Ginny Read online

  “My report to Mr. Epstein will reflect that sentiment,” she smiled back.

  Gufman folded his arms across his chest and said, “Charlie, put the radio on, it’s gonna be a long, silent trip.

  Fifteen minutes into their commute, the uneasy silence was broached.

  “Guys like you could use some good advice regarding women,” Ginny said, breaking the ice, “like knowing when to make a move.”

  “You’re a feisty broad,” Izzy said, giving Ginny a quizzical look.

  “True, but you’re using the wrong approach with females in general, big man. If you’d like to date a lady, then treat her like one,” Ginny said.

  “I do OK, sweetie,” he said.

  “OK with sluts, no less, ha ha.”

  “Speaking about sluts, I heard about your little striptease. Ha ha to you,” Izzy laughed.

  She smiled and said, “Touché.”

  “Gonna get that?” Izzy asked when Ginny’s cell phone rang.

  Ginny dug into her bag to retrieve her cell phone, “Hello.”

  “Ginny, did Izzy get hold of you yet?” Epstein’s familiar voice asked.

  “Mr. Epstein, we’re on our way,” Ginny said.

  “Good. Let me speak to Izzy,” Epstein said.

  “They want to dump me into a cab after I show them …”

  “It’s the best way,” Epstein said interrupting her.

  “But …”

  “No buts. Just go along with the program and you’ll be well compensated,” Epstein ordered.

  “You’re the boss,” she said and handed the phone to Izzy.

  “Reid,” she said into her cell phone after they dropped her on the corner of the street, “The bastards left me out in the fuckin’ rain.”

  He asked, “Where?”

  “Oxnard! I’m waiting for a taxi.”

  “Want me to get you?” Reid asked.

  “No. I’ll be alright,” she said, and then added, “Hey, let’s meet for lunch.”

  “Where?”

  “Du-Par’s in Thousand Oaks,” she said.

  “Du-Par’s?”

  “That’s the place. You can look it up on the web. Meet me there in about an hour, OK?”

  “OK, but don’t you want to hear the latest?” he asked.

  “Fill me in when I get there … Oh, here’s my cab now. See ya,” she said and hung up.

  Thousand Oaks.

  Reid greeted Ginny with open arms at the restaurant. “I missed you.”

  “You can’t live without me for a couple hours,” she said, accepting his embrace.

  “Here—take a seat,” he said, pulling out a chair. “I’ll order now.”

  She said, “A nice big and rare hamburger for me.”

  “Waitress,” he called.

  A waitress appeared and Reid placed their order.

  “Reid,” she said, “I have a confession.”

  The amused Reid said, “Do tell.”

  “Epstein asked me to keep you out of this and I promised, but you know as well as me, that I’m in, we’re in over our heads and …”

  “I’ll never tell, Ginny. You know that.”

  “All we have to do now is extract ourselves from this ugly business,” she sighed.

  “I agree.”

  “Good.”

  “Well, let me tell you what I have,” Reid said, reaching for her hands across the table.

  “Shoot,” she said.

  “First, I checked with some of my sources,” he said, opening his notebook.

  “It’s just like old times, Reid.”

  “I’ve learned, and this may be a shocker, that the lady shooter this morning was none other than the wife of John Wong, a cohort in Epstein’s bookie operation.”

  “The plot thickens. I have my suspicions, you know,” Ginny said.

  “Her maiden name is Anna Blagoian. I think she’s Russian or Eastern European.”

  “This is too close to home for Epstein,” Ginny said.

  “Yeah, she and her husband own a donut shop on Fountain Avenue near Harper.”

  “So, you think that she was in on the heist?”

  “Yes, that’s my take on this,” Reid said. “Now tell me about your man, Peter Blagoian.”

  Ginny put on a sheepish grin. “Blagoian is the guy that knifed Benny Gould. So somehow, John Wong’s wife is related to him.”

  “Bingo. She’s Peter Blagoian’s sister.”

  “I’ll bet she was the one to …” Ginny hesitated.

  Reid asked, “Ginny, to what?”

