Find Her a Grave Read online

  At first Bacardo made no response. Then, speaking in a soft, dangerous voice: “What’re you saying, Bernhardt? Exactly?”

  Concentrating on keeping his eyes steady, his voice firm, Bernhardt said, “I’m not saying anything except that this thing is suddenly getting very goddam complicated.”

  As if the answer satisfied him, Bacardo nodded, then shrugged. Saying: “Anytime there’s a lot of money involved, things get complicated. It’s just the way it happens.”

  “You said I’m not here because you want me to drive for you.”

  Once more, Bacardo nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  “Until I know who this Profaci really is, and why he rang Louise’s doorbell, there’s no way I’m going after the jewels.”

  “Your people, you mean. You’ve got to know whether they sent him.”

  Bacardo nodded.

  “Do you think Profaci followed you up to the delta?”

  “I’ve got no idea. All I’m doing is taking out insurance. Life insurance.”

  “You mean—” Bernhardt swallowed. “You mean insurance against your people, what they might do?”

  “Yeah …” Bacardo nodded heavily, ironically. “Yeah, my people.” As he said it, the slightly twisted smile returned. Then, as if he were reminiscing, he said, “I guess maybe you remember years ago, there was a guy named Valachi. Joe Valachi. You remember him? It was on TV. He was—you know—just a soldier, a nobody. A bullshit artist, that’s all he was. But he was also nuts, thought people were out to get him. So he went to the feds, for protection. Naturally, they said they’d protect him if he talked. Which he did, on nationwide TV, in front of a Senate committee—guys looking for votes, that’s what it was all about. Except by that time, for Valachi, it was either talk or die. So there he was on TV, singing for his supper.”

  “I remember that,” Bernhardt said.

  “He was the Cosa Nostra guy, that’s what the papers picked up on. You know, like they were really on to some inside stuff. Except that Cosa Nostra means ‘our thing.’ The papers, of course, they had to add something, jazz it up. So they said ‘La Cosa Nostra,’ which means the our thing. Funny, eh?”

  It was, Bernhardt realized, a confidence of sorts. A tiny sliver of light cast on the dark interior of the Mafia. Therefore he must smile appreciatively, must nod knowingly. “Yeah,” he answered. Finishing lamely: “Funny.”

  “Anyhow,” Bacardo said, now speaking at a faster cadence, “the reason I got started on that, sometimes when we’re fooling around, bullshitting, we say that our thing is like the IRS.”

  “The IRS?”

  Bacardo nodded. “The IRS, you know, if you beat them out of a dollar, they’ll spend thousands to get you.”

  “Ah—yes. I see what you mean.”

  “With us,” Bacardo said, “somebody takes a dollar—skims—he gets his hand broken, let’s say. If he doesn’t get the message—if he keeps at it—he’ll end up dead.”

  Once more, Bernhardt swallowed, nodded, decided to remain silent. Thoughtfully silent.

  “Which is why,” Bacardo said, “I’m bowing out.”

  “Bowing out?”

  “I’ve got to know where I stand—who sent this Profaci guy, or whatever his real name is. And the easiest way for me to find out what I need to know is to go to New York, talk to the head man. So that’s what I’m going to do. Tomorrow.”

  “But what about Louise? The jewels?”

  “I figure,” Bacardo said, “that I’ve done all I can. I came out here, and Louise and I told each other the words. I went up there to Fow—to the delta, and looked things over. If you’d’ve been willing to do it—and if this asshole Profaci hadn’t shown up, whoever he is—then you and me might be on our way to get the jewels. But now—” Bacardo shrugged. “It’s a new ball game.”

  “So why’m I here? If we aren’t going for the treasure, then why am I here?”

  “You’re here,” Bacardo said, “because I wanted to talk to you, look you over.”

  Listening to Bacardo say it, Bernhardt felt it begin: that schizoid, split-image shift, the playwright looking over the private detective’s shoulder, always in search of new material. But would this scenario ever play: two mismatched men in a luxury hotel room, one man a rawboned mafioso, the other a Jewish intellectual?

  Bernhardt decided to smile, decided to wait. Did mafiosi ever smile, transacting business? From the look on Bacardo’s face, the answer was never. Murder, after all, was serious.

