Find Her a Grave (32 page)

“So Louise took twenty-six jewels and two coins, you say. And she gave the rest to this goddam Chinaman. All because of threats he made on the phone.” It was a flat statement of fact heavily laden with contempt.

Bernhardt made no response.

“You
let
her hand everything over.”

“They were going to chop off her daughter’s fingers, for God’s sake. And Paula—the woman I happen to be in love with—they were going to do the same to her. Chop off their fingers, and cut off their noses, too.”

“So you just rolled over, you and this nigger you hired. You let this Chinaman get away with a goddam fortune. You put three jewels in your pocket, like it was some kind of a tip, and you—”

“Listen, Tony.” Bernhardt drew a deep, tight breath. “The way this Chinese guy operates, I wasn’t going to take chances. And neither was Louise. Okay, so she lost a fortune in ill-gotten gains. She can still—”

“What’s this ‘ill-gotten gains’ shit? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means. It means hot money. It means we can’t call the police. It means that—”

“What you don’t seem to get,” Bacardo cut in, “is that this fucking Chinaman has made fools of us. I don’t know what game Fabrese was playing. I’ve got my suspicions, knowing Fabrese. But whatever game it was, we’d’ve taken care of it. Us. Not some goddam Chinaman. So this Chinaman is way over the line. He’s whacked one of our people. And then, for Christ’s sake, he hijacked a fortune that belongs to the daughter of a don. He’s—”

Furiously, Bacardo broke off. Then, ominously quiet: “He’s making us look terrible out there on the Coast. And that’s not going to happen, Bernhardt. You got that?”

Bernhardt made no reply. Suddenly he realized that the Mafia, like every successful enterprise, was acutely conscious of its image. He smiled to himself at the wayward thought. While, outside the phone booth, two women had joined the teenage boys. All four were frowning. Bernhardt shrugged, pointed to the phone, pretended to frown with helpless vexation because of something he was hearing on the phone.

“—positive about all this?” Bacardo was asking.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“What I mean is, after we hang up, I’m going to make some calls. I’m sure—absolutely sure—that we aren’t going to roll over on this. I mean, something like this—nobody does this to us. The first thing I did today—I got back in town last night—I laid all this out with my boss. Everything. That’s what I came back here for, to get square with the boss. You
know
that. And we’re square, him and me. He said it was okay about Louise and the stuff. Which means—” For emphasis, solemnly, Bacardo paused. Then: “Which means that what’s happened is that this Chinaman has rubbed my boss’s nose in this. You understand what I’m saying?”

As Bernhardt heard the words he felt it begin: a sense of danger, an awareness that the chain of events was inexorably tightening around him. Around him, and Paula, too.

“What I’m telling you,” Bacardo was saying softly, “is that you’d better be ready to back all this up.”

“Everything I said is true.” Bernhardt was satisfied with his voice: calm, measured, firm.

“And your girlfriend. She knows what this Chinaman looks like. Is that right?”

“That’s right. But I don’t want her—”

“When did you give the stuff to this Chinaman? What time?”

“It was about one o’clock this afternoon. Our time.”

“And—” A pause, to calculate. “And it’s a little before six out there.”

“Right.”

“Okay.” Another pause. “I’ve got to make those calls. Something like this, we can’t waste any time. Tomorrow at this time, the stuff could already be fenced. You understand?”

“Yes. But—”

“Have you ever heard of Charlie Ricca?”

Charlie Ricca, the Mafia’s man in San Francisco. Handsome, ostensibly affable, a stereotypical glad-hander. Natty dresser, full head of iron-gray hair, sparkling blue eyes, big grin. Charlie Ricca, mobster, always seen at the head of his entourage.

“Yes.” It was a cautious monosyllable. “I’ve heard of Ricca.”

“Okay. Tonight, you be where we can call you. And your girlfriend, too. Both of you.”

“Listen, Tony, she’s in no shape to—”

“Give me a phone number for tonight.”

“Well, Jesus, it’s—” Helplessly, he gave him Paula’s number.

“Is that your office?”

“No—Christ—I already told you, I’m staying with—”

“Okay. I’ve got to get off. Remember, it’s Charlie Ricca. Got it?”

“Yes, I’ve got it.”

“All right.” The line clicked, went dead.

“I
S IT THE MONEY
, Alan? Is that it?” In the question, there was an unmistakable undertone of accusation. Paula had spent last night in the anteroom of hell. She couldn’t bear the thought of returning, risking the same terrible trauma.

“It’s—” He shook his head doggedly. Then, earnestly: “It’s everything. Sure, some of it’s the money. Seventy-five, a hundred thousand dollars—I’d be a hypocrite if I denied it. But, Jesus, this guy should be punished for what he did to you and Angela.”

