Find Her a Grave

by Collin Wilcox

  He looked at his watch: eight-thirty.

  Seventy-five miles …

  In two hours he could be in Fowler’s Landing. But at ten-thirty, in a strange town, how could he hope to find the graveyard? In the dark, how could he find Janice Frazer’s grave? A stranger in a strange town, asking directions to the graveyard, then wandering among the headstones, flashlight and shovel in hand, looking for the grave with a fortune in jewels buried behind the headstone.

  My mother’s grave …

  For four years, Louise had known those three words. How often had she visited the grave in those four years?

  Six words …

  She’d already had three words, the most important words. What had she thought was the whole message? On top of the casket of my mother’s grave? At the foot of my mother’s grave? Ten feet north? Twenty feet south?

  He must know. First, before he did anything, made any decision, he must know what she’d done—what she’d done, what she’d tried to do, therefore what she might do.

  “It’s been four years,” he began. “You’ve been to visit her grave, in four years.”

  Hesitantly, cautiously, she nodded—once, then twice. She knew he was probing, calculating, deciding.

  “Did you see anything that made you think there was something buried behind her headstone? Fresh dirt, anything like that?”

  She frowned, considered, finally shook her head. But she’d lowered her eyes. What was it that he saw in her face, turned away from him now? Was it fear? Was it greed—the treasure, the closeness of it? Sometimes the sight of great wealth—stacks of money, handfuls of jewels—could turn men to stone. Stone men, with bright, burning eyes. Greedy men.

  Dead men.

  “You knew the jewels were there, somewhere near your mother’s grave.”

  “Yes,” she answered. But I couldn’t—” She faltered, began again: “There was no way I could try to get it. Even if I’d known where it was, I’d’ve been afraid.”

  Bacardo considered the answer, finally nodded. “Afraid, yeah—you’re smart to be afraid. In our organization, you know, nobody feathers his own nest, even the dons. They take what they need—what they want—and pass the rest on. So your father, he took a chance collecting those things for you.”

  She raised her eyes, looked at him fully. “Are we taking a chance, too?”

  “That much money—more than a million dollars—you’re taking a chance.” His voice was dead level; his eyes were dead calm.

  “Ah …” She nodded. Yes, there it was: the tremor of fear in the single word. And, yes, he could see fear shadowing her eyes now, working at her face.

  “There’s a don named Benito Cella—that’s the Cella family. Cella’s about sixty now, the same age as me. And he’ll be the capo di tutti now. The boss of bosses. Like your father was.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “Yes, I see.”

  “I was Don Carlo’s capo di capo—his chief of staff, you might say.” As he said it, he smiled to himself. Never before had he used those words: chief of staff.

  “So now,” he went on, “Don Benito has got to think about me. I can’t stay in the Venezzio family. The new don, he’d want his own capo di capo. So Cella, he’s going to move his own capo di capo—a man named Salvatore Perrone—out of town, set him up someplace else. Atlantic City, maybe, something like that. Then Cella’ll move me into Perrone’s spot. See?”

  Tentatively, she nodded.

  “So while Cella’s supposed to be making the arrangements, I’m supposed to be taking a vacation, taking a break, giving Don Benito a little room to maneuver.”

  “Yes …”

  “Except that people like me, in my line of work, there’s no such thing as a vacation. I mean, you want to go out to Las Vegas for a weekend, do some gambling, even that’s not a vacation. Because, see, you’d always be met by someone at the airport, and you’d stay at the right hotel—free—and you’d call a couple of people, buy some drinks. And when you do that, buy drinks, whatever, you talk business.” He spread his hands, shrugging. “It’s just the way it happens.”

  “Did—” She broke off, then ventured: “Did someone meet you when you came here? To San Francisco?”

  Holding her gaze, he shook his head. He spoke slowly, deliberately: “No one met me. But they know I’m here.”

  “Are they—do you think they’re following you?”

  Still speaking slowly, gravely: “They could be.”

  “Now? Right now?” Involuntarily, her eyes fled to the front entryway and the door.

  “If I go out of town, even for a day, I always tell someone where I’m going, where I’m staying.”

