Find Her a Grave (14 page)

“I already told you, I came from Don Benito—Mr. Cella. He’ll be the new
capo di tutti.
And he wants me to tell you that it’s all right with him if you get the package. He’s willing to square it with the council. Otherwise—” As if even the thought of what could happen saddened him, he shook his head. “Otherwise, you could have problems. Big problems. You know that, don’t you?”

She nodded, saying, “Yes, I know that.” She spoke as if she were reciting words that were strange to her, lines that were only half memorized.

“But if Tony gets the package, keeps it for himself, that’s skimming.” Once more he shook his head. “And whoever skims, takes money from the organization—well—he has to die. You understand that.”

She made no response.

“The way your father told me,” he said, “you and Tony both know where the package is—where Maranzano hid it. Right?”

“I—” She began to shake her head. Then, helplessly, she nodded. Whispering: “Yes. Right.”

“And when’re you planning to get it?”

“I—I’m not sure.”

“But it’ll be just him—just Tony—that’ll get it,” he said.

“I’m not sure.”

“Well …” As if he were sorry for her, he once more shook his head. “Well, I’ll tell you, Louise, I’d go with him when he gets it, if I were you. Otherwise, sure as hell, Tony’s going to take the package and run. That’ll leave him dead. And it’ll leave you broke.”

“Broke?”

He shrugged, rose to his feet. “Afraid so. Tony gets killed, we’re not going to give you the stuff, once we get it off Tony. You can see that, can’t you?”

“Yes,” she whispered, “I can see that.”

“I
’M SORRY.” BERNHARDT ROSE
, strode across the small, over-furnished room to the fireplace. He turned back to face the two of them: Angela, twenty and beautiful, Louise, forty and frightened. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, shaking his head, “but there’s something missing. It just doesn’t add up.”

Louise turned to her daughter, who was looking hard at Bernhardt. Neither woman spoke. In Louise’s face, Bernhardt saw nothing but uncertainty and isolation: forty years that had ended in defeat. In Angela’s face, even though it was youthful, he saw more complexity, more resolution—more hope. In World War II, boys no older than Angela flew bombers into Germany and fought hand to hand in the jungles of the Pacific islands.

“This second guy—Profaci,” Bernhardt said. “He claims he’s representing the big shots in New York. But if that’s so, then why does he make a big point of warning you that Bacardo might cheat you? Why should he try to help you? Why isn’t he trying to get the treasure and take it back to Cella?”

Angela nodded agreement. “That’s true, Mom.”

Mutely shaking her head, Louise made no reply.

“I think,” Bernhardt said, “that Profaci’s using you to get to Bacardo.”

Louise shook her head. “No. He doesn’t have to use us. He knows where Tony’s staying. It’s the Hilton. He—”

“I don’t mean he wants to find Bacardo,” Bernhardt interrupted. “I mean Profaci wants to drive a wedge between you and Bacardo. He wants you to suspect Bacardo’s motives.”

“I think so too,” Angela said.

Bernhardt returned to his chair, sat facing the two women sitting side by side on an ornate love seat that complemented the room’s furnishings: expensive, garishly reproduced antiques, many of them painted off-white, trimmed with gold leaf. Whatever house this furniture was meant for, it wasn’t this one: a cramped, one-story stucco row house, one of the cookie-cutter thousands built during the thirties in San Francisco’s Sunset District.

Bernhardt drew a deep breath, then admitted, “I’ll tell you the truth, ladies, I’m not sure I want to get involved in this. And I’m not sure you should get involved, either. Even if we take these guys at their word, then what we’ve got is Bacardo trying to help you without the Mafia knowing about it. But according to Profaci, the Mafia
does
know. Or, at least, suspects.” He shook his head. “It’s just too dangerous.”

“I’ve got about three thousand dollars in the bank,” Louise said. “And that’s it. That’s everything.” She spoke softly, reluctantly. “For all of her life, my mother took money from my father. If she hadn’t had him—those men, with the envelopes—she’d never have made it. And the truth is—” With great effort, she met Bernhardt’s eyes squarely. “The truth is that, without those jewels, I won’t make it, either.”

“You’re only forty.” Bernhardt kept his voice neutral, kept his eyes level. “You’ve got half your life in front of you.”

