Find Her a Grave (9 page)

“A year after his heart attack,” Cella said, “give or take, Maranzano saw Venezzio. Alone. No Tony, nobody but Venezzio and Frankie, out in the yard. Everyone figured it was because Frankie was just made capo, and Don Carlo wanted to show that Frankie was in, had some juice with the big man. Politics, in other words.”

Perrone nodded—and waited.

“But then, ten days later, whatever, Frankie gets whacked. It was the same thing as Tony G. Venezzio gave the word, and Frankie goes down, never mind what the council said. Or, more like it, didn’t say.”

“You didn’t know about it, know it was coming?” Puzzled, Perrone frowned. “The council didn’t know?”

Silently, Cella shook his head. “No, they didn’t know.”

“Everyone figured Frankie made a big mistake, maybe before he made capo. Everyone figured that had to be it.”

Cella allowed another delicately timed silence to pass. Then, softly: “The mistake Frankie made was going out to California, to take care of something for Venezzio. That’s the only mistake Frankie made.”

Perrone’s frown deepened. “California?”

“You didn’t know about that?”

Perrone shook his head. No, he hadn’t heard.

“Don Carlo sent Frankie out to the West Coast. Frankie was there for a couple of days. When he got back, he went straight to Venezzio. They went out into the yard again, talked for a few minutes. Don Carlo gave Frankie the big hug. A couple of days later Tony and Frankie had dinner, and Tony gave Frankie a ride home. Good-bye Frankie.”

“Frankie must’ve screwed up out in California.”

“Either that, or else Don Carlo didn’t want anyone to know why Frankie went to California. Ever.”

Judiciously, Perrone nodded. “Yeah—Venezzio did that before.”

Now it was Cella’s turn to remain silent while Perrone considered the possibilities. Finally Perrone said, “So what’re you thinking, about Frankie’s trip?”

“I think he was setting up something for Don Carlo. Something secret, maybe a West Coast connection for running money through Las Vegas. But whatever it was, I figure Frankie tried to cut himself in, maybe cut Don Carlo out.”

“Jesus.” Perrone shook his head. “I don’t know. Frankie wasn’t any genius. But he wasn’t that dumb.”

“Well, something sure as hell went wrong for Frankie.”

“Huh …” Perrone let his eyes wander thoughtfully away. The limousine had slowed to a crawl; ahead, outlined on the rising arch of an overpass, the late-afternoon expressway traffic was bumper-to-bumper. It could be another hour before they got back to Manhattan.

Another hour that Carlo Venezzio had been in the ground.

Meaning that, for another hour, Cella had been
capo di tutti,
with no one to challenge him.

Meaning that now, Cella was giving him his first order: find out why Frankie Maranzano died. Find out what he’d done in California years ago that had cost him his life: a first-class hit, no expense spared. Jimmy Hoffa, say hello to Frankie Maranzano, rest in peace.

“What you said about Tony, something going on with him,” Perrone said. “What’d you mean?”

“I mean,” Cella answered, “that maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after, Tony’s going out to the Coast. Just like Frankie did, four years ago.”

“And you want me …” He decided to let it go unfinished, leaving the last line to Cella:

“I want you to find out what Tony does out there. Don’t stir things up. But contact our people out there, buy some drinks, keep your eyes open. Take as long as you need. And keep in touch. Anything you find out—anything—give it to me, right away.”

Perrone nodded. “Right away.”

“This is a sensitive time, Sal. You understand that.”

“Yes, I understand that.”

“I
S THIS LOUISE?”

Yes, it was his voice. Tony Bacardo. “A week, ten days,” he’d said. Since his last call, this was the eighth day.

“Yes. Tony?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in San Francisco. I got in about an hour ago.”

“Well, where’re you staying?”

“At a hotel. I just checked in, got settled.”

What should she say? What was she meant to say? Eight days ago, he’d told her he would call again. But instead of calling from New York, he’d come to San Francisco.

Three words, her father had told her to memorize.

How many words had Tony Bacardo memorized?

“Louise?”

“Y-yes.”

“Is everything okay?”

There was a risk for the don,
he’d said.
A big risk.

In the past eight days, the words had been burned into her consciousness, a constant refrain. If there was a risk for her father, then there must be a risk for her.

