Find Her a Grave Page 6

  “This your car?”

  “Well,” Maranzano said, walking along the fence toward the policeman, “yes and no, I suppose is the answer. I rented it in Sacramento. Why? Has one like it been stolen?”

  Suddenly the flashlight came on, focused blinding-bright on his face. “Hey.” He put indignation in the single word, the pissed-off taxpayer protesting. Repeating: “Hey, you mind?”

  In response, the flashlight beam dropped, focused now on his torso. But the voice from behind the light came cold and hard: “What’re you doing here, this time of night?”

  He moved his head in the direction from which he’d come, smiling as he said, “I was coming along that goddam levee road, and the next thing I knew, I could hardly see the goddam hood ornament, all that ground fog.”

  “That’s the levee road. This is here. What’re you doing here?”

  “I’m lost, is what I’m doing here. I’m looking for Fowler’s Landing. Can you help me out?”

  “But why’re you parked here, is what I’m asking. And where were you when I drove up?”

  Maranzano sighed loudly, another pissed-off-taxpayer protest. “Well, Officer, if you really have to know, I was taking a shit. My stomach, the last hour or two, it’s tied up in knots. So—” He shrugged, man-to-man admitting, “So I was out beating the bushes, you might say, looking for some paper on the ground.” Now, man-to-man smiling: “You ever have to shit, and you don’t have any paper?”

  The flashlight beam had fallen waist-high now, an accommodation. Yes, it would all work out. And, confirming it: “I’ve got some newspaper in the car.”

  “Well, thanks anyhow.” The smile was wide open now, as friendly as he could make it. “But I’m all set now. Some litter-bug, thank God. But if you don’t mind, if you can spare some of that newspaper, maybe I’ll take it along. Just in case.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “Thanks, Officer. I appreciate it.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “It’s Matuska. Frank Matuska. That’s Polish.”

  “Ah—Polish.” The policeman nodded. Then, politely: “Just let me see some identification, Mr. Matuska. Then I’ll get that newspaper and you can be on your way.”

  “Oh. Sure.” Careful not to do it too suddenly, he began a movement with his left hand, to reach in his left hip pocket for the wallet that contained his fake ID. But the handle of the ice pick rested in the palm of his left hand. Could he reach the left hip pocket with his right hand? No, it was not possible. Could he support the ice pick with the little finger of his left hand, using the other three fingers and thumb to withdraw the wallet? No. Never.

  “What’s the problem?” As he spoke, the policeman moved back one cautious step, then another. He’d opened six feet between them, guarding against a knife attack. Now his right hand was in motion, dropping toward the butt of his holstered revolver. The flashlight beam was focusing on Maranzano’s left arm, still half concealed behind his back.

  “It’s this button. They’re new pants.” As he spoke, Maranzano used his right hand to unbutton his jacket, exposing the revolver thrust in his belt.

  “Hey!”

  The flashlight was falling away, leaving sudden darkness between them. Maranzano’s hand was on the butt of his revolver, jerking it from his waistband. The policeman was crouching, an indistinct blur after the flashlight’s glare. Maranzano fired point-blank: one shot, and another, double action.

  “Ah.” It was a sharp, sudden sigh. “Ah, Jesus. Don’t.” Now the policeman was trying to keep his balance, keep standing. He raised his left hand, as if to ward off a third shot. His right hand was pawing awkwardly at his revolver, still in its holster. Maranzano took a step forward, pulling the trigger with the muzzle of his pistol less than a foot from the policeman’s torso, lined up on the heart. With the third shot, the policeman dropped instantly to his knees, then fell heavily on his face, lying motionless. Standing over the body, Maranzano decided on a fourth shot to the temple. “The insurance shot,” Bacardo called it. “The executioner’s pop.”

  TUESDAY, MAY 24th

  10:15 P.M., EDT

  “NO DESSERT?” BACARDO ASKED. “You sure?”

  Maranzano raised an affable hand, then patted his hard, flat stomach. “Thanks, no. The first time in my life, I’m starting to watch what I eat.”

