The Rabbit Factory (45 page)

After the cops left, the three old men had watched Ike Kose's press conference together. "I told you my boy Declan was good," Kennedy said when Rose announced the Burger King bombing. "I liked him from the get-go."

"You said he was an arrogant fuck," Barber said.

"Maybe that's what I liked about him," Kennedy said. "It doesn't matter. Whatever I thought about Declan at first, he's

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been worth every nickel."

"Yeats," Barber told him. "We agreed to use code names."

"Yeats, it is. Our fine Irish poet, William Butler Yeats is doing a bang-up job in Dallas." Kennedy laughed, then turned to see if Lebrecht was enjoying the joke as much as he was. <

"You find this funny?" Barber said. "You seem to have made the transition from jovial, drunken Irish producer to jovial, drunken Irish mass murderer without any problems."

"Fuck you, Mitch," Kennedy said, every ounce of joviality gone. "You feel bad about the people who died? I don't. I just hope some of them were the same fucking shareholders who voted to let the Japs and the Jews take over Lamaar Studios. You thinking about backing out? Well, think about this. You've been riding one man's coattails for your whole life. You don't jump off the ride because you don't like what's coming up at the next turn."

Kennedy reached into his pocket and pulled out Lomax's card. He threw it at Barber. "Here. I'm not gonna need this. And that cop didn't seem to think you needed one either."

Barber stood up. "That's an old trick. Cops do that shit to drive us apart."

"Well, it's fucking working!" Kennedy yelled.

"Stop it," Lebrecht said. "You think we're shooting some fucking movie where you can argue over a line item in the budget or a scene that got cut? Our balls are on the chopping block here. What happened to honesny, loyalty, unity?"

The three magic words. Deanie's words. They were the glue that held the team together, he used to say. Now they were Lebrecht's mantra. "We can't afford dissension, we can't afford a rift," he said. "Mitch, if you're having second thoughts about..."

The Rabbit Factory

Barber jumped in. "I'm not having second thoughts."

"But you're not happy with the way this is escalating," Lebrecht said.

"Do I think it's necessary to keep killing more innocent people? No. But did I go to the cops? I shouldn't have to answer that. After all these years you either trust me or you don't."

"I'm sorry," Kennedy said. "I trust you." K "I trust you, too," Lebrecht said. But he wasn't sure he did.

Freddy brought in lunch, and they watched the news while they ate. The Lamaar story filled the airwaves. The cameras captured store shelves being stripped, movie titles being removed from theatre marquees, and the grounds of Familyland being patrolled by armed guards and bomb-sniffing dogs.

People who were interviewed were almost unanimous in their willingness to do exactly what the flyers had demanded. "I'd have a hard time giving up beer," one young man said. "But cartoons, no problem."

Still, reporters managed to find their share of people who refused to follow the crowd. One truck driver plastered Lamaar posters all over his eighteen-wheeler and dared the terrorists to come and get him. Three teenage girls wore Rambo sweatshirts, but had drawn a circle and a slash around his picture. "That way we can still wear the shirts, but the terrorists will think we support them." The reporter informed the audience that a few minutes after the girls were taped, they changed their minds, "because the terrorists might.not get the joke."

Lebrecht turned off the TV. "We're not terrorists," he said to the others.

"It doesn't matter what they call us," Barber said. "We are what we are. I've got to get going. I promised my wife I'd be

home for dinner."

Mitch left. Kennedy poured himself a drink. "I believe him," he said.

"I don't know what to believe," Lebrecht said. "When I w;i.n a kid--six, maybe seven years old--my father took me to Cecbi Point in Sandusky. I couldn't wait to go on the big Ferris wheel. I had never been before. He says, You sure you want to go? Yes, yes, yes. Well, we get on, and as soon as that wheel got to the top and stopped, I started crying. This wasn't what I thought il would be. I wanted off. You know what my father did?"

Kennedy shrugged.j

"He picked me up and held me out over the safety bar. I It dangled me three hundred feet over the fucking midway. Ik said you want off, Klaus? If you want to get off in the middle, this is the only way."

"You had one nasty motherfucking father," Kennedy said.

"Maybe. But I learned a lesson. You make a commitmenl, you stick with it."