  And murder, Bernhardt realized, was the subject of this meeting, now almost an hour old—an hour’s tour among the shades and the shadows of the underworld, a once-in-a-lifetime glimpse into a baroque, bizarre landscape that existed unto itself, a government within a government, a culture within a culture, all of it held together by a code of honor and blood oaths and, overhanging it all, omertà, the Mafia’s code of silence.

  Silence, or death.

  “If you’re trying to decide whether I’m the one to get those jewels,” Bernhardt said, “the answer is probably no. I’m no hero. I’m no dummy, either.”

  “Are you very tough?”

  “No,” Bernhardt answered, “I’m not very tough. I’m stubborn, but I’m not very tough. The last time I hit anyone, I think I was twelve years old.”

  “I’m not talking about hitting. I’m talking about shooting. Killing.”

  “I know that’s what you’re talking about.”

  “And?”

  “And the answer is that I’ve killed one man and crippled one woman. And I’ve had nightmares ever since. Especially about the man. I turned him into a human torch.” As he said it, Bernhardt realized that he was angry. By what right had Bacardo become privy to his nightmares? Paula, yes. But not this stranger sitting within easy reach of his pistol.

  Now Bernhardt saw Bacardo slowly, gravely nod. Signifying what? That Bernhardt had passed muster? In the Mafia, he knew, the expression was ‘making his bones,’ the most meaningful qualification for advancement within the organization.

  “Have you told Louise you’re going to leave town?”

  “No,” Bacardo answered. “Like I said, I wanted to talk to you first.”

  “Look me over.”

  “Right.”

  “Okay, you’ve looked me over, and I’ve looked you over. And my conclusion is that neither of us is willing to risk his neck to help Louise and Angela get their treasure.”

  As if he were carefully considering the point, Bacardo frowned thoughtfully. Then, still thoughtfully, he nodded. Admitting: “Yeah, I suppose that’s right.”

  “My problem,” Bernhardt said, “one of my problems, is that nobody’s got the money to retain me.”

  “That’s now. If you deliver—get the stuff—Louise’ll take care of you. She’s got to.”

  “I’ve only been running my own shop for less than a year. But I’ve learned that I’ve got to take retainers. I learned the hard way.”

  “How much retainer would you take to do this job?”

  “I haven’t thought about it. For ordinary jobs I take two days’ compensation up front. That’s eight hours a day, fifty dollars an hour. But this job, Christ, there’s a risk factor. A real risk factor.”

  “With me gone, there could be less risk.”

  “Maybe.”

  For a moment Bacardo sat silently, his long, angular body an awkward fit for the elegantly styled armchair. Then he rose, went to the bureau. He rummaged in the top drawer, found an envelope. He closed the drawer, turned, handed the envelope to Bernhardt. Gingerly, Bernhardt accepted the envelope, which was unsealed.

  “That’s five thousand dollars,” Bacardo said. “That’s between us. Louise doesn’t know anything about it. If you’re smart, you’ll take a lot more, once you get the jewels.”

  “That’s if I live.”

  “If you live. Right.”

  Weighing the envelope in the palm of one hand, Bernhardt said, “I’m curious. Do you thi
nk I’m up to the job?”

  “I don’t know.” Bacardo spoke as if he were earnestly searching for the answer to a problem that puzzled him. “You wouldn’t last long in my business, I can tell you that. But I can see you’re stubborn. Maybe that’s enough. I just don’t know.”

  Making no response, Bernhardt looked down at the envelope. The envelope had a seductive heft. “What d’you think the value of the jewels is?” he asked. “Just a rough guess.”

  “A million dollars.” Still standing, Bacardo yawned, then reached for the .45, which he held pointed down, uncocked. The message: their business had been concluded. Bacardo was ready for bed.

  “I want your address,” Bernhardt said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I haven’t decided whether to keep this.” As he spoke, he slipped the envelope into an inside pocket.

  “Don’t send me a check,” Bacardo warned. “No checks.”

  “I know.” Bernhardt dug in another pocket, came up with a notepad and a ballpoint pen. “It’d be a cashier’s check.” He handed over the pen and notebook.

