Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

I was now close enough to the door to hear the voices. One guy did all the talking; he spoke with a nasal wheeze. It had to be Karadimos, the boss, because all he did was bellyache. I could hear two other guys, both grunting.

Karadimos continued to rant, complaining about the lack of payment from a number of his deadbeat customers. He bitched about the ineffective collection efforts of the two guys in the room.

“God damn it, I want that money. Explain the situation to ’em. Hell, use a little finesse; try the two-by-four approach.”

“Okay, boss,” The other voices said in unison.

“All right then, get on it tomorrow,” Karadimos said.

“Anyway, the men must be through unloading the stuff. Let’s go check it out.”

I didn’t hear the front door open, but I heard it slam shut. I didn’t know if all three guys had left, but I couldn’t wait around any longer. I had to make my move. Peeking through the opening, I didn’t see anybody in the office, so I made a dash to the front door, where I stopped. I didn’t hear a car drive off. They could be standing right outside the office.

I opened the door about an inch and looked around the edge. Nobody in sight. I slipped into the yard and crouched down behind a black Mercedes, my pulse racing. I took a couple of deep breaths, then glanced over the hood of the car.

The three men walked with their backs to me toward the bins of rotten cantaloupes.

I duck-walked along the side of the Mercedes and stopped at the rear bumper. I eyed the expanse of wide-open land between the yard and the gate; no cover. But I couldn’t stay here. Maybe I’d draw less attention if I just stood and calmly strolled across the yard to the exit.

I was wrong. Halfway there someone shouted, “Hey, who the hell are you?”

I spun around. Two guys came rushing toward me, a heavy guy wearing a dirty tan jumpsuit, and another guy who looked a little like Elvis Presley. He had a pompadour and bushy black sideburns; he even had on the same kind of gaudy peach-tinted sunglasses the King used to wear.

“Whaddya doing snooping around here?” the big guy said, shoving me in the chest.

“I’m not snooping. I came to see the owner.”

The heavy guy shoved me again, this time hard. I stumbled back a little, but quickly regained my balance. “You touch me again and I’ll knock you on your fat ass,” I said.

I didn’t know if I could knock the guy down, but I was pissed. Amazingly enough, my threat seemed to work, because he backed off a little.

“Leave him alone, Willie,” Elvis said to the guy in the jumpsuit. “We’ll take him to the boss.” He pointed toward the office. “Let’s go, O’Brien.”

I tensed. Jesus H. Christ, these guys know who I am.

“Who’s O’Brien?” I tossed out the question like I was asking a stranger for the time of day.

“Knock it off, asshole. We know all about you,” Willie said.

“Yeah, the boss’s been waiting for you to show,” Elvis added.

I walked back toward the office, the two guys crowding each side of me. The door wasn’t locked. I opened it and went in.

“You like wandering in my yard, O’Brien? Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong? Keep it up, shyster, and you’ll find out who you’re messing with.” Karadimos was about the size of Rhode Island, but not nearly as pretty. He stood behind the desk panting like a rabid hyena. Someone had turned on the air conditioner jammed into one of the windows, and it pumped full blast. The room was cold, yet Karadimos’s face glistened with a sheen of moisture.

“I need information about Senator Welch,” I said.

Karadimos charged around the desk and stopped when he was close enough for me to feel his hot breath on my face. He moved fast for a man his size. “You stay away from him! I got money in his campaign and I don’t want you messing around.”

“I have to talk to him, that’s all. He might know something about the Graham murder.”

“Listen, punk, I don’t want you screwing around with any of my politicians. I bought ’em, I own ’em, and I intend to keep ’em in office where they can do me some good. You hear me?” Karadimos jabbed his finger in my face. “It’s a disgrace what people like you will do to tarnish the reputation of our public servants.”

I didn’t say anything. Karadimos returned to his desk and snatched a Kleenex from a dispenser. He mopped his forehead and threw the tissue on the floor.

“Come here.” He pointed his finger at a spot on the desk. “I want to show you something.”

I took a step forward and looked down at what he pointed at: a tiny fruit fly, probably from all the rotten cantaloupes outside. “Yeah, what about it?”

The insect moved slowly across the surface of Karadimos’s desk. He peered down at it. “The fruit fly has a life expectancy of three days,” he said.

“So?”

Karadimos took his thumb and ground it out in an exaggerated fashion. “This one didn’t make it.” He looked up at me. “Get my drift?”

After leaving Cudahy I felt drained. I wanted to get home fast to shower and scrub the scent of the meeting off me. It wasn’t the odor of the trash yard that bothered me; I needed to purge the stench of Karadimos and all that he stood for.

I opened the door to my apartment and heard the phone. Running to the kitchen, I caught it on the fifth ring.

“Ah, Jimmy my boy.” It felt good to hear Sol’s friendly voice. “I knew I’d catch you at home. A single guy like you should be out and about, having a little fun on a Friday night, prowling those discotheque joints, maybe.”

“Nah, I don’t get out much anymore,” I said, while rummaging through a counter drawer with my free hand.

“Why not call that good-looking D.A. you’ve been seen breaking bread with? I hear she’s between guys. Chewed up the last one and spit him out.”

“Are you kidding me?” I found a leftover chocolate donut in the drawer next to a pair of pliers and took a bite.

“She’s the prosecutor on the Rodriguez case. It would be unprofessional,” I said while munching on the dry but tasty donut.

“I’ll have her home number for you by Monday,” Sol said, laughing.

“Aw, Sol, you’re something else.” The fantasy of a date with Bobbi flashed through my mind, a pleasant fantasy.

“Hey, Joyce phoned me at the track. Told me about the tail, guy in a blue Buick. She said she gave you the plate I.D. What’s up?”

I told him about the car tailing me for the last couple of days, and my hunch that Karadimos had something to do with it.

“Andreas Karadimos, the garbage guy?” Sol asked.

“Yeah, but there’s more. I went to see him…” I recounted my meeting with Karadimos. I didn’t tell Sol how stupid I’d been for breaking into the office, but I told him that I felt I was being threatened.

“I know Karadimos,” Sol said. “He’s a bad actor. Has a lot of gelt, but dirty hands. And not just from handling garbage, if you get my meaning.”

“I’d like to know about his connection to Welch.”

“Listen to me, Jimmy. Karadimos is dangerous. If you’re going to butt into his affairs, you’d better get some protection.”

Sol was dead serious and it wasn’t like him to exhibit anxiety. I couldn’t think of a time when I heard him speak with an edge in his voice like this-unless, of course, he was talking about the IRS. “How serious is he about his threats? Does he follow through?” I asked.

“That yentzer is very serious. I’ve heard stories. Step lightly and watch your ass with this guy, Jimmy.”

“I’ve got the preliminary hearing coming up in a week. I can’t let that son-of-a-bitch slow me down.”