Find Her a Grave

by Collin Wilcox

  “Mrs. Rabb? Louise Rabb?”

  “Yes …”

  “I’m Frank Profaci,” Fabrese said. “I worked for your father. I have to talk to you for a few minutes.”

  “Talk? What about?”

  “I’ve just come out from New York. I’ve come from—” He stepped closer, carefully lowered his voice. “I come from Mr. Cella. Benito Cella.”

  Benito Cella … the man Bacardo had warned her about.

  Should she tell the stranger to come back later, after she’d talked to Bacardo?

  No. It might make him suspicious.

  If only Angela were with her. Angela, who had been so steady, so calm last night after Bacardo left. Angela, only twenty—suddenly a woman. When she was Angela’s age, she’d been married for a year—married and pregnant, just one little mistake, out on a weekend boating party to Catalina. And so, thank God, Angela had come into her life.

  “Are you going to let me in or not?” Fabrese demanded. “I don’t have much time. I’ve got to call New York after we talk, and there’s three hours’ difference.”

  She had no choice. She had to let him in, had to know why he’d come. Otherwise, on the phone, what would he say?

  “Just a minute.” She closed the door, freed the night chain, opened the door, stepped back. Irrationally, her first thought was that she was glad she’d changed into a skirt and cashmere sweater. If only she’d taken more time with her face, her hair.

  He was a small, slightly built man. His head was narrow and bony, his features compressed. It was a face that seemed never to smile. His black hair was thick and stylishly barbered. His movements were tense and guarded, as if he were venturing into enemy territory. He was impeccably dressed: an expensively cut, meticulously pressed suit, gleaming brown shoes, a necktie precisely knotted. His shirt was light beige, with a stiff white collar.

  “Please.” She gestured him into the living room, where he sat on the same love seat Tony Bacardo had sat in last night. When he sat down, the newcomer plucked at his trouser creases, crossed his legs, touched the knot of his tie. Then he turned his full attention on her. With his small black eyes boring in, she shifted uncomfortably in her chair, crossed her legs, took a fresh grip on the arms of her chair.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was thin and uneven. “The reason I came, I wanted to warn you.” His body language, too, was uneven. Was he frightened—as frightened as she was? Was it possible?

  “Warn me?”

  “About Tony Bacardo—about what he’s doing out here.”

  “I—I—” She realized that she was shrinking back in her chair, as if to escape what must surely come next: Mafia justice, kill or be killed. “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Come on, Louise. I know he’s in San Francisco. He’s at the downtown Hilton right this minute. And he was here last night. He stayed for about an hour.” Now his voice was rough; his eyes were turning hostile: killer’s eyes. Suddenly images of the past returned: the shadowy figures who came to the door, handed over the envelopes, then disappeared into the night. First the men had given the envelopes to her mother. Then, these last years, they’d given the envelopes to her.

  But this man—Profaci—carried no envelope.

  Instead, beneath the perfectly fitting suit, he carried a gun. Without doubt, he carried a gun.

  She must speak. Only if she spoke could she save herself. But save herself from what? Why? After all, Carlo Venezzio had been her father.

  The king is dead, long live the king. It was an English expression. She’d never understood its full meaning. Not until now had she understood.

  “I—yes, he was here last night. But—”

  “Is he coming back here? Now? Today?”

  “I don’t know.” Because it was the truth, she earnestly repeated it: “I don’t know.”

  “Well.” Now, unexpectedly, he shook his head, an expression of regret. “Well, Louise, the reason I want to know, I want to warn you. That’s why I’m here. To warn you.”

  She swallowed. “Warn me?”

  “About Tony Bacardo.”

  “Ab—” Suddenly her throat closed, choking off the rest.

  He nodded. Then, as if he were puzzled, he frowned, looked her straight in the eye. Saying: “Your father and Tony, they had a deal. Or, more like it, Don Carlo thought they had a deal.” Watching her covertly, he fell silent. But she made no reply.

