Find Her a Grave Read online

  Tate considered, then nodded approval. He wore a close-cropped beard, black flecked with gray. Whenever a problem engrossed Tate, he habitually stroked the beard. It was a mannerism that placed on display a massive custom-crafted gold signet ring. “By the way,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the main yacht harbor, where Paula and Crusher had last been seen. “Where are they?”

  “She’s taking Crusher for a run up in the headlands. Then they’ll come back here. I told her to give us an hour.”

  Approvingly, Tate nodded. “Good diplomacy, Alan. As always. Not to worry, though. I don’t mind talking in front of her. Paula’s first class. I’m a fan.”

  “I know. But this thing—” Bernhardt considered. “There’s a lot that can happen.”

  “Is she willing to play bodyguard?”

  “We’ve already talked about it. My flat is secure. It’s attached on both sides, you know. And Crusher raises hell whenever a stranger comes to the door.”

  “Can Paula shoot?”

  “She can. But she might not. She’s got guts, though. She really has.”

  “Like I say, I’m a fan. Why don’t you guys get married, file joint tax returns?”

  Bernhardt looked at the other man thoughtfully before he said, “I think about it. A lot.”

  Tate nodded decisively. “Good. You can take my Corvette on the honeymoon.”

  For a moment Bernhardt looked intently into the other man’s face. “Thanks, C.B. I’m touched.”

  Affecting diffidence, Tate nodded brusquely. Then, back to business: “So we’ve got the mother and the daughter covered. What about us?”

  “You’ve still got your Ford, haven’t you?”

  Tate nodded again. “That’s my bread-and-butter car, man. You know—low profile. The Corvette, that’s for my image.”

  “Okay.” Bernhardt paused, calculating distances and times and weekend traffic patterns. Then, still calculating, he said, “Louise lives on Thirty-ninth Avenue, near Taraval. Let’s say you and I meet there about five-thirty. We’ll take Louise and Angela over to my place, where Paula and Crusher’ll be waiting.

  Silently, Tate nodded agreement.

  “We’ll pick up a couple of flashlights and two walkie-talkies with spare batteries and a shovel at my place. We should have a couple of hours, to get our signals straight. We’ll leave at eight. I’ll take Louise in my car. She’ll give me directions as we go. You’ll follow me.”

  “This Louise lady, she must be a trusting sort. I mean, what’s to prevent us from taking the jewels, once she tells us where they are?”

  “She’s got no choice. She’s got to trust someone.”

  “Two women alone.” Tate shook his head. “It’s sad.”

  “Angela won’t be alone for long. Believe me.”

  “What about Louise?”

  Bernhardt shrugged, drank the last of his coffee, went to the window that offered a view of the city. “Louise’s had a hard life. Her mother was a drunk and her father was a gangster.”

  “Yeah. A rich gangster, though.”

  Still looking out across the bay, Bernhardt shrugged, remained silent. With everything set, all the plans made, he was aware of a heaviness, a reluctance. Was it caution—or fear? Never before had he ventured into territory so uncharted, potentially so dangerous. The Mafia, that dark, baroque brotherhood that still took blood oaths—was it logical to assume they would allow a fortune in jewels to pass into the hands of the bastard daughter of a dead chieftain? The five thousand dollars from Bacardo—what was its true significance? Was it conscience money? Blood money? What better proof of Bacardo’s fealty than to present a fortune in jewels to his new masters? What better—?

  Behind him, Bernhardt heard Tate say something. As Bernhardt turned inquiringly to face the other man, Tate repeated: “Second thoughts?” He spoke quietly, gently probing.

  “That’s exactly what I’m having. Second thoughts.”

  “I don’t know much about the Mafia. Is their arm as long as everyone says?”

  “I think so. Anyhow, I sure don’t want to cross them.”

  “Is that what we’re doing—crossing them?” As he said it, probing, Tate kept his gaze sharp-focused on Bernhardt’s face.

  “I didn’t think so, not originally. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “Bacardo could be stepping out of the line of fire—and paying you five thousand to take his place? Is that it?”

  In spite of himself, Bernhardt guffawed. “C.B., you’ve got a gift. You really have.”

  Modestly, Tate lowered his eyes—and smiled. Then he said, “The sensible thing, it seems to me, is for us to keep the back door open. First sign of trouble, we blow retreat.”