  “What d’you weigh?”

  “Stripped, a hundred seventy.” He smiled. “That’s on a good day.”

  “A hundred seventy, though …” Bacardo looked over the younger man sitting across the table. “Your height and build, that’s okay.”

  “That’s okay. No more, though. I’ve made up my mind.”

  “Well, what about a brandy?”

  “How about an espresso?” Maranzano countered.

  “Espresso. Fine.” Bacardo waved to the waiter, ordered two espressos. Then: “You’re probably wondering why I asked you tonight. And the answer is just—you know—get acquainted, let some of the guys see us together, get them used to the idea, now you’re a capo. Diplomacy, I guess you’d say.”

  “And it’s appreciated, Tony. It’s appreciated very much.” As he said it, Maranzano was conscious of the satisfaction, the privilege, calling Bacardo Tony.

  “Also,” Bacardo said, “I wanted to tell you that Don Carlo appreciated it, how you took care of that thing for him.”

  “That cop—” As if to thrust the thought angrily away, Maranzano gestured, a quick chop of his muscular hand. “A rube cop. Jesus.”

  Bacardo was ready with a reassuring smile. “The difference between rube cops and New York cops, you know, there’s not much juice out in the sticks. So they got no choice but to be honest. The other way, there’s no advantage.”

  Maranzano nodded, smiled appreciatively, waited for the waiter to serve the espresso. Then, looking around the restaurant, he asked, “Where’s Eddie? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without Eddie.”

  “He had a root canal today. He wanted to come, but I said no. He’s on painkillers, feels like shit. And there’s something I’ve got to do tomorrow, I need him. So I told him to stay home tonight, take it easy.”

  “Does Eddie live out on Long Island, too?”

  “He lives fifteen, twenty minutes away from me. Most of the time he’s got my Caddie, keeps it overnight.”

  “Ah …” Approvingly, Maranzano nodded. “Yeah, I see. That’s good. Perfect.”

  Bacardo sipped the espresso, frowned, added sugar. “Jesus, this stuff stands right up, eh?”

  “I know.”

  Bacardo stirred in the sugar, asking, “What about Fabrese, speaking of drivers? How’s he working out?” The question was casually asked, but Bacardo’s eyes flicked quickly, catching the other man’s reaction.

  “Well,” Maranzano answered, “you want the truth, it seems to me that he asks too many questions.”

  “Yeah …” Heavily, Bacardo nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. What d’you want to do, keep him on for another couple of months, then put him back on the street, something like that?”

  “A couple of months—yeah.” Maranzano’s answering nod was equally judicious. “Yeah, I guess so. He drives all right, there’s nothing wrong with his driving. But I just wonder, if there was a problem, something came up, I don’t know where Jimmy’d be.”

  “Maybe under a table.”

  “Yeah, well.” Maranzano shrugged, sipped his coffee. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Okay.” Bacardo signaled the waiter for the check, dropped money on the table. Explaining: “I’ve got to be going. Long Island, you know, driving myself …” He shook his head, then pushed back his chair. “You got your car?”

  “No. I went home first, and Fabrese took the car to the parking garage. That’s Manhattan, you know. Having a car—I wouldn’t ever have one, if it wasn’t for business.”

  “So you took a cab.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, then, I’ll take you home, drop you off.”

&n
bsp; “Aw—no. There’s no need, Tony. It’s no problem, taking a cab.”

  “No.” On his feet, Bacardo gestured to the restaurant’s rear exit that led to a small parking lot. “No, come on. We can talk. There’s something else that I want to talk to you about.”

  “Well, fine.”

  Together they walked to the exit, then out to the parking lot. Always polite, Bacardo was unlocking the Cadillac’s door for him. Quickly, Maranzano slid into the car, found the latch for the driver’s door, pushed it open. Bacardo got in behind the wheel, settled himself, closed the door, looked at the man beside him. “Hey.” Bacardo twisted the key in the ignition, brought the engine to life. “Hey, buckle up there.”

