The Predators (39 page)

“Everything okay here, Jerry,” he answered. “Is there anything wrong?”

“I don’t think so, Joe,” I said. “Just make sure you have the place locked up good. I’m gonna call Buddy at home and have him get you some extra men at night.”

“Don’t worry, Jerry,” he said in a reassuring voice. “I got everything under control. I’ve got my ol’ police positive right here with me.”

“Good,” I said, and put down the phone. I had forgotten that Joe was a retired policeman. I picked up the phone again to call Buddy.

Buddy’s wife, Ulla, answered. “Buddy’s gone out,” she said. “I think he was on his way to see you.”

“If you hear from him, let him know I’m on my way home,” I said.

“Okay, Jerry,” she said. “Don’t forget, I’ve invited you for Norwegian dinner. You haven’t seen your godchildren for several months. They’re getting bigger every day.”

“I won’t forget. As soon as things slow down a little bit, I’ll take you up on dinner. You know I love your cooking.”

I turned off the telephone and put it back under the seat and got into the lane to turn west onto Fountain.

Even at this hour Santa Monica was jammed. Gridlock at nine in the evening. The light changed and I turned down Fountain to Wilshire and made it home in about ten minutes.

Buddy was sitting in the lobby waiting for me when I came into the high-rise apartment building. He looked at me worriedly. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m okay,” I said. “Let’s get up to the apartment.” We got into the elevator and I pressed the sixteenth floor. I had one of the four penthouse apartments in the building. It was a good setup. Maid and laundry service. They had an in-house restaurant that delivered by reservation to your apartment. Bar service twenty-four hours a day. Plus each apartment had a complete gourmet kitchen.

We went into the apartment and headed straight for the bar. I fixed us both a scotch on the rocks. “Some shithead took a pop at me in Nicky’s restaurant.”

“I know,” Buddy said. “I called Nicky. He told me what happened.”

“Ulla said you were on your way to talk to me. What’s going on?” I asked.

“We have trouble with the distributors,” he answered. “It was like an earthquake today. Every one of the distributors, all twenty of them, called in this afternoon.”

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“Muscle,” Buddy said flatly.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Every one of the distributors said that two men came to their warehouses and told them that there was enough French waters on the market and they were replacing them with Italian water, something called ‘Dolce Alps.’ Outside they had a small truck and without another word they had their helpers bring in the Italian water and take out all of the cases of Plescassier.”

“That’s it?” I said. “None of the distributors gave them an argument. Did they think we had sent them?”

“They didn’t know what was happening. They’re salesmen, not goons. They said it all happened so fast,” Buddy said.

I shook my head in confusion.

“Here’s the really strange thing. It all happened within the same hour. That means that it is a big operation. It took at least sixty to eighty men to hit everybody at once.”

“That means they also had a list of all of our distributors,” I said. “Somebody must have gotten into our files.” I poured another drink for myself. “A big operation,” I said. “And also someone may be after my ass.”

“You might have a few guys after you,” Buddy said annoyingly.

I looked at him. “Any of the distributors get a tag number on any of these trucks?”

“Two of them,” he answered. “Rental trucks. Budget and Ryder. All with Nevada plates.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll call Moe in Vegas tomorrow and find out who rented the trucks. Meanwhile, let’s get the vans out first thing in the morning to replace the bottles of Plescassier and pull out the Italian water and dump it in the city dump.”

“We don’t have enough people working for us to get it done,” Buddy answered.

“There’s enough unemployed in Watts to fill every job in Los Angeles. And I also want some muscle boys left at the plant in case we have any trouble there,” I said.

“I’m going to need a lot of currency,” he said.

“That’s no problem, I’ve got plenty of cash,” I answered.

“That’s not the tough one to cover. The big currency is cocaine,” he said.

“Do whatever you have to do,” I said to Buddy. “Pay for it. But cover your ass. Also, let’s get your wife and kids out of town. Let her go to her mother’s home in Norway for a month. I’m sure the kids would want to go.”

“You think it’s going to get that rough?” Buddy asked.

“Could be,” I said.

“Sounds like the old days.” Buddy smiled.

