Find Her a Grave (17 page)

“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 was 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.”

Chin nodded, sampled the soup. “Ah. Excellent.” He looked at Fabrese. “It’s bird’s nest soup, you know. Wonderful.”

“Jesus.” Fabrese stared down at his soup. “I thought it was a gag, bird’s nest soup.”

Chin’s smile was subtly amused. “Many people think that.”

“Well …” Tentatively, Fabrese sipped a spoonful, then looked surprised. “Well, it’s great. Just great.”

“This surveillance—would it be on some of your people?”

Fabrese had prepared himself for this question. “Tony Bacardo came to San Francisco yesterday. He could’ve come here because of some money that can’t be accounted for. I’m not saying Tony’s skimming, that’s not it. But Don Benito, well, he sent me out here to keep track of Tony, make sure there’re no loose ends when it comes time for Don Benito to take over the five families.”

“So Tony Bacardo doesn’t know you’re in San Francisco.”

“God, no. That’s what I’m
telling
you.”

“Perrone—he doesn’t know you’re here, either.”

“Perrone is what you might call a diplomat, coming to town to shake hands, do a lot of smiling, mend a few fences. I’m undercover. Like I said.”

Chin waited for the waitress to serve the next course, then said, “You say you’ll need four or five of my people.”

“There’s two women, a mother and a daughter. They live on Thirty-ninth Avenue. I need to have them watched.”

“Ah—good. They live out in the avenues, as we call them. A lot of Chinese live out there. Do they live in a house?”

“Right. A row house.”

“You’ve been there, then. To their house.”

“I was there today.”

“You talked to these two women. They know you.”

Fabrese nodded. “They know me. Which is why I need you.”

“And the other people?”

“There’s just one more, besides Bacardo—a man. Tall, kind of stooped, early forties, I’d say. He wears gold aviator glasses. You know, stylish. But he’s not much of a dresser. Corduroy pants and sweaters, like that. Tweedy, maybe. He’s a friend of the women.”

“You have no name for him.”

“No.”

“License plate?”

“I forgot that part.”

“Does he live with the women?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

Chin allowed a reflective silence to pass before he said, “That’s all, those four.”

“That’s all.”

“And when should these stakeouts start?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Tonight?”

“That’d be great.”

Once more, Chin sampled food from the several small plates placed on their table. Then: “My people—should they be armed? Is it that kind of a job?”

Promptly, Fabrese shook his head. This question, too, he’d expected. “It’s not that kind of a job. I just want answers, that’s all. No guns.”

“If there are guns, then I would double the number of my people.”

“No guns. Period.”

“Then I can’t see any problem, once we decide on how payment should be made.” Now Chin’s face was impassive, as if his entire attention was focused on the prawn he was conveying to his mouth.

“Well, there’re two ways to go,” Fabrese said. As he spoke, he touched the breast pocket of his jacket, where he carried an envelope fat with cash. “I could give you something up front, right now. Say ten thousand, to show good faith. Then you could tell me whatever you figure, after everything’s finished. That’s one way.”

Chin turned his attention to the small task of blending seasoned snow peas with rice as he asked, “And the other way?”

“The other way, after everything’s finished, and I’m back in New York with Cella, I tell him that I never could’ve done it without you. When he mentions money, how much you charged us, I tell him that you wanted to do him this favor, a little something from you to him, one top guy to another top guy. You know.”

“Ah, yes,” Chin said. “Yes—I know.”

T
HEY LAY AS THEY
always did in the afterglow, her body finding the full length of his, the fit that had never failed. It was the prelude to pillow talk, for Bernhardt the most meaningful moments.

And it was now, in these moments, sooner rather than later, that he must ask her to move in with him. “You’re here all weekend,” he would begin. “So why shouldn’t we—”

No.

More than mere logic was required. This overture must come from the heart: “The more we’re together, the more I want us to be together. So why don’t we—”

He’d done it again, lapsed into logic, mere argumentation.

He’d written plays, one good enough to be produced off Broadway. But he couldn’t find the words to begin.

Had it been this way with Jennie? They’d been walking from the town up to campus, he and Jennie. The distance had been less than a mile. It had been early in May, only a month before graduation. Before them, life had spread out with infinite promise, a magic tapestry woven just for them. Of course, they would go to New York. He’d already had a play produced at the Yellow Springs Area Theater. And an off-Broadway company was interested. So they would go to New York, the two of them. His mother, who’d lived in the Village and who’d taught modern dance in her loft, would help them find a place to live. Then, full of hope, they would begin making the rounds. Of course, they would expect rejection at first. But they would sustain each other until their turns came: bit parts for Jennie, an off-Broadway production of
Victims,
the play he’d begun writing while he was still a senior at Antioch.

And, incredibly, hope had burgeoned, become reality. Jennie began getting small parts. And, yes,
Victims
had run for three solid, successful weeks at the Bransten Theater.

But they hadn’t known it would happen like that, not when they were walking up to the campus on that soft, warm night in May. Then, that night, they could only hope—and plan.

And part of the plan, it turned out, had been marriage.

