Find Her a Grave (13 page)

“It’s not my time. It’s my neck. I don’t know much about the Mafia. But, based on what I do know, I sure as hell don’t want to tangle with them. Their intelligence is better than the FBI’s and their enforcement is about a hundred percent. If they decide someone has to die, then he dies. It might take years. But he dies.”

With the solemnly spoken words, silence fell between them as they stared at each other. Finally Angela ventured: “Could we do it on—?” She frowned, searching for the word. Now she appealed to Bernhardt: “You know—the way lawyers work sometimes. They take a percentage if they win a case.”

“Contingency.” As he said it, Bernhardt let his eyes thoughtfully wander. For two years, free-lancing, he’d worked for Herbert Dancer, San Francisco’s most prestigious, most expensive agency. When he took contingency work, which was seldom, Dancer charged thirty percent. At least.

A million dollars in jewels,
Angela had said.
Plus some gold coins.

“Yes.” Angela nodded. “That’s it. Contingency.”

“Hmmm.”

T
HREE CARS AHEAD, FABRESE
saw Bacardo signal for a right turn. Yes, he was entering the Hilton’s parking garage. The meaning: Bacardo was keeping the rented Oldsmobile, wasn’t turning it in. The conclusion: Bacardo still had more business in San Francisco.

Fabrese let his own rental car slow, cautiously falling back. Passing the Hilton, he turned right, then right again, driving slowly through the congested Saturday evening traffic: shoppers and tourists, wandering. He pulled the Taurus into the right lane of Sutter Street, outbound, stopped the car, switched off the engine.

The time had come to decide. Up to now, it had been enough to hang back, follow Bacardo, make sure that, yes, Louise Rabb was the woman Bacardo had come to see. Meaning that, yes, she was Carlo Venezzio’s daughter.

Add it all up, then, this one last time. Put all the rumors together with everything he knew—and everything he could guess:

Forty years ago, Venezzio had just been married, he and Maria. Then he’d met the waitress named Janice Frazer. Proving, some said, that, yes, Venezzio could feel something.

But, even though Venezzio was already a don then, and moving up, he couldn’t let the woman stay in New York, not with her baby. So he’d sent her back where she’d come from. Over the years, Venezzio’s couriers kept the woman named Janice Frazer supplied with money. When Venezzio went out to the Coast and visited the woman, there were always bodyguards outside the house. So, slowly, the rumors had spread, became common knowledge: Yes, Janice Frazer lived in Los Angeles with her daughter. Yes, Janice Frazer had become a drunk. Yes, she’d died a few years ago, been buried somewhere in California. Where, nobody knew.

Until now, nobody knew.

Until now, a few hours ago, nobody in the organization had known. Nobody but Venezzio and Bacardo—and, yes, probably Maranzano.

The three of them, and now him. Jimmy Fabrese.

Him.

In prison, Venezzio had lived like a king on Mafia Row: specially cooked meals, errands run, silk shirts, a phone always available.

But even kings got heart attacks.

It was almost a year after the first heart attack that Maranzano had gone to the prison, talked to the don. And then, the next morning, they’d gone to Bacardo’s house, picked up something in a red nylon flight bag, taken it to the airport, where Maranzano had boarded a flight to California.

California, and then Fowler’s Landing.

Just as, yesterday, Bacardo had come to San Francisco.

Just as, today, Bacardo had gone to Fowler’s Landing—

—Fowler’s Landing, and the graveyard.

The graveyard, and the grave of Janice Frazer.

A grave for Janice Frazer, then a grave for Maranzano, less than a week after he’d returned to New York, mission accomplished. See California and die, Mafia insurance. The bigger the job, the bigger the risk, rest in peace.

Once more, Fabrese checked the time. Would Bacardo’s next stop be Thirty-ninth Avenue, Louise Rabb’s house? What would he tell her? What would they say, what would they decide? Had Bacardo realized he was being followed? Certainly Bacardo expected the organization to keep track of him; it was part of the life for someone like Bacardo. So, even if Bacardo knew he was being followed, he would probably have ignored the tail. Anything else would have been suspicious. To anyone who wanted to know, Bacardo was simply visiting Janice Frazer’s grave, a deathbed promise he’d made to Venezzio, Hail Mary, full of grace.