  “Easier said than done, especially if Bacardo decided to switch sides and give the stuff back to the Mafia. He knows where the jewels are. There could be a half dozen hoods waiting for us.”

  “Why would they wait for us? If he tells them where the stuff is, why wouldn’t they take the stuff and split? Why stick around?”

  “To punish us. Anybody who goes after what’s theirs, the Mafia punishes them. That much I know.”

  “Well, shit, Alan—” Dubiously, Tate shook his head. “Shit, I don’t mind a good fight, maybe a little shooting. But this—” He continued to shake his head. “This, what you’re saying, you’re making me nervous.”

  “You want to forget about it? I trust your instincts, C.B. If you want to bow out, I will, too.”

  “You’d give back the money?”

  “I’m sure as hell not going to keep it if we bow out.”

  “What I’m trying to figure out …” Tate let his eyes wander reflectively away. “What I’m trying to figure out is how much I’m risking for a thousand dollars. Or, best case, eleven thousand. I mean, it’s pretty good money, no question, for a night’s work. But …” He let it go meaningfully unfinished; his eyes strayed to their single-page contract, still lying on the coffee table.

  Having seen this scene played out before, Bernhardt decided on an early capitulation. “The thousand, that’s it, up front. But the other, why don’t we say twenty-five percent, instead of ten? That way, best case, you get twenty-six thousand.”

  “Ah …” Obliquely gratified, Tate nodded. “Yes, I think that’s more like it.” Then, directly: “That’s okay with you? For sure?”

  Bernhardt nodded decisively. “For sure. The more I hear myself talk, the more sure I am.” He reached for the notebook, made the change, initialed it, passed it to Tate for his initials.

  “What about guns?” Tate said. “You’ve got that three-fifty-seven magnum, I know. What about that sawed-off of yours?”

  Bernhardt grimaced. “That makes me nervous, that gun. If I’m ever caught with it—” He let the rest go eloquently unfinished.

  “It’s up to you,” Tate said. “I’ve got two Browning nine-millimeters. I’ll bring them both—and a rotary clip. And I can bring a shotgun, too, if you aren’t bringing your sawed-off.”

  “Okay, I’ll bring it. In the trunk of the car.”

  “You got buckshot?”

  Grimly, Bernhardt nodded. “Yes, I’ve got buckshot. And I’ll—” He felt the houseboat move, heard Crusher barking excitedly. Paula and Crusher had returned. As he rose to greet them, Bernhardt glanced at his watch. They’d been talking for more than an hour. Meaning that, in less than four hours, they would begin.

  5 P.M., PDT

  “IT APPEARS,” CHIN SAID, “that they plan to move tonight. Probably about eight o’clock.”

  “How many of them?” Fabrese asked. “How many cars?”

  “Two cars, I should think. The tall man will go first, with Louise. They’ll probably go in his car.”

  “What about the second car?”

  “Apparently they’ve hired someone to drive a second car.”

  “What about the girl—the daughter?”

  “Her mother won’t let her go after the jewels. She’ll stay behind.”

  “So it’s two
guys with guns, plus Louise.”

  “Right.” Just as he’d decided not to reveal Bernhardt’s identity, so Chin had decided not to mention Bernhardt’s plans for guarding Angela. He’d also decided not to mention Bernhardt’s Airedale, conceivably the night’s wild card. Airedales, he’d once read, had been bred to fight bears.

  They sat in one of Chin’s cars, a low-profile Buick, five years old. The Buick was parked on Geary Street, three blocks from Fabrese’s hotel. As they talked, both men stared straight ahead. On a warm spring afternoon, downtown San Francisco was quiet, given over to Sunday strollers and window shoppers paying tribute to the elegance of the closed shops that clustered around Union Square: Nieman Marcus, Coach, Shreves, Saks. Beyond the square to the east, the city’s skyscrapers towered, their windows catching the glow of a sun that would soon set over the ocean to the west.

  “Three hours …” As he spoke, Fabrese touched the butt of the .38 Smith and Wesson Chief’s Special thrust in his belt. Chin had given him the revolver an hour ago, assuring him that it worked perfectly. And, yes, the gun was cold, untraceable. When Fabrese had offered to pay for it, Chin had only smiled: that small, unreadable smile that seemed to change significance as each hour passed.

