The Last Don - Mario Puzo [186]
Cross was met at the airport by a big limo driven by a soldier from the Hunting Lodge. Lia Vazzi was in the back. Lia closed the glass partition so that the driver couldn’t hear their conversation.
“Detective Losey was up to see me again,” he said. “The next time he comes will be his last.”
“Be patient,” Cross said.
“I know the signs, trust me on this,” Lia said. “Something else. A crew from the Bronx Enclave has moved into place in Los Angeles, I don’t know by whose orders. I would say you need bodyguards.”
“Not yet,” Cross said. “You have your six-man crew together?”
“Yes,” Lia said. “But they are men who will not act directly against the Clericuzio.”
When they got to the Xanadu, Cross found a memo from Andrew Pollard, a complete file on Jim Losey, that made for interesting reading. And a piece of information that could be acted on immediately.
Cross drew a hundred grand from the casino cage, all in C notes. He told Lia they were going to L.A. Lia would be his driver and he wanted no one else with them. He showed him Pollard’s memo. They flew to L.A. the next day and rented a car to drive to Santa Monica.
Phil Sharkey was mowing the lawn in front of his house. Cross got out of the car with Lia and identified himself as a friend of Pollard’s who was in need of information. Lia carefully studied Sharkey’s face. Then he went back to the car.
Phil Sharkey was not as impressive-looking as Jim Losey, but he looked tough enough. He also looked as if his years of police work had burned out his confidence in his fellow human beings. He had that alert suspiciousness, that seriousness of manner, that the best cops have. But he was obviously not a happy man.
Sharkey ushered Cross into his house, which was really a bungalow, the insides dreary and worn; it had the forlorn look of a womanless and childless dwelling. The first thing Sharkey did was call Pollard and confirm the identity of his visitor. Then without offering any courtesy, a seat, or a drink, he said to Cross, “Go ahead, ask.”
Cross opened his briefcase and took out a packet of hundreds. “There’s ten grand,” he said. “That’s just for letting me talk. But it will take a little time. How about a beer and a place to sit?”
Sharkey’s face broke into a grin. It was curiously affable, the good cop in the partnership, Cross thought.
Sharkey shoved the money casually into his trouser pocket. “I like you,” Sharkey said. “You’re smart. You know it’s money that talks, not bullshit.”
They sat at a little round table on the back porch of the bungalow, which overlooked Ocean Avenue to the sandy beach and water beyond, as they drank their beers out of the bottle. Sharkey patted his pocket to make sure the money was still there.
Cross said, “If I hear the right answers, there’s another twenty grand for you right after. Then, if you keep your mouth shut about me being here, I’ll come around to see you in two months with another fifty grand.”
Sharkey gave his grin, but now there was a hint of mischief in it. “In two months you won’t care who I tell, is that it?”
“Yes,” Cross said.
Sharkey was serious now. “I’m not telling you anything that gets anybody indicted.”
“Hey, then you don’t know who I really am,” Cross said. “Maybe you better call Pollard again.”
Sharkey said curtly, “I know who you are. Jim Losey told me I should always treat you right. All the way.” And then he put on his sympathetic listening style that was part of his profession.
Cross said, “You and Jim Losey were partners for the last ten years and you were both making good money on the side. And then you retired. I’d like to know why.”
“So, it’s Jim you’re after,” Sharkey said. “That’s very dangerous. He was the bravest and the smartest cop I ever knew.”
“How about honest?” Cross asked.
“We were cops, and in Los Angeles,” Sharkey said. “Do you know what the fuck that means? If we do our real job and kick the shit out of the spics and blacks, we could get indicted and lose our