Find Her a Grave

by Collin Wilcox

  He copied down the number, made the call. “Angela?”

  “Yes—Alan?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope it’s not too early on Sunday morning. But Tony Bacardo called about a half hour ago. He said he had to go back to New York. But he said you—”

  “Let’s not talk about it on the phone, Angela. Can you come over?”

  “Of course. Mom, too?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Why don’t you come by yourself? I think your mother should stay near her phone.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  9:20 A.M., PDT

  BERNHARDT’S FLAT WAS ON a hill so steep that only perpendicular parking was allowed on one side of the street. Driving slowly up the hill in low gear, vainly looking for a parking place, Angela passed Bernhardt’s building and continued up to the next block, which was almost level, with parallel parking allowed on both sides of the street. Here she had a choice of parking places. As she braked to a stop in front of one of the spaces she saw a light blue sedan climbing the hill behind her. The driver was a young Chinese man. He, too, was slowing, obviously also looking for a place to park. As he passed her he looked straight ahead, ignoring her. Now he was stopping, maneuvering his car back and forth, into a parking place, just as she was.

  At almost nine-thirty on a Sunday morning, in this quiet residential neighborhood on the northern slope of Potrero Hill, nothing stirred except for her and the Chinese man.

  When she’d left her mother’s house, she’d seen a blue car following at a distance. Watching the car in her mirror, she’d seen it turn off, disappear. The car had never come close enough for her to see the driver, and it had been impossible for her to identify the car’s make.

  Parked now, with the front wheels curbed, she switched off the engine, put the shift lever in park, set the brake. Three cars ahead, the blue sedan was still maneuvering into a tight parking place. Irresolutely, she looked back over her shoulder, down the steep slope of the next block. Alan Bernhardt’s flat was midway down that block, across the street. There were two choices: get out of the car and walk directly down the hill to Bernhardt’s building, or else wait for the Chinese man to make a move, commit himself. Through the windows of the two parked cars that separated them, she could make out the shape of the man’s head. Now with the car finally parked, he sat motionless behind the steering wheel, looking straight ahead.

  From behind her came the sound of an engine laboring up the hill. It was an old station wagon with a wind surfer and a mast strapped to its roof rack. As the station wagon slowly pulled even, Angela saw three teenagers inside, two boys and a girl. The station wagon was stopping less than twenty feet beyond the blue sedan. Quickly Angela got out of her Tercel, locked the door, and walked diagonally across the street, then down the hill a half block to Bernhardt’s building. As she pressed the bell button she looked back the way she’d come, but the crest of the hill concealed both the blue sedan and the station wagon. In the Sunday morning quiet, she heard youthful laughter, doubtless the teenage wind surfers. From inside Bernhardt’s flat she heard a dog barking: Crusher, Bernhardt’s unruly Airedale.

  As she touched the button a second time the door opened. With a firm grip on the dog’s collar, Bernhardt smiled a greeting, stepped back to make room for her in the interior hallway. He wore jeans, running shoes, and a Monterey Jazz Festival sweatshirt.

  “It’s okay,” Angela said. “I don’t mind if he jumps up. I like Crusher. Really.”

  “All right …” Bernhardt released the dog, who immediately jumped up at her so high that his forepaws struck her shoulders. The Airedale was wriggling all over, a paroxysm of delight. As Bernhardt closed the front door he said, “Crusher loves people, as you already discovered yesterday. He hates dogs—male dogs, anyhow. But he loves people.”

  “He’s great.” As Bernhardt forced him down, Angela began scratching the dog behind both ears. Wagging his tail vigorously, Crusher raised his head to her, adoration in his eyes.

  “He likes that,” Bernhardt said. “You’ve got the touch. Have you had dogs?”

  “Only one, when I was a little girl. I loved him.”

  Bernhardt took hold of the dog’s collar as he gestured Angela into his office, the first door off the hallway. Then, sternly blocking the dog’s entrance to the office, Bernhardt pointed down the hallway as, on cue, a woman’s voice called out to the dog from the rear of the ground-floor flat. Hearing the voice, Angela nodded to herself. Yes, there was a woman in Bernhardt’s life. Among the regulars at the Howell Theater, no one had been sure. They’d known only that, years ago, Bernhardt’s young wife had died a violent death in New York.