  Eight o’clock …

  Three hours …

  Meaning that now, right now, he must decide, up or down. Sitting in a strange car in a strange city, beside a Chinaman with a smile that meant nothing, he must decide: Make one grab, connect, and everything he wanted was there, handfuls of jewels, a million-dollar score. Take the chance, make the grab, drop off the face of the earth, rich.

  Or else, like Bacardo, he could get on an airplane, go back to New York—alive. Go back to New York, keep his eyes open. He’d done it once, turned up something that was worth millions. He could do it again. He could—

  “—seems,” Chin was saying, “that you must make your plans.”

  “I need someone,” Fabrese said. “I’ve got to have someone with me. A shooter.”

  “Ah …” Discreetly, Chin nodded. “Yes, I was about to say—you need someone with you.”

  Fabrese turned to look directly at the other man. Chin was still staring straight ahead, his face in profile. How old was Chin? Thirty? Forty? Where had he learned to talk like he did? In college? Benito Cella, it was said, had gone to college. Which was one reason, others said, that Cella was so dangerous. No one knew what Cella was thinking—until it was too late.

  Still gazing impassively straight ahead, Chin said, “These women—and the man, too—seem to think the jewels will bring a million dollars.”

  Still with his eyes fixed on the other man’s face, Fabrese made no reply.

  Three hours …

  Less than three hours, now. Minutes, ticking away. Life-or-death minutes.

  “But Tony Bacardo,” Chin continued, “apparently decided it was too risky for him to go after the jewels. Which, I think, meant that he couldn’t keep his job and help the two women get the jewels.” As he spoke, Chin turned to face Fabrese. He was no longer smiling. “Is that how it appears to you?”

  Fabrese swallowed. Then, nodding reluctantly: “Yeah, that’s how it looks to me.”

  “You, though, have no such concern about your job.”

  Fabrese made no reply. Helplessly, he could only look at Chin—look, and wait. Suddenly the touch of the revolver thrust in his belt offered no comfort, no hope.

  “Which to me means that you don’t intend to return to New York.”

  “Listen, never mind about where I—”

  “It’s interesting,” Chin broke in, “that neither you nor Bacardo can really operate here on the West Coast. Not unless you want to risk exposing yourself.” He paused, then said softly, “If Charlie Ricca, for instance, knew what you planned, he would certainly contact Benito Cella for instructions. Ricca’s real purpose, of course, would be to ingratiate himself with Benito Cella. Just as—” Another delicately timed pause. “Just as, according to you, I am ingratiating myself with Cella when I help you with your, ah, undercover operation.”

  Once more Chin paused, this time glancing at his watch. Then, almost as if he regretted the necessity to brush aside the web of lies between them, he gestured delicately as he said, “Two and a half hours, Mr. Fabrese. We can’t afford to waste any more time on inventions, even though I’ve enjoyed watching you improvise. Americans, I find, are very good at improvisation. Unlike the Chinese.” As if in regret, he sighed. “Your plan is to get the jewels for yourself, and then run. Undoubtedly, you plan to leave the country. You needed me, or someone like me, to track Bacardo, in an effort to locate the treasure you somehow discovered was buried up in the delta. You needed someone totally unconnected to the Mafia. And you came to the right person. I have a first-class organization, and I have first-class electronics. For instance, after we talked last night, I called up on my computer screen practically the whole of Louise Rabb’s life story. And then, as you know, I was able to install a listening device in Louise Rabb’s living room. That device will continue to operate until approximately this time tomorrow, which should be plenty of time. Also, we placed a tiny transmitter—a homing device—on the car they’ll use tonight when they leave for the delta. That way, we can remain a half mile back from both their cars, no problem.”

  We, Chin had said.

  They both sat half turned, facing each other. Now, gravely, Chin nodded. Saying softly: “Yes, Mr. Fabrese. We. You heard correctly.”

  Fabrese drew a deep breath. First, a futile denial, he shrugged. Then, bitterly resigned, he nodded. “Okay. We.”

  “Fifty-fifty.”

  Fabrese stiffened. “Fifty-fifty! You’re—you’re fucking dreaming.”

  Chin shrugged. “If you think about it, you’ll see that I’m being generous.”