They’d seen
Two Women
at the movie theater in town. As they’d walked up the gentle hill from the town to the theater, talk about the film had turned to talk of the future—their future, in New York. Together they would pursue their dreams, hers to act, his to write and direct.

And so, by the time they got to the campus, they’d agreed that they would be married. There’d been no proposal, no acceptance. There’d only been a few quiet words spoken between them. They’d—

“Hey.” With one finger, Paula was poking him in the ribs. “Hey, you’re off somewhere.”

It was a standing joke between them. If he was uncertain about a business decision or searching for a line of dialogue that would illuminate a scene, he often drifted off. In the light of day, Paula could clearly see the preoccupation in his eyes. In bed, in the darkness, she could feel the change in his body, their flesh in intimate contact.

He drew her closer, kissed the point of her chin, then lightly kissed her lips.

“Sorry.”

“It’s those ladies, isn’t it—those ladies in distress.”

He knew where the conversation would go. Paula was determined to work with him, doing investigations. He needed help, she reasoned, and she needed something to do. She was very quiet about it, very patient—but very determined. Meaning that now, in the afterglow, she would persist. “I have the feeling,” she said, “that you’ll take them on.”

He considered. Then, somewhat to his own surprise, he heard himself say, “There’d be money in it. A lot of money.”

“Like, five figures?”

He calculated. “At least.”

Now she was calculating, too. “After five figures, you realize, comes six figures. As in a hundred thousand dollars.”

“I know …”

“You sound a little—” She broke off, searched for the word. “You sound a little apprehensive. But maybe a little tempted, too.”

“My car needs a new set of tires.”

“Alan …” Now she traced a light line with a forefinger that began at the base of his throat and then ventured down. Meaning that, this time—this six-figure time—Paula would stop at nothing to get the story from him. Thank God.

W
HEN HE’D FINISHED THE
story, he realized that he was no longer turned toward her. Instead, even though her head was still cradled in the crook of his arm, he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He’d been talking, uninterrupted, for more than a half hour.

“Are you telling me,” Paula said, her voice rising incredulously, “that you’ve got five thousand dollars of this guy Bacardo’s
money?
This—this hood?”

“He’s not a hood.” Reacting to her criticism, he spoke sharply. “He’s a big shot.”

“Okay. So he
hires
hoods.”

Bernhardt made no response.

“Jesus, Alan.” She raised herself on one elbow to look down into his face. “Jesus, if something should go wrong, you’d be in trouble with both the goddam Mafia and the goddam law.”

“There’s something I didn’t tell you.”

“Oh?”

“I told Bacardo that I might give the money back. I’ve got a number to call.”

“Then for God’s sake do it. Make the call.”

He studied her face in silence. Two months ago, give or take, Paula had begun pressuring him to let her work with him. “You’re turning down business,” she’d said. Adding fervently: “You don’t have enough time to direct, worse yet. Or write. Or even act.” In the end, Paula had prevailed. She’d started doing surveillance, fifteen dollars an hour. He’d charged the client forty—for surveillance jobs imaginatively, conscientiously well done. It was another reason, come to think of it, why she should move in with him.

“Alan?”

“Hmmm.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“Of course not. I’m just trying to decide.”

“I don’t see what there is to decide.”

“I’ve already looked at this from your point of view, which is the worst-case scenario. But there’s another scenario.”

She lowered her head back into the crook of his arm. With both of them staring up at the ceiling, she said, “And what’s that?”

“Now you’re mad.”

“I’m
not
mad.”

“That’s the way you always talk when you’re mad.”

“And how’s that?”

“It’s—” He hesitated, then ventured, “It’s haughty.”

“Haughty?”
Suddenly she laughed: a sharp, sudden peal.
“Haughty?”

He lay in silence—waiting. Finally, as he knew she would, Paula said, “Okay. So what’s the best-case scenario?”

“It’s interesting, you know …” He spoke reflectively, subtly teasing her. “You’ve only been doing surveillance for a couple of months. But already you’re talking different. You act different, too. Do you realize that?”

“Different in what sense?”

“For one thing, you swear more.”

“Hmmm …” Paula was considering the point.

“Back to the best-case scenario,” he said.

“Hmmm.”

“Tomorrow I call C.B. I tell him there’s a thousand dollars in it, win or lose, for a day’s work. I’ll tell him it’s dangerous, that he should bring his guns. For C.B. that’s a come-on. Next I’ll buy a shovel. Then about, say, eight o’clock tomorrow night, we get under way—me and Louise in my car, C.B. in his car. We start out for the delta. Of course, C.B. and I’ll have walkie-talkies, homers, the whole thing. Louise will give me directions as we go. We’ll get to the appointed spot about ten, ten-thirty. We’ll check it out very, very carefully. If there’s a problem, we’ll leave. Run, in other words. If there isn’t a problem, we dig up the jewels. Maybe we take them to a hotel, a suite, so we can all keep track of each other. Then, Monday morning, we take the stuff to the bank, put it in a safe-deposit box. In due time, with me riding shotgun, Louise sells some of the jewels. That’s when I get my ten percent.”