Bacardo nodded, but made no reply. The funeral procession was on the expressway now, picking up speed.
“So,” Cella said, his voice rising on a note of crisp finality. “So you don’t want Don Carlo’s family. So how about coming to work for me?” Smiling cordially, he turned to face the other man squarely. Signifying, Bacardo knew, that they’d come down to it, the make-or-break moment, no turning back—no mistakes allowed.
“You might not want to move up, Tony. But I do. I’ll say it right out: capo di tutti. And for that, I need a new number one. Sal, he’s fine. He’s honest, and he’s got heart. But he doesn’t have respect, not like you. Sal’s a second stringer.”
Also turned to face his companion squarely, Bacardo nodded: a calm, measured response. “Sure. That’s great. I’d like that.”
“Okay, then. It’s a deal.”
Solemnly they shook hands. Then they embraced, the Mafia seal of brotherhood. Finally they drew back, and, as if they were embarrassed by the necessary expression of affection, both men once more turned to face front.
“What about Sal?” Bacardo asked.
“There’s a good spot for him down in Atlantic City. It’s all set.” As he took time to reflect, Cella’s colorless eyes wandered. Then: “Your wife, she’s going to the cemetery. Right?”
Puzzled, Bacardo nodded. Repeating: “Yeah. Right.”
“The reason I asked, I’ll give Sal a ride back into town, after the ceremony. I’ll give him the word then. He likes Atlantic City. The ocean—he’s crazy about the ocean. Plus, his girlfriend’s giving him a hard time. So it’ll be fine. No problem.”
Bacardo smiled, decided no comment was required.
“Let’s give it a week or two, give Sal a chance to get used to the idea.”
“Maybe two weeks might be better.”
“Two weeks is fine. Get on that boat of yours, take a cruise.” As Cella said it, the limousine slowed for the expressway exit.
“I was thinking maybe I’d go out to California for a few days. A week, maybe. Then maybe I’ll come back, take a cruise. There’s something I’ve got to take care of out in California. Maybe it’ll only take a day or two. Then I’ll come back, maybe take a ten-day cruise.” Pleased at the prospect, Bacardo nodded. Effortlessly, it seemed, everything was working out.
“Listen, whatever time you need, no problem. Just—you know—keep in touch.”
“Fine.”
“And listen.” Cella touched the other man’s arm, smiled into his eyes, the well-known Cella charm. “Listen, call me Benito, okay? Maybe not—you know—in public. But there’s just the two of us, it’s Tony and Benito.”
2:40 P.M. EDT
CELLA WAITED FOR THE glass partition to rise. Then, gesturing to the limousine’s tiny bar: “How about a drink, Sal? Don Carlo, rest in peace.” A twisting of Cella’s thin lips signified that the toast was ironic.
“Are you having one?”
“Today,” Cella answered, “I’m having one.”
“Then I’ll have one. Scotch on the rocks, please.”
Cella made the drinks, handed one to Salvatore Perrone, a small, formal ceremony. Both men saluted each other, then gravely drank. Staring reflectively into the depths of his glass, Cella allowed a moment of silence to pass as the limousine waited its turn to join the procession leaving the cemetery. Finally he said, “Tony isn’t interested in moving up.”
“I never thought he was,” Perrone answered. Like Cella, Perrone was a slightly built man of medium height. His hair was sparse, his face was narrow and deeply lined. A knife scar ran from the corner of his right eye down to the point of his chin. He spoke in a low, expressionless voice. Whatever emotion Perrone felt, it was never reflected in his dark, watchful eyes. He never laughed, almost never smiled. Unlike Cella, Perrone was visibly uncomfortable in his rented morning clothes.
“And you don’t want Carlo’s family.”
Sipping his drink, Perrone considered. “The other dons, I don’t think they’d let it happen, you putting me in there when you move up to capo di tutti. You’d have too much power. Every vote, you’d have two of them locked up—two out of five.”
Cella nodded, pretended to consider the point as he sipped the Scotch. The limousine was inching forward, still caught in traffic. Finally he said, “I’m going to think about it. Don Carlo dies, I show a profit. There should be some way for you to come out, too. Maybe a family of your own, out of town.”