  “So …” Once more, her eyes moved, this time to the living room window that opened on the street. “So they could be following you.”

  “I’ve got a rental car, and I was careful, coming here. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “But if they do follow us, and they see us digging up the treasure, what’ll they do?”

  Instead of answering he said, “This Fowler’s Landing. What kind of a place is it? Is it on a main highway?”

  She shook her head. “No. It’s off by itself, one road into town, one road out. The delta, you know—it’s a strange place. No hills, not many trees. Just water everywhere you go, in channels, mostly. And fog. Almost every night, there’s fog. Thick, pea-soup fog.”

  “The graveyard where your mother’s buried—is it in town?”

  “On the outskirts, I’d say. North of town a mile or two.”

  “Let’s say we went there tomorrow afternoon. You’re carrying flowers to put on your mother’s grave. While you’re doing that, I’m digging.”

  As she heard him say it, an image of the graveyard materialized: overgrown and neglected, sad. Some of the gravestones were leaning, some had already toppled over. Her mother’s gravestone was one of the most ornate, a granite obelisk, paid for in cash from one of her father’s envelopes. There was an old-fashioned wrought-iron fence, and a gate to match. The road out from town bordered the graveyard on the west side. Beyond the graveyard the road continued on to a small settlement on Richardson’s Slough where sportfishermen could dock their small boats and buy bait or beer or sandwiches. On a Saturday afternoon in April, most of the traffic in Fowler’s Landing would be going on to Richardson’s Slough.

  “Well,” Bacardo was saying. “What d’you think?”

  She shook her head. “Someone would see us. The road out of town runs right along the fence.”

  “Then we’ll have to do it at night. Tomorrow night, or Sunday night.”

  “I—” Suddenly her throat closed. We, he’d said. We! “Will I go with you? Is that what you mean?”

  “You don’t want to go?” His dark, deep-set eyes watched her steadily.

  “I—” She couldn’t finish it. Did she want to go?

  “You’ll trust me with it? You’ll trust me to bring it back to you?” His face was unreadable. He was testing her. But why? Even if she went with him, she couldn’t keep him from taking the treasure. She had no gun—no man—only a daughter that she must protect from harm.

  Angela. Until that moment, she hadn’t thought of Angela. What if Bacardo got the jewels, and brought them here? What if the Mafia were watching? They would kill all three of them. She, Bacardo, and Angela, all dead, their blood everywhere, pooled on the floor, splashed on the walls, soaking the carpets.

  “I have to know, Louise. I’ve got to have someone with me. I can’t do it by myself. I’ve got to have a lookout, backup. You drive, don’t you?”

  “Y-yes. Sure. But—”

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “Y-you say they know you’re here. In San Francisco. So they could be following you.”

  “You’re Don Carlo’s daughter. You couldn’t go to the funeral. So here I am, to pay my respects.” He shrugged, spread his hands. “That’s what they’ll think. Period.”

  “But—” Helplessly, she began to shake her head. “But I—I wo
uldn’t be able to help you if anything went wrong. I can drive, sure. But—” She broke off. Then, a whispered confession: “But I’d be scared, Tony. I am scared. Right now. Right this minute, I’m scared. Angela—what if—?”

  He raised a hand to silence her. “It makes sense that you’re scared. It’s okay. I wanted to make the offer, ask you to come, so you wouldn’t think I’d hijack the stuff. But the truth is, I need someone who can use a gun. If you or Angela was married, had a man …” He let it go unfinished, an unspoken question.

  Deeply regretful, she shook her head. “There’s no one. I haven’t got anyone. And Angela moved out on her boyfriend. He hates her now. Really hates her.” Now it was her turn to question him with a look. “Don’t you have anyone?”

  His face hardened; his eyes had turned to stone. “I had two sons. One of them—” He broke off, set his jaw, dropped his voice. “One of them is dead. And the other one is a doctor. A pediatric doctor.”

  They looked at each other silently, one final wordless exchange. Then, without ceremony, Bacardo rose. Just as, from the back room, the rock music wound down.