“Yeah,” I said. “First thing I have to do is call Jimmy Hoffa. He’ll talk to Giancana in Chicago. They all have big investments in Vegas.”

“Hoffa’s on our side. They set up all the arrangements for us in L.A.”

“That’s what I want to hear,” I said. “If they are still on my side or not.”

“What if they are out?” Buddy asked.

“Then I’m out of business,” I said. “I’ll have to go back to Europe—to France, and then over to Sicily to find out where the problem is. I’ve always been straight with them. If there is a problem here they will have to straighten it out for me.”

“And if they don’t?” Buddy asked.

“I’m fucked,” I answered. “Then I’m back in the used-car business.”

“That’s a long time ago. We ain’t done that since after the war,” Buddy said.

“That’s right,” I said, and poured us both another drink.

20

It was seven in the morning when the telephone rang. I rolled over in my bed and picked up the phone. “Hello,” I growled.

“Mr. Cooper?” It was a strange voice.

“Yes,” I said.

“Detective Schultz out of the West Side Station,” he said. “I’m one of the detectives who talked to you at Felder’s restaurant.”

“I remember,” I said, still groggy.

“The guy whose balls you popped off is still in the hospital. He ain’t very happy,” Detective Schultz said.

“Fuck him,” I said. “I don’t give a shit about him.”

“We found out who he is,” Detective Schultz said. “He’s a hood out from New York. Johnny Terrazano. A wiseguy from the Carlino family back there in the East.”

“So, what about him?” I asked.

“You know him?” the detective asked.

“Never saw him in my life,” I said.

“Did you ever have any business with the Carlino family?”

“No,” I answered. “I’m in the bottled-water business. That’s got nothing to do with the rackets.”

“You have any idea why he’d want to fire a bullet at you?” he asked.

“None at all,” I answered.

There was a long silence on the phone.

“We still have your gun,” he said. “You’ll have to come down to the station house so that you can sign for it.”

“Thank you, Detective,” I said. “I’ll come around for it in a day or so.”

“You’re not worried that some other wiseguy might want to take a shot at you?” He laughed.

“What the hell for?” I said. “I got nothing they want.”

I put down the phone. I knew what they wanted, but it didn’t make any sense to me why they went after me with a gun. All they had to do was talk to me. We could always make a deal. I swung my feet off the bed and picked the phone back up and called Buddy.

“The cop just called me and told me where the guy came from. He’s out of the Carlinos,” I said. “I still don’t understand why they want to take me out.”

“I’ve been on the phone, too,” Buddy said. “I think I know why it’s all happening. Last night I called Cioffi in Scottsdale. He told me that the Carlinos were unhappy that you didn’t give them Plescassier when you brought it back into the States. They complained that you made the deal with Anastasia, and all they got from it was a lot of grief and they lost money. They say you’ve been making a lot of money out here with the water, and when you started you gave them nothing.”

“That’s bullshit!” I said. “If anybody made any money out of it the first time, it was them. They sold everything out whether I liked it or not. I was just lucky enough to have enough to pay J. P. back. I used my own money to live on. I got nothing for all my work. Those greedy bastards.”

“What the hell can you do about it? Argue with them?” he said. “They’re not in the business of arguments. They want the whole ball game.”

“They still can’t own the name Plescassier unless they buy it from me. And that stupid wop water that they try to sell won’t make them a cent. Nobody even knows about it.”

I thought for a little bit and then I had an idea. “Buddy, didn’t you hear that my Uncle Harry had a big bottling and distribution setup that covers the East?”

“That’s right!” Buddy said. “Damn, I should have had this one figured out. Uncle Harry was always in with the Carlinos. Even years ago, when he gave them his betting and numbers business. Then they had to have backed him in his bottling business, after he ripped it off from you.”

“The son of a bitch!” I said. “I bet he’s doing pretty good.”

“He’s a millionaire, from what I hear,” Buddy said. “I know a lot of people that keep in touch with him. He and his wife are pretty big in Jewish society.”

I sat there on the side of the bed, tapping my toe, while I thought. Finally I spoke again to Buddy. “You just get our bottles back on the shelves of the distributors. Hire bodyguards for every one of the places. Meanwhile, I’m going to get in touch with the Frenchman. I have an idea.”