  As they sat down facing each other across Bernhardt’s desk, he said, “I was going to call you this morning.”

  She nodded. “I knew you would. But Mom—” Disconsolately, Angela shook her head. “She’s not sleeping. This thing—” Once more, she shook her head. “It’s getting to her, Alan. I—God—I’d’ve called you two hours ago, if I’d listened to Mom. That’s when Tony Bacardo called. About seven-thirty.”

  “Did he tell you he was going back to New York?”

  She nodded. “He called from the airport.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “He talked to Mom, not me. And she—she’s so upset, it was hard to pin her down. But apparently Bacardo wants to know who Profaci really is—who he is, and who sent him. And for that, Tony’s got to go back to New York.”

  “Is it still true that only your mother and Bacardo know where the jewels are?”

  For a long moment she looked him full in the face. Plainly, she was deciding whether she must trust him fully. Finally she spoke in a low, cautious voice: “I know now. She told me yesterday. It was—” She searched for the words. “It was all she had to leave me, that’s what she said. You know, like a will.”

  Bernhardt rose from behind the desk and went to the window. His slice of the cityscape was still covered with morning fog; today would be a late burn-off. On the street outside an old station wagon with a wind surfer on top was coming down the hill. Across the street, a barefoot neighbor wearing pajamas and a bathrobe was furtively retrieving his Sunday paper from the ivy that bordered his front stoop.

  Like a will …

  From the hallway he heard the clicking of Crusher’s toenails; the dog was returning. From the kitchen he heard the clink of dishes being washed. Should he have invited Paula to sit in? On her first surveillance assignment, she’d chased off a murderer, saved a woman’s life. Was she feeling like a scullery maid, not a member of the firm?

  Bernhardt turned away from the window as Crusher came into the office, went to Angela, presented himself. “Excuse me a minute. I want you to meet my—ah—partner.” Bernhardt walked down the long hallway to the kitchen where, yes, Paula was bent stubbornly over the sink, ignoring him. Her face was cloudy.

  “I want you to meet Angela, see what you think.”

  She looked at him with mild suspicion.

  “Come on.” He tugged at her. “Quit sulking.”

  “What makes you think—?”

  “Come on.” Bernhardt found a towel, pulled her away from the sink, waited while she dried her hands. They went together to his office, where he made the introductions.

  “Paula knows the whole thing,” Bernhardt said. “She—” He hesitated, then decided to say, “She has some reservations.” He turned to Paula for confirmation. She said nothing, revealed nothing.

  “It’s the Mafia involvement,” Bernhardt explained. “It worries me, too. I don’t really know much about them, but I sure don’t want to tangle with them. And neither does Tony Bacardo.”

  “He told Mom that we should talk to you. He said you’d know what to do.” When Bernhardt made no response, Angela turned to Paula, one woman to another. “If this doesn’t work out for my mother, I don’t know what’ll happen to her. She’s only forty, but—” As if her thoughts caused pain, Angela winced, shook her head. Then: �
�She’s had a hard life. When she was about ten years old, her mother started to drink. My mother couldn’t wait to leave home. She was only nineteen when she got married. And it—it didn’t work. My father—well …” She shook her head sadly. “He—he died. Later, I mean, after they got divorced, he died. It was drugs. His father was one of those Hollywood hustlers—a producer, supposedly. And—” She broke off, sat for a moment with eyes downcast. Then, recovering: “And my stepfather—Jack Castle—died, too. But he was older. He was an actor, and he was good to my mother. But then he died. And he had a lot of debts when he died. So Mom struck out again, I guess you’d say. And then she came to San Francisco just a few years ago, with Walter Draper. I was sixteen when we moved up here. And it—it was terrible, living with him. When he drank, he—he—” In obvious anguish at the memory, she broke off.

  “I know about that, Angela,” Bernhardt offered gently.

  “Yeah …” Eyes downcast, she nodded disconsolately. “Yeah, I remember how ashamed I was, telling you about it. Afterwards, I mean, I felt ashamed. I didn’t even really know you when I told you about it.”

