Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

We left for Foxy’s at noon. We had a pleasant lunch, hamburger combos for both of us. It was good to laugh a little and to let the tension evaporate. Rita was wide-eyed and excited about going to a lunch with an older man, she said. And she was excited about becoming a criminal defense lawyer eventually.

We returned from lunch at one-ten. Rita went to the bank to pick up the signature stamp, and I called the answering service again.

“Any calls, Mabel?”

“Just one, long distance,” she said. “I’ll read it: ‘I’m in Las Vegas, call as soon as possible.’” She rattled off the number. “It’s from Sol Silverman.”

I immediately dialed the number. Perhaps Joyce was right. Sol is in Las Vegas, so maybe he has a lead on Kruger.

“Good afternoon, the Sahara Hotel,” a perky female voice said.

“Sol Silverman, please.”

“One moment, please. Mr. Silverman is in the casino. I’ll connect you now.”

I waited less than fifteen seconds and Sol came on the line.

“Jimmy, my boy, how you doing?”

“ Jesus , Sol! Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“Where in the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”

“I’m doing your work, Jimmy. That’s where the hell I’ve been.”

“ Christ , you could’ve let me know.”

“What? You’re my Jewish mother now? Shut up and listen.”

“Okay, Sol. I just-”

“Forget it. Now listen, you’ve got to get up here, fast.”

“You got a line on Kruger?” I asked, holding my breath.

“Joe Sica’s brother, Freddie, found him. He’s bringing up some boys from L.A. and they’re going to snatch him tonight when he shows up at his job. When they nab him, they want us here, in town.”

The butterflies in my stomach were beating their wings to the 1812 Overture , fireworks and all. “I’m on my way.”

“Better go pack a bag first. Don’t know how long we’ll have to hang around. They’re going to take him to a secret location, and then they’ll call us.”

“Where will I meet you?”

“Here at the Sahara. Johnny Hughes, head casino guy, comp’d our rooms. You won’t need to stop at the bank to cash a check. Everything’s on the house. You’ll only need money if you want to gamble.”

Gamble? Was he nuts? My whole life was a gamble.

I looked at my watch. “It’s almost two. I’m leaving now. I’ll see you up there at about six, six-thirty.”

Before hanging up, I told Sol about the tape. I wanted him to listen to it. Maybe he’d pick up a new slant, the way a word was said, something like that, maybe something I missed. Maybe I could call Mitch the cop from the hotel and play the tape.

Rita returned and I briefly explained the situation.

“Don’t worry, Boss. I’ll run the store while you’re gone.”

“I’m sure you’ll do a fantastic job.”

She flashed a sunny smile, but then a cloud darkened her pretty features. “Please be careful, Jimmy.”

I shot home, tossed the tape recorder and a few clothes into a duffel bag and was on the road in minutes.

It’s a three hundred mile drive to Las Vegas through the blazing hot Mojave Desert. I felt uneasy about driving that far when the temperature on the highway was over a hundred degrees. I stopped to check the oil and water at the Union Oil station before charging out on the Interstate.

The 605 ended at the San Bernardino Freeway and I headed east toward Barstow. The Corvette ran smooth. The temperature needle stayed in the green, but I kept the speed below eighty. Why take chances? I told myself. If I kept the speed down, everything would be okay.

The Cajon Pass loomed before me, a five thousand foot summit. My car climbed steadily, reaching the high point of the pass then rolled smoothly down the backside of the mountain. The temperature needle stayed in the green. I shot past Hesperia, Apple Valley, and Victorville.

In Barstow, I made a pit stop at a Standard Oil station. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Big Jake’s Caddie idling at the curb as the attendant filled the Vette’s gas tank. I pulled out of the station and saw a sign on top of the Barstow First National Bank building, 103?. It could’ve been worse; it could’ve been 104.

I pulled back onto the highway and in about forty-five minutes, I raced past a sign on the side of the road that read, “Zzyzx Road, One Mile.” Zzyzx, what in the hell did that mean? In the rearview mirror, I caught a momentary glimpse of Jake’s car darting in, out and around other cars about a quarter-mile behind me. It felt good knowing he was back there.

I pulled under the elaborate portico of the Sahara at exactly six-thirty. Valet parking guys were all over the car.

Just as I climbed out, Big Jake’s Caddie pulled in behind my Vette. I waved off the parking guys and walked over to him.

Jake rolled down the window. “Karadimos’s goons would’ve reported to him by now.”

“Reported what?”

“He knows you’re in Vegas and he knows why,” Jake said.

I didn’t like the sound of that.

“I’ll have to warn Freddie. Karadimos is sending hoods lookin’ to shanghai Kruger. Could be trouble.”

“I thought the big guns back east didn’t allow gang violence in Vegas-bad for the tourist trade.”

“That’s just PR crap,” he said. “See ya around, O’Brien.”

“You’re not coming in?”

“Against the rules. I’m in the book.”

“I understand.” I said. “Thanks for the escort.”

The “book” was a list of gangsters that the Nevada State Gaming Commission circulated to all the gambling establishments in the state. No individual listed was allowed to enter any hotel with a casino, at least not through the front door.

I walked back to my car, still parked in front of the hotel, and took out a dollar to tip the parking valet, standing there at attention. The kid shook his head.

“Can’t take it, Mr. O’Brien,” he said.

Mr. O’Brien? Guess I was expected.

“Yes sir, we’ve been waiting for you,” the parking guy said. “The boss says you’re to get the treatment.”

“The treatment?”

“High-roller treatment. Full comp, friend of one of our honored guests, Mr. Silverman. By the way, Mr. Silverman said to tell you he’ll call your room after you get settled. He also said to tell you, ‘No word yet.’ I guess you know what that means.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Here, let me take your luggage, sir.”

He reached out for my duffel bag. I wasn’t about to part with the bag, not with the recorder in it. “Don’t bother. I’ll carry it myself.”

A blast of cold air hit me in the face when the valet opened the hotel door. The contrast of the scorching heat outside and the hotel’s artificially conditioned air perfectly mirrored the contrast between my real life and the fantasy world I now entered.

He ran to the registration desk to get my room key while I watched the patrons wandering about without a care. Some were dressed in formal evening wear, others in terrycloth robes and swimming suits. Women who looked as if they belonged on the cover of Vogue strolled arm in arm with men whose pictures would have been more at home on a wall at the post office.

“Your key, sir,” the valet said. “It’s a twenty-two suite. Compliments of the hotel, friend of Mr. Silverman,” he said again.

After he explained how to get to the room, I took a private VIP elevator to top floor. I opened the door, and the polished marble entry of the suite gleamed in the sunlight that pervaded the room. The west wall was all glass and the view was stunning. I held my breath for an instant and sidled into the room. A full-size bar that would rival the one at the Bistro Gardens in Beverly Hills lined the north wall. Built into the other wall were shelves that held a large TV and a stereo.