Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

“Can you give me the names of the two guys who were shot?” I asked with some reluctance.

“Yeah, just a minute.” He retrieved a notebook from his car. “The wounded guy had a gun permit.” The lieutenant fingered through a couple of pages of his pad. “Name’s Cohn, Jacob Louis. Let’s see, oh yeah, the fatality was Fischer, Ronald.”

Fatality. The words hit me like a Winnebago. I slumped against the cop car. Sol looked at me for a moment, and then turned back to the lieutenant.

“The dead guy’s real name was Kruger,” he said.

A jackrabbit jumped in front of my Corvette as I turned the car around to head back to the hotel. The creature froze in the middle of the road and stared at me, its ears straight up, as if to ask, “What now, Jimmy?” Without Kruger there’s no case. I had no answer and the rabbit bounced away, disappearing into the scrub.

We were quiet on the drive back to the hotel. At the Sahara, Sol and I walked slowly through the entrance doors. In the lobby, before we parted ways, Sol said, “So long, Jimmy. See you back in Downey.” He paused and put a hand on my shoulder. I guess my anger and disappointment was written on my face. “Can’t win them all, my boy. But don’t worry. We’ll come up with something.”

“Yeah, I know. We’ll come up with something.” But I knew how hopeless it would be to develop a new angle now, especially with time running out. Karadimos had won.

Sol said he’d drive to the sheriff’s office and give them a statement. He would tell them what we knew. It wasn’t much. Karadimos’s men gunned down Kruger to keep him quiet, but we had no proof to offer the law. The shootout would go into the books as another gangland dispute, or a drug deal gone sour. That would be that, case closed.

Later that afternoon I checked out of the hotel. The valet gave me directions to Valley Hospital, and I drove there. The white concrete building was awash in the bright Nevada sun, and the hot blacktop in the lot was soft underfoot as I walked toward the entrance.

In the stark lobby, people slouched in functional furniture, waiting the endless wait for news of loved ones engaged in life-or-death struggles. In here the shameless fantasy of the Las Vegas pleasure palaces ended and the harsh reality of life played out. Like the gambling tables, there are winners and losers, but there are no comp’d drinks or show tickets. They even have clocks on the walls.

A young woman with curly short hair and blue eyes greeted me at the information desk. “May I help you?” she asked politely.

“I need to see Jacob Cohn.”

She thumbed through a large Rolodex. “I don’t see anyone with that name here. When was he admitted?”

“Sometime earlier this afternoon. Gunshot wounds.”

“Oh yes, the police brought him in. Are you a relative?” The woman studied me with raised eyebrows. “Or an associate?”

I handed her my business card. “I’m a lawyer. I need to see him.”

She sighed. “Of course. He hasn’t been assigned a room yet; still in surgery.” She leaned over the counter and pointed to the right. “You can wait in the waiting room down the hall. I’ll tell the authorities you’re here.”

I hadn’t eaten anything since the previous night. “Do you have a cafeteria around here?”

“Yes, go to your left and follow the arrows painted on the floor.”

The hamburger was dry and lifeless. The patty must have been made with oatmeal and lard. The fries were limp, the coffee cold and weak. Welcome back to reality. I thought about checking to see if my Corvette had turned into a pumpkin.

After finishing my meal, I wandered to the waiting room and browsed through a six-month-old issue of Modern Maternity. It was that or a medical journal with no pictures.

Time passed slowly, but eventually a man in a wrinkled brown suit came in. His collar was unbuttoned, his tie loose. He looked like a cop who could use some sleep.

“You the lawyer?” the man said. “Here to see Cohn?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Anderson, homicide, sheriff’s department.”

I stood and handed him my credentials. He took a quick glance at my bar card and gave it back. “Follow me,” he said. “You’ll only have a few minutes.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Doc says critical. Might not make it.”

I entered the small, cold intensive care unit. There were six beds lined up against the wall. Big Jake lay in the second bed from the door, an array of tubes stuck in him, supplying painkillers and life-giving fluids, I figured. Yet they had him cuffed to the bed rail. It seemed absurd. He wasn’t going anywhere.

The cop stared at Jake over my shoulder. I turned to him. “Detective Anderson, this conversation is privileged. I could use a little privacy.”

He backed away. I leaned close to Jake’s face.

In a raspy voice barely above a whisper he said, “Sorry kid, I let you down.”

“What happened?”

“Surprised us, shotguns…one guy had an automatic rifle. Door burst open, shots fired…everybody ducked, dropped to the floor. Kruger…tied in a chair, I tried to block the shots, got hit a few times…went down. Kruger nailed. Ten seconds…all it took-” Jake’s body convulsed. He grimaced, coughed, and let out a deep moan.

“Take it easy, Jake.”

He tried to roll on his side but the handcuffs held him tight. “You were right, O’Brien…about Kruger. He knew what was goin’ on.”

“Kruger talked?”

“With a little…persuasion.”

My mind reeled. “What’d he say?”

“Welch and Karadimos…in business together. Drugs, money laundering, phony companies…teen prostitutes. Welch got Karadimos a bank license to handle the cash. Has some stooge in Downey front it for him-”

He coughed again, twice. “Has a place in Mexico, farm or ranch, something like that. Grows cantaloupes, front for drugs, has partners down there. They hollow some of the cantaloupes…fill ’em with smack. Karadimos and Welch…they got an import company in the states. They import the cantaloupes.”

Big Jake paused, closed his eyes, and swallowed hard a couple of times. “Yeah, okay, we’re bad guys…I’ll admit, but this asshole…rotten, like his cantaloupes.”

“Did he tell you why they killed Gloria?”

“She got whacked…had information, papers, files, records. Payoffs to her boss and other pols. She was the bag lady, carried the cash to Welch and his buddies. She…stole from them. Skimmed a little off the top, got caught, threatened to ratfink on Karadimos and Welch. She was gonna…call the cops.”

“What happened then?”

“After the fundraiser, Kruger…he was supposed to work her over and get the files. They figured she had the papers at her house. One of Welch’s workers saw her take a big aluminum case from the office…Friday night.” Jake arched his back when another wave of pain hit.

“Funny thing though,” he gasped. “Kruger said he didn’t fly…plane back that Saturday night. But Karadimos got the fuel bill and called him Monday about the flight… Kruger knew he was in trouble. Figured the Greek wouldn’t believe him. So…he took it on the lam.”

I could see Big Jake was starting to falter; his eyelids were closing and his voice grew weaker. But I needed more information.

Detective Anderson put his hand on my shoulder. “Time’s up.”

“I have one more question-”

“C’mon, let’s go.” He pulled me back, but I twisted free.

“Jake, can you hear me? Did they find the files?”

His monitor beeped rapidly. The nurse rushed into the room. “Please, you people must go,” she ordered.

“O’Brien, the guy’s dying. Leave him alone.” Anderson grabbed my shoulder again.