Perrone made no response, neither by word nor gesture. This, he knew, was only a probe: Cella moving the chess pieces.
Cella finished his drink, put the empty glass in the rack, smiled reflectively. His voice was thoughtfully measured as he said, “It’s funny, about people. You and Tony, neither of you’re interested in moving up.”
Perrone shrugged. “It’s like animals, the animal kingdom. There’s always got to be a top dog. Some guys—you and Don Carlo—it’s natural for you to fight for the top job. But me and Tony, we’re not interested. Simple as that.”
“I suppose you’re right. My folks, they could never understand why I even went into the organization.” He smiled, adding, “Maybe it’s just as well that they didn’t understand.”
Making no reply, Perrone finished his own drink, put his glass in the rack. The limousine was moving faster now; ahead the expressway overpass was coming into view. For a time, the two men rode in silence, each at ease with the other, no conversation required. Finally Cella spoke:
“About Tony. There’s something going on with Tony.”
Perrone turned to look at the other man’s face, but made no response, let nothing show. Over the years, Perrone had learned to watch—and wait.
“When I took Tony to the cemetery,” Cella said, “I had two things on my mind. I wanted to—you know—show respect for Carlo. I mean, I’m sure not going to ride with Maria, that bitch. So that left Tony. You see.”
“I see. Sure.”
“Also, I wanted to make sure he wasn’t thinking about taking over the don’s family.”
No reply, only a watchful silence.
“But,” Cella said, speaking softly, deliberately, “something’s going on with Tony. I want you to check it out.”
Still no reply.
“When Venezzio had his first heart attack—that was almost five years ago, now—the first thing he did, of course, he had Tony G. taken out, to show he was still boss.”
“Tony G. was living on borrowed time, the son of a bitch.”
“I’m not saying he wasn’t. But the thing is, Tony G. was a capo, just like you. And when a don wants a capo whacked, the four other dons have to go along. That’s written in stone.”
“Which is why Don Carlo did it. To show it wasn’t written in stone, not for him.”
“Okay, but why’d he have Frankie Maranzano whacked?” It was a delicately timed question, suggesting an intriguing puzzle.
Somberly, Perrone nodded—and said nothing. Some questions were too dangerous to answer.
“A year after his heart attack,” Cella said, “give or take, Maranzano saw Venezzio. Alone. No Tony, nobody but Venezzio and Frankie, out in the yard. Everyone figured it was because Frankie was just made capo, and Don Carlo wanted to show that Frankie was in, had some juice with the big man. Politics, in other words.”
Perrone nodded—and waited.
“But then, ten days later, whatever, Frankie gets whacked. It was the same thing as Tony G. Venezzio gave the word, and Frankie goes down, never mind what the council said. Or, more like it, didn’t say.”
“You didn’t know about it, know it was coming?” Puzzled, Perrone frowned. “The council didn’t know?”
Silently, Cella shook his head. “No, they didn’t know.”
“Everyone figured Frankie made a big mistake, maybe before he made capo. Everyone figured that had to be it.”
Cella allowed another delicately timed silence to pass. Then, softly: “The mistake Frankie made was going out to California, to take car
e of something for Venezzio. That’s the only mistake Frankie made.”
Perrone’s frown deepened. “California?”
“You didn’t know about that?”
Perrone shook his head. No, he hadn’t heard.
“Don Carlo sent Frankie out to the West Coast. Frankie was there for a couple of days. When he got back, he went straight to Venezzio. They went out into the yard again, talked for a few minutes. Don Carlo gave Frankie the big hug. A couple of days later Tony and Frankie had dinner, and Tony gave Frankie a ride home. Good-bye Frankie.”
“Frankie must’ve screwed up out in California.”
“Either that, or else Don Carlo didn’t want anyone to know why Frankie went to California. Ever.”
Judiciously, Perrone nodded. “Yeah—Venezzio did that before.”
Now it was Cella’s turn to remain silent while Perrone considered the possibilities. Finally Perrone said, “So what’re you thinking, about Frankie’s trip?”
