Find Her a Grave Page 4

  “And weight.” She looked him over. “Maybe you should lose some weight.”

  Exasperated, he sighed. “My weight’s fine, Louise. A hundred sixty, stripped. That’s it.”

  “I know. But maybe you should—”

  “Louise. Wait.” He held up his hand. “What about you? Your last letter, you said you were going to move. Then you left it, didn’t write any more about it. So what’s happening?”

  “Did we come out here to talk about me?” Her voice rose a querulous half-note. “You said there was something important. I’ll bet it’s fifty degrees, no more.”

  Ignoring his daughter’s complaints, Venezzio spoke with labored patience. “When you think about moving, you should think about Angela. She’s—what—sixteen?”

  “Angela’s sixteen—and I’m thirty-six. And it’s been two years since Jack died. I rented my place because I had to get out of the house, because of the creditors. I never intended to stay forever. I—”

  “What I’m saying, a girl’s sixteen, a teenager, she wants to hang around with her friends. You already moved once, a year ago. Now you’re going to move again. But you should—”

  “Dad. Please. I’ve heard all this. And Christ, I don’t have to be reminded about teenagers. But you’re talking like I’m throwing Angela out in the street.”

  “If you move,” Venezzio said, speaking with flat finality, “that’s all right. You want a bigger place, a better place, that’s fine. But—” He waited for her to look at him directly. Then, firmly repeating: “But you stay in the same neighborhood, that’s all I’m saying. For God’s sake, you live in Beverly Hills. Find a place there, somewhere close, where Angela can—”

  “Will you listen a minute? Will you please quit giving orders, and listen to me, for a change? Will you do that?” As she said it, a new note entered her voice, a note of entreaty. Looking at her closely, he saw uncertainty in her face. Uncertainty, and something else. Was it desperation?

  A man? Was that it: a new man? Another new man? I’m thirty-six, she’d said. The words had been a plea, he realized that now. Once more, Louise had lost her way. At thirty-six, her body had begun to thicken. And, yes, sag. Around her eyes, the wrinkles were beginning, deepening. All her life, Louise had been a beauty who didn’t—couldn’t—believe she was beautiful. So, all her life, she’d gone with the wrong man—the wrong men. Like her mother, she had the cornflower-blue eyes and the flaxen blond hair and the full, buxom bloom of a farm girl.

  Except that Janice’s mother hadn’t come from farm folk. She was born in the slums of Cleveland, where her father died in a barroom brawl when Janice was ten. Janice’s mother had then lived with a succession of men, and they’d all beat her. So Janice’s mother had begun to drink—and drink.

  Just as Janice had begun to drink—and drink.

  Forced to leave New York, Janice had gone to Sacramento, where she’d raised her baby. When Louise was in grammar school, Janice had begun to drink—and drink. Once Venezzio had tried to cut off the envelopes stuffed with money. Either Janice must join AA, he’d told her, or there’d be no more money, ever. Her baby would be taken from her. Defiant, a drunk’s don’t-give-a-damn bravado, Janice had threatened to go to the newspapers and tell her story: MY DAUGHTER’S FATHER IS CARLO VENEZZIO.

  With the deepest regret, Venezzio had ordered one side of Janice’s face slashed. It must be done, he’d told Bacardo, with a very sharp single-edge razor blade, right out of the package. Then, immediately, she must have the best of surgeons to stitch up the face.

  Louise had been ten years old when her mother was slashed. Because a mistake was made, the little girl had heard her mother’s screams. Never before had Bacardo displayed such heartfelt remorse.

  When she returned home from the hospital, Janice began to drink again, more heavily than ever. But Venezzio no longer cared. He began sending the envelopes again, but he no longer cared what happened to Janice, so long as she never again threatened to go public. When she died of drink, two years previously, his only concern had been for Louise.

  Louise, and now Angela.

  “Okay …” Venezzio nodded. “Okay. I’m listening.”

  “What I’m thinking—” As she said it, Louise’s eyes began to slide off, a sure signal that she was anxious, unsure of herself. “What I’m thinking is I—I might move to San Francisco.”