  “Generous?” Outraged, an involuntary reaction, Fabrese once more touched the .38. Seeing the gesture, amused, Chin’s small, smug smile returned as he said, “I’ve got the scanner, Mr. Fabrese. That’s what’s needed to track the homer attached to their car. And I’ve got the manpower. What do I need you for?”

  “You son of a bitch. You do that—grab the whole thing—and you’re a fucking dead man. I make one call to New York, and you’re dead. I’m a hero. And you’re dead.”

  “Just as now, perhaps, Bacardo is a hero. He is, perhaps, telling Mr. Cella how you plan to take this treasure for yourself.” Chin spoke slowly, with painstaking precision. How perfect the pleasure, methodically deflating this pompous, bleating Italian insect, a man in name only, no manners, no courage, nothing but bluster. “Call me Jimmy,” the insect had once said. It was an affront that, now, he would address.

  “I’m willing to take my chances with the Mafia,” Chin said. Then, maliciously: “Are you?”

  “You bastard. I come to you with a straight deal, everything on the table. And you do a—a goddam number on me. You think I’ll sit still for that? You think because it’s your city, your turf, you can—”

  “Excuse me, but everything was not on the table. What you told me—the nature of your mission—it was a lie.”

  Unaware that he’d done it, Fabrese had drawn the .38; the pistol was between them, a few inches beneath the point of Chin’s right shoulder. Chin glanced down at the gun, saying, “I loaned you that revolver, Mr. Fabrese. Do you think it’s polite to point it at me?”

  “I’ll point it wherever I goddam fucking well want to point it, you son of a bitch. And you’ll like it.” But, as Fabrese spoke, the pistol began to drop lower—and lower. Calmly—contemptuously—Chin pointed to a cellular telephone mounted on the console between them.

  “I have only to make a call,” Chin said, “and as many men as I need will be here in a few minutes. I will choose two of the best, and they will do exactly as I tell them, tonight.” Letting the words register, Chin stared at the other man—and waited. With amusement, he watched the predictable succession of emotions register on Fabrese’s face: the fury, the bluster, the greed. And, fina
lly, the uncertainty, then the fear. Meaning that, yes, Fabrese was about to capitulate.

  5:50 P.M., PDT

  “OF COURSE,” CHIN WAS saying, “We’ll have to play it by ear. But we should have a plan, a best-case scenario. I’ve often found that very helpful.”

  Fabrese scowled. “Meaning?”

  “Let’s decide what we want to have happen tonight.”

  Still seated in Chin’s Buick, Fabrese shifted restlessly, looked at his watch. The time was almost six o’clock; dusk was about to fall. Downtown San Francisco was settling in for a quiet evening. The Sunday afternoon strollers were returning home, the theaters were still closed, and the restaurants had not yet begun to fill.

  “Jesus Christ. What’ve we been talking about for an hour?”

  Ignoring the other man’s outburst, plainly a product of nerves, Chin began again: “I will go with you. Only me. We will use this car, which is in perfect condition. However, we must allow time to fill the tank. Then we will go to my home. You will stay in the car. I’ll go upstairs and change clothes. I will wear running shoes, jeans, a dark jacket, and a black stocking cap—the costume, in fact, of the midnight prowler.” As he spoke, Chin glanced at Fabrese’s impeccably cut blue blazer, gray flannel trousers, gleaming white shirt, striped tie, and tasseled loafers. “If you like,” Chin said, “there is probably still time to stop by an army surplus store, for you.”

  Impatiently, Fabrese brushed the suggestion aside. “Never mind about me.”

  “If digging is involved,” Chin said, “which there clearly is, and if you should get dirty, and then you return to your hotel, you would be conspicuous.” Once more, driving the Buick with one hand, Chin consulted his watch. “We have time. And a surplus store is on the way.”

  As spiteful as a spoiled child, Fabrese shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “So,” Chin said, continuing, “I’ll go upstairs, as I was saying, and I’ll change—while you stay in the car. In a few minutes, I’ll join you. I’ll have a Colt .45 automatic in a shoulder holster under my jacket, and I’ll have three extra clips of ammunition. I’ll be carrying a nylon duffel bag, like athletes carry. I’ll have an M-Sixteen rifle in the bag, along with flashlights. The rifle will be broken down, and I’ll have three extra ammunition clips. Hopefully, the bag will be large enough to accommodate both the rifle and the container for the jewels. Of course, we’ll also take a shovel, which is in my garage.”