“I think he was setting up something for Don Carlo. Something secret, maybe a West Coast connection for running money through Las Vegas. But whatever it was, I figure Frankie tried to cut himself in, maybe cut Don Carlo out.”
“Jesus.” Perrone shook his head. “I don’t know. Frankie wasn’t any genius. But he wasn’t that dumb.”
“Well, something sure as hell went wrong for Frankie.”
“Huh …” Perrone let his eyes wander thoughtfully away. The limousine had slowed to a crawl; ahead, outlined on the rising arch of an overpass, the late-afternoon expressway traffic was bumper-to-bumper. It could be another hour before they got back to Manhattan.
Another hour that Carlo Venezzio had been in the ground.
Meaning that, for another hour, Cella had been capo di tutti, with no one to challenge him.
Meaning that now, Cella was giving him his first order: find out why Frankie Maranzano died. Find out what he’d done in California years ago that had cost him his life: a first-class hit, no expense spared. Jimmy Hoffa, say hello to Frankie Maranzano, rest in peace.
“What you said about Tony, something going on with him,” Perrone said. “What’d you mean?”
“I mean,” Cella answered, “that maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after, Tony’s going out to the Coast. Just like Frankie did, four years ago.”
“And you want me …” He decided to let it go unfinished, leaving the last line to Cella:
“I want you to find out what Tony does out there. Don’t stir things up. But contact our people out there, buy some drinks, keep your eyes open. Take as long as you need. And keep in touch. Anything you find out—anything—give it to me, right away.”
Perrone nodded. “Right away.”
“This is a sensitive time, Sal. You understand that.”
“Yes, I understand that.”
FRIDAY, APRIL 20th
6 P.M., PDT
“IS THIS LOUISE?”
Yes, it was his voice. Tony Bacardo. “A week, ten days,” he’d said. Since his last call, this was the eighth day.
“Yes. Tony?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in San Francisco. I got in about an hour ago.”
“Well, where’re you staying?”
“At a hotel. I just checked in, got settled.”
What should she say? What was she meant to say? Eight days ago, he’d told her he would call again. But instead of calling from New York, he’d come to San Francisco.
Three words, her father had told her to memorize.
How many words had Tony Bacardo memorized?
“Louise?”
“Y-yes.”
“Is everything okay?”
There was a risk for the don, he’d said. A big risk.
In the past eight days, the words had been burned into her consciousness, a constant refrain. If there was a risk for her father, then there must be a risk for her.
Mafia gold … another refrain, like an MTV title.
“Louise?” Insistently now. Demanding an answer.
A big risk …
“Yes. I—sorry—I’m just surprised. I mean, you said you’d call. But I didn’t think …” She couldn’t decide how to finish it.
“I’m at the Hilton, downtown. It’s six o’clock. I’ll rent a car, and be at your house in about an hour. You’re on Thirty-ninth Avenue. Right?”
“Y-yes. Thirty-ninth near Noriega.”
“What’s that? A house? An apartment?”
“It’s a house.”
“All right. I’ll see you about seven. Will you be alone?”
“I—there’s Angela. My daughter. She’s been staying with me.”
“How old is Angela?”
“She’s twenty.”
“Does she know about this, why I’m here?”
“I told her a little.”
“A little …” In the two words, disapproval was plain.
“I—she’s the only one I can talk to about it. When he died, I told her about it. Some of it.”
“But the words—does she know the words?”
“No, I didn’t tell her the words.”
But I want to tell her, she almost said. I’ve got to tell someone. I’m scared, and I’ve got to tell someone.
“Have you had dinner?”
“We’re just ready to sit down.”
“All right. I’ll see you in about an hour.” The line clicked, went dead.
7:05 P.M., PDT
FABRESE WATCHED THE FORD Taurus come up the ramp. The driver was a young Chicano girl, black eyes, black hair, her face a pert, dusky oval. She stopped the car in front of him, set the parking brake, smiled as she got out of the car, held the door for him. She wore a Hertz uniform. Beneath the short brown skirt her legs were smooth and muscular. How many propositions a week would a girl like that get, bringing rental cars up the ramp to visiting tourists?