  With pen poised over the notebook, Bacardo frowned. Then: “What I’m going to do is give you a phone number. You’ll get a machine. It’ll tell you what to do. Just do what it says.” He wrote numbers on the notepad, and handed it back.

  “But I’d need an address, before I could—”

  Bacardo turned his back, strode to the door, and stood with his left hand on the draw bolt. The right hand held the big .45, muzzle down. In the silence, Bernhardt heard two metallic clicks as the hammer came back. At the sound, he felt his throat suddenly go dry.

  “Just do what I tell you,” Bacardo said. “When you get the machine, say you’re—” A pause, for thought. “Say your name’s Artie.”

  “Artie?”

  “Artie.” With his ear close to the door, Bacardo gestured for silence. He listened for a long moment, then drew back the bolt and opened the door. Repeating firmly: “Artie.”

  10 P.M., PDT

  BRIAN CHIN NODDED ACKNOWLEDGMENT to the maître d’, then turned to Fabrese. “We can have the booth.” He gestured to a nearby alcove. The archway over the alcove was a miracle of Chinese ceremonial carving, a fantasy of intertwined dragons, all of it gold-leafed, accented in Mandarin red. A heavy red velvet curtain was drawn back to reveal a polished ebony table set for two: ivory chopsticks, museum-quality bowls and plates, white linen napkins, fancifully folded.

  “Or we can have a table.”

  “How about a table?”

  Chin nodded approvingly. “My family owns this place,” he said, “so there’s nothing for us to fear. Still …” He turned to the maître d’, nodded to the open dining room. One table, specially set, had been moved apart from the others. “Please …” Chin bowed slightly, gestured for Fabrese to follow the maître d’. On a Saturday night, even though it was ten o’clock, the restaurant was almost full. Two waiters followed Fabrese and Chin, ceremoniously seating them, then withdrawing. A moment later a waitress appeared, bearing an Imari teapot. The waitress was small, a perfectly proportioned porcelain doll. She wore a traditional floor-length red gown trimmed in gold brocade. When the tea had been poured, Chin nodded dismissal. The waitress withdrew to stand against the far wall. At a nod from Chin, she would approach again. Fabrese swept the restaurant with an appreciative stare. “How long’s your family had this place?”

  “Three—no—four years.”

  “My God, it looks like it’s been here forever.”

  Chin smiled: a gentle up-curving of his mouth, nothing more. In his thirties, Chin was a slim, fastidious man who seldom raised his voice and never laughed out loud. His face was an impassive oval; his eyes revealed nothing.

  “The restaurant has been here forever. Eighty years, I think. Maybe more. But my family came to America only five years ago.

  “You came from Hong Kong.”

  Chin nodded, but said no more. Because most immigrants from Hong Kong were poor and therefore undesirable, they bore a certain stigma that Chin found distasteful.

  “When you say ‘your family’—” Fabrese frowned, broke off. How should he say it? The Chinese, he knew, turned aside direct questions. Just as, in the Mafia, certain questions were asked with great care.

  Once more, Chin’s mouth described a small, knowing smile. “When I say ‘my family,’ I mean my actual family. Your meaning, I know—professionally—is different.”

  Fabrese nodded as both men eyed each other over their teacups before Chin returned his to its saucer as he said, “We hear of changes in New York these days. Many changes, in the New York families.”

  It was, Fabrese knew, an opening, a suggestion that now they might discuss business. Meaning that the time had come: either take the chance, take the gamble, or else call it a free Chinese dinner. One way he could win, the other way he could lose—everything. No, not everything, not if he kept ahead of the game. If he found the package, got that far, he could still cover himself, still come out on the right side. Prove Bacardo was skimming, give the package to Cella, and everybody won.

  Everybody but Bacardo.

  Or else he could take the package and run, fuck them all. Go down deep into Mexico, live happily ever after. If they ever found him, he’d die rich.

  Now, though, sitting across the table from Brian Chin, he must begin. But slowly, carefully. Because everything could depend on this young Chinaman who dressed like an undertaker and whose eyes were as blank as two black stones—the gangster from Hong Kong who sat across the table sipping tea from a porcelain cup.