  “I was chasing down a lead on Blagoian yesterday. A woman, probably Anna Wong, took him to a man in the Valley to be patched up,” Ginny began.

  “Man?”

  “Yeah, he’s a veterinarian. I found Blagoian from information that I extracted from the good doctor.”

  “You have a way with men, ha,” he chuckled.

  “I think … no, change that … I know Izzy and Charlie are going to dispose of Blagoian today.”

  “Perhaps we should take a long trip until things quiet down. I have some vacation time coming and …” he paused.

  The waitress brought their order to the table and served them. They consumed the meal without much banter.

  Ginny then said, “All this talk of murder and mayhem is making me …”

  “Tell me.”

  Ginny began, her eyes sparkling, “Rambunctious.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a hotel across the street,” Ginny said, grinning.

  Izzy and Charlie drove by the Oxnard beach house, casing the joint.

  “She’s really pissed,” Charlie said, “and I thought you had …”

  “Forget Ginny. Let’s take care of business,” Izzy said. “Turn around and park in the driveway.”

  “We’re goin’ in the front or back door?” Charlie asked.

  “Front,” Izzy said, as they exited the car and walked up to the door.

  “I’ll ring the bell,” Charlie said, pushing it.

  They stood there for several seconds. When no one answered, Izzy tried the doorknob, finding it locked. He took a step back, and with a powerful move, kicked the double doors open. They moved with caution into the foyer, handguns at the ready. Izzy put his finger to his lips, then signaled to Charlie for him to check the downstairs rooms. He found them empty.

  There were muffled sounds coming from the second story. Izzy led the way up the long staircase, with Charlie close behind. Once on the landing above, Izzy pushed open the first door on the left. He observed a clean, well-arranged bedroom, probably a child’s room. Charlie moved to his right and opened the other door. It made a light squeaking noise.

  “This is the convalescent’s room,” Charlie whispered to Izzy. They moved into the room, just as a man in the hall behind them whizzed past and started down the stairs.

  “Don’t let him get away,” Izzy shouted, and both followed the pajama-clad man down into the living room. Before they could catch up, the man hobbled through the front door and onto the driveway. His mistake was not looking where he was going. Two teenagers, racing their bicycles in the street plowed into the escaping man when he entered the street. He landed face down on the payment, the bicycles and the teens piled on top of him. Izzy and Charlie observed the horrific scene. Blood covered Blagoian’s head and upper torso. He was not moving. The boys, shocked at best from the collision, clambered to their feet and stepped back.

  Izzy directed Charlie to the car. “I’ll drive. Let’s get out of here.”

  In bed in the room.

  “Reid,” Ginny said, “let’s Jacuzzi in the rain.”

  “We don’t have suits,” he said, rolling over to face her.

  Ginny got out of bed and went to the window. “There’s nobody out by the pool, we could.”

  “In our birthday suits?” Reid laughed.

  “There are robes in the closet …” Ginny began, as he
r cell phone on the night table rang.

  Reid handed the phone to her. “Better take it.”

  “Hello,” she said.

  “One down, one to go,” Epstein’s familiar voice buzzed over the static.

  “Down?” Ginny asked.

  “Yeah, run over by a couple of kids on bicycles, up there in Oxnard,” Epstein said.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Listen, I’ll fill you in later, but for now I want you to lay low until I can figure what my next move will be,” Epstein said.

  “OK, I’ll wait for your call,” Ginny said.

  “That’s my girl, go home and stay put,” Epstein said and hung up.

  Ginny had a quizzical look on her face, as Reid asked, “What’s going on?”

  “It seems that Blagoian has been involved in an unfortunate freak accident.”

  “He’s dead?” Reid asked.

  “I’m not sure. Epstein said two kids ran him over with their bicycles, insinuating that Blagoian met his demise, although he didn’t mention Blagoian by name.”

  “Speaking of demise, if you don’t come back to bed, I’ll die.”

  “Jacuzzi?”

  “No.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?” Ginny asked. “Come on, a little skinny-dipping never hurt anyone.”

