After wiping the dirt off it, I sat the aluminum briefcase upright on the grass. I jammed the shovel’s edge into the seam where the two halves came together. It popped open.
I knelt down next to the case, which overflowed with documents. Holding the flashlight in my mouth, I rifled through the papers, spilling some on the grass. “Holy Christ,” I said out loud.
I set the flashlight on the grass, scrambling to scoop up the papers and put them back in the case. I didn’t need to study the files right now. I knew what I had found. I felt like Alfred Nobel. I had discovered dynamite!
“Freeze, asshole,” a voice said. “Don’t make a sound.” I felt a gun barrel jammed against the back of my head and heard the ratcheting sound of a hammer being cocked.
C H A P T E R 48
“What the hell!” I shouted
“I said keep quiet,” His voice was guttural and harsh. “I’ll drop you right here, motherfucker!”
“Okay, okay. I’m cool.”
“Stand up.”
With my hands in the air, I struggled to my feet. The gunman rammed the barrel into the small of my back. “Pick up the case and walk slowly to the car. It’s on the street.”
I bent over, closed the briefcase, and tucked it under my arm. We left the backyard and moved down the driveway, then marched toward the blue Buick sedan parked a couple of houses away.
“You’re not a cop,” I said.
“No such luck, O’Brien.”
“You know me? Karadimos sent you?”
“We’ve been following you since Vegas.”
“Vegas?”
“Almost lost you when you stomped on it in Barstow,” the gunman said, “but the Buick Electra with 455 cubes and a McCulloch supercharger held its own against the Vette. Too bad you have a small block in your machine. Should’ve coughed up a few bucks more and got the big 427.”
“Lousy gas mileage,” I said.
“You’re a riot, O’Brien.”
Christ, this was no time to chat about cars. I broke out in a sweat and tried to think of a way out, but nothing came. This wasn’t like TV or the movies; this was real. If I made a move on the guy, he’d shoot me dead before I could turn halfway around.
As we approached the Buick a guy the size of the Goodyear blimp jumped from the driver’s seat. Another gorilla climbed out of the passenger seat. They called him Angelo. I remembered Jake mentioning Angelo, said he was one of Karadimos’s best persuaders.
From their conversation I learned that the other two were Gus and Lenny. Angelo looked like a persuader, mean and ugly with a nose spread all over his face and small knotty protrusions on his forehead. He’d been a professional fighter once, and I had no doubt he could hurt people without a care. I recognized Angelo. He was the goon who followed me around in the Buick.
Lenny took the case from me and placed it in the Buick. Angelo patted me down. He took the car keys from my pocket and tossed them to Lenny. “Get that Vette out of here, ’fore someone sees it.”
“Hey, you sonofabitch, nobody drives my car.” Angelo hit me in the right kidney. I doubled over.
“No one asked your permission.”
My Corvette disappeared down the street. I wondered if I’d ever see it again. Gus, the gunman, backed up, still covering me, and opened the rear door.
“Get in, O’Brien,” he said. “Angelo, you’re driving. I’ll watch him.”
We climbed in. Angelo, the heavyweight, started the car, drove around the block, and turned right on Firestone Boulevard. We pulled up next to a phone booth at a closed gas station.
“Tell the boss about the briefcase, Angelo,” Gus said without taking his eyes off me.
Angelo made the call and was back in the Buick in less than a minute. “The Greek wants us to take O’Brien to the yard. He’ll meet us there.”
“Looks like you’re going to taste a little garbage. You like rotten cantaloupes, O’Brien?” Gus asked.
I clenched my fists. “Yummy,” I said.
About fifteen minutes later we pulled into Karadimos’s trash yard on Atlantic Avenue. Angelo parked the Buick next to a black Mercedes in front of the old stucco office building. A dim yellow light highlighted the shade-covered window in front. Someone was inside. Had to be Karadimos.
“Get out and head for the door.” Gus pointed to the office. “I’m right behind you.”
I reached the door, felt the gun against my back, and heard him say, “Open it.”
I did what he said. He pushed me hard, and I stumbled into the building. Karadimos sat behind his beat-up desk. “Well, Mr. O’Brien, what a pleasure,” he said in his nasal wheeze.
I glared at him. “Can’t say the same.”
“Now, O’Brien, let’s keep a positive attitude.”
“Okay, I’m positive it’s not a pleasure.”
“I see you came back to my yard. Do you enjoy the ambiance?”
“It’s not a rose garden, but it does have a distinct odor.”
“Glad you like it. Because it appears you’ll be spending the rest of your life here.”
“This place is crawling with scum and germs. I haven’t had my shots.”
“Don’t worry. You won’t be alive long enough to catch anything. Angelo, bring me the briefcase. Gus, keep the gun on his head and shoot him if he moves an inch.” Angelo obeyed, and Karadimos started rummaging through the case. “This is what I was looking for. You’re to be congratulated, O’Brien. A shame you didn’t listen to me; you would have been amply rewarded.”
I remained silent, thinking. The only way I’d leave this place would be dead, or with the briefcase. I had to control my anger, not make any stupid moves, or I’d be history and Ernesto Rodriguez would spend his life behind bars.
Karadimos tossed Angelo a roll of duct tape he pulled from the top desk drawer. “Tape his hands behind his back. Don’t cover his mouth. We’re going to have a nice little chat. Aren’t we, O’Brien?”
“Nothing to talk about.”
“Turn around and put your hands behind you,” Angelo demanded.
With my arms behind my back and my wrists bound, Angelo shoved me into the chair facing Karadimos, who said, “I’m gonna ask you a few questions. If you cooperate, tell me what I want to know, then we won’t have to use extreme measures. Am I making myself clear, O’Brien?”
I started to shake. I didn’t like the sound of extreme measures. But I wondered what I could tell him. He already had the cassette tape; he already knew what I knew about his operation.
“Why don’t we start with the obvious question? How many people have you told about the unfortunate conversation you’d taped at Chasen’s? Illegally, I might add.”
Illegally. He had to be kidding. The guy runs drugs and teen prostitutes and he talks about what’s legal. I glanced around. My left brain told me that I’d never get free. My right brain still tried to figure out an escape route. Gus stood behind me with the gun pointed at my head; Angelo, the monster, hovered off to the side. Other than the revolver in Gus’s hand I saw nothing in the office that could be used as a weapon.
“Come on, O’Brien, speak up. Don’t be shy.”
I remained silent.
He paused for a beat, then his voice changed, became hard. “Angelo,” is all he said, but the way he said it made my skin crawl.
Angelo stood and flexed his fingers as he moved toward me. He backhanded me twice across the face. I tasted blood.
“Goddammit, I haven’t told anyone about the recording.”
“You expect me to believe that? You’re working with Sica. You would’ve told him right off the bat.”
“Yeah, I told Sica. I forgot.” Let him take up the issue with the Sica gang. I didn’t give a shit.
“Who else?”
“No one.”
“What about that fat Jew you hang around with?”
Oh Christ! No way would I tell him about Sol’s involvement. “He’s just a friend. We don’t talk about business.”
Angelo whacked me again, three times in rapid succession. I could feel my face pulse as my mouth started to swell. Blood ran down my shirt. He hit me again, harder.