  “Tomorrow morning,” Bacardo said, “I’m going to drive up to Fowler’s Landing, see what it looks like. You think about this. We’ll both think about this. When I get back, I’ll come here. Have you got a shovel? A good flashlight?”

  “I’ve got a flashlight. No shovel. I haven’t been here long enough to—”

  “Well, in the morning, buy a shovel. And some flashlight batteries. Maybe another flashlight, too—a good one.” As if he were anxious to leave, he turned toward the front door. From Angela’s bedroom, the music began again. As Bacardo’s hand touched the doorknob, Louise spoke: “Tony?”

  He turned, looked down at her. Said nothing. In his face, there was nothing but calm calculation: the professional, solving the kind of problem he was in the business of solving.

  She spoke hesitantly. “Angela. I’ve got to tell Angela.”

  For a moment he made no response. Plainly, he was calculating, considering the odds. Finally: “Whether you want to tell her everything—the words and everything—well, that’s up to you. Think about it, though, before you tell her, that’s all I’d say. You understand?”

  “Yes. I understand.”

  9:45 P.M., PDT

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE IT,” Angela said. “It—it’s like a movie, for God’s sake.” She stood over her mother, who was sitting round-shouldered on the sofa, as if the story she’d just told had exhausted her.

  “Are you sure about this?” Angela demanded. “Your father, did you believe him when he told you about the jewels?”

  Except for a lifting of her shoulders, her mother made no response. There was nothing left to say—and no strength left to say it.

  A fortune in jewels and gold …

  If her mother had it right—if Tony Bacardo, mobster, was telling the truth—then there were still dreams that came true, fantasies that still came to life. But her mother sat as if she had been convicted of a crime and was waiting for her sentence.

  Aware that she was standing too close, an intimidating posture, Angela stepped back, then sat facing her mother.

  “What’ll we do, Angela?” Her mother’s voice was low, without expression, unaccountably without hope. Had life beaten her mother so far down that a fantasy—a fortune—only made the burden seem worse? Was her mother asking her for help? Role reversal, it was called. The daughter became the mother, ready or not.

  “If he goes by himself,” Angela said, “and if the treasure’s really there, what’s to keep him from taking it to the airport and going back to New York? This man—God—he makes his living breaking laws. He’s a professional criminal. Do you really think he’ll hand over a fortune in jewels, then tip his hat and say good-bye?”

  “I—” With great effort, Louise raised her head. “I think he will, Angela. Somehow I think he will.”

  “But, Christ, he—”

  “He won’t go alone, though. He’s already said that, said he wouldn’t go alone to get the jewels.”

  “So who’s he going to take along? Another gangster?”

  “No.” Louise shook her head. Then, as if to rouse herself, come back, she drew a deep breath. “No, he wouldn’t do that, I don’t think. He’s worried about the Mafia, you see. The jewels never really belonged to your grandfather. They belonged to the Mafia. Or, at least, the money that bought them belonged to the Mafia. So—”

  “I’ll go with Bacardo.”

  Instantly Louise’s head came up, her eyes came alive. For an instant Angela glimpsed the woman she’d once known: determined, willful. “No, you’re not going.”

  “Well, you’re not going. So who else is there?”

  “Angela—” Yes, there it was: that note of parental anger, their role reversal reversed.

  “You’re not, Mom. You know you’re not going. So if I don’t go—drive his goddam car for him, act as lookout, whatever he wants, then who will go, for God’s sake? What’ll we do, hire a—a hit man? Christ, I’d trust Tony Bacardo before I’d trust someone I could hire for a couple of hundred dollars.”

  “The Mafia knows he’s here,” Louise said. “And if they follow him …” Ominously, she let it go unfinished.

  Unable to remain seated, Angela rose, went to the fireplace, stood looking down into the dead embers, both hands resting on the mantle. She was slim and tall; her unbelted jeans sculpted lean flanks and buttocks. Her dark blond hair fell loose to her shoulders. She wore a khaki safari shirt, her favorite. She was barefooted.

  For more than a minute the tableau held: the mother sitting motionless, staring woodenly at her daughter, who said nothing.

  Then, still staring down into the cold fireplace, Angela said, “I’ve got an idea.”