Mafia gold …
another refrain, like an MTV title.

“Louise?” Insistently now. Demanding an answer.

A big risk …

“Yes. I—sorry—I’m just surprised. I mean, you said you’d call. But I didn’t think …” She couldn’t decide how to finish it.

“I’m at the Hilton, downtown. It’s six o’clock. I’ll rent a car, and be at your house in about an hour. You’re on Thirty-ninth Avenue. Right?”

“Y-yes. Thirty-ninth near Noriega.”

“What’s that? A house? An apartment?”

“It’s a house.”

“All right. I’ll see you about seven. Will you be alone?”

“I—there’s Angela. My daughter. She’s been staying with me.”

“How old is Angela?”

“She’s twenty.”

“Does she know about this, why I’m here?”

“I told her a little.”

“A little …” In the two words, disapproval was plain.

“I—she’s the only one I can talk to about it. When he died, I told her about it. Some of it.”

“But the words—does she know the words?”

“No, I didn’t tell her the words.”

But I want to tell her,
she almost said.
I’ve got to tell someone. I’m scared, and I’ve got to tell someone.

“Have you had dinner?”

“We’re just ready to sit down.”

“All right. I’ll see you in about an hour.” The line clicked, went dead.

F
ABRESE WATCHED THE FORD
Taurus come up the ramp. The driver was a young Chicano girl, black eyes, black hair, her face a pert, dusky oval. She stopped the car in front of him, set the parking brake, smiled as she got out of the car, held the door for him. She wore a Hertz uniform. Beneath the short brown skirt her legs were smooth and muscular. How many propositions a week would a girl like that get, bringing rental cars up the ramp to visiting tourists?

Fabrese slid in behind the wheel, decided to give the girl a dollar—decided to smile when she thanked him. Before he got under way, Fabrese spread the map of San Francisco on the seat beside him. At the Hertz office, they’d marked his route with a yellow highlighter: left on Post, right on Stockton, right on Geary. Follow Geary all the way to Thirty-ninth Avenue.

At seven o’clock, the traffic in downtown San Francisco was light. The cars moved more slowly than they moved in Manhattan, and the drivers had better manners.

Four years ago, with only a few days to live, Maranzano could have driven this same route. Maranzano, less than a month a capo—Maranzano, with the whole world on a string, a big red balloon, his for the taking.

Maranzano, with only a few days to live.

Maranzano had still been in his thirties when they’d made him a capo.

Young when he made capo.

Young when he died.

A trip to the prison, paying his respects, getting the Mafia hug from Don Carlo. Then the trip here, to California.

Then the dinner with Tony Bacardo, Maranzano’s last dinner. Rest in peace.

California …

See California, and die.

Fowler’s Landing,
Maranzano had written on the airline routing slip.
Janice Frazer.

How many had put it together, figured it out?

For years, there’d been the whispers: Don Carlo’s two families, one family for the flash, one family for fun. Maria, herself the daughter of a Mafia don, royalty marrying royalty. Maria, beautiful in black, standing at the head of Venezzio’s grave, watching the casket being lowered into the ground.

Janice Frazer …

Until he’d seen it written on Maranzano’s airline routing slip he’d never heard the name. Until Maranzano had died, three days after he’d come back from California, Fabrese had hardly been curious. But then it had been like a blinding-bright searchlight, suddenly switched on. Maranzano had gone to see Venezzio, gotten his orders. Then Maranzano had gone to Bacardo, picked up a small red nylon flight bag with something inside, not too heavy, not too light. Maranzano had carried the nylon bag and his suitcase to the airport, flown to California. Three days later, he was back. The next day, Fabrese had driven him to the prison again, to see Venezzio. It had been a cordial meeting, in the prison yard. Meaning that, yes, Maranzano had done the job, done what Venezzio had told him to do with the package.

Meaning that, because the job was so secret, Maranzano had to die. “Mafia insurance,” it was called: the silence that only death could insure.

Maranzano, dead.

Venezzio, dead.

Meaning that, now, he could be the only one alive who knew where Maranzano had gone four years ago.

Where he’d gone, and why.

Except that, at first, there’d been no why. Only where, and when. Janice Frazer had been a name that meant nothing; Fowler’s Landing had been just as meaningless.

