Neon Nights: Daymond Runyon meets James Ellroy in the Nevada Desert Read online

  The kid ran off, and when he returned, he motioned for us to follow him. He took us out back to the swimming pool. Sitting on a lawn chair was Al Bernstein drinking a glass of orange juice. "You guys want to some juice?" Before we could say anything Al said, "Get these guys some juice, Julio," he ordered and Julio scurried off. Julio quickly returned and offered me a large glass of orange juice. Al asked, "Do either one of you care to have a little vodka put in your glass?" I was surprised when Dick waved off Julio when he approached with the bottle. Al stirred his drink with his finger and asked, "You didn’t come here for juice so what do you want?"

  "What do you know about Johnny Del Rio's death?" Dick asked.

  Al Bernstein shrugged his shoulders and said, "An interesting question. Perhaps you'd better tell me what you can do for me before I answer it."

  "The FBI has a wire recording of you, on the phone, making book, and they're going to try to make a case of interstate gambling out of it. Also, they are pushing hard to get the state to press charges of illegal bookmaking and operating a gambling operation without a license. That way they'll get more leverage when it comes to trial. But if I tell the Attorney General you were helpful with my investigation, he might look the other way."

  After thinking for a few seconds, Al said, "I don't know who killed him, if that's what you're asking, but I do know a few things which might point you in the right direction--you interested?"

  "Lets' hear what you know."

  Al shook his finger at Dick. "In good time, first I want to hear you're going to make a call to the Attorney General for me."

  "You got my word that I'll call just as soon as I get back to the station. Now what do you have?"

  "A few things, like Johnny was involved in some activities Vinnie Costello didn't know about and you know what guys like Vinnie think about employees who don't cut them in."

  "What was Johnny into?"

  "A lot of little stuff but it was rumored he had a good scam going with Jake Bozak. I don't know too much about it, but it had something to do with war surplus airplane parts."

  Dick didn’t quite agree with Al. "I never figured Johnny would hang around a guy like Jake."

  "I agree Jake isn't someone most people would want to know, but in Johnny's case they needed each other. He knew someone back east who he could sell the parts to, and Jake knew someone in Arizona who's in charge of taking the planes apart. They were doing okay with it too. I heard they are pulling down ten grand a month each. But that was before they got on the outs with each other."

  "What caused that?"

  "Johnny was trying to muscle in on Jake's business."

  "What did Johnny want?"

  "He wanted Jake to give him fifty-percent of the business. Jake told him to get screwed. If Johnny wanted fifty-percent, he had to cough up a hundred grand. Johnny got mad and told Jake he knew how to get one-hundred-percent for nothing. Jake got hot and told Johnny if he didn't back off, he'd drop a dime on Vinnie and tell him about the scam they had going. Eventually, they simmered down, and the last I heard they were friends again. But maybe one of them changed their mind."

  Dick tapped his notebook with his pencil. "Are you saying you think Jake had the stones to do Johnny?"

  Al shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows--maybe."

  Dick quickly disagreed, "No way. Jake is too chicken to do a guy like Johnny without permission."

  Al held up his hands in mock surrender. "Maybe you're right, but don't forget, I make a good living off people who don't do the smart thing." Dick asked Al several more questions, but that was all Al was going to say. Anytime Dick brought up the name of some mob guy, Al would verbally dance away. All he was willing to talk about were dead or unconnected guys, but living guys were strictly off-limits. Dick got tired of waltzing with Al and ended the interview. As we were leaving, Al assured Dick he'd call if he heard anything but that wasn't going to happen.

  Outside I spotted two guys sitting in a grey sedan. They ducked down as we drove past, but I recognized them as FBI agents. I made no comment about them, but Dick could tell something was bothering me. "Are you afraid the J. Edgar's are going to give us some grief about seeing Bernstein?"

  "That's not what's bothering me! What's bothering me, is I think you said too much about the FBI's case. I know you've got to give something to get something, but you said too much!"

  Dick started laughing so hard he almost drove off the road. "That was all a bunch of crap. I don't have the slightest idea what the FBI's got on Bernstein. I made it up as I went along, but it sounded damn good didn't it?"

