulb that barely cast enough light to read by, and a black and white TV resting on a veneer-covered plywood dresser. The room was perfect.
I set my briefcase on the bed, sat down, and removed the recorder, anxious as I rewound the cassette. I hit the play button and skimmed the first part, where I was in the room. At the point where I made the remark about the cantaloupes, I hit stop. I stood, walked around the room, went into the bathroom, and splashed water on my face. Why was I stalling? I told myself to get in there and turn it on. I took a deep breath, sat down, and pushed the play button again.
I listened to ten or fifteen seconds of silence. Then Welch’s voice erupted, “What does he know?”
“Nothing, he’s fishing, that’s all.”
I’d been holding my breath, and when I heard what Welch and French said, I exhaled. Goddamn, I knew it. I stood, flexed my hands, and paced as I listened to the rest.
“What do you mean, fishing? Did you hear him, the cantaloupes? He’s not fishing; he’s off the boat and on the shore. I’m telling you he knows what’s going on, and I don’t like it-”
“Calm down, Berry. Karadimos has everything under control, but what was he talking about when he said something about a letter to the girl?”
“Who knows? I don’t give a shit about that. But, damn it, I’m concerned. Listen, French, you’re in this too. I thought you guys were gonna get rid of him.”
“Look, it isn’t that easy. We’ve tried. He’s got help from Sica’s gang.”
“Can’t you blow up his car or something? Jesus Christ Almighty!”
“Berry, we don’t want any more bodies lying around. We’re in enough trouble with Graham’s murder. We’ve got to snatch O’Brien and get rid of him in Mexico. Turn him over to our partners down there. Nobody will know what happened to him and I doubt that anyone will care.”
Thanks a lot, French, I thought. We’ll see who cares about you when all this comes out.
“What about that other guy? What’s his name, the pilot?”
“Kruger. We’re looking for him now. He won’t be back.”
“He knows all about it. He helped set it up. Are you guys sure you’re going to find him? I’m worried as hell.”
“Come on, Senator, get out and do your thing. There are important people here tonight. Karadimos is counting on you to stay in office, so you can win the big one down the road.”
“I want out. You guys can keep the money. I’m going to be the fucking governor of California in two years for Christ’s sake. You listen to me-I want out now!”
“It’s not healthy to talk like that, Welch. How do you think you got here?”
“Did I hear what I think I heard? Are you threatening me?”
“No. No, of course not. It’s our partners south of the border. They’re pressing us, but we have to keep things closed down until it blows over. So let’s not say anything about quitting right now.”
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
The tape continued. I heard the office door open, slam shut then nothing. I snapped off the recorder and stared at the machine for a long time. Now I knew for sure what I only suspected before. Karadimos was importing drugs, and French and Welch were in it with him.
I quit pacing and sat on the edge of the bed. A minute later, I heard a noise outside. My heart thumped. I darted to the window, pulled back the skimpy curtain, and peeked out.