In that delta country, there were almost no trees, nothing but flat, low-lying land with a few towns scattered along the edges of the main waterways. He’d been able to fall back a mile and still keep Bacardo’s car in sight. When Bacardo had finally stopped at the graveyard, Fabrese had been able to conceal his car in a small grove of trees less than a hundred yards from the wrought-iron gate. He’d been able to see which grave Bacardo had visited.

Janice Frazer’s grave.

Janice Frazer, 1930 to 1984. A short, hard-luck life.

Bacardo had only stayed for a short time. He’d put flowers on the grave, then stood with head bowed, as if he were reciting a prayer. Then he’d returned to his car and driven back to San Francisco. He’d driven slowly, conservatively. Imitating Bacardo, Fabrese had gone to the grave, stood with his head bowed, facing the headstone. Even though there was no one to see him, he’d moved his lips, as if, like Bacardo, he’d been saying a prayer—

—a prayer to find a fortune.

A fortune compact enough to fit in a small red flight bag.

A fortune hidden somewhere in Fowler’s Landing.

He started the Taurus’s engine, checked traffic, carefully pulled out into the traffic on Geary Street. The drive to Louise Rabb’s house, even in traffic, would take less than a half hour.

S
HE’D JUST PICKED UP
the remote control wand, about to switch on the TV, when she heard it: the front-door buzzer. Like a shriek from the firepits of hell, the sound echoed and re-echoed, piercing the center of herself.

Bacardo.

It had to be Bacardo, come back from Fowler’s Landing. Angela would have used her key, come right in.

Louise rose from the couch, placed the wand on the TV set, turned to face the front entryway. She’d been waiting for hours, alone in the house. Every hour, every minute, waiting for Angela to return, had drawn her nerves so painfully tight and raw that, once, she’d grown short of breath. She’d been in the bedroom, changing from a sweatshirt and jeans into a skirt and sweater, one of her best cashmeres. Somehow she’d felt that, for whatever the next hours might bring, she must be dressed like a lady, someone to be respected.

Bacardo at the door. It had to be Bacardo.

Or was it someone tracking Bacardo?

The police?

A Mafia hit man?

Once more, the buzzer sounded, longer this time, more insistent. She smoothed down her skirt, pushed at her hair, drew a long, deep breath, walked into the entryway, faced the door. Moving closer, she put her eye to the magnifying peephole.

It was a man. A stranger. About forty, bareheaded, he wore a three-piece suit, dark brown. The suit looked expensive. The man was staring straight at the door. As if he knew she was there, he lifted his chin, squared his shoulders—and waited, smiling slightly.

She put the night chain in place, twisted the dead bolt, let the door come open on the chain.

“Mrs. Rabb? Louise Rabb?”

“Yes …”

“I’m Frank Profaci,” Fabrese said. “I worked for your father. I have to talk to you for a few minutes.”

“Talk? What about?”

“I’ve just come out from New York. I’ve come from—” He stepped closer, carefully lowered his voice. “I come from Mr. Cella. Benito Cella.”

Benito Cella … the man Bacardo had warned her about.

Should she tell the stranger to come back later, after she’d talked to Bacardo?

No. It might make him suspicious.

If only Angela were with her. Angela, who had been so steady, so calm last night after Bacardo left. Angela, only twenty—suddenly a woman. When she was Angela’s age, she’d been married for a year—married and pregnant, just one little mistake, out on a weekend boating party to Catalina. And so, thank God, Angela had come into her life.

“Are you going to let me in or not?” Fabrese demanded. “I don’t have much time. I’ve got to call New York after we talk, and there’s three hours’ difference.”

She had no choice. She had to let him in, had to know why he’d come. Otherwise, on the phone, what would he say?

“Just a minute.” She closed the door, freed the night chain, opened the door, stepped back. Irrationally, her first thought was that she was glad she’d changed into a skirt and cashmere sweater. If only she’d taken more time with her face, her hair.

He was a small, slightly built man. His head was narrow and bony, his features compressed. It was a face that seemed never to smile. His black hair was thick and stylishly barbered. His movements were tense and guarded, as if he were venturing into enemy territory. He was impeccably dressed: an expensively cut, meticulously pressed suit, gleaming brown shoes, a necktie precisely knotted. His shirt was light beige, with a stiff white collar.

