It was nothing, some guy and his frumpy wife banging their luggage as they checked into the cottage next door.
I thought about French and Welch and the image they projected. Concerned citizens, stalwarts of the community. I shook my head. Thomas French, the Boy Scout, the winner of the good citizen award, the speaker at Downey High’s commencement last June. Excerpts had been reprinted in the Downey Enterprise. The title: ‘The Challenges Facing Youth in Today’s Changing World.’
Next year, he could update it a bit. ‘The Challenges Facing Youth in Blowing up a Car.’
It would get more than a write-up in the Enterprise, might even make the Times. I was sure it would. I listened to the tape again and realized just how hot it was. I could get burned just touching it. It’d blow everything wide open.
But if I turned the tape over to the court, I’d lose my license when they found out what I’d done. Was I willing to sacrifice my career, and possibly go to jail, to save Rodriguez? That’s a question they didn’t answer in law school.
C H A P T E R 41
Sitting in the motel room, I heard the ocean waves pound the shore as I played and replayed the tape. I listened carefully to the words, the hidden meanings and inflections.
I’d hear something, stop, rewind the tape, and play it again. I listened to the words that weren’t there and tried to connect the dots. The most incriminating thing on the tape was the part about blowing up my car.
My wild remarks about Karadimos and the cantaloupes had paid off. Welch had become rattled and started spilling his guts. French mentioned that Karadimos had “partners in Mexico.” I drew the only possible conclusion: his drug smuggling operation was based somewhere south of the border. The fact he was involved with drugs would explain the mob war and the money. I tried to figure out what French would say if the conversation ever became public. How could he and Welch explain it?
I knew the tape-even illegally recorded-would ruin Welch’s political career. But there was nothing on the tape to prove that Rodriguez was innocent. If even a modicum of evidence appeared on the tape hinting at his innocence, then a copy would already be on the L.A. Times editor’s desk. I’d lose my license but my client would go free. As determined as I was to see Welch and his cronies face a court of law, I didn’t think I could destroy my career to ruin Welch.
No; my obligation was to Rodriguez, and I wasn’t a crusader. I dismissed the thought of sending the tape anonymously to the Times or the police. Too many people would know where it had come from: Phil Rhodes set up the meeting, the staff at Chasen’s saw me with a briefcase, and even Rita knew. I wouldn’t allow her to commit perjury if it came to that.
The sun was rising by the time I dropped on the bed and plunged into an exhausted sleep.
I woke up a couple hours later and for an instant, didn’t remember where I was. I jerked up and wiped the sleep from my eyes. The cassette recorder sat on the bed next to me.
My face hurt and I was a mess, wrinkled and disheveled from sleeping in my clothes. I hadn’t planned on being away from home and didn’t pack anything; no toothbrush, razor, not even a comb. I glanced around the room, saw the phone, and lunged for the receiver. Dead, no dial tone. What the hell was this place, the Bates Motel?
Using the bathroom, I threw water on my face, tried to comb my hair with my fingers, and slowly rubbed my sore jaw. A bruise had formed. I thought it fit in with the rest of my look.
Leaving the motel room, I started walking, going nowhere really, just walking and thinking. I wanted to turn the tape over to the D.A.’s office immediately. I wanted to see Welch and French rot behind bars, but my mind told me hold off. The tape had been illegally obtained; I’d be charged with a crime and might even go to jail if it came out. I’d have to find another way.
A marine layer, low clouds and fog had rolled in from the ocean, and the sky was overcast and gloomy. I walked slowly past shops lining California Street, typical for a beach resort: a surfboard store, and a place selling souvenirs, stuff to send to your Aunt Tillie back home in Grundy Center, Iowa. She’d love a printed T-shirt, a mug; I heart Ventura, or some such bullshit on it.
I walked all the way to the ocean; the tide was out along the wide beach. At the waterline, I took off my shoes and waded in the cold water rippling at the edge of the hard wet sand.
I figured Karadimos knew about the tape by now. He’s smart, and his instinct would have told him something was up. The way I clutched the briefcase when his goons attacked me would’ve clued him in about the recording-he would’ve questioned French and Welch thoroughly-but he wouldn’t tell anyone, that’s for sure. I turned and headed back to the motel, the Cozy Corner. I had only one chance-find Kruger before Karadimos found him.
I checked out of the room, shoved the recorder into my briefcase, and stashed it behind the driver’s seat of my car. I drove to a nearby Denny’s coffee shop, wondering whether the police had hit my apartment last night. I’d ask Sol to check his sources and see if there were any warrants out on me because of the fight.
After ordering coffee and eggs, I called Sol at his home from the payphone, but he wasn’t there. He wasn’t at his office either. I left a message, and then called Rocco’s. They hadn’t seen him since lunch Friday. I called Joyce back, told her to try Sol’s mobile car phone. No luck.
“It’s urgent, Joyce,” I said. “Keep trying.”
“Sure, Jimmy. I’ll stay on it. Where will you be if I reach him?”
“I’m laying low. Cops might be looking for me. But I’ll check back.”
I went back to my table and the waitress appeared with my breakfast. She also handed me a copy of the Times a customer had left. I glanced at the paper while I ate and found a small article buried deep inside the middle section, near the obituaries: Drunken Brawl in Parking Lot at Gala Fundraiser.
The article went on to say, “Two unidentified men were taken into custody Saturday night after a brawl erupted in the parking lot of Chasen’s restaurant. The posh Beverly Hills eatery was holding a private fundraiser hosted by the Re-elect Welch Committee. According to Philip Rhodes, the event chairman, the incident in the parking lot was not related to the affair going on inside at the time. The two men involved were released and no charges were filed.”
The article gave me some comfort. I didn’t have to worry about the police, so I drove back to my apartment.
On the way, I constantly checked my rearview mirror. If Karadimos’s thugs had followed me last night, I’d be dead meat. I didn’t see them now either, but they could be out there just the same.
I thought about Karadimos’s two goons and the battle in Chasen’s parking lot. The image of Jake’s Cadillac bouncing over the curb and charging in like the Seventh Calvary made me chuckle. I thought, what the hell, maybe it didn’t hurt having him on my side. And when I parked in front of my apartment building, I felt doubly glad to see him sitting in the Caddie across the street, giving me a thumbs-up.
Upstairs, I bolted the door, stashed the tape recorder in my closet, and spent the rest of the day calling around trying to find Sol. Nobody had seen him.
I fell asleep before dark, rolled over twenty-four hours later, made some kind of weird noise and fell back to sleep again.
C H A P T E R 42
Monday morning; how in hell had that happened? Was I asleep or unconscious? Must’ve needed it. A ringing phone would have woken me up. That meant I still hadn’t heard from Sol. I cleaned up, grabbed the tape recorder and drove to his office. I wanted to find him and go over the tape. Joyce met me in the lobby again.