  “Let’s head back to L.A.,” Reid replied, changing the subject.

  “It’s Sunday night, the traffic.”

  “I know, but I have to pick up my uniform for work tomorrow,” Reid sighed.

  “Uniform?” Ginny questioned.

  “Yeah, after our little scuffle, the Chief gave me a choice: patrolling Watts on the late shift or desk duty. I took the latter.”

  “And all this happened because of me?” Ginny asked.

  “True, but hey, I like the desk job, no more nasty middle of the night calls. Although with the demotion and loss of pay, I had to give up my lavish lifestyle.”

  “I called you in the middle of the night, ha, ha,” Ginny laughed. “Oh, please describe lavish.”

  “You can call me anytime,” Reid chuckled with her. “Now, we’ll be on our way, but first let me demonstrate lavish …”

  After their brief tryst, they were on the way back to the Valley.

  “Ginny, maybe you should wait in here. It’s my old hangout.” Reid said, pulling up to a Vanowen Street bar in Van Nuys.

  “Don’t be long. You wouldn’t want me to get drunk waiting.”

  “Fifteen minutes, tops. I live around the corner,” Reid said, as Ginny climbed out of the car, went inside and took a seat at the bar.

  Reid strolled in and took a seat beside Ginny.

  “That was a long fifteen minutes,” she said.

  “Had to say good-bye to the boys,” he said.

  “Having second thoughts?”

  Reid stood, put his arm around her waist, pulled her to him and said, “No … I’m never gonna let you go.”

  The bartender walked up to them. “What’ll ya have, Reid?”

  Reid said, “The usual, Pete.”

  “Comin’ right up.”

  “So … my youngest, Kenny, was sad, but he’ll get over it …” Reid started and then paused.

  “I know this is a difficult time for you and I don’t want to make it …” Reid said, kissing her in mid-sentence. They sat in silence, nursing their drinks for an hour and then left for the drive to Hollywood.

  “I don’t believe it,” Reid said.

  “What is it?” Ginny asked.

  “We’ve picked up a shadow … damn!” Reid banged the steering wheel, as they headed east on Vanowen toward the freeway.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Hold on,” Reid said, then floored it, turning left on Ethel Avenue and speeding around the corner, missing the cross traffic by inches.

  “Whoa, that was close,” Ginny said.

  “Yeah, this car still performs well, ha,” Reid chuckled. “Looks like two men, driving a black Mustang.”

  “You’ll never outrun a Mustang in this old clunker. Let’s hope you’re wrong about a tail,” Ginny said.

  “We’ll go up to Sherman Way and then grab the Hollywood Freeway,” Reid said with a note of confidence in his voice.

  “You lost them, I hope,” she sighed.

  “I think so, there’s no Mustang in sight.”

  “Good, now let’s go to my office in Hollywood,” Ginny smiled.

  “My goodness, you have an office. Ha, you’re full of surprises, now let me guess?” Reid chuckled, crawling down the Hollywood Freeway at twenty-five miles per hour in the slow, stop-and-go Sunday night traffic.

  “OK, guess away big man.”

  “Second story, old building, window facing Sunset Boulevard, gold lettering on the glass office door …”

  “Ha, well you’re mostly right, except the office is on Hollywood Boulevard,” Ginny said.

  “A successful and lucrative business, no doubt,” he quipped.

  “Yes, big bucks. I’ll need all I can make to support you, Lover boy,” she said, poking him in the ribs.

  Half an hour later, Reid pulled up and stopped in the alley behind the early twentieth-century office building between Gramercy Place and Garfield. Reid got out, went around, and opened the door for Ginny. He spotted a black Mustang coming toward them. The car drove past with the two occupants eyeing them.

  “Hurry, that’s our tail,” Reid said. “We’d better go inside.”

  “I have another weapon in my office, if we need it,” Ginny said, racing across the parking area to the rear door, fumbling with her keys as she ran.

  “Hurry, they’re turning around,” Reid said as Ginny unlocked and opened the door.

