Find Her a Grave (33 page)

“What I’m saying,” Ricca continued, “is that Bacardo comes out here, makes a mess. Then he went back to New York and did what he should’ve already done, which is touch base with Cella. So now …” Ricca spread his hands. “Now we’ve got to clean up the mess. The problem with that being, tomorrow at this time there could be a goddam war here. And all because Bacardo didn’t—”

“A war?”

Once more, Ricca’s hands expressed aggravated impatience, protesting the vicissitudes of the executive life. “If the word gets out that Chin whacked one of our people and stole from us—stole big—then we don’t have any choice. One of our guys goes down, somebody pays. A guy steals a dollar from us, we get ten dollars back. There’s no other way.” Faintly smiling, he turned in the leather seat to face Bernhardt. “That’s why we’re having this little chat. Chin took the first shot. Now it’s our turn.”

“You mean—?” He cleared his throat. “You mean me, too?”

“Sure I mean you. Christ, this guy took a fortune off you and kidnapped your lady friend. Am I wrong?”

“No. But—”

“You called Tony, asked for help.”

“I told him what happened,” Bernhardt said. “But I—”

“Yeah, well, however it happened, the guys in New York want it fixed. And that’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to—”

Two taps on the roof of the car. Ricca swung his door open, got out of the car, let the door swing closed as he listened to the man called Al. Speaking in low voices, the two men gradually moved away from the car as they continued to talk, their backs to Bernhardt, heads bowed, concentrating. The pattern of their conversation was plain in pantomime: first Al gave Ricca important information, then Ricca gave Al long, detailed orders. Next Ricca required that Al repeat the orders he’d just received. Finally, in agreement, they nodded, then turned away from each other. Back in the car, Ricca spoke to Bernhardt with the same intensity he’d just focused on Al.

“Everything’s all set. What’s happened, four of our guys’re over at this Chin’s house. He lives on Russian Hill, just an ordinary house, nothing special. He’s got a wife and two kids—young kids, eight, ten, something like that. And his mother lives there, too, in an in-law apartment. Chin’s got a restaurant here in Chinatown. Great place, first-class food, not too expensive, considering what you get. He’s got an office in the back of the restaurant, behind the kitchen. The only way to get to the office is through the restaurant. The back door is steel, and the windows look like jail windows. They’ve even got bulletproof glass. Chin always has at least two guys with him. They’re like Al and Jimmy—assistants, you might say. Anyone wants to see Chin, he’s got to go through the kitchen, get past those guys—those guys, and a couple of TV cameras. See?”

Bernhardt nodded. “I see.”

“Sometimes those guys help out in the kitchen, if Chin’s there and the restaurant is busy. Otherwise, they just hang around. It’s a pretty good layout,” Ricca conceded. “Very secure. Like I say, Chin’s smart. But, anyhow, what we’re going to do—” Ricca broke off, gestured to Al and Jimmy, who had come to stand in front of the car. At the gesture, the two men got into the front seat, Jimmy behind the wheel. As the car’s engine turned over, Jimmy spoke over his shoulder: “Everything’s set.”

“Okay,” Ricca answered. “Good.” As they pulled away from the curb, Ricca spoke to Bernhardt: “We’ll be at Chin’s restaurant in a minute or two. We’ll pull up right in front. You’ll go in alone. You’ll—”

“Alone?”

Impatiently, Ricca nodded. “Sure, alone. That’s the only way it’ll work, the only way they’ll let you in. By the way, you’d better give Al your gun. Otherwise, they’ll just take it off you. See?”

Aware of his growing apprehension, the fearful certainty that giving up his gun symbolized a lack of control, a surrender that could cost him his life, Bernhardt unclipped the holster and handed over the gun. The man called Al accepted the gun with chilling indifference.

“You walk into the restaurant,” Ricca said, “and you give your name to the maître d’, whatever, and you say you want to see Brian Chin. Tell them it’s business. That’s all: just say it’s business. Be very polite, but—you know—very definite. Pretty soon they’ll take you back to the kitchen, where the two guys will pat you down, maybe ask for some identification. When you see Chin, you tell him to call home. That’s all you have to do.”

“Your men will be there, at Chin’s house. Is that it?”

Ricca smiled. “That’s it. They’re there now, no problem. Apparently the wife forgot to set the alarms.” The smile widened. “I love that. Chin’s an electronics freak, everything wired. So then his wife forgets to push the button.”

“What’ll Chin hear on the phone?”

“That’s the beauty of it.” The smug smile was still in place. “He’ll hear what you heard from him: turn over the jewels, and everything’s cool. Otherwise, we chop off some fingers. You like it?”