"Mitch didn't go to the cops," Kennedy said. "He's scared, but he's not stupid."

"Well, if he didn't, then those cops were setting us up. And that means they didn't just come to talk. They suspect us."

"Of course, they suspect us," Kennedy said. "They suspect everybody who was ever connected to Lamaar. But they don't have shit. They're fishing."

"And what if they're not fishing? hat if Mitch talked to them?"'

"Klaus, I've known Mitch all my life. He would never rat us

1 "Answer the fucking question, Kevin! What do we do if we

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find out that Mitch talked to the cops?"

Kennedy shook his head. Klaus was a master of manipulation. "I guess if we're going live by your father's rules, we throw him off the Ferris wheel."

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There was no sense calling Terry to tell him that Barber had taken the bait. He was halfway home and would only insist on driving back. I turned on the cell phone, dialed 17, and hit Send.

"Hello, Detective Lomax." The voice on the other end was strong, confident, and female. It wasn't Barber. It was Arabella Leone.

B Every now and then I get caught flat-footed. This was one of those times. "Ms. Leone," I said, "you could have just called me at the office."

"Sorry for the intrigue, but your friends at the FBI have a bad habit of listening to my private phone calls. I wanted this to be extra private."

"Whatever you give me on the case I'm going to share with them," I said.

"This is not about the case," she said. "You have a brother Franklin."

"Frankie, yeah. What do you know about Frankie?"

"He's a crook," she said. "He stole money, and the injured

party wants him to die for his sins."

"How the hell do you know this?"

"I told you, Detective. I do a thorough background check on everyone I come in contact with. You came up clean. But wo have a Franklin Lomax in our database who's been here ;i number of times; the last one was a few weeks ago. He played recklessly, lost everything he came with. I have it on videotape."

"Spare me the pictures. I heard all about it firsthand."

"When someone is that desperate, we keep an eye on him," she said. "Just in case he thinks the best way to get the money back is to take it at gunpoint."

"That's not his style."

"We didn't know that at the time. So I had Rhonda, one ol my bartenders, buy him a few drinks and get him to pour hi,s heart out. Apparently he set up a woman in L.A., Vicki Pardini, and ran a stock scam on her."

"I don't think he set her up to scam her," I said. "It just goi out of hand,"

"He didn't mean to steal her money? Is that still a valid defense in your line of work?"

"You're right," I said. "He committed a crime. But the punishment is way harsh."

"I agree. And now that I find out that he's your brother, I'd like to help."

I had now been caught flat-footed twice. "I appreciate your 1 concern," I said, stammering just a little, "but I couldn't possibly I accept any help from..."

"From me? That's what any self-respecting, live-by-the-book cop should say. But if you're too principled to even listen to my 1 offer, the only decent gesture I can make now is to send flowers

to the funeral home."

"I'm not used to decent gestures. I'm a cop. Mostly we get bribes."

"This is not a bribe. It's a favor to you and to Ike."

"Does he know about this?"

"No, and he never will. I don't want payback, not from him or from you. If I need a traffic ticket fixed, I have plenty of friends in the Vegas Police Department."

"Alright, I'm listening. How can you help?"

"I have a business associate in LA.," she said. "Joseph Cappadonna."

Joey the Cap. Mid-level mob guy in the protection racket.

"As luck would have it, Mrs. Pardini's husband is in the construction business, and Mr. Cappadonna's firm does security work on all Mr. Pardini's job sites. As a favor to me, Mr. Cappadonna is willing to talk to Mrs. Pardini and try to convince her to accept the money your brother owes her and cancel any vindictive reprisals she may have planned."

"And how would I repay Mr. Cappadonna for his kindnesses?" I asked.

"Don't worry. I told him you're a straight shooter," she said. "It's strictly business. He brokers a meeting between you and this woman; he helps both parties negotiate an amicable settlement; and you pay him a fee. It's all handled aboveboard with no damage to your integrity or your reputation."

"Or my brother."

"Exactly," she said. "Are you interested?"

"How much time do I have to think about it?"

"None."