  “After Don Carlo had his heart attack, he started to think about you. I mean, he knew Maria and his two kids would always be taken care of. But that left you, after your mother died. And Don Carlo always had a soft spot for you. So, naturally, he wanted to take care of you after he was gone. You know—you saw him, in prison. He—” Fabrese hesitated. Should he take a chance, try for a long shot?

  Yes, he would try. “Don Carlo told you about it—told you what he and Bacardo planned for you, when you saw him in prison.”

  As he said it, he saw the words register in her face, her eyes, the twist of her mouth. He’d gambled—and won.

  “You—” Plainly puzzled, she flinched. “You know that—know what my father told me?”

  He nodded. Now playing a winning hand, he could pick up the beat, go to work on her. Get in and get out—before Bacardo rang the doorbell.

  “I guess I was your father’s number-two man.” Pretending puzzlement, he looked at her. “I’m surprised he never mentioned me to you. Bacardo was always number one. But Tony—well—” Fabrese shook his head, sighed. Then, as if to confess: “Tony, it looks like, he’s on the take.”

  “I—I don’t understand.”

  “It’s simple. With Don Carlo gone, Tony’s without a job. He’s unemployed, you might say. He needs money.”

  “He—he needs money?”

  “Listen, Louise.” Fabrese leaned impatiently forward, glanced at his watch, gleaming gold. “I don’t have a lot of time. So let me lay it out for you. Okay?”

  “Y—yes. Okay.”

  “Your father got a package together—call it your inheritance. Or, more like it, he told Bacardo to do it. Then they got a capo—his name was Maranzano—to bring the package out here. Maranzano brought it to Fowler’s Landing.”

  As he pronounced the words, Louise realized that his eyes were locked with hers, searching her face for some reaction, some clue.

  Fowler’s Landing …

  Except for her father and Tony Bacardo, who else inside the Mafia could have known about Fowler’s Landing?

  Proving that, yes, the man sitting across the coffee table had been close to her father.

  Proving?

  No, not proving. In this world of shadows, there was no proof. There were only more shadows—and, yes, ghosts.

  “And now,” he went on, speaking softly, almost gently, “Tony’s here in San Francisco. Which is why I’m here.”

  “I—I don’t understand.”

  “I already told you, I came from Don Benito—Mr. Cella. He’ll be the new capo di tutti. And he wants me to tell you that it’s all right with him if you get the package. He’s willing to square it with the council. Otherwise—” As if even the thought of what could happen saddened him, he shook his head. “Otherwise, you could have problems. Big problems. You know that, don’t you?”

  She nodded, saying, “Yes, I know that.” She spoke as if she were reciting words that were strange to her, lines that were only half memorized.

  “But if Tony gets the package, keeps it for himself, that’s skimming.” Once more he shook his head. “And whoever skims, takes money from the organization—well—he has to die. You understand that.”

  She made no response.

  “The way your father told me,” he said, “you and Tony both know where the package is—where Maranzano hid it. Right?”

  “I—” She began to shake her head. Then, helplessly, she nodded. Whispering: “Yes. Right.”

  “And when’re you planning to get it?”

  “I—I’m not sure.”

  “But it�
��ll be just him—just Tony—that’ll get it,” he said.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Well …” As if he were sorry for her, he once more shook his head. “Well, I’ll tell you, Louise, I’d go with him when he gets it, if I were you. Otherwise, sure as hell, Tony’s going to take the package and run. That’ll leave him dead. And it’ll leave you broke.”

  “Broke?”

  He shrugged, rose to his feet. “Afraid so. Tony gets killed, we’re not going to give you the stuff, once we get it off Tony. You can see that, can’t you?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, “I can see that.”

  7 P.M., PDT

  “I’M SORRY.” BERNHARDT ROSE, strode across the small, over-furnished room to the fireplace. He turned back to face the two of them: Angela, twenty and beautiful, Louise, forty and frightened. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, shaking his head, “but there’s something missing. It just doesn’t add up.”

  Louise turned to her daughter, who was looking hard at Bernhardt. Neither woman spoke. In Louise’s face, Bernhardt saw nothing but uncertainty and isolation: forty years that had ended in defeat. In Angela’s face, even though it was youthful, he saw more complexity, more resolution—more hope. In World War II, boys no older than Angela flew bombers into Germany and fought hand to hand in the jungles of the Pacific islands.

