Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

At that moment, Torres gave Street Dancer his way and let him run. His powerful muscles rippled, and the thoroughbred’s synchronized legs were a blur as the magnificent animal charged at Wendy’s Daughter. He took the lead. And before Cruz could recover, it was over. Street Dancer won the race by a nose.

A deep resounding roar like an eight-point earthquake erupted from the fans. I bolted from my seat and looked out into the infield. My eyes and the eyes of 30,000 other fans were glued to the tote board. I waited for the official declaration that Street Dancer had won.

After a minute of dead silence, an aftershock rose from the crowd; my stomach lurched. The word INQUIRY flashed bright and red before my eyes. I turned to Sol. He was studying the dessert menu.

“They have a creme brulee here that’ll knock your socks off. Where’s the waiter?” he said.

“Creme brulee-dessert-what the hell! What about the inquiry?”

“A mere formality, my boy. Sit down, you worry too much.”

“It was no accident. Cruz stiffed the race,” I said.

“Of course he did. That’s why we didn’t bet on Windy’s Daughter,” Sol said.

“But how’d you know?”

“The good looking blonde is Cruz’s new wife. When she shows up with the big purse, it means the fix is on. The purse is full of money.”

“Okay, but how’d you know to bet on Street Dancer?” I asked.

“The teller at the $100 window is my friend, tells me which horse Cruz’s wife had bet on. Besides, The Cruiser only does this when Torres is riding in the same race.”

“Do they do this often?”

“Nah, only once in a while. Maybe a couple times during a meet. Then six months will go by before they do it again, at a different track.”

“So today was the day, but you figured it out before his wife left for the window.”

“Sure, everything fit. Eddie Cruz was the heavy favorite. Torres was in the race, a long shot, and the blonde was here with her big purse. Didn’t you notice the purse didn’t match her outfit? Anyway, when Cruz’s wife started to leave the table with the purse, I knew the fix was on. Everything fit and it worked.”

“Except for the inquiry.”

“Well, Eddie the Cruiser was a little too obvious. The horse, Windy’s Daughter, wanted to run and win the race.”

Sol made eye contact with the waiter. He came over and we each ordered the creme brulee.

A low murmur from the fans rumbled through the warm afternoon air. The sign on the tote board had changed from INQUIRY to OFFICIAL. Street Dancer was declared the winner and paid six to one. I jumped and shouted. By then I was a nervous wreck. But we won! My two tickets were worth over $1,400. I could keep my car and have money to defend Rodriguez, after all.

After I calmed down, I asked Sol about the inquiry. “It took a while for the stewards to decide who the winner was,” I said.

“Nah, there was nothing to decide. Who knows, maybe they’re in on the deal. Disgraceful…” Sol shook his head. “But, remember, most of the people bet on Cruz and the stewards wanted a cooling off period, that’s all. Didn’t want the crowd to riot, would be unseemly.”

I glanced around and saw people with angry faces ripping betting tickets to shreds. “But these are powerful people. Don’t you think they’ll be a little pissed?”

Sol smiled. “Who cares,” he said, as we got up to go cash in our tickets.

We glided in the big limo back to La Costa. The stereo played a ballad by Mel Torme. I gazed out the window while Sol sipped Champagne, unusually quiet. I thought about my day at the races and the money I’d won. What a day.

The limo rolled onto the curved cobblestone driveway at the entrance of the resort. Guests in pairs strolled in and out of the wide, heavily carved doors leading to the lobby. The visitors seemed carefree and relaxed. A few couples, dressed in tennis whites, swished their rackets through the air, talking about their killer serves and dynamite backhands, no doubt.

I stood in the driveway next to the limo. Sol climbed out and one of the parking guys went to get my car. I was ready to get started on my trip back to Downey, back to reality.

“I had a great time. Thanks, Sol.”

“Sure,” he said. “By the way, Joe Sica has agreed to help you with Karadimos. All you have to do is say the word. That was my phone call today.”

I froze with my mouth open. Joe Sica was the godfather of organized crime in Southern California. The leader of what the media referred to as the Mickey Mouse Mafia.

I started to thaw. In fact, I started to sweat. “What? The mobster? Jesus Christ! I don’t want to be mixed up with those guys. They help me and I’ll owe them-forever.”

“Calm down, Jimmy, my boy. Let’s go in the hotel. We’ll talk it over in the bar. I need a drink and you can have coffee or something.”

“You hook me up with Sica and I may start drinking again.”

“Don’t make a decision about Joe until you hear me out.”

It was after six. High rollers back from the track filled the lounge. The happy hour was in full swing. A jazz trio belted out the old standards. A singer who sounded a lot like Billie Holiday sang “Body and Soul.” The crowd stopped lying about their winnings and listened. She was that good.

We found a table in the back, away from the people.

“Why? Why would you want to set me up with an animal like Joe Sica?”

“Because, I don’t want to see you get hurt. Karadimos is worse than the Mafia, a lot worse, and you need help to stay alive.”

“What can I say?”

“Nothing, just hear me out.” Sol stopped talking when the waiter came to take our drink order, a Coke for me, and Beefeater’s on the rocks for him. It was after six, time to start his real drinking. The wine, Champagne, and gin and tonics earlier in the day didn’t count.

“I called Joe while you were talking to Rhodes. There’s bad blood between the Mafia and Karadimos’s new gang, and you know the saying: ‘the enemy of my enemy’.” He searched my eyes for an answer.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I won’t get involved with those guys.”

“You won’t be involved. They’ll just kind of watch over things. Help out when you need a little protection. They know the territory and they know how Karadimos operates.”

“No.”

“Goddammit, they can protect you. If you aren’t concerned about yourself, think of your client. You’d be no good to Rodriguez, dead.” Sol paused, set his drink on the table, and leaned into me. “Hey, maybe you wanna quit the case.”

“Aw, Christ, you know I’m not going to walk away. But why do you say Karadimos is worse than Sica? Am I going from the frying pan?”

“Look Jimmy, I know these guys-”

“Mobsters are your buddies?” I asked in a sarcastic tone.

“You know better than that. I’m surprised at you. I don’t do business with them directly. I work for their lawyers. Like I do for you and your clients. Except they pay me.”

“Touche,” I said.

“Well, sometimes I do get involved with Sica. I go to his restaurant.” He picked up his Beefeaters and took a sip. “He’s got the greatest seafood bistro on the planet. He comps me, everything on the house.” Sol’s face brightened. “Hey, Jimmy, I’ll take you there. You won’t believe the abalone-”

“Sol, please.”

“Okay, but listen to me, you’ve gotta trust me on this.”

“You know I trust you, but these guys are Mafia. Christ almighty.”

“Let me tell you how I met Joe Sica.” Sol looked around carefully, then lowered his voice. “It was a few years back. The Feds had him dead bang on a tax rap. He was going down, five years minimum for that. But they were also going to nail him with a laundry list of other charges having to do with drugs.”