"Let me repeat this so we're clear. I pay Cappadonna the

money my brother owes, plus a fee for his services, and lie makes Vicki Pardini an offer she can't refuse. He doesn't expecl any Get Out Of Jail Free cards or other favors."

She had a sexy laugh. "That's not the way my attorneys would put it, but just between you and me, that's it."

"I accept," I said. "How do I get in touch with Cappadonna?"

"He'll call you. Just hang onto that cell phone. Don't use il to call me again. I'm out of the loop. Good luck with Cappadonna, and good luck catching the bastards who are trying to put me and Ike Rose out of business."

She hung up before I could thank her.

I was sound asleep when the cell phone rang. I fumbled for it, slid it off the night table, and flipped it open. "Hello." "Mike?" A man's voice.

"Yes. This is Mike."

"This is Dr. Joseph's office. You have a private consultation scheduled with the doctor. Be at the corner of Highland and Beverly in half an hour and wait for further instructions. And Mike, the doctor has very sensitive diagnostic equipment. So no metallic objects."

"Highland and Beverly. Half hour," I said, and the phone went dead.

I checked the digital clock. 3:45. I got dressed and left my gun and badge in my dresser so they didn't set off Dr. Joseph's sensitive diagnostic equipment.

I drove to Highland, which is a nice wide street. Traffic was nonexistent, and I got to Beverly five minutes ahead of schedule. I parked at the hydrant on the corner. Twenty seconds later the cell phone rang. "Follow the Suburban." It was the same man's voice.

A black Chevy SUV with tinted windows pulled alongside my car. It turned right onto Beverly, and I followed. I looked in the rearview mirror. There was a pair of headlights right behind me.

Our little caravan followed Beverly east through Hancock Park, then headed south on Western. When we got to the edge of Koreatown we went west on San Marino, then turned onto Saint Andrews, a quiet little street. Definitely not mob territory. The SUV parked in front of a small brick church. I pulled in behind him and was immediately sandwiched in by the car in the rear. '

There was enough light coming from a street lamp that I could make out the two drivers as they got out of their cars and walked toward mine. I know a little about the faces connected with organized crime in L.A., but I had never seen these guys before.

The SUV driver was clean-cut with dark hair and distinctly Italian features. He had on cream-colored pants and a royal blue shirt and was good-looking enough to make the grade as a struggling actor/waiter in Hollywood.

The guy who drove the second car had pale, non-Mediterranean skin and a blond buzz cut. He was wearing the official uniform of all twenty-something Los Angelinos. Black pants and black V-neck over a black T-shirt. He opened my door and said, "Dr. Joseph's office is this way."

They didn't look like mobsters. I guess they were Thugs-In Training. They escorted me to the side of the church. A well-lit sign said Rectory Entrance, Private. ForOffice Business Please Use the St. Andrews Street door.

We must not have had office business, because we entered the rectory. We walked down a corridor, which had white stucco walls, dark wood trim, and wrought iron sconces. We

stopped at a wooden door that had a ten-inch-high stained glass cross embedded in the center.

Mr. Cream Pants frisked me, and was not remotely shy about probing and squeezing every possible area where I might have a concealed weapon. A guy like you could make a pretty penny doing that in West Hollywood, I thought. But I knew that this was not the time for cheap jokes that could get me killed.

He removed the two cell phones from my pockets, looked them over carefully and handed mine back. "This one's yours," he said.

Black V-Neck opened the door, and as soon as I went through he closed it behind me. The room was lit by two, maybe three, dim bulbs. It looked like a sitting room of sorts, with two small sofas, two stuffed chairs, and a small wooden writing desk. A woman was sitting in one of the chairs. Joey Cappadonna was in the other one. He stood up to welcome me.

"I apologize for the early morning hours," he said. "I'd have lather met you for lunch at The Ivy, but I didn't think either of us wanted to be seen together in public. Thank you for _Łpming." He extended his hand.

"Thank you for meeting me," I said, and shook the hand that had in its time done God-only-knows what.

Cappadonna looked more like Andy Garcia than Tony Soprano. Trim and tan, fit and forty. He had on gray slacks and a pale blue Sea Island shirt, which even in the dim light set off thick, dark, wavy hair that was a little long in the back and a little gray at the sides.