  “The reason I wanted to see you,” Fabrese began, “is that our people in New York sent me out here on what you might call a secret mission. You know—” He contrived a smile. “CIA stuff. Cloak and dagger, you might say.”

  Chin’s smile, too, was contrived.

  “It’s the kind of a deal,” Fabrese went on, “where the less I tell you—the less you know—the better for both of us. See?”

  Chin allowed his eyes to briefly close as he nodded—once.

  “You know that Benito Cella is taking Venezzio’s place. Cella’ll be the new capo di tutti, that’s all set. There’ll probably be a meeting of the council—the five New York families—in about a month, that’s what they’re thinking now. And then it’ll be official. So what I’m telling you is off the record. You understand.”

  “I understand.”

  “So between now and a month from now, there’re some loose ends to clean up.”

  “Yes, I would think so.”

  “Venezzio was in prison for almost ten years. He ran things from prison, no problem. Tony Bacardo—do you know him?”

  “I know the name.”

  “Yeah, well, Bacardo was Don Carlo’s number one. And I was number two.” Once more Fabrese smiled. “Don Carlo gave the orders to Tony, and Tony gave the orders to me.”

  “Ah, yes.” Now Chin’s smile was subtly more appreciative. “Some things never change.”

  “Now, though, I’ll be with Cella. That’s all set.”

  “And Salvatore Perrone? Will he still be with Cella?”

  “Ah.” Caught by surprise, Fabrese blinked, felt the first sharp flick of anxiety. Then, as if the question interested him, nothing more, he spoke casually: “You know a lot about our organization.”

  For a moment Chin made no reply as, attentive to his task, he made a small ceremony of replenishing their tea. When he had sipped once more from his cup, he said, “Did you and Perrone come to San Francisco together?”

  As it always did, the second flick from fear’s whip cut deeper than the first. Perrone in San Francisco. Was it possible? Yes, certainly possible. Wherever Bacardo went, Cella would have people watching. He should have guessed.

  But how did Brian Chin know? A Chinese numbers hustler, a hood from Hong Kong who’d got lucky in the heroin trade, how much did Chin know?

  What else did Chin know?

  As if to explain, Chin said, “There wa
s a lunch today, at Fisherman’s Wharf.” Chin spoke very softly. Then, having expertly inserted the slim blade, he smiled again.

  A lunch—yes, there would be a lunch for Perrone. Ricca, the San Francisco don, Benvenuti, from Los Angeles. And someone from Nevada, someone from San Diego, all of them, each with a couple of capos, the perfect chance to show clout, charter a jet, fly up to San Francisco, buy Perrone a drink, tell him that, yes, they were with Don Benito, have another drink. Then the tape would reverse: back into the limos, back to the waiting jet, back to L.A., or Las Vegas, or San Diego.

  For Fabrese, now, there was just one chance, one single sliver of blue. He must lean closer, act out a grave warning. Saying urgently: “None of those guys at the lunch—especially Perrone—none of them are supposed to know I’m here. I hope you didn’t …” He let it go meaningfully unfinished.

  This time, Chin’s smile seemed to reflect genuine amusement, however muted. “I know of the meeting only because San Francisco is really a very small town, and news travels fast.” Indulgently, he shook his head. “I’m not in the loop.”

  “You didn’t tell anybody about this, then—us meeting.”

  “No one.”

  Pretending to a relief he didn’t feel, Fabrese smiled. “I didn’t mean to—you know—give you a hard time. It’s just that I’ve got to be careful. I already told you that.”

  “Cloak and dagger, as you say.” Chin nodded appreciatively. Then, gently: “Spying is a dangerous game, there is no question.” Gracefully, he gestured to the table. “Would you like to begin? I’ve already selected the menu. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No. Fine. Thanks.”

  Chin nodded to the waitress. Then, to Fabrese: “What is it, exactly, that you need from me?”

  As if he appreciated the invitation to plain talk, Fabrese leaned forward again, lowered his voice, spoke as one confidant to another: “What I need are maybe four, five of your people to do some surveillance work.”

  “Just surveillance?” As he spoke, Chin nodded his thanks to the waitress, who was serving their soup.

  “Just surveillance.”

  “For how long?”

  “Probably just a day or two. I know you’re up on electronics. That’s why I thought of you.”