  “I never buckle up in the city.”

  “You ride with me, you buckle up. Most accidents happen within a couple of miles of home. That’s the statistics.”

  “Okay, okay.” In amiable mock surrender, Maranzano raised his hands, then went about the business of fastening his belt. Saying finally: “There. All set.”

  “Good.” Bacardo nodded, put his foot on the brake, moved the shift selector to “R,” carefully looked back through the rear window—

  —glanced down at Eddie Caproni, crouched in the darkness behind the front seat. Waiting. Ready.

  Bacardo turned to face front. He kept his foot firmly on the brake, immobilizing the car, to give Eddie the best chance.

  There was a hiss as the slim plastic-coated steel cable looped over Maranzano’s head. Instantly Maranzano threw himself forward, fighting the bite of the noose, his fingers clawing at his throat. But Caproni had both knees braced against the front seat, back bowed, hauling on the noose. Because he was strangling, Maranzano’s eyes were bulging. Because he was fighting to keep the noose tight, biting deep into the skin of his victim’s neck, Caproni’s eyes were bulging, too.

  1990

  THURSDAY, APRIL 12th

  10 A.M., PDT

  SHE CROSSED THE LIVING room to the telephone, answered on the second ring.

  “Is this Louise?” It was a man’s voice, deep and thick.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Tony, Louise.”

  “Tony …” The single word lingered, not quite a question. Tony Bacardo, that big, awkward, slow-talking, even-tempered man. She’d last seen him when he’d taken her to her father at the prison hospital. Ever since, she’d been expecting this call. All the time was gone now. Everything, gone.

  “It’s—it’s about your father, Louise. Don Carlo.”

  “Ah …”

  Her father, that man some called a monster. Dead. Surely, dead.

  Without realizing that she’d done it, she was sitting on the sofa. Would she choke up? Cry? Was that what was expected now?

  “He’s dead,” she finally managed to say.

  “Yes.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “It happened last night sometime. They didn’t tell—” A pause. “They didn’t tell the family until early this morning. Eight o’clock, I think. Our time.”

  “Was anyone with him when he died?”

  “I don’t know. He was in the prison hospital, where he died. And they have their rules.”

  “I thought he ran the prison.” It was an accusation.

  “Well, that’s true—as long as everyone understands each other. He could have his own doctors, things like that. But he couldn’t have visitors in the hospital. It’s security.”

  “What about his—” How should she say it? How could she say it? “His family, what about them? His children?”

  “Well, Maria—his wife—she wouldn’t’ve visited him, even if they’d let her. And his children—the two children he had with Maria—I don’t know. Maybe Maria said stay away, and that’s what they did. I think that’s probably what happened.”

  “What about the funeral?”

  “I haven’t heard anything. But the way I think it’ll go, Maria’ll sign all the papers, and our organization will take it from there, pay the bills and everything. There’s an undertaker—Sigler and Sons—they know how to do things.”

  “Will you tell me when the funeral is?”

  “Are you planning to come, make the trip?”

  “Yes. Sure. Angela, too. We’ll both come.”

  There was a long, heavy silence. She knew the meaning of that silence, knew what Bacardo was about to say.

  “I’m not so sure that’d be a good idea, Louise. Our organization, the top guys—the capos, and the dons—it’s like they’re politicians, you know. They are politicians. That’s what it’s all about with us. Your dad, he had every politician in New York in his pocket. Senators, judges, you name it.”

  “But my father still went to trial, went to prison.”

  “That’s different. That’s federal. He was framed by the feds, the same way Luciano and Genovese were framed. The feds want you bad enough, you got to be careful.”

  “Once he told me Maria gave the feds what they needed.”

  “We can talk about that when we get together, Louise. This is Thursday. The funeral’ll probably be Monday or Tuesday. Then there’s some things I’ve got to do. Something like this, Don Carlo dying, there’re things have to be settled. You understand?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “Yes, I understand.” As, once more, she felt it: the ageless weight of the Mafia, bearing her down, imprisoning her. “What you’re saying, they don’t want me to come to the funeral. Is that it? My own father.”