  The Mustang screeched to a stop, sending a plume of dust, obscuring the view of the passenger hanging out of the window. He fired several rounds at the pair.

  Ginny and Reid ducked for cover beneath the splintering wood debris.

  “Up the stairs, Reid,” Ginny cried.

  “That was too close, Ginny,” Reid said, panting as they moved to the second floor.

  “Who the hell could they be?” Ginny asked, opening her office door.

  “Where’s the gun?” Reid asked, entering the darkened office.

  “In the top desk drawer,” she said.

  There was just enough light from a streetlamp on Hollywood Boulevard to see. Reid grabbed the .45 caliber pistol from the desk drawer, quickly checked the weapon, and clicked off the safety. Ginny closed and locked the door. They separated, with Ginny at the wall on the left, hiding in the evening shadows with her .22 pistol. Reid, more exposed, took the opposite side, his .38 police special in his left hand and the .45 in the right. They heard footsteps coming up the stairs, then silence.

  Amateurs, Ginny thought.

  Reid and Ginny could see the shimmering silhouettes of two men through the tempered glass door. There was a sudden crash as the door banged open against the wall. The intruders, Reid, and Ginny all opened fire. When the smoke cleared Ginny was the only one standing. She heard moans, coming from Reid and from one of the attackers. With caution, she moved to the door. She flipped the light switch on, illuminating the office. The two men were prone in the doorway; one was rolling around in agony, the other was still.

  Ginny pumped another round into the moaning man when he pointed his pistol in her direction. She checked both culprits for a pulse. Finding none, she went to Reid’s side. There was a lot of blood soaking through his jacket. Reid reached for her. “Ginny …” he said in a faint voice.

  After her hectic 9-1-1 call, Ginny sat with Reid, waiting for the EMTs. His breathing seemed steady, but he’d slipped from consciousness. She pressed a towel against the wound in his side, feeling his warm blood on her hand. Five minutes later, two uniformed officers appeared outside the doorway, brandishing service revolvers.

  “Over here!” she shouted.

  A black stretch
limousine turned off Valley Circle Boulevard in Woodland Hills, onto Victory Boulevard. It raced up the hill, heading for the Bell Canyon enclave in Ventura County, just over the L.A. County line. The two passengers seated together in the rear seat were Harry Epstein and Gregory Blagoian, brother to Peter Blagoian. In the jump seats facing them were Epstein’s two main cohorts, Izzy Gufman and Charlie Wertz.

  The uniformed guard at the gate waved them in. The car traveled to the northeast corner of the exclusive community.

  They entered purported mob kingpin Sid Pressman’s estate, driving through another guarded gate. They traveled along a tree-lined road. The limousine veered right, passing the main house, continued for a quarter of a mile, and parked outside of a small one-story bungalow.

  The driver got out, moved around the car, opened the door and said, “Gentlemen, please follow me.”

  They were led to the opened front door, where an armed man waited.

  “Been frisked?” he asked the driver.

  “They’re clean,” the driver said, and led the men to open French doors, leading to the dining room where Sid Pressman waited, seated with his back to the far wall at a long table. His two bodyguards flanked him. The guests gathered in the room as the doors closed behind them.

  “Gufman, Wertz, sit here,” Pressman said, waving them to seats on his right.

  Gufman started to reply, “Thank you—” Gufman began.

  “Silence!” Pressman yelled. “Speak only when spoken to.”

  Epstein and Blagoian stood frozen in place, when Pressman addressed them. “Blagoian, sit on this side,” he said gesturing him to the left. “Epstein, sit facing me.”

  Sid Pressman was an impressive figure, attired in a blue smoking jacket and maroon cravat, his slate gray hair combed straight back over dark brows. He glared at them through steel-rimmed glasses.

  “Let’s start with you,” Pressman said, turning to Blagoian. “You’ve crossed the line.”

  “I’m—”

  “Shut up and listen.” Pressman narrowed his eyes. “You’re not so much as to cross into our territory again, by moving out of Glendale or Burbank or wherever the fuck you’re from. If you do, you will end up riding in the back of a hearse. Get me?”