  As if she’d made a bad joke, he snorted. Then, flatly: “In a couple of years, when Angela’s ready to go off on her own, then you can go to San Francisco. But I won’t let you—”

  “It’s a man. I met a man.” She spoke in an anguished voice, as if to confess some shameful flaw. Her eyes begged him for understanding.

  “A man, eh?” Venezzio’s voice registered both disdain and bored indifference. “This man—are you going to marry him?”

  “W-we haven’t talked about getting married. It’s—it’s not what everyone does, you know. It’s not what you did with Mom.”

  “We don’t talk about me, Louise.” He spoke very softly. But his dark eyes, boring in, were remorseless.

  “I—” She faltered, tried to avoid his eyes. “I know. And I didn’t mean—”

  “This man. What’s his name?”

  “His name is Walter Draper.” She tried to speak defiantly—but succeeded only in masking a whine. “And he’s very successful. He’s got a restaurant in San Francisco. We can’t very well—”

  “Is he married, this Walter Draper?”

  “No. He—he was married. But he’s been divorced for years. Three years, I think.”

  “Children?”

  She nodded. “Two. But they live with his ex-wife.”

  “So what’re you thinking—that you’ll move in with him? Is that it?”

  “Walter’s got a house. A big house, in San Francisco. He wants me to live there.”

  “That’s you. What about Angela?”

  “Well, of course Angela,” she flared. It was her first display of temper. “Angela likes it in San Francisco. She likes it a lot.”

  “She likes it for a weekend. But she’s spent her whole life in Los Angeles.”

  “Angela’s got her life to live, but I’ve got my life, too. I’ve got needs. I’ve got—”

  “What you’ve got, Louise, is hot pants. What you’ve also got is a screwed-up life. It’s not all your fault. Your mother and me, it would’ve been better if we’d never got together, let’s face it. But we did get together—and you were the result. I don’t know what your mother told you about what happened after you were born. She probably told you that I forced her to take you and get out of town. And that’s right, that’s what I did. The reason I did it was because someone in my position, I can’t afford scandals, can’t afford publicity. I can’t—”

  “I know all this,” she broke in. “You’ve got to marry right. So you married, and you’ve got two children, my age. I know that. But—”

  “Hey.” His voice dropped ominously, his gaze hardened dangerously. In that moment, instantly gone, she glimpsed the essential Carlo Venezzio. Her father. The man who ordered other men killed. Many men.

  The man who might have ordered her mother’s face slashed—that poor, sodden woman, now dead these last two years.

  “Hey,” he repeated. “Don’t interrupt. Okay?”

  Sullenly, she made no reply.

  “What I started to say, I realize you’ve had a tough life, in lots of ways. Your mother was a drunk, there’s no other word for it. She drank herself to death. Plus, I was never around. And now, this—” He gestured to the prison walls. “This doesn’t help, me being locked up. I understand that. But you’ve always been taken care of. Always. And you always will be taken care of, just so long as you don’t screw up.”

  “What’s that mean?” she asked bitterly. “Does that mean you’ll keep on having money dropped off just so long as I do what you want me to do? Is that it?”

  “Louise …” Again, the low note of warning, the evocation of darkness, of death.
“Don’t take that tone with me. You want to talk about these things, we’ll talk. That’s why you’re here. But don’t push me. You understand?”

  “Okay.” She gestured, a conciliatory wave of one hand. “Sorry. But isn’t that what you’re saying?”

  Elaborately patient, Venezzio said, “Think back, Louise. Will you think back? You married a playboy when you were only nineteen. A pretty boy, you married. A lightweight. A goddam druggie. I knew he’d be trouble. I told you.”

  “You had Jeff checked out.” It was an accusation.

  Venezzio shrugged. “Him, and your second husband, too. The first one, Jeff Something, at least his father was loaded. But—”

  “Rabb,” she said, her voice tight and bitter. “His name was Rabb. Angela’s last name. Your granddaughter. Remember?”

  “Rabb—okay.” Condescendingly, Venezzio nodded. “Okay. Rabb. Right. Then that second guy—that actor—Christ, he was in the hole when you married him. Broke. Completely broke. He was—what?—twice your age, and already washed up. And you—”

  “Jack was sweet. He was just—just vulnerable.”