Unable to reply, his answer choked by the conflicting surge of emotions, Bernhardt could only stare straight ahead. He was aware that, suddenly, he was holding himself so rigidly that the muscles of his back and shoulders had locked up.

Exactly what he’d heard …

He and Brian Chin, together in Chin’s office. Chin, calling his home. Chin, opening a desk drawer, withdrawing a pistol. Those were the images of fear, of terror.

But there was another image: the swath of jewels, a sparkling crescent that spread across his desk like multicolored bits of cold fire.

And—yes—the final image: the screams of two Chinese children as their mother’s fingers fell to the floor. Their mother’s fingers, or their fingers.

As Bernhardt began to shake his head, he realized that Ricca was speaking again. Almost lost in the confusion of blood pounding in his ears, the other man’s words were hardly audible: “He calls home and gets the word, then you tell him to get the jewels, which are probably in his safe at the office. Or maybe they’re in his house, better yet. Then you bring him out to the car. He goes in the back, between me and you. You and Al pat him down, then put him in beside me. Then you get in the car, in back. Got it?”

Was he nodding? How could he know, since his mind and his muscles had disconnected, left him helpless to—

“If his two people come out with him,” Ricca was saying, “then everything’s off, it all hits the fan. Be sure and tell him that. Tell him if there’s any shooting, then his wife and kids pay.”

Without realizing that he meant to reply, unaware of his own words, Bernhardt protested: “You’re sending me into a goddam trap, a one-way ticket. You—Christ—why don’t
you
phone Chin?”

Ricca shook his head. “This way there’s more clout. It’s like if one general wants another general to surrender. He doesn’t call the other general on the phone. He sends a go-between. A high-level officer, like that. It’s—you know—it’s protocol.”

W
ATCHING CHIN WITH A
director’s eye, Bernhardt could only admire the other man’s expertise. Even the smallest nuance enhanced the image of the inscrutable Oriental villain. The eyes, the hands, the body language, the voice—everything worked. The phone call had taken ninety seconds, no more. During the entire time, sitting behind the elaborately carved ebony table that served as his desk, Chin’s black eyes, utterly without expression, had never left Bernhardt’s face. Now, with elaborate delicacy, Chin replaced his phone in its cradle. As, still, his eyes were inexorably locked with Bernhardt’s.

When he finally spoke, Chin’s voice was very soft and precise, projecting the icy self-control that had never deserted him: “Before I decide what to do, I must know whether Charlie Ricca is free-lancing, as opposed to acting on orders from the Mafia.”

“I can’t—” Bernhardt felt his throat close, forcing him to begin again: “I can’t tell you that. All I can tell you is that there’s a car outside with three men in it. They’ll take you to your home. That’s where you give them the jewels.”

As if he accepted the statement, Chin nodded thoughtfully, almost dreamily. Then his gaze sharpened, focused on Bernhardt.

“I could, of course, kill you. Or I could hold you hostage, as I did the two young women. The only difference being—” Benignly, Chin smiled. “The only difference being that, secretly, I would have agonized if I’d had to order the women maimed.”

Bernhardt made no response.

“You’re a brave man, Mr. Bernhardt, to come here like this.” Gravely, Chin nodded approval. “Yes—very brave. Or else very foolhardy.”

“I’ve always thought that bravery and foolhardiness are two sides of the same coin.”

“That’s bravery in the heat of battle. Doing this—coming here like this—that was done after careful calculation.” A meaningful pause. Then: “In cold blood, one might say.”

“To be honest, I didn’t have much choice.” Hearing himself say it, Bernhardt was bemused by his own words. Why was he confiding in this suave, smooth-talking sadist who was dressed in a double-breasted suit and spoke like an imitation Harvard graduate?

“How is it that you don’t have a choice?”

“I took Mafia money to help Louise get those jewels.” And, having said it, he could only continue: “The Mafia doesn’t forget. I’ve learned that.”

“I do not forget, either. You understand?”

Once more, Bernhardt remained silent.

“I feel a little sorry for you, Mr. Bernhardt. From now on, wherever you go, there could be someone following, with orders to kill you.”

“Orders from you?”

Chin only smiled. Then he rose to his feet behind the desk. He went to a framed Chinese landscape hinged to the wall. From a small wall safe he took a black silk pouch secured by a golden cord—surely the jewels. He closed the safe, twirled the dial, swung the landscape back in place. Holding the pouch in the palm of his right hand, Chin gestured to a steel door set in the wall behind his desk. “That door leads to the alley. I would have no difficulty leaving by that route. Four of my men in two cars would enter the alley. They would be heavily armed. When they were ready, I would take these”—he bounced the jewels in his hand—“and leave. No one would be able to stop me, least of all Charlie Ricca.”