21

The next morning I was in Paris. I checked into the George V and called Paul at his office. Fortunately, he was in town. We decided that we would have lunch in the hotel. It was easy for him. His office was just across the street. And it would give me a little extra time to rest; the nine-hour time difference had me exhausted.

We sat down for lunch at noon. I didn’t waste any time. Quickly, I told him what had happened and the ideas that I had to keep me from losing my ass.

Paul smiled. He was Corsican. There was nothing better for a Corsican than being able to screw someone who is getting ready to screw you. They call that justice.

I asked him if he thought J. P. would give me the okay. Paul nodded. “All you can do is ask him,” he said. “Right now he will be in the Plescassier offices on the Champs-Elysées. I’ll call him immediately. I have his private number.”

“Thank you, Paul,” I said. “Have you seen Giselle? I’ve always wanted to give her a call, but I didn’t know if that would have been the proper thing to do.”

Paul looked at me for a moment. “You did right,” he said. “My niece is a very sensitive girl, and I know that her relationship with you was always on her mind.”

“She never told me that she was your niece,” I said. “All she ever told me was that you were a friend of the family.”

“Her mother is my sister,” he said. “But in Lyons nobody was supposed to know that she was Corsican. Because in Lyons, the Corsicans are not accepted.”

“I can’t believe that. After all of these years, they still don’t like to talk about it?”

Paul laughed. “My brother-in-law still does not even speak to me.” He lit a Gitane. “I can never even go into my sister’s home.”

I lit up a Lucky. “Do you think we’ll be able to see J. P. this afternoon?”

“Of course,” he said, then smiled. “It’s like you say in America. I have clout.” And he left the table to use the telephone.

*   *   *

I had never been in J. P.’s office in Paris. He had the same office that his father and grandfather had before him. The single large penthouse, nine stories above the Champs-Elysées, with large windows facing the Arc de Triomphe. The furnishings were cherry mahogany, with leather and glass. J. P. held out his hand and greeted me warmly.
“Bienvenue”
he said as we shook hands.

I looked at him. He looked well, still a very handsome man, even though he had taken on a little weight. “How are you?” I asked. “And Giselle and the children?”

“They are all very fine,” he said. “I’m sorry that they are not here to see you, but they are in Cannes. This winter has been terrible in Paris.”

“I’m sorry, too, that I can’t see them. But maybe some other time,” I replied.

He waved me to the chair opposite his desk. “Now, tell me what brings you back to Paris.”

I told him succinctly what had happened. Then I gave him the picture as I saw it in the States. “The Mafia wants Plescassier out of the States. They think they can sell their own so-called Italian water in its place.”

“They’re never going to be able to do it!” J. P. said angrily. “They don’t know it yet, but even if they knock out Plescassier, that won’t be the end of their problems. All the French waters are already into the States. Perrier. Evian. Volvic. Contrex and many others. The French water already has the reputation that we have made for all of them.”

“I won’t argue with that,” I said. “But Plescassier is still a large investment in America. It won’t be good for your company’s reputation if Plescassier falls out of the American market.”

He leaned back in his chair and took a large cigar from the box on his desk. Carefully he snipped the end so that he could place it in his mouth; then he took out a Zippo lighter, probably a war souvenir. He rolled the cigar gently around until it was comfortably lit. Then he let out a large smoke ring and, through it, looked at me. “And what do you think we should do?”

“The first thing I have to know is what you are planning to do. I heard that you would like to sell Plescassier to a Swiss company. True or false?” I asked.

He smiled. “Yes and no. I am in negotiation with another company, but it is nowhere near being completed. But you are right. If we lose the States, part of the value of Plescassier will be less.”

“I would like to sell Plescassier America to the Mafia. If you okay the sale, they would pay me and I’m out of their way. But, of course, they wind up fucked, because you have sixty-five percent of the company and you sell them the water. If you sell your complete company, then nobody has to sell them the water.”

J. P. watched me as I spoke and I could see the wheels in his head turning. “You have a buyer?” he asked.