  “Sweet.” Venezzio snorted. Mocking her now: “Sweet?”

  “He always liked you. He was fascinated by you.”

  For a moment Venezzio made no reply. Then, contemptuously: “Jeff Rabb. Was he sweet, too? Coked out of his skull, was he sweet?”

  “That was only at the end,” she muttered. “At first, we had fun. We had a lot of fun.”

  “Fun.” The single word dripped with scorn. “Kids, having fun. What’d he have, a red Ferrari, something like that?”

  For a moment she said nothing. Then, driven to say it, to take the risk: “It was either marry Jeff or else get an abortion.” Avoiding his eyes, she spoke softly, a confession.

  “Ah …” As Venezzio said it, the memory came back: Janice, nineteen years old, stubbornly refusing to have her baby taken—the baby she’d named Louise. “Ah …” he repeated, nodding. “Yeah. I see.” Then defiantly: “Nobody said anything about that.”

  “Nobody knew,” she answered.

  “Your mother—she didn’t know?”

  “Only Jeff knew.”

  “Jeff Rabb …” Venezzio considered, finally nodded. Acknowledging that, yes, she’d confided in him. Finally confided in him, as a child should.

  But he, in turn, could only nod, could only say, “Well, anyhow, he’s out of your life. And the actor, he’s been dead—what—a couple of years, now?”

  “I wish,” she said, “that you’d at least call him by his name. Jack Castle. Maybe you never saw him in the movies. But lots of others, they saw him. He was—”

  “Listen. Louise.” He turned on the golf cart’s uncomfortable seat to face her squarely. “What’s past, let’s forget about that. It’s now, that’s what I want to talk about.”

  “Walter, you mean. Me going to San Francisco.” She spoke resentfully, bitterly. “Is that what we’re going to talk about?”

  “Goddammit, forget about Walter. Forget about San Francisco. Will you do that? Will you forget about men just for a minute, and pay attention? Christ, we’ve been talking for a half hour, give or take. And all we’ve done is argue. So will you listen? This exercise yard, you know, doesn’t exactly belong to me.” He let a single quick beat pass before, with an effort, he said, “Please, Louise. Will you listen?”

  At the words, startled, she raised her eyes to his. Had he ever said please to her before this moment? Exploring, perhaps venturing to hope, each searched the other’s eyes. Then, defensively, she shrugged. “Go ahead.”

  He began speaking in a slow, measured voice, a father instructing his daughter: “The first thing you’ve got to know is that I’ve got nine more years in here. That’s the first thing.”

  In response, she nodded. Yes, she understood that.

  “And the second thing is, I’ve had two heart attacks in the last eight months. Those’re the facts. The way I understand it, though, my heart’s okay. Not great, but okay. But these goddam doctors, they do a lot of guessing. I could drop dead tomorrow, or I could live to be a hundred, who knows? All I know is, I’m sixty-six now, and I’ll be seventy-five before I get out of here—if I get out of here. Now—” He paused, took two long, deep breaths. Yes, he was tiring. Meaning that he wanted to get it done, give her the words, then get back to his cell and lie down. “Now,” he repeated, “I always expect the best and prepare for the worst, that’s something my old man always said. And, surprise, he had a point.” He allowed himself a brief smile, tentatively shared with his daughter. “So I’m preparing for the worst, which is that I don’t get out of this place alive.” He broke off again, watched his daughter’s face, looking for a reaction, a hint of sympathy. There was nothing.

  “So the question is,” he went on, “what’d happen to you if I died? And the answer is, right now, it’d be anybody’s guess. One thing’s for sure, though. You aren’t going to start getting any checks from insurance companies if I die, nothing like that.”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  “People talk about Communism,” he said, “they don’t realize that our organization’s always had it. Like it or not, that’s what we’ve got. Communism. Everything belongs to everyone—and no one. Everything belongs to the organization, in other words. The reason is, if we put anything in writing, we’re screwed. Houses, even cars, they’re all owned by dummies. Companies, usually—small corporations. The money comes in, the money goes out. But none of it sticks. Take me. As far as the feds’re concerned, I import olives. As far as the IRS’s concerned, my company pays me maybe twenty-five thousand a year—on which I pay taxes. That’s what happened to Capone, you know. Income taxes.”