  "Was the part about the Attorney General a bunch of crap, too?"

  "No, that was partly true, but what I didn't say was the Attorney General had no intention of filing on him even though the Feds wanted him to. In the Attorney General's opinion, Al Bernstein is a little fish and not worth the trouble...Of course, Bernstein doesn't have to know that."

  The FBI guys in the car seeing us bothered me and I figured it could cause trouble. I just didn’t know how much trouble it would cause but I was about to find out—a whole hell of a lot.

  Chapter Four

  Round One

  When we reached town, Dick suggested we drop by the impound yard to look over Johnny's Caddy. When we got there, an old cop stuck his head out of a little building and asked what we wanted. Dick flashed his shield and asked if the lab report had come back on the car. The old cop shouted he'd check and disappeared back into the shack.

  I walked slowly around Johnny's Cadillac. Mob‑guys love big cars, and this one would make most of them foam at the mouth. It was long, light yellow and said whoever owned it was somebody. The old cop returned and said a lab guy was coming down with the report. He walked over to where I was standing, opened the hood and said, "It's a hell of a car isn't it?"

  "Yeah, it's some car all right."

  Warming to the conversation, he pointed out, "That's one of Detroit's newest vee-eight's. It's got overhead valves, a four‑barrel carb, and three hundred horsepower. They say it can run one-hundred and twenty-five all day long and never whimper." Before the old cop could give me any more unsolicited information about the engineering Cadillac devoted on this car, the lab guy showed up. I excused myself and hurried over to hear what he was saying.

  "Because the car, sat for several hours in the sun, with the windows rolled up, we had no usable fingerprints. In the glove compartment there was a pair of brass knuckles a snub-nosed thirty-eight pistol, and a switchblade knife. Under the seat was a baseball bat. He had close to a thousand dollars in cash in his wallet and he had a diamond ring on his pinkie finger we estimate at about a caret. There wasn't much else in the car because of this." The lab guy held up a piece of paper and Dick and I both looked at it. It was the bill of sale for the car, but I couldn't see anything unusual. The lab guy got frustrated and suggested we look at the date. The car had been bought the day before Johnny was killed. "That's why nothing was in the car except for a little red wool fuzz we found in the back seat."

  Dick looked confused. "Wool fuzz? Where could that have come from?"

  The lab guy got a pained look on his face, and suggested "A sheep."

  Dick said, "Wait a cotton pickin’ minute. Are you saying Johnny had a sheep in his car?"

  The lab guy replied caustically, "I didn't say that, all I was doing was offering that as a source where wool fuzz could have came from."

  I asked him, "Where else could it have came from?"

  The lab guy gave me a patronizing smile. "I don't know. You're going to have to find that out all by yourself. We can't do everything for you!" I should have expected that response, most lab guys act like they do all the work and we get all the glory. I'll give them sometimes that is true. But they don't have to deal with some guy determined he's not going back to the joint and willing to shoot it out to prove his point, either.

  There wasn’t much more of interest in the report except Johnny had his last meal of clams, red sauce, cheese and
wine probably eaten several hours before his death.

  As we were walking to the car Dick said, “You were right about the fingerprints but whether the lab guys could get any prints or not Vinnie Costello’s got his prints all over this and I’m going to prove it. I couldn’t agree with Dick. What I heard made me even more convinced that Vinnie Costello didn’t do it. A pro killer wouldn’t have left the ring, cash and weapons behind particularly if he had the time to take them and way out where Johnny was found he could have stripped him naked. The killer would have considered them a tip and Vinnie wouldn’t have cared, in fact the more humiliating the corpse was left the bigger the message it sent. I thought about telling Dick what I thought but I figured it would be a waste of time. We didn’t talk anymore until we reached the station.

