Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

“ Boychik , he won’t just slow you down; if you’re not careful, he could stop you in your tracks-dead.”

The dry donut felt like lead in my stomach. “Karadimos is that bad, huh?”

“I gotta be straight with you. He’s as bad as they get-wait a minute! I just had an idea. Yeah, it might work.” Sol paused for a moment. “Don’t let that fat-ass Greek worry you, Jimmy. It’ll be okay.” His voice held a hint of his usual confidence.

“Sol, what are you saying? Don’t let him worry me? My God , you just said he’s as bad as they come.”

“Jimmy, my boy, keep cool. I’ve got something in mind, but I’ve got to make a few phone calls. Anyway, here’s why I called you tonight: I want you to get down here tomorrow to meet a guy, a politico, a pro. He could shed some light on Welch and his campaign. You’ll have some fun too. Clear your mind for a day.”

“Joyce said you’re at the Del Mar race track.”

“You got it. I’m staying at the La Costa Resort. Meet me at ten-thirty in the hotel lobby. We’ll take the limo to the oval from there,” he said.

I sighed. Maybe Sol was right. A day off couldn’t hurt. “I’ll see you there.”

“And, Jimmy, one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Until I work out my plan, lock your door.”

Saturday morning, I jumped on the I-5 freeway at Lakewood and shot south. The speedometer needle swung through its arch, hovered at seventy for a while, then edged upward past eighty, fluttered, and settled in at eighty-five. I popped a Beatles tape into my eight-track, the “White Album.” “Back in the U.S.S.R.” and “Rocky Raccoon.” I beat my hand on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the music.

The Corvette screamed past the San Clemente turn-off, past the Western White House, and continued along the coast. Then at Oceanside, I rewound the tape and started it again. It was good.

I parked my Corvette in the lot at La Costa, walked past Sol’s limo sitting under the archway in front, and entered the hotel. Sol reclined in one of the club chairs clustered around the lobby, studying The Daily Racing Form.

“Jimmy, my boy, shalom .” Sol stood to greet me. He wore a lightweight white summer suit, a pink shirt with a blue collar, and a cream-colored tie. The suit coat fit in the shoulders, but I doubted he could button it.

“Thanks Sol, great view.” The lobby overlooked the resort’s Olympic-sized pool. He turned and glanced out the wall of windows. “Yeah, I think a-wow! Check that out. Is that bikini legal? Holy Christ! ” The girl made Raquel Welch look like a boy.

Without turning back to me, Sol continued: “I’m glad you could get down here today, Jimmy…” He paused until the geezer with his arm wrapped around the young beauty’s bare waist walked out of our view. Then he pulled a paper scrap from his pocket. “Philip Rhodes is the guy who’s going to join us later at the track. He’s a political consultant, works with the Democrats. I don’t know him. But I’m told he’s sharp as they come. His public relations firm handled Cranston’s senatorial campaign. And get this: he’ll be handling Welch’s 1974 campaign.”

“He must know about the fundraiser last week,” I said.

“Sure. But I don’t know how much he’ll tell you about the Senator. Not in his best interests to rat him out, you know.” Sol stood. “But hey, let’s go. Time to head to the oval.”

“How’d you get the guy to come down here, anyway?” I asked as we strolled outside to the waiting limo.

“I called Chuck Manatt, the Democratic Party state chairman. He owed me a favor. And when Manatt tells a politico in his party to do something, they do it. Plus these guys are shnorrers , always looking for a hand-out for their clients.”

As we approached the limo, the chauffeur opened the rear doors. We climbed into the backseat. The limousine pulled slowly away from the hotel. A small refrigerator stood nestled between the black leather seats. Sol removed a bottle of chilled Champagne and opened it with a festive pop. He grabbed a flute glass from another hidden compartment and filled it half full.

“Too bad you quit drinking, Jimmy. This is supposed to be good stuff. Never had it before.” He examined the label. “Krug, Rheims, 1962. Sounds okay.” he said. “Bought ten cases. A guy I know from the track needed some cash in a hurry.”

“He bet his money on de bobtail nag?”

“He should’ve bet on de bay.”

“Doo-dah.”

“Oh! De doo-dah day.” We laughed.

Just south of Batiquitos Lagoon, we turned left onto the I-5 from La Costa Ave. and continued on toward Del Mar.

“Yesterday, you said you might have a plan to keep Karadimos off my back while I check out Welch,” I said as Sol took a sip of the champagne. “Said you were going to make some phone calls.”

“Hmm, not too shabby.” He raised his glass up to the light streaming in from the window, examining the pale liquid as if he were Pierre Cartier appraising a diamond.

“Hey, look at the little bubbles.”

“Sol, the plan?”

“Yeah, the plan.” He took another sip. “I left a few calls, need to talk to some people I know. They’ll get back to me,” he said, still studying the glass. “In the meantime, be careful and remember, your phones are probably tapped. Is the Buick still shadowing you?”

“No, I haven’t seen it since the meeting.”

“That means they’re not being obvious, but they’re still watching you.”

“Why would Karadimos hassle me?” I asked. “It’s just a political campaign, for chrissakes.”

“Karadimos does a lot of business with the government, legit and otherwise. He plows a lot of cash into certain campaigns and not all of the money is spent on the election.”

“What happens to the money that’s not spent?”

Sol took another sip. “You know, this stuff’s not half bad.”

“What about the money?”

“I didn’t pay that much-”

“Not the Champagne, Sol. The political contributions.”

“Oh yeah. The candidates keep it, of course,” he said.

“They keep it? Then what’s the difference between a bribe and a contribution?”

“I’m afraid, not much. The leftover money isn’t supposed to be touched until the candidate retires from office.” Sol held his arms out. “But do they check?”

“So let me get this straight. Karadimos is giving money to political campaigns, buying influence. Nothing illegal there. Lots of people do that. But with Welch, he gives a lot more. Makes me think he’s involved with the Senator in something deeper.”

“People have disappeared trying to investigate Karadimos’s business. And I mean his legitimate businesses. Jimmy, if you started messing with his illegal stuff…” Sol’s voice trailed off. He took another sip of the Champagne and then said, “Let’s just say Karadimos might get a little irked.”

We exited the I-5 at Del Mar and swept into the valet parking at the racetrack. A deep blue sky arched above and a refreshing breeze blew in from the nearby ocean. No smog, gorgeous weather, with the temperature in the low seventies; perfect. The weather had to be perfect; this heavy-moneyed crowd wearing outfits that cost more than my car wouldn’t have it any other way.

Sol scattered cash, giving money to the parking attendants, and to a guy at the security checkpoint who said, “Good morning” in a pleasant sort of way as he stamped our hands. I also saw the folded $50 bill he slipped to Goldie, the maitre d’ of the Terrace Garden, as he escorted us to a table with a direct view of the finish line.