“Ha,” she exclaimed, “not even close.” She slapped the tape on the counter and read off the number there: “Four thousand, one hundred eleven dollars.”
Nikos shook his head and groaned, “I never get close to the actual number, koukla mou.”
Twenty minutes earlier, Pappadopoulos had estimated the day’s receipts to within twenty-two dollars of the actual number. He’d calculated years ago the average amount a customer spent in the café—fourteen dollars and sixty-three cents—and could tell from the pre-printed numbers on the hand-written order tickets the waitresses used how many tickets had been used on any day. But their daily ritual gave Voula so much pleasure. The joy on her face reminded him of the young girl he’d married forty-one years before. All the work and aggravation that came with running a restaurant were more than compensated for by the smile she showed when they played their nightly guessing game.
“Eemay kourasmeni, agape mou. As pame.”
“I’m tired, too, Voula. But I was hoping Cecil would get here before we locked up. He might not have eaten yet.”
Voula came over and hugged him. She looked up into his soulful brown eyes and kissed his cleft chin. “You know why I love you so much, Niko?”
“My good looks and Olympian physique?”
“Of course,” she answered as she pushed away and eyed his bulldog jowls and massive gut. “But, most of all, I love your heart. It’s the biggest heart I know.”
Pappadopoulos felt his face warm.
“The way you take care of Cecil, the way you worry about him, will earn you a place in heaven someday.”
He placed his hands on her shoulders. “With you in my life, I’m already in heaven.”
She playfully slapped his chest and said, “Stop it.”
He was about to lead her to the back when the door there opened and Cecil Rosandich entered.
“Hey, Voula. Hey, Nick. I thought I might have missed you.”
Nikos smiled at Rosandich. “I’m sorry, but the kitchen is closed.”
“That’s all right, Nick. I ate with a friend tonight.”
Voula said, “You’re wearing new clothes and got a haircut.” She shot a mischievous look at Nikos and said, “Perhaps Cecil has a girlfriend?”
Nikos wrapped an arm around Voula. “Don’t tease our friend.” Then he looked at Cecil and said, “Maybe we’ll see you in the morning.”
Rosandich nodded and followed them to the back door. He watched them get in their five-year-old Buick and drive away. Then he locked up after them, changed his clothes in the tiny two-room apartment at the back, and went to work on the restaurant. He would make certain the place was spic and span for when Nick and Voula arrived at 5:30 the next morning. It was the way he paid them back for letting him use the apartment for the past nine years.
DAY 12
CHAPTER 18
It was after 1:30 a.m. when Cecil finished cleaning up the café. While he’d worked, he’d massaged the idea that had germinated during dinner with Janet Jenkins. As a seedling, the idea frightened him. But, as it grew and grew, the idea made ever more sense. The documents he had were worth a lot of money. Hidden in the ceiling of his apartment, the documents were doing no one any good. He knew that his old partners at Rosen, Rice & Stone had to be aware by now that he’d cashed in one of the bonds. That meant they were probably investigating the bond’s trail. They’d obviously know where it had been traded. Someone would surely contact Charles Forsythe.
I need to leave California, he thought. But, before I do, I’ll call Rosen.
He felt a flash of anger. Those bastards ruined my life. But the anger quickly metamorphosed to fear. His body trembled as though electrified. He’d thought many times about turning the documents over to the government. But he knew, without his testimony, the documents would be nothing but worthless paper and flash drives. And he feared that neither the SEC nor the FBI would be able to guarantee his safety. His old partners would find a way to eliminate him.
He used a ladder from the café’s storage room to raise a ceiling tile in the apartment’s bedroom, dragged out the plastic-wrapped bundle of documents, and dropped it on the bed. After he put away the ladder, he firmed up his plan.
At 5:30 a.m., Casale watched Forsythe pull into the parking lot next to the Forsythe offices, leave the vehicle, and enter the building. Two hours earlier, Casale had spray-painted the lenses of the security cameras that spied on the parking lot. Under cover of darkness, he now pulled into the lot, ten yards behind Forsythe’s parked Audi, opened his rental car’s door, and lit the cloth fuse in the bottle of gasoline. He waited a few seconds, then tossed the bottle under the Audi and quickly drove away. He saw flashes from flames as he turned out of the lot, onto the street.
Fifteen minutes later, Casale pulled up to a Mickey D’s drive-up window and bought a coffee and an Egg McMuffin. Then he drove into a parking slot and waited. He devoured the Egg McMuffin, slurped the last of the coffee, and was considering a run to the men’s room, when his cell phone chirped. He answered the call with a low “Yeah?” and waited.
“I got your message.”
Casale recognized the Brooklynese undertones in Forsythe’s speech. I’d better handle him carefully, he thought. He could be recording this call. “Who’s this? Do you know what time it is?”
“Oh, you wanna play games,” Forsythe said. “The only one you hurt this morning was my insurance company.” Forsythe muttered something unintelligible and then added, “You know that information you wanted from me? Well, go fuck yourself and the horse you rode in on.” He hung up without waiting for a response.
Casale looked at his cell phone as though it was a strange appendage. “What the hell,” he rasped. The reaction he’d just gotten from Forsythe was so different from what he’d expected, he felt butterflies erupt in his gut. Why would Forsythe deny knowing Bruno Pedace? Especially after his fancy car was destroyed? He tapped the phone against his chest while he thought about what had just happened. He needed more information. He placed a call.
“Sal? Johnny.”
“Hey, pendejo, I heard you was hangin’ out in Lost Wages.”
“I’m in L.A. now. You wanna do me a favor?”
“Como no! For my usual fee.”
“I know that. Despite being married to my sister, you don’t do nothin’ for free.”
“Gotta pay the bills, amigo.”
“I need a full background write-up on an investment broker in Beverly Hills named Charles Forsythe. He’s originally from Brooklyn. Changed his name to Forsythe when he moved to California.”
“Changed it from what?”
“How the hell do I know? Earn your fee and find that out.”
“That’s it?”
“No. See if there’s a connection between Forsythe and a guy named Bruno Pedace.”
“How much time do I got?”
“I want something by noon today, California time.”
“That’ll cost you double.”
“Jeez, Sal. You keep jackin’ up your rates, I’ll dump you and find an Italian who can do the job.”