  When we got to the station, he said; "I'm going to talk to some of my snitches. I'll see you tomorrow." That was okay with me because I wanted to look over the files on Johnny Del Rio and his associates some more. Inside the station I spotted Ted Kemper talking to the Assistant Chief of Police. I didn't want to talk to him, so I ducked quickly into the squad room. After ten minutes I figured he hadn't seen me and relaxed. Then he walked into the squad room and motioned for me to come into the office he was using. As soon as he closed the door, he ripped into me. "Just what in the hell were you two clowns trying to do this morning?" he demanded.

  "What do you mean?"

  "We've been working for months on Al Bernstein. I thought I'd do you guys a favor letting you in on it. How do you pay me back? By screwing up my case! I should have known better than to let a couple of local hicks come along."

  "I don't think we did anything wrong."

  "Oh, you don't think you did anything wrong. Would say that telling Bernstein about the recordings we've been making of him was doing something wrong? Or do you normally tell your suspects about all the evidence you have?" I started to answer but Kemper cut me off. "I withdraw the question. You and your partner are both stupid enough to do exactly that!" He picked up and threw a file across the desk. "Do you know what you've done? Because of your actions we may not be able to use any of the recordings in court!" He stood up behind the desk and shouted at me, "If we can't use them,--I'll have your partner's butt up on charges, and just for good measure I'll have yours, too!"

  "I don't know what you're talking about? Dick doesn't know anything about recordings."

  "Like hell he doesn't. During that coffee-clatch you had at Bernstein's this morning he told all about them. Or weren't you listening?"

  Dick was right when he guessed about the telephone recordings. But he hadn't guessed the FBI also had Bernstein's place bugged, and they were listening to every word he said. Kemper was right. We had no business stomping around in his case, but I was in too far to back out now. "Look, Bernstein's lawyers would have made you give up where you got your evidence anyway. So what's the big deal?"

  Kemper looked like he was going to explode. He turned bright red and started to shake, "Since when are you a lawyer?"

  "I didn't say I was. But I do know a few things about the law, and one thing I know, is you have to tell where you get your information from."

  "Where did you learn that, while you were picking up drunks on Shore Patrol in San Diego?"

  "No, I learned that in a criminal law class I took taught by the FBI while I was in the Marines."

  "Well, mister know-it-all, I got my law degree at Stanford and I don't need you to explain the law to me!" Kemper had a point. He was a lawyer and I was a cop with a limited knowledge of the law. I would have conceded the point and apologized if he hadn't gotten physical. He jabbed me in the chest hard with his finger. "You got that bright-boy?"

  I shoved his finger away and he pushed me with his other hand. Before thinking about what I should do, my right hand was closing in on his jaw. I caught him with a clean shot, just below the mouth. His knees buckled and he fell over backward. He hit the floor with a hard thud. Part of me wanted to help him up and apologize. But part of me was mad at him for making me hit him, and that made me want to hit him again.

  He was dazed, but he managed to partly sit up. He touched his face, and when he realized he was bleeding, he stared at me. Before he could say anything, I said, "Don't you ever put your hands on me again! I don't care who in the hell you think you are--keep your paws off me--you got that?" I didn't wait for a reply. I threw the door open. Kemper was searching his pockets for a handkerchief and I yelled at him before slamming the door, "Maybe I didn't go to Stanford Law School, but I learned a few things on Shore Patrol. Like how to handle obnoxious creeps like you!"

  I walked into a dead quiet squad room. Everyone heard what happened and I could feel their eyes burning into my back as I crossed the room. I wanted to run, but I forced myself to walk calmly out the front door. Once outside I took to my feet. I sprinted across the street to my car, and beat on the steering wheel in frustration. "God damn it, why do you have to always think with your fists?" I didn't have an answer to my question. I never did.

  I was in trouble. Guy's like Ted Kemper file charges and enjoy watching the results. It was a toss-up what might to happen to me. I hadn't worked with the Clark County Sherriff’s Office long enough for the Sherriff to go out on a limb for me and I didn’t work for him anyway. It would be a whole lot easier for him to throw me to the wolves. Dick might try to help but he wasn't exactly on the Sheriff’s Christmas card list either. The only comfort I could take was I probably hadn't done anything serious enough to get thrown off the highway patrol. But the idea of going back to driving endless miles didn't appeal to me. The chance to do some investigating was why I volunteered for this assignment in the first place, and I knew it would end away way but I just didn’t figure it would be this soon.