“Please.” She gestured him into the living room, where he sat on the same love seat Tony Bacardo had sat in last night. When he sat down, the newcomer plucked at his trouser creases, crossed his legs, touched the knot of his tie. Then he turned his full attention on her. With his small black eyes boring in, she shifted uncomfortably in her chair, crossed her legs, took a fresh grip on the arms of her chair.

When he finally spoke, his voice was thin and uneven. “The reason I came, I wanted to warn you.” His body language, too, was uneven. Was he frightened—as frightened as she was? Was it possible?

“Warn me?”

“About Tony Bacardo—about what he’s doing out here.”

“I—I—” She realized that she was shrinking back in her chair, as if to escape what must surely come next: Mafia justice, kill or be killed. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Come on, Louise. I know he’s in San Francisco. He’s at the downtown Hilton right this minute. And he was here last night. He stayed for about an hour.” Now his voice was rough; his eyes were turning hostile: killer’s eyes. Suddenly images of the past returned: the shadowy figures who came to the door, handed over the envelopes, then disappeared into the night. First the men had given the envelopes to her mother. Then, these last years, they’d given the envelopes to her.

But this man—Profaci—carried no envelope.

Instead, beneath the perfectly fitting suit, he carried a gun. Without doubt, he carried a gun.

She must speak. Only if she spoke could she save herself. But save herself from what? Why? After all, Carlo Venezzio had been her father.

The king is dead, long live the king.
It was an English expression. She’d never understood its full meaning. Not until now had she understood.

“I—yes, he was here last night. But—”

“Is he coming back here? Now? Today?”

“I don’t know.” Because it was the truth, she earnestly repeated it: “I don’t
know.”

“Well.” Now, unexpectedly, he shook his head, an expression of regret. “Well, Louise, the reason I want to know, I want to warn you. That’s why I’m here. To warn you.”

She swallowed. “Warn me?”

“About Tony Bacardo.”

“Ab—” Suddenly her throat closed, choking off the rest.

He nodded. Then, as if he were puzzled, he frowned, looked her straight in the eye. Saying: “Your father and Tony, they had a deal. Or, more like it, Don Carlo
thought
they had a deal.” Watching her covertly, he fell silent. But she made no reply.

“After Don Carlo had his heart attack, he started to think about you. I mean, he knew Maria and his two kids would always be taken care of. But that left you, after your mother died. And Don Carlo always had a soft spot for you. So, naturally, he wanted to take care of you after he was gone. You know—you saw him, in prison. He—” Fabrese hesitated. Should he take a chance, try for a long shot?

Yes, he would try. “Don Carlo told you about it—told you what he and Bacardo planned for you, when you saw him in prison.”

As he said it, he saw the words register in her face, her eyes, the twist of her mouth. He’d gambled—and won.

“You—” Plainly puzzled, she flinched. “You know that—know what my father told me?”

He nodded. Now playing a winning hand, he could pick up the beat, go to work on her. Get in and get out—before Bacardo rang the doorbell.

“I guess I was your father’s number-two man.” Pretending puzzlement, he looked at her. “I’m surprised he never mentioned me to you. Bacardo was always number one. But Tony—well—” Fabrese shook his head, sighed. Then, as if to confess: “Tony, it looks like, he’s on the take.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple. With Don Carlo gone, Tony’s without a job. He’s unemployed, you might say. He needs money.”

“He—he needs money?”

“Listen, Louise.” Fabrese leaned impatiently forward, glanced at his watch, gleaming gold. “I don’t have a lot of time. So let me lay it out for you. Okay?”

“Y—yes. Okay.”

“Your father got a package together—call it your inheritance. Or, more like it, he told Bacardo to do it. Then they got a capo—his name was Maranzano—to bring the package out here. Maranzano brought it to Fowler’s Landing.”

As he pronounced the words, Louise realized that his eyes were locked with hers, searching her face for some reaction, some clue.

Fowler’s Landing …

Except for her father and Tony Bacardo, who else inside the Mafia could have known about Fowler’s Landing?

Proving that, yes, the man sitting across the coffee table had been close to her father.

Proving?

No, not proving. In this world of shadows, there was no proof. There were only more shadows—and, yes, ghosts.

“And now,” he went on, speaking softly, almost gently, “Tony’s here in San Francisco. Which is why I’m here.”

“I—I don’t understand.”