Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

“Nah, this is a bust-out. Know what I mean? You know about a bust-out?”

“Kind of a going-out-of-business sale?”

“No, this place has been out of business since the previous owner-who owed me money-decided to leave town. Unexpectedly.”

“Oh,” I said.

“We take over the restaurant and throw a party for our friends and associates, a little R ’n R for the boys. We order booze and food from the previous owner’s suppliers on his credit. What we don’t use here for the party, we sell to other places that we do business with.”

“Sounds kind of penny-ante for guys like you.”

“We’re not businessmen. We don’t do everything just for money. Gotta have a little fun.”

I thought about what they did for fun. Run some guy out of business, destroy his life, and then throw a party in what’s left of his establishment.

“Fun?” I asked. “What about the ex-owner of this place? Is he having any fun?”

“Sentimental bullshit.”

“Yeah, maybe so. But his life is ruined, dead for all I know, while you and your men are laughing it up in his place of business.”

“Hey, kid, it’s what we do.” His eyes got hard and he reached into the drawer. I started to sweat. Was he going to pull out his pistola ? Jesus Christ, me and my big mouth. Why can’t I just shut up?

He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Then he said, “The owner came to us. Needed money. He knew the rules going in, knew we weren’t humanitarians. We lived up to our end of the deal. He didn’t.” Sica shrugged his shoulders. “Whaddya want from me? Do I look like Mother Teresa?”

I didn’t see any rosary beads. “No, you’re too tall, but maybe a little in the face.”

“Wise guy,” he chuckled. “But you got guts. I guess you’re okay.”

The clamor from the dining room stopped, as if someone hit the eject button on a tape deck. Sica jumped to his feet, went to the door, opened it a crack and peeked out. “It’s no big deal, but we’ve got company. When they come in here, don’t say anything.”

“Who-”

“Just don’t say anything.”

He went back to the desk and sat on the edge, striking a blase pose. The office door opened. Two men wearing conservative three-piece suits entered the room. One of them had a small notebook in his hand, the kind that would fit in the inside pocket of a suit coat. He was scribbling in the book. The other guy moved slowly around the office, looking things over, fingering the desk and riffling the paper on it.

Sica sat there, calmly staring at the ceiling.

“Okay, Joe, what are you goombahs doing here, another bust-out?” the suit without the notepad asked.

“We have a legal right to be here. The owner gave me the keys, told me to watch the place. Nobody invited you. Now get the hell out. You’re bad for business,” Sica said.

“Where’s the guy who owns this joint?”

“He’s on vacation.”

The suit asking the questions pointed his head in my direction. “Who’s he?”

“Nobody,” Sica said.

“Who are you?” he asked me.

“I told you he’s nobody.” Sica planted his feet on the floor. Expanding his chest, he said, “Now, unless you got a warrant, get the fuck outta here.”

The two men casually glanced around. The scribbler put his notebook away and they both strolled out of the room.

When the door closed after the men left, Sica asked, “You park your car in the lot?”

“Yeah, why?”

“They got your plate number. They’ll run it, find out who you are.”

I didn’t need that. Just by being here I was digging a deep hole. Maybe I’d already dug it too deep to climb out of when this thing is over. Sica must have felt my concern.

“Hey, kid, it’s no big deal. The FBI gets their kicks outta hassling me. That’s all.”

The noise, laughter, and Sinatra’s voice, louder than before, resumed. Someone shouted, “The Feebs have left the building.”

A few minutes later, the door banged open. The biggest, meanest looking guy I’d ever seen stood in the doorframe staring at me. He must be the muscle in this organization, the guy who hangs the rats on hooks. He could do it one handed.

“Hey, boss,” he mumbled, nodding at me. “Who’s the prick?”

Big Jake looked tough, like he could knock down a building. It was easy to see how he got his name. I didn’t know about the Jake part, but the big part was obvious. He was massive. I guessed nearly four hundred pounds. He stood at least six-foot five, his legs were short for a man this size, but his arms were longer than normal. If he’d had a lot of hair, which he didn’t, they’d call him Big Jake the Gorilla. I didn’t ask him if he wanted a banana.

“We gotta help this guy,” Sica said.

“If you says to help, den we help,” Jake said.

“O’Brien’s a lawyer, having trouble with Karadimos.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“The usual shit.”

“I’d like to stomp Karadimos, smash him like a cockroach.”

“We help him…” Sica did a hand waffle. “He helps us. Might get rid of Karadimos that way.”

“No shit?” Jake said.

“Yeah, you don’t think I want to help this guy because I like lawyers. I hate the bastards.” Sica looked at me. “No offense, O’Brien.”

Yeah, sure. “None taken,” I said.

“Let’s go, Jake. We’re taking a ride. You too, O’Brien. I don’t want to talk in here. Know what I mean?”

Sica’s gold-colored Cadillac Sedan DeVille was in the lot. The car looked brand new, not a scratch on it. The paint gleamed and the white sidewall tires still had the little rubber tidbits sticking out from the tread. The only problem: this model was five years old.

When I started to open the front passenger door Sica said, “Jake won’t fit in the back seat.” Sica and Big Jake climbed into the front. I opened the rear door and got in. The interior was as pristine as the exterior.

“Joe, you sure keep this car in great shape,” I said, making small talk.

“It’s been in storage while I’ve been away.”

“Where you been?”

“Joe’s been a guest of the Feds,” Jake chortled. “Just got out. He’s been rehabilitated.”

“Very funny, Jake.” Sica started the car. “Let’s get down to business.” He backed out and we headed north on Atlantic. “O’Brien, I’ll give you a little background,” Sica said. “Karadimos wormed his way into my territory. Took some of my action. He’s outta control, gotta be stopped.”

“I thought you guys had ways of handling situations like that.”

“He’s too strong politically. I’ll tell you right out, if I had my way, he’d already be a new reef off San Pedro. He’s so fat, he’d be a navigation hazard, have to mark him on the Coast Guard charts.” He smirked.

Jake laughed. It was probably a good idea for Jake to laugh at Sica’s humor, kind of like Johnny Carson and Ed McMahon.

“I was going to have him taken care of. Had to get the okay, went to the council, all four godfathers from California. They said no. I’d have to find some other way. That’s where you come in.”

“Me?” I asked. “What do I have to do with this?”

“Silverman said you figure Welch had something to do with the bimbo getting whacked. Maybe he does. If Welch is involved, then so is Karadimos. Welch won’t take a dump without Karadimos giving the okay. You take Welch down, he’ll drag Karadimos with him.” He looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Maybe you’re full of crap. Who knows, but we’ll take the chance.”

We cruised up Atlantic and after about three miles, turned right on Florence Avenue and headed toward Downey. We turned left into the Don’s Market parking lot on the corner of Paramount and Florence.