She smiled: a small, bitter smile that left her eyes without animation—without hope. “My father was a gangster and my first husband was a drug case. My second husband died owing every bookie in town. And my mother, she was a drunk. I came to San Francisco to live with a man who tried to—”

“Mom. Come on.” On the love seat, Angela moved closer, touched her mother on the arm. “You can’t blame yourself because Walter—”

Bernhardt broke in. “I think I should leave. After you’ve talked with Bacardo, if you want to, you can call me, and we can talk. But I have to tell you that I don’t see where I fit in.” He rose, waited for them to rise. “It sounds like Bacardo’s looking for a backup man. A hired gun, in other words. And—” His deeply etched face registered a self-deprecating smile. “And that’s not me, ladies. I’m sorry, but that simply isn’t me.”

B
OIATANO LISTENED, NODDED, SPOKE
into the phone: “Just a second, Sal.” And to Cella he said, “It’s Sal.”

“Ah.” Cella nodded, waited for the phone to be given to him. “Sal. How’s it going? What’s happening?”

“It’s all right to talk?”

“I’m at The Chop House. No problem.”

“I got in yesterday afternoon. I took Augie with me, I guess I told you that.”

“You told me.”

“I called ahead, made three or four calls Thursday. So Ricca and Genna and Adamo met us at the airport. They had two cars, very thoughtful. Everyone out here, they’re for you, for
capo di tutti.
They—you know—volunteered that, didn’t wait to be asked. Today—Saturday—they had a big lunch for us at Fisherman’s Wharf. Great place—a view you wouldn’t believe, right on the water. And the lunch, there were twenty-four guys there. I counted. All the top guys out here. And some came from L.A. And Vegas, too. Like I said, they really laid it on. I thought you’d want to know.”

“Yes, sure.” Cella nodded, pleased. “Very good.”

“Ricca and me, we rode together from the airport. So we could talk. I guess that was the hardest part. I mean, I don’t know Ricca all that well. So I couldn’t come right out with it, tell him I wanted to hear about it, if our friend started making funny moves out here.”

“So our friend wasn’t at the lunch.”

“No. I don’t know where he was. But he sure wasn’t at Fisherman’s Wharf.”

“Our friend called, checked in. He’s staying at the Hilton. The downtown Hilton.”

“Yeah, I already knew that.”

“Tell me again, the guys that were at lunch. Go slow.”

As Perrone obeyed, Cella stopped him frequently, time for thought. Finally Perrone said, “That’s all I can remember. There were—what—a half dozen capos. Maybe more.”

“That’s fine. Just fine, Sal. You’ve got a good memory.”

Pleased, Perrone answered modestly, “I try.”

“So what about our friend?”

“I told Augie to keep track of him. But nothing—you know—heavy. Augie’s got two cousins out here, so that was lucky. They’re both young, but they’re eager. Smart, too. So they got right on our friend, beginning this morning, early. It was perfect, see, because Augie could lay back, stay out of sight.”

“Augie uses his head.”

“I think so, too. I always thought so.”

“I’m going to keep him in mind, give him some jobs all on his own, see how he does.”

Perrone decided not to respond.

“So what’d Augie find out?”

“What Augie found out,” Perrone said, “is that, about nine-thirty this morning, our friend got in his car and started driving. Augie was covering the lobby of the Hilt—of the hotel, and his cousin was in a car outside, covering the garage. So then, just when our friend drove out of the garage, and Augie was getting ready to follow him, Augie saw Jimmy Fabrese. He was—”

“Wait.” Cella frowned. Then, an embarrassment, he was forced to ask, “Jimmy Fabrese? I know the name, but—” He let it go unfinished.

“He drove for Frankie.”

“Frankie Maranzano?”

“That’s right.”

“Ah …” As if he were pleased by some sensation, perhaps an excellent forkful of food, Cella nodded his measured appreciation. “Yeah, I see.” A moment passed, for reflection. Then: “Was Fabrese driving for Frankie when …” Once more, he let it go unfinished.

“He drove Frankie to the prison both times, when Frankie met Don Carlo. So if anyone knew about Frankie—why he went to California—it had to be Fabrese.”

“And when Frankie disappeared …” Another pause.

“Fabrese didn’t drive Frankie that night. It was Bacardo. After they had dinner, Frankie left the restaurant with Bacardo, just the two of them.”

“And now Jimmy Fabrese …” The final pause.

“Right. It looks like he’s out here riding shotgun for our friend. Or anyhow, that’s what he did today. Wherever our friend went, Fabrese was following him.”

A long, silent moment. Then, reflectively, “So where’d they go this morning?”