  “This second guy—Profaci,” Bernhardt said. “He claims he’s representing the big shots in New York. But if that’s so, then why does he make a big point of warning you that Bacardo might cheat you? Why should he try to help you? Why isn’t he trying to get the treasure and take it back to Cella?”

  Angela nodded agreement. “That’s true, Mom.”

  Mutely shaking her head, Louise made no reply.

  “I think,” Bernhardt said, “that Profaci’s using you to get to Bacardo.”

  Louise shook her head. “No. He doesn’t have to use us. He knows where Tony’s staying. It’s the Hilton. He—”

  “I don’t mean he wants to find Bacardo,” Bernhardt interrupted. “I mean Profaci wants to drive a wedge between you and Bacardo. He wants you to suspect Bacardo’s motives.”

  “I think so too,” Angela said.

  Bernhardt returned to his chair, sat facing the two women sitting side by side on an ornate love seat that complemented the room’s furnishings: expensive, garishly reproduced antiques, many of them painted off-white, trimmed with gold leaf. Whatever house this furniture was meant for, it wasn’t this one: a cramped, one-story stucco row house, one of the cookie-cutter thousands built during the thirties in San Francisco’s Sunset District.

  Bernhardt drew a deep breath, then admitted, “I’ll tell you the truth, ladies, I’m not sure I want to get involved in this. And I’m not sure you should get involved, either. Even if we take these guys at their word, then what we’ve got is Bacardo trying to help you without the Mafia knowing about it. But according to Profaci, the Mafia does know. Or, at least, suspects.” He shook his head. “It’s just too dangerous.”

  “I’ve got about three thousand dollars in the bank,” Louise said. “And that’s it. That’s everything.” She spoke softly, reluctantly. “For all of her life, my mother took money from my father. If she hadn’t had him—those men, with the envelopes—she’d never have made it. And the truth is—” With great effort, she met Bernhardt’s eyes squarely. “The truth is that, without those jewels, I won’t make it, either.”

  “You’re only forty.” Bernhardt kept his voice neutral, kept his eyes level. “You’ve got half your life in front of you.”

  She smiled: a small, bitter smile that left her eyes without animation—without hope. “My father was a gangster and my first husband was a drug case. My second husband died owing every bookie in town. And my mother, she was a drunk. I came to San Francisco to live with a man who tried to—”

  “Mom. Come on.” On the love seat, Angela moved closer, touched her mother on the arm. “You can’t blame yourself because Walter—”

  Bernhardt broke in. “I think I should leave. After you’ve talked with Bacardo, if you want to, you can call me, and we can talk. But I have to tell you that I don’t see where I fit in.” He rose, waited for them to rise. “It sounds like Bacardo’s looking for a backup man. A hired gun, in other words. And—” His deeply etched face registered a self-deprecating smile. “And that’s not me, ladies. I’m sorry, but that simply isn’t me.”

  10:15 P.M., EDT

  BOIATANO LISTENED, NODDED, SPOKE into the phone: “Just a second, Sal.” And to Cella he said, “It’s Sal.”

  “Ah.” Cella nodded, waited for the phone to be given to him. “Sal. How’s it going? What’s happening?”

  “It’s all right to talk?”

  “I’m at The Chop House. No problem.”

  “I got in yesterday afternoon. I took Augie with me, I guess I told you that.”

  “You told me.”

  “I called ahead, made three or four calls Thursday. So Ricca and Genna and Adamo met us at the airport. They had two cars, very thoughtful. Everyone out here, they’re for you, for capo di tutti. They—you know—volunteered that, didn’t wait to be asked. Today—Saturday—they had a big lunch for us at Fisherman’s Wharf. Great place—a view you wouldn’t believe, right on the water. And the lunch, there were twenty-four guys there. I counted. All the top guys out here. And some came from L.A. And Vegas, too. Like I said, they really laid it on. I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Yes, sure.” Cella nodded, pleased. “Very good.”