Fabrese slid in behind the wheel, decided to give the girl a dollar—decided to smile when she thanked him. Before he got under way, Fabrese spread the map of San Francisco on the seat beside him. At the Hertz office, they’d marked his route with a yellow highlighter: left on Post, right on Stockton, right on Geary. Follow Geary all the way to Thirty-ninth Avenue.
At seven o’clock, the traffic in downtown San Francisco was light. The cars moved more slowly than they moved in Manhattan, and the drivers had better manners.
Four years ago, with only a few days to live, Maranzano could have driven this same route. Maranzano, less than a month a capo—Maranzano, with the whole world on a string, a big red balloon, his for the taking.
Maranzano, with only a few days to live.
Maranzano had still been in his thirties when they’d made him a capo.
Young when he made capo.
Young when he died.
A trip to the prison, paying his respects, getting the Mafia hug from Don Carlo. Then the trip here, to California.
Then the dinner with Tony Bacardo, Maranzano’s last dinner. Rest in peace.
California …
See California, and die.
Fowler’s Landing, Maranzano had written on the airline routing slip. Janice Frazer.
How many had put it together, figured it out?
For years, there’d been the whispers: Don Carlo’s two families, one family for the flash, one family for fun. Maria, herself the daughter of a Mafia don, royalty marrying royalty. Maria, beautiful in black, standing at the head of Venezzio’s grave, watching the casket being lowered into the ground.
Janice Frazer …
Until he’d seen it written on Maranzano’s airline routing slip he’d never heard the name. Until Maranzano had died, three days after he’d come back from California, Fabrese had hardly been curious. But then it had been like a blinding-bright searchlight, suddenly switched on. Maranzano had gone to see Venezzio, gotten his orders. Then Maranzano had gone to Bacardo, picked up a small red nylon flight bag with something inside, not too heavy, not too light. Maranz
ano had carried the nylon bag and his suitcase to the airport, flown to California. Three days later, he was back. The next day, Fabrese had driven him to the prison again, to see Venezzio. It had been a cordial meeting, in the prison yard. Meaning that, yes, Maranzano had done the job, done what Venezzio had told him to do with the package.
Meaning that, because the job was so secret, Maranzano had to die. “Mafia insurance,” it was called: the silence that only death could insure.
Maranzano, dead.
Venezzio, dead.
Meaning that, now, he could be the only one alive who knew where Maranzano had gone four years ago.
Where he’d gone, and why.
Except that, at first, there’d been no why. Only where, and when. Janice Frazer had been a name that meant nothing; Fowler’s Landing had been just as meaningless.
It had been an accident, nothing more, that had given him the first clue. Abe Zwillman, eighty-five years old, the last of the Jewish tough guys, had been talking about the old days: the wars of the thirties, when Charlie Lucky and Vito Genovese had shot their way to the top, then changed everything, put the organization on track, made it what it was today, big business.
For Abe, everyone bought the drinks. Everyone bought, and then everyone listened to Abe’s stories, the good old days, buy a gun, make your bones, buy a striped suit with wide lapels, watch them smile and tip their hats. It had been just after Maranzano had died. As always, Abe had been telling the old stories. Then there’d come a phone call, orders for three soldiers who were listening to the old man spin his tales. Leaving just Fabrese and Abe Zwillman, who was still talking, still remembering the old days. It had been Fabrese’s chance, and he’d taken it, asked the question: What about Fowler’s Landing? What about Janice Frazer?
“Fowler’s Landing?” Abe had asked, his leathery face creasing, puzzled. He’d never heard of Fowler’s Landing.
What about Janice Frazer?
“Ah …” Abe had nodded, swallowed his cheap red wine, the only kind he ever drank, nodded again. “Janice Frazer,” he’d said, his eyes losing focus, remembering. It had been almost forty years since Janice had come to town, had her baby, left town. Tony Eboli had been driving for Venezzio then—and Abe and Tony had been friends, drinking buddies. So when the time had come for Janice to leave New York, Tony had been the one who’d driven her to the train station.
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