“All I know is that they went out of town. Across the Bay Bridge toward Oakland, that’s all I know. When Augie saw Fabrese, he decided to be careful, lay back. But then there was an accident on the bridge, and Augie lost both of them.”

“Fabrese—how do you rate him?”

“As much as I know about him,” Perrone said, “I don’t like him. I don’t like him, and I don’t trust him.”

“Why would our friend trust him, do you think?”

“Maybe he doesn’t have a choice.”

“What’s that mean?”

On the line from California, Perrone chuckled. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, find out.”

“Right.”

“M
Y GOD, MOM.” EXASPERATED
, Angela slammed her hand down flat on the kitchen counter, turned to confront her mother, who was standing at the sink. Louise was staring down at nothing, head bowed, shoulders slumped. “My God,” Angela repeated, you’ve got to
decide.
Don’t you
see
that? You can’t have it both ways. Either you trust Tony Bacardo, or you don’t. You trust him, or you trust Profaci. But whichever you decide, you’ve got to do it now. Right now.”

Louise pushed herself away from the sink, went to the small round table in the breakfast nook, sank into a chair. She spoke in a low, listless voice: “I’ve already trusted Tony Bacardo. Don’t you see that? I gave him the words.”

“You didn’t have a choice. You had to tell him.”

“I
did
have a choice. Right up to the second I told him, I had a choice. But I was wrong to do it. I should’ve waited. I should’ve talked to you first. That’s what I should’ve done.”

Angela went to her mother, sat at the glass-topped table, gently took her mother’s hands in hers, waited for her mother to lift her head, meet her gaze. She spoke softly, gently: “You’re talking to me now, Mom.”

Louise began to shake her head, an empty gesture of utter defeat. “God, I’ve made such a mess of things. I—everything I’ve done, it’s turned out wrong.”

“That’s not true. When you and Jack were married, those were good years. He was fun.”

Smiling almost timidly, Louise ruefully shook her head, resigned. “Good years—it’s true. Jack drank too much and he was the most insecure man in the world, and he spent two dollars for every one he took in. But you’re right. He was fun.” Now, half smiling, she squeezed her daughter’s hand. “Actors. You know about actors.”

Angela’s answering smile shared her mother’s mood of reflection. “Yeah, I know.” Then, embarrassed, Angela took back her hands, sat up straighter.

Now, they both knew, was the time for her mother to speak.

In a leaden monotone, reciting, Louise said, “It’s buried behind the headstone of my mother’s grave.”

For a long moment Angela made no response, as if she hadn’t heard. Then, gravely, she nodded. “Thanks, Mom.” She nodded again, cleared her throat, blinked. Repeating softly, “Thanks.”

Louise shrugged, bit her lip. “I should’ve told you last night. I should’ve told you before I told him.”

“You told me now.” Suddenly Angela went to the cupboard, took down two glasses. “Want a drink of water?”

Louise shook her head. Then, suddenly, she spoke in a high plaintive voice, a child’s anguished plea: “What’re we going to
do,
Angela?”

Angela filled a glass, drank, set the empty glass on the counter. “It comes down to Tony Bacardo. Did he come here to help you? Or did he come here to take the treasure for himself?”

Louise nodded. “I know.”

“You trusted Tony. You trusted him enough to give him the words. And he—”

“My father trusted him. I just—just did what my father told me to do.”

“What about Profaci? Do you trust him?”

“No,” Louise answered. Then, as if she were puzzled, she repeated, “No, I don’t trust him. There’s something about him that—that’s creepy. Maybe it’s—I don’t know—maybe it’s that he looks like a killer. It’s something in his eyes. He looked at me, it was like he was thinking about how easy it’d be to kill me. That’s the way it felt. It felt like—”

“You realize,” Angela interrupted, “that if Tony Bacardo shows up, then that cancels out everything Profaci said.”

Louise frowned. “I don’t see what you mean.”

“If Bacardo’s after the jewels, then he bought a shovel and went up to Fowler’s Landing and dug up the jewels. By now, he’s on his way back to New York. He’s—”

On the wall beside the refrigerator, the telephone warbled. At the first ring, Angela took it from its cradle. “Hello?” She listened briefly. Then: “Yes. Just a second, please.” She covered the mouthpiece as she gestured with the phone to her mother. “It’s him. Bacardo.”

“T
HIS PROFACI,” BACARDO SAID
. “Describe him.”

“He’s thirty-five, forty years old,” Louise answered. “Not real big. Not small, exactly, but not big, either.”