  “Ricca and me, we rode together from the airport. So we could talk. I guess that was the hardest part. I mean, I don’t know Ricca all that well. So I couldn’t come right out with it, tell him I wanted to hear about it, if our friend started making funny moves out here.”

  “So our friend wasn’t at the lunch.”

  “No. I don’t know where he was. But he sure wasn’t at Fisherman’s Wharf.”

  “Our friend called, checked in. He’s staying at the Hilton. The downtown Hilton.”

  “Yeah, I already knew that.”

  “Tell me again, the guys that were at lunch. Go slow.”

  As Perrone obeyed, Cella stopped him frequently, time for thought. Finally Perrone said, “That’s all I can remember. There were—what—a half dozen capos. Maybe more.”

  “That’s fine. Just fine, Sal. You’ve got a good memory.”

  Pleased, Perrone answered modestly, “I try.”

  “So what about our friend?”

  “I told Augie to keep track of him. But nothing—you know—heavy. Augie’s got two cousins out here, so that was lucky. They’re both young, but they’re eager. Smart, too. So they got right on our friend, beginning this morning, early. It was perfect, see, because Augie could lay back, stay out of sight.”

  “Augie uses his head.”

  “I think so, too. I always thought so.”

  “I’m going to keep him in mind, give him some jobs all on his own, see how he does.”

  Perrone decided not to respond.

  “So what’d Augie find out?”

  “What Augie found out,” Perrone said, “is that, about nine-thirty this morning, our friend got in his car and started driving. Augie was covering the lobby of the Hilt—of the hotel, and his cousin was in a car outside, covering the garage. So then, just when our friend drove out of the garage, and Augie was getting ready to follow him, Augie saw Jimmy Fabrese. He was—”

  “Wait.” Cella frowned. Then, an embarrassment, he was forced to ask, “Jimmy Fabrese? I know the name, but—” He let it go unfinished.

  “He drove for Frankie.”

  “Frankie Maranzano?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Ah …” As if he were pleased by some sensation, perhaps an excellent forkful of food, Cella nodded his measured appreciation. “Yeah, I see.” A moment passed, for reflection. Then: “Was Fabrese driving for Frankie when …” Once more, he let it go unfinished.

  “He drove Frankie to the
prison both times, when Frankie met Don Carlo. So if anyone knew about Frankie—why he went to California—it had to be Fabrese.”

  “And when Frankie disappeared …” Another pause.

  “Fabrese didn’t drive Frankie that night. It was Bacardo. After they had dinner, Frankie left the restaurant with Bacardo, just the two of them.”

  “And now Jimmy Fabrese …” The final pause.

  “Right. It looks like he’s out here riding shotgun for our friend. Or anyhow, that’s what he did today. Wherever our friend went, Fabrese was following him.”

  A long, silent moment. Then, reflectively, “So where’d they go this morning?”

  “All I know is that they went out of town. Across the Bay Bridge toward Oakland, that’s all I know. When Augie saw Fabrese, he decided to be careful, lay back. But then there was an accident on the bridge, and Augie lost both of them.”

  “Fabrese—how do you rate him?”

  “As much as I know about him,” Perrone said, “I don’t like him. I don’t like him, and I don’t trust him.”

  “Why would our friend trust him, do you think?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t have a choice.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  On the line from California, Perrone chuckled. “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, find out.”

  “Right.”

  7:20 P.M., PDT

  “MY GOD, MOM.” EXASPERATED, Angela slammed her hand down flat on the kitchen counter, turned to confront her mother, who was standing at the sink. Louise was staring down at nothing, head bowed, shoulders slumped. “My God,” Angela repeated, you’ve got to decide. Don’t you see that? You can’t have it both ways. Either you trust Tony Bacardo, or you don’t. You trust him, or you trust Profaci. But whichever you decide, you’ve got to do it now. Right now.”

  Louise pushed herself away from the sink, went to the small round table in the breakfast nook, sank into a chair. She spoke in a low, listless voice: “I’ve already trusted Tony Bacardo. Don’t you see that? I gave him the words.”

  “You didn’t have a choice. You had to tell him.”