It had been an accident, nothing more, that had given him the first clue. Abe Zwillman, eighty-five years old, the last of the Jewish tough guys, had been talking about the old days: the wars of the thirties, when Charlie Lucky and Vito Genovese had shot their way to the top, then changed everything, put the organization on track, made it what it was today, big business.

For Abe, everyone bought the drinks. Everyone bought, and then everyone listened to Abe’s stories, the good old days, buy a gun, make your bones, buy a striped suit with wide lapels, watch them smile and tip their hats. It had been just after Maranzano had died. As always, Abe had been telling the old stories. Then there’d come a phone call, orders for three soldiers who were listening to the old man spin his tales. Leaving just Fabrese and Abe Zwillman, who was still talking, still remembering the old days. It had been Fabrese’s chance, and he’d taken it, asked the question: What about Fowler’s Landing? What about Janice Frazer?

“Fowler’s Landing?” Abe had asked, his leathery face creasing, puzzled. He’d never heard of Fowler’s Landing.

What about Janice Frazer?

“Ah …” Abe had nodded, swallowed his cheap red wine, the only kind he ever drank, nodded again. “Janice Frazer,” he’d said, his eyes losing focus, remembering. It had been almost forty years since Janice had come to town, had her baby, left town. Tony Eboli had been driving for Venezzio then—and Abe and Tony had been friends, drinking buddies. So when the time had come for Janice to leave New York, Tony had been the one who’d driven her to the train station.

And because they were friends, Tony had asked Abe to come along, help out with the tickets, whatever. He’d even held the baby, a little girl, while Janice had gone to the bathroom at the train station.

“I even remember the baby’s name,” Abe had said. “She was named Louise, after Janice’s mother.”

Nineteen, twenty years later, Abe Zwillman went on, the organization had sent him to Las Vegas, to see about skimming at the tables. He’d been there for two years, hated every minute of it. Then, winding back on his own story, an old man, drinking and rambling, he’d told about meeting Louise, the woman he’d once held in his arms when she was a baby. She’d married a man named Rabb, she’d said, the son of a Hollywood producer. And, yes, Louise had a baby of her own.

Louise Rabb, Carlo Venezzio’s daughter.

Louise Rabb, who now lived at Thirty-ninth Avenue, near Noriega. Just four blocks ahead, according to the route they’d drawn at the Hertz office—that yellow road that could lead anywhere.

L
OUISE STEPPED TO THE
window, drew back the curtain a cautious two inches. But, in the gathering dusk, the car she’d heard in the street outside wasn’t slowing, wasn’t stopping. She stepped back from the window, released the curtain.

“About an hour,” he’d said—almost an hour and a half ago. Were mafiosi usually on time? Or, as she’d once heard, did they purposely keep to no schedule, should enemy gunmen be waiting?

Mafiosi … a band of ruthless Italian men who ruled the world from the shadows. Most mafiosi were Sicilian. Yet her father, the boss of bosses, had been born in Genoa. He’d first been arrested at age twelve, he’d once told her. So, when he’d come to America, two years later, he’d already been tested. Because being arrested, he said, was part of “the life.” It was one of the few times he’d ever told her about life inside the Mafia. To be arrested—to do good time—was often the first real test, sometimes the only test that mattered. Because when they arrested you, they always offered a deal. Turn state’s evidence—squeal—and you could go free. But the stand-up guy, her father had said, served his time, didn’t squeal. When he was in jail the stand-up guy had respect. While on the outside, if he was connected, his family was provided for.

Just as, all her life, her mother had been provided for.

Her mother, and now her.

Now her, waiting for a man named Tony. Just as, all her life, her mother had waited for the men with the envelopes. They’d never come inside the house, those mysterious men. They’d always stayed on the porch, their faces in shadow. A few words, a polite nod, and the man was gone.

She was standing close to the front door. There was a small table in the entryway with a gold-framed mirror above it. She went to the mirror, stood close, looked at herself. When Tony Bacardo had called, they’d been eating dinner, she and Angela. She’d finished the meal, asked Angela to clear the table while she did something with her hair, then changed from jeans and an old plaid shirt to slacks and a loose-fitting sweater. She’d intended to do something about her face. But her skin was coarse, and there hadn’t been time to do much with foundation. So she’d settled for eyebrow pencil and lipstick.