  “I know that.”

  “Luciano and Genovese, they were both capo di tutti—and both of them died with chicken feed in their pockets. Vito, he was always good with money. He saw that his family was taken care of when he died. But Charlie Lucky, he didn’t give a shit. He lived like a king, over in Italy after they finally deported him. But that was it for Charlie. When he died, and the undertaker was paid off, then it was like you’d change the channel of a river. All that money, diverted.”

  Once more, she nodded. The next few minutes, she knew, could change her life.

  “So then there’s me and Maria. My wife.” He was looking at her intently. An answer, then, was required: an acknowledgment that, yes, she understood about his official Mafia family.

  She nodded. “I—I know about them.”

  “When I die,” Venezzio said, “the organization’ll take care of Maria. And if she wants to, she’ll send some to the two kids—our children. That’s up to her. But, either way, the organization’ll take care of her. Personally, for all the shit she’s given me, I’d as soon see Maria on Times Square, hustling. But there’re the children—and grandchildren, too. Maria, she poisoned all of them against me. I’ve got grandchildren I haven’t even seen, don’t even know their names, all thanks to Maria, that bitch. But the organization doesn’t like divorces. So—” He drew a long, deep breath. “So, like I said, Maria’ll be taken care of, when I die.”

  “Envelopes, you mean.”

  He nodded.

  “For Maria. Not for me.”

  Once more he spoke heavily, ponderously: “That’s what I want to talk to you about. That’s why you’re here. To talk about afterwards, if I die in here.”

  She made no reply, but only watched him—and waited.

  Now he spoke briskly, concisely, plainly having already decided exactly what he wanted to say. “What I’ve done is to tell Tony Bacardo to get together some jewels—diamonds, mostly—and some gold. Not much gold, because it’s so heavy. It’s taken Tony about six months to get it all together. And when he was doing it, collecting it all, he was taking a risk. The other dons, if they ever knew about this, well—” As if he were pronouncing a benediction—or a death sentence—he shook his head.

  She nodded. “I understand. It’s a risk.”
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br />   “You’re damn right it’s a risk. And not just for Tony, either.”

  “For you? A risk for you, too?”

  Grimly, he made no response.

  “Wh-what about for me? If—” She licked her lips. “If it all comes to me, and they find out I’ve got it …”

  Once more his silence said it all—and more. Then, speaking matter-of-factly, Venezzio said, “Do you know about that plastic pipe they use for plumbing? PVC, it’s called. They use it for sewer lines a lot.”

  Puzzled, she frowned. “Sewer pipe? Did you say sewer?”

  Impatiently, he nodded. “It’s white or black. Plastic. You put it together with a special glue, and that’s it. It’ll never rot, never leak. And once everything’s glued together it takes a saw to get it apart. Plus, it’s light. You understand?”

  Hesitantly, she nodded. “I—I’ve seen the stuff, I guess. But I never paid any attention.”

  “Well, you can go to any hardware store, look it over. But what I’m talking about, these jewels, Tony’s sealed them in a piece of this sewer pipe. It’s white, and it’s about a foot long, maybe four, five inches diameter on the inside, something like that. It’s got caps at the ends, all sealed up. Tony’s got it now. But in a few days, a week, something like that, I’m going to have someone pick it up from Tony. This guy, call him Pete, he’ll take the package and he’ll hide it in some safe place.” He paused, watching his daughter’s face, letting her catch up, take it all in. Always, Louise’s face had been expressive; she’d never been able to keep a secret, never been able to lie, not really. What Louise was thinking, it was always right there in her face. Janice had been like that: not really very smart, but always transparently truthful.

  “You with me so far?” he asked.

  Hesitantly, she nodded. Yes, she understood. But she was going slowly, cautiously feeling her way. “Louise is good-natured,” Janice had once said. “But she’s no great brain.”

  “The thing is,” he explained, “only Mar—only Pete and I’ll know where the package is hidden. But only Tony and me—and you, now—know what’s in the package. And—” A beat, to focus her attention. “And only I know the whole story, both sides of it.” Another beat. “Right?”