  “An idea?” It was a hesitant question.

  “I think I know someone.”

  SATURDAY, APRIL 21st

  10 A.M., PDT

  “THIS,” BERNHARDT SAID, “IS the first test.” With a sweep of his arm he included the twenty-odd hopefuls sitting in the theater’s first three rows, clustered close to the center aisle. “Here you are. It’s a beautiful Saturday morning in April. You could be walking on the beach, or hiking up Mount Tamalpais, or maybe doing the laundry or else sleeping in, to recover from all the crap your boss has handed you during the week. But instead here you are, sitting in a windowless theater, when the sun’s shining brightly outside.”

  Opting to project an air of amiable benevolence, he smiled down at the upturned faces, some of them old, some of them young, almost all of them attentive, a few of them transparently anxious. Sitting on the edge of the stage with legs dangling, hands spread wide at either side, Bernhardt had assumed the traditional get-acquainted posture of the director upon first addressing the random group of aspiring actors from which he must select that brave handful who would face the footlights on opening night.

  Bernhardt was a tall, lean man with a long, lean face. The face was Semitic, darkened through the ages by ancestors whose forebears had lived beneath an uncompromising sun shining down on an uncompromising land. His hair was dark and thick, flecked with gray and worn long and careless. His forehead was high, his nose was generously curved. Beneath dark, thick eyebrows, behind gold-rimmed aviator glasses, his dark eyes were in constant, restless motion. His face was deeply creased, a reassuring pattern of lines that suggested intelligence, perception, and energy. He wore what he always wore when he directed: a pullover sweater, vintage corduroy slacks, and middle-aged running shoes.

  “Little theater is—” Bernhardt broke off, searching for the word, the phrase. “It’s transitional, that’s the best word I can think of. Some of you—the ones with acting talent, whatever that is—you might have a good shot at going on to Broadway, or the San Francisco equivalent. And yes, some of you will decide to give Hollywood a shot, with all the attendant risks and rewards. But the rest of you—which is to say those of you who’re either blessed or cursed with no ac
ting talent—” He broke off again, taking time to sweep the upturned faces with eyes that touched each face in turn, a preface to what must come next: “Well, you’ll either opt to stay on here, painting scenery and rustling up props, or else you’ll find something better to do with your spare time. All your spare time, for the next two months, probably.” Once more, watching them for reactions, he smiled. “I’m forty-odd years old, and I’ve been doing theater for a long, long time. I’m hooked, in other words. Just like a few of you, certainly, are also hooked.” He waited for the predictable response: the small smiles, the sidelong looks, the shifting on seats that badly needed reupholstering.

  “I’ve discovered,” he continued, “that at this stage—call it get-acquainted time—you’re interested in knowing something about me.” Now his gaze questioned them. And, as always, they nodded. Yes, they wanted to know more about him.

  “Briefly,” he said, “I grew up in New York City. I’m Jewish, as you’ve doubtless surmised. My father was a bombardier during World War Two, and he was killed over Hamburg. My mother was a modern dancer. We had a loft in Greenwich Village; that’s where she taught dance. She was also involved in lots of causes, mostly in favor of women and against war. Her father was a small clothing manufacturer. He played the harpsichord, and he was a wonderful man. He sent me to good schools—including Antioch College, in Ohio. That’s where I got hooked—changed my major in my sophomore year from Political Science to Theater Arts. Antioch has a first-class little theater—they call it the Yellow Springs Area Theater—and in my senior year I had the very great pleasure of acting in two plays that I wrote myself.”

  A subdued ripple swept the ranks of the aspirants, a well-earned tribute that Bernhardt always secretly savored.

  “After I graduated,” he continued, “I went to New York, of course. And, of course, I started making the rounds reading for parts. Eventually I got a few walk-ons, with the promise of better things to come. While I was doing that, I was revising my plays—and writing another one. The two plays that were produced in Yellow Springs were two-acters. The one I wrote in New York was three acts. It was called Victims. And—lo—after a couple of years knocking on doors, I finally found someone to produce it.” Once more he paused, waiting for the response, this one more forthcoming, therefore more satisfying.