Also standing, Bernhardt nodded. “I believe you could.”

“I’d kill you, of course, before I left.”

Bernhardt felt the center of himself fall away. But, as if the sensation were stage fright, those last desolate moments before the actor steps onto the stage, he felt himself retreating into a let’s-pretend persona: the cold, controlled investigator, in command. Saying quietly: “If you kill me, you’ve still got to deal with Ricca. And the law, too.” He looked meaningfully at his watch. The time was eleven-twenty. Ricca’s deadline was eleven-thirty.

“You’d better decide,” he said. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

Chin smiled, then spoke reflectively: “When I turned thirty, I decided it was time to marry and have a family. As you doubtless know, my business interests include bringing people from Hong Kong.” The small smile widened slightly. “Call it the import business, if you like. One aspect of the business is women—very young, very beautiful young women. Therefore, when I decided to marry, it was natural that I would choose one of these women. Her name is Gah Bou, which means Little Fawn. She bore me two children, a boy and a girl. I’m very fond of these children. If Ricca should harm Gah Bou, I could bear it. But if those children were harmed, all because of a bag of jewels—” Still smiling slightly, perhaps wistfully, he looked down at the silk pouch. Then, to Bernhardt: “I’m ready. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready.”

W
ITH HIS EYES ON
the jewels, Ricca spoke to Bernhardt: “Do you know how many there’re supposed to be?”

“Two hundred thirty-seven jewels,” Bernhardt answered. “And eighteen gold coins.”

“Okay …” Ricca gestured to the jewels, which were piled on a newspaper spread on a chrome-and-formica kitchen table. “You count them. Count them good, because you’re responsible.”

Bernhardt turned to Brian Chin, who stood beside the table. In his impeccably cut double-breasted suit, Chin looked incongruous in the brightly lit kitchen. “Have you got a ruler?”

Chin moved his head to his wife, a silent command. She went to a drawer and produced a plastic ruler. Bernhardt thanked her, then turned his attention to the jewels. The four of them—Bernhardt, Ricca, Chin and Gah Bou—all stood around the table. Ricca’s eyes were fixated on the jewels, avidly watching them reflect the light as Bernhardt counted. Also watching, Chin stood impassively, arms calmly folded. Jimmy, one of Ricca’s men, stood in the doorway of the kitchen. The .45 caliber Colt automatic Jimmy held was lowered, trained on Chin’s legs. Al and another of Ricca’s men were in the living room, guarding Chin’s two children and his mother. In the two cars parked at the curb three more Mafia gunmen stood watch.

During the time it took Bernhardt to complete his count, no one in the kitchen changed position. From the living room, Bernhardt heard a child’s voice. It was the boy, asking an unintelligible question about his guard’s gun. The guard’s answer was also unintelligible.

Finally Bernhardt nodded, spoke to Ricca: “They’re all there.”

“You sure?”

“Shall I count them again?”

Impatiently, Ricca shook his head. Then he spoke to Chin’s wife: “You go into the living room, sit with your kids.”

She looked at Chin, who nodded. She turned, left the room. She wore blue jeans and a gray cashmere sweater. The movement of her perfectly proportioned body was superb.

“Okay.” Ricca pointed to the jewels, spoke to Bernhardt. “Put ’em in the bag.” Ricca eyed Bernhardt’s waist-length poplin field jacket with its elastic waistband. “Will they fit in a pocket?”

“I don’t think so.” But, a surprise, the black silk pouch could be carried in one of the jacket’s two bellows pockets.

“Ah, good.” Satisfied, Ricca nodded. Then, as if the disappearance of the pouch had liberated him, brought him back to the business at hand, Ricca turned to Chin, spoke briskly:

“What we’re going to do now,” he said, “is we’re going to go outside, me and Jimmy and you and Bernhardt. I’ve got three men outside, in two cars. There’s a Lincoln and an Oldsmobile. Two of my men are in the front seat of the Lincoln. The third man is behind the wheel of the Olds. Bernhardt’ll get in the back seat of the Lincoln. You’ll get in beside him. I’ll get in beside you. Jimmy—” As Ricca spoke, Jimmy came to attention. “Jimmy’ll get in the front seat of the Olds, beside the driver. Al—” Ricca gestured to the living room. In response, Chin nodded. Yes, he knew Al’s name. “Al’ll stay here. Another guy stays, too.”