“The police punish criminals, Alan. Law enforcement. Not private detectives.”

“This whole thing, right from the beginning, has been outside the law,” he answered. “I’ve always known that.
You’ve
always known that.”

“But it’s Louise’s decision, if she wants them punished. Not yours.”

“Yeah, well …” He sighed heavily, regretfully shook his head. “Well, the truth is, it seems to be the Mafia’s decision now. Apparently the head man—Benito Cella, I guess—has decreed that Louise can have the jewels, no problem. So when these Chinese gangsters copped the jewels, that’s now seen as a challenge to the Mafia. Plus, a Mafia soldier was murdered, never mind that he was probably playing a double game. It’s—” Bernhardt gestured, threw the ethics question up for grabs. “It’s like these goddam spy novels. Nothing’s what it seems.”

They sat at either end of Paula’s living room couch, each twisted to face the other. Paula’s legs were tucked up beneath her robe. There were dark smudges of fatigue under her eyes and tension lines around her mouth. Her voice was roughened with fatigue. Both of them, Bernhardt knew, were exhausted. And, worse, they were in disagreement. Perhaps serious disagreement. Would this be their first fight?

Finally Paula spoke: “It’s the money you took from Bacardo. That’s when it all started, for you.”

“That’s not really true. It started when Angela called. And I distinctly remember that you—”

Paula’s door buzzer sounded. Bernhardt’s eyes flew to the door; yes, the dead bolt was in place.

“Don’t answer it,” Paula whispered. Also fixed on the door, her eyes were wide.

“Paula, I’ve got to answer it. I don’t have a choice.”

“It’s them. The Mafia.” They were standing now, both of them facing the door.

He stepped close, touched her arm. “Go into the bedroom. Let me talk to them.”

“I’ll go into the bedroom—to get dressed.” She turned away, strode purposefully into the bedroom. Beneath the white terrycloth robe, the movement of her body, taut with indignation, was incredibly provocative.

Once more the buzzer sounded. Longer. More insistently.
Was
it the Mafia? He’d given Bacardo Paula’s phone number, not her address.

“Just a minute.” He went to the coatrack, slipped on the light poplin jacket that would conceal the .357 still holstered at his belt. As he went to the door he checked the time: 8:40. A little more than two hours had elapsed since he’d talked to Bacardo.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Charlie Ricca.” The voice sounded casually matter-of-fact: a neighbor, come to visit.

“Just a minute.” Bernhardt retracted the dead bolt, released the lock. He drew a long, deep breath. Then, with the .357 loose in the spring holster, he turned the knob, opened the door.

Yes, it was Charlie Ricca. The tabloid image was definitive: the pink-jowled face glowing with health, the jovial blue eyes snapping, the thick gray hair meticulously styled with a Hollywood flair—and the affable, photogenic smile. Only the clothing was unfamiliar. Instead of a thousand-dollar suit and a hundred-dollar tie, Ricca wore a designer leather jacket, cavalry twill trousers, and beautifully burnished ankle-high desert boots. The two men standing behind him also wore leather jackets.

“Mr. Bernhardt? Alan Bernhardt?” As he spoke, Ricca extended a thick, muscular hand. “Charlie Ricca.” As they shook hands he said, “You’re expecting us. Right?”

“Yes … right.” Bernhardt stepped back, gestured the three men inside. In the small, delicately furnished living room, the three men in their bulky leather jackets projected an aura of impassive power. Ricca was a short man, thickly built. The other two men were bigger and taller. The three men together evoked an aura from a bygone era: two impassive, stone-eyed Nazi storm troopers and their quick-witted, personable officer.

“This is Jimmy.” Ricca gestured to one of the men, who nodded and smiled. Incongruously, Jimmy’s smile and his lowered eyes suggested a certain shyness.

“And this is Al.” Unsmiling, the other man nodded once, then looked away.

“Would you—” Bernhardt cleared his throat, began again: “Would you like to sit down?”

Ricca looked at his watch, then nodded. He took the room’s most comfortable armchair, gesturing the other two men to the sofa. Bernhardt sat facing Ricca, who crossed his legs, adjusted his trouser creases, and smiled at him. Beneath his leather jacket Ricca wore a western shirt with pearl buttons.

“So you’re a private eye.” The remark was an expression of both amusement and easygoing condescension. It was the same mix of reactions that Bernhardt often got from the police.

When Bernhardt chose not to reply, Ricca shrugged, saying, “Well, Tony Bacardo seems to think you’re all right. That’s good enough for me.”