  I was too upset to do any straight thinking. It was almost noon and some food might help settle me down. I headed toward the Flamingo Hotel. One of the better things Bugsy brought with him was good delicatessen food. A small place opened next‑door to the hotel, and it was run by a little Jewish guy from New Jersey. He made a pastrami sandwich on dark rye bread which was so good he'd be sold out if you didn't get there early.

  I ordered my sandwich and when it arrived, the pastrami was piled so high it looked like a miniature red mountain sitting on the plate. Next to the sandwich was a kosher pickle the Jewish guy made, and on the other side was the best potato salad in the country. I started on the potato salad. About halfway through I sensed someone standing behind me, on my right. Out of the corner of my eye--I spotted Alfie Rocco. I wasn't overly concerned by his presence since most of the wise-guys from the Flamingo ate here. I looked up and he moved over next to me and whispered, "Mister Costello would like to see you,"

  "I'm eating right now. When I get finished--maybe I'll drop by."

  Alfie turned on his heels and walked out the door. I was savoring my first bite of pastrami when Vinnie sat across from me. "How's the pastrami today?" He asked.

  I was a surprised to see him and all I could think to say was, "It's okay."

  "Good, then I'll have some on Italian bread." Alfie disappeared to place Vinnie's order and Vinnie took out a cigar. Before lighting it he asked, "You care?" I did but I wouldn't be here long enough for it to matter. I shook my head and he lit the cigar. "You want one?"

  "I don't smoke."

  "That's good, I'm sorry I ever started. But I was a kid and you think you'll feel that good forever." I wondered what he wanted and I going to ask, but before I could Alfie returned with Vinnie's lunch. "You want the pickle?" Vinnie asked, "The only pickles I ever liked were the ones my grandmother made."

  It was hard for me to imagine Vinnie having a grandmother, but I suppose even mobsters had them. "Sure, I'll eat it." Vinnie smiled and put the pickle on my plate. "Look, you didn't come here to talk about your grandmother's pickles or the evils of cigar smoking--what do you want?"

  Vinnie took out an envelope from his pocket and laid it on the table. "Look inside," he said as he
picked up his sandwich. Inside the envelope were two rolls of chips from the Flamingo's casino. “Each one of those chips is worth twenty bucks and there are fifty of them in there, they can be yours for just one phone call."

  I slid the envelope back across the table. "Not interested. The idea of helping you get away with killing Johnny Del Rio doesn't appeal to me!"

  Vinnie laughed and said, "You got it all wrong. I'm not asking you to help me get away with anything. Because, like I said, I had nothing to do with Johnny's death. What I need is to know is who did. You give me a half-an-hour before you tell anyone else, and that envelope is yours."

  "Why, so you can settle the score yourself?"

  "Not necessarily, I'm more interested in who's behind Johnny's death and why, rather than revenge." Vinnie took another bite of his sandwich, and looked out the window. "I might need time to prepare myself for what could happen if certain persons are behind this. It could get rough if certain parties were involved...now, are you going to help me?"

  I don't know why but I believed Vinnie. I also believed he was scared like we were that Johnny's death was the beginning salvo of an all out mob war. But, I couldn't take his money. That would be a breech of duty and once you start making deals with guys like Vinnie, you never stop. "I'll think about it." It wasn't the answer Vinnie wanted but he didn't say any more.

  He finished his lunch and threw twenty dollars on the table. "Lunch is on me," He stood up and Alfie started to come over but Vinnie waved him off. He leaned over so only I could hear, "You think real hard about what I said. It would be better to have me as your friend than your enemy."

  Whether he was telling the truth or not didn't matter right now. What mattered was Vinnie was going to be a player in this like it or not. I knew one person who wouldn't like it--Dick Pearson. He'd have a fit when he heard about Vinnie's offer. Fortunately, I wouldn't have to tell him now, and maybe I could think of something which would soften his response. I'd work on that later. My main concern was the mess I left behind at the station. I had to find out if it was safe to return.