  “Louise—listen. It’s what I said. It’s politics. That’s all. Politics. Christ, you and Angela, you’re all the don cared about. You know that.”

  She made no response.

  “The business we’ve got with each other, Louise—the words we got from the don, you and me—that was a risk for the don. A big risk. You should understand that, how big the risk was. He wouldn’t’ve done that for anyone else. Never.”

  Still she made no response.

  “So—” Bacardo spoke hesitantly, tentatively. Then, with finality: “So I’ll see you in a week, maybe ten days, something like that. I’ll come out there, and we’ll do what the don wanted us to do. You understand?”

  “I understand.” She said it grudgingly.

  “And about the funeral, listen, you send flowers to Sigler and Company. Send a big floral piece—you know, two, three hundred dollars, like that. Charge it to Sigler. And you tell them it’s from ‘Louise and Angela, rest in peace,’ something like that. You do that, and I guarantee your piece’ll be right up front, the closest to the casket. You understand?”

  Suddenly weary, suddenly unutterably drained, she nodded to nothing, to no one. Saying: “I understand.”

  “Don’t say anything on the wreath about—you know—whose father he was, nothing like that.”

  As he said it, the last of her strength flared, focused on one final protest. “You had to say that, didn’t you? You just had to say that.”

  TUESDAY, APRIL 17th

  11:15 A.M., EDT

  AS THE ORGANIST BEGAN playing the overture to Othello, Don Carlo’s favorite opera, Cella turned, whispered to Bacardo, “When we go to the cemetery, you ride with me. My car’ll be right behind Maria’s car.”

  “I’ve got to tell my driver,” Bacardo whispered in return.

  “He’s already been told.”

  With his eyes on the casket, Bacardo nodded.

  12:40 P.M., EDT

  CELLA LEANED FORWARD, TOUCHED the button that raised the limousine’s glass partition. As the glass went up, Cella pointed to the tiny bar. “Drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Likewise.” Cella unbuttoned his morning coat, settled back. “So what’d you think? Good service?”

  “I thought the priest did better than the monsignor.”

  “No question. The pope should put that old fart out to pasture somewhere.”

  Bacardo smiled, but said nothing. Until the funeral procession began to move, both men had made small talk broken by awkward silences. Finally
, as they moved away from the curbside, Cella said, “I hope your wife doesn’t hold it against me, taking you away like this.”

  “She couldn’t care less. She’s only here because I’m here. Truth to tell, Don Carlo made her nervous. She never liked him.”

  Cella’s laugh was spontaneous, appreciative. “Carlo made a lot of people nervous. It’s the secret of his success.”

  Bacardo’s answering chuckle was also quick, also appreciative.

  “I wanted our people to see us together,” Cella explained.

  “Sure …” He let the single word linger, then said, “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  They rode for a time in silence. Then, with his eyes forward, Cella spoke softly, precisely, significantly:

  “So. Do you want the Venezzio family, Tony? The job’s open.”

  Also looking straight ahead, also speaking softly, precisely, Bacardo answered, “No, thanks, Benito. I—” Suddenly he broke off. Benito, he’d said. Not Don Benito, but simply Benito, the first time he’d ever done it, an unpardonable familiarity. Take the don’s job, and he could call Cella Benito. Turn down the job, and it was Don Benito. Forever.

  “I’ve thought about it,” Bacardo admitted. “You realize that. And Don Carlo, he told me he’d do what he could for me with you and the council. But I’m sixty years old. Ten years ago, when they locked Don Carlo up, I admit I thought about it. But sixty—” Wearily, Bacardo shook his head. “Sixty, that’s no age to try and go all the way, start taking chances.”

  Fingering a pearl stickpin, then stroking his impeccably styled silver-gray hair, Cella nodded in return. “I think it’s the right decision, Tony. It shows class. That’s why you’re respected, you know that. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t respect you.”