Using as much acting skill as he could muster to lace the single word with irony, Bernhardt said, “Thanks.” As, suddenly, a flash of insight illuminated the incongruity of the scene: a photogenic mobster, two dead-eyed thugs, and himself seated in Paula’s bandbox Victorian living room, making small talk. How had it happened?

There was, of course, a one-word answer: money. And the companion word: greed.

“Tony said a woman saw the guy,” Ricca said. “So is this her place?” As he spoke he looked at the closed bedroom door.

Bernhardt nodded. “This is her place. She’s getting dressed. Last night she was teargassed and kidnapped. Then she was handcuffed to a goddam water pipe, she and Angela. So I don’t want her to—”

“Who’s Angela?” Ricca interrupted abruptly.

“Angela Rabb.” He paused. Then, low-keyed, for maximum impact: “Carlo Venezzio’s granddaughter.”

“Ah …” Ricca nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, I see.”

Watching the other man’s reaction, Bernhardt realized that, yes, Carlo Venezzio’s reach extended beyond the grave. Every discipline had its pantheon of deities.

“So can both of them, the women, identify this Chinaman?”

“Yes. But—”

The door to the bedroom opened. Paula was dressed in a sweater, jeans, and slippers. She hadn’t bothered with makeup. Ignoring the other two men, Bernhardt introduced her to Ricca, who rose to his feet, politely offered his chair. Coldly, she declined. Bernhardt began again: “But I don’t want Paula to get involved in whatever you’re going to—”

“Hey, no problem.” Smiling, Ricca reached in a side pocket, produced a photograph, handed it to Paula. “Is that the guy?”

She hardly glanced at the photo before she nodded. “Yes—that’s him.” Her voice was wan, but her eyes were dark with hatred. On his feet, Bernhardt took the photo from her. It was a grainy telephoto shot of a Chinese man standing with his arms folded. He was leaning against a sports car, staring off into the distance. He was slightly frowning, as if he were impatiently waiting for someone. Yes, the man in the photo fitted Paula’s earlier description: regular features, medium build, well dressed, seemingly suave and self-confident.

“Who is he?” Bernhardt asked.

“His name is Brian Chin,” Ricca answered. “He came over here from Hong Kong maybe eight years ago, something like that. He’s kind of a free-lancer, does a little drugs, a little loan-sharking. The old Chinese guys, the regular families, they don’t have anything to do with Chin. He doesn’t give a shit. When Tony called me about all this, I right away thought it was Chin. He’s very smooth, very smart. And he’s got an organization. He takes these guys from Hong Kong, doesn’t pay them shit. And girls, too. It’s the same with girls. He gets them from Hong Kong. Beautiful girls, never more than twenty years old.” Smiling meaningfully, he looked at Paula. “These girls, they—”

Bernhardt cut in angrily. “Okay, so he’s the one. Brian Chin. Now what?”

Amused, locker-room-lascivious now, Ricca lazily shifted his gaze to Bernhardt, then back to Paula. “Ah … so that’s how it is, eh?”

Grimly, Bernhardt made no reply.

Ricca allowed himself another moment of supercilious amusement aimed at Bernhardt. Then, suddenly, he rose to his feet. “Okay, let’s see what happens. I’ve got some more guys downstairs, and three cars.” He looked again at Paula, smiled, bowed mockingly before, all business now, he turned to Bernhardt. “You carrying a gun?”

“Yes.”

“A permit?”

“Of course.”

“What kind of a gun?”

“It’s a Ruger revolver. Three fifty-seven.”

“Okay.” Ricca nodded approval, then strode to the door. “Okay. We’ll go downstairs, see where we stand.”

“I
’D JUST AS SOON
we weren’t doing this, you want the truth,” Ricca said. “The way I see it, Tony Bacardo fucked up. Maybe Carlo Venezzio fucked up, too; that’s not for me to say. But anyhow, when the don died, Tony should’ve gone right to Don Benito, got the word, up or down. Tony should’ve had more sense than to come out here all by himself, chasing his tail. He goes to Don Benito, lays it all out. Then he brings a crew with him, does the job right.”

Bernhardt made no reply. They’d been talking alone for almost an hour in the rear seat of one of Ricca’s cars. The car was parked on Grant Street, in Chinatown. Point by point, Ricca had insisted on knowing everything, even the smallest detail—including the two gems and the one gold coin, safely zipped in an inside pocket of Bernhardt’s poplin jacket. Twice during the last hour one of Ricca’s men had come to tap on the car. Ricca had gotten out, conversed briefly with his underling, then returned to sit beside Bernhardt.