  “Sometimes that’s best,” Paula said. “Sometimes it’s easier to tell a stranger.”

  As she spoke, Bernhardt searched Paula’s face. Had he told her that Walter Draper had abused Angela? He couldn’t remember.

  For a moment Angela, too, was searching Paula’s face. Then, speaking softly, as if all hope was gone, Angela said, “The reason I’m telling you all this, I want you to know how it is with my mother. It—it’s hard, you know, when your father’s a gangster. It’s very hard.”

  “And without those jewels …” This time, Bernhardt’s quick scrutiny of Paula’s face was covert.

  They sat in silence for a long moment. Then, turning to Bernhardt, Angela said, “Mom says that it’s all right with Tony if you get the jewels. She says that he trusts you. And we trust you, too. That—that’s why I called you this morning. I mean, I thought that maybe the two of us—you and I—could get the jewels, talk Mom into letting me go. Ten minutes digging, that’s all it would take.”

  “Angela …” Somberly, Bernhardt shook his head. It’s not the digging. You know it’s not the digging. It’s the Mafia.”

  “But my mom—what about her? This is her last shot, Alan.” She spoke doggedly, with rigidly controlled passion. Angela Rabb, Bernhardt decided, had guts.

  Bernhardt looked first at Angela, then at Paula. In Angela’s eyes, he saw a low fire, steadily burning. In Paula’s eyes, he saw—what?

  What did they see in his eyes, one of them hardly out of her teens, one of them his lover, his friend—and, yes, his associate.

  “Did Bacardo tell you that he’d given me money?” Bernhardt asked, looking at Angela.

  Her first reaction was a puzzled frown. Then she said, “Mom talked to him, not me. But she didn’t say anything like that.”

  “Well, he did. He gave me five thousand dollars.” He realized that he was speaking defiantly, as if to challenge her—her, or Paula.

  “Five thousand …” Angela stared at him incredulously. Then, seeking confirmation, Angela turned to Paula, who nodded. The two women exchanged a long, searching look before Bernhardt spoke again, another challenge: “And it’s not enough, Angela. It’s not nearly enough.”

  “Yesterday,” she said, “you and I talked about a contingency fee. I asked Mom about it last night. She wasn’t sure. But now—this morning—she wants to do it. That’s what she told me to tell you—that a contingency fee is okay.”

  “If we did it that way,” Bernhardt said, “it’d be ten percent.” As he said it, he looked at Paula. Her answering gaze revealed nothing.

  “Ten percent is fine.” Angela’s prompt reply suggested that she had been prepared to go higher.

  Bernhardt rose from behind his desk again, went to the window, looked out. Across the street a high-styled, long-legged blond woman was waiting patiently while her golden retriever was meticulously sniffing a sidewalk tree. Bernhardt had spoken to the woman several times, once, memorably, when Crusher had picked a fight with the golden. The woman, he’d later learned, was a producer on the Channel Six News.

  “Alan …” It was Paula’s voice. He turned, saw her also standing. Crusher, too, was on his feet, looking expectantly from him to Paula. Just as Angela was looking at them.

  “Excuse us a minute,” Paula said, speaking to Angela. Then Paula turned, walked down the hallway to the dining room, where they could shut the door. Crusher chose to remain in the hallway, awaiting developments.

  “What’re you going to do?” Paula asked, sotto voce.

  “I think I’ll do it.”

  “Good.” She nodded decisively. “That poor woman. You’ve got her life in your hands. Literally.”

  Bernhardt shook his head incredulously as he stared at her. “Was I imagining it last night, or were you saying that I should stay away from this?”

  “That was before I realized what the stakes were.”

  “The stakes? Jesus, the stakes are—”

  “Shhh.” She put her forefinger to her lips.

  “You’re becoming very unpredictable, you know that?”

  “How about ‘flexible’?” She smiled at him, then gestured with her head toward the door. “We should get back. The poor kid, she’s obviously hanging by a thread.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m hanging by a thread, too.”

  Now her smile suggested the eternal female: inscrutable, subtly superior, and, yes, sometimes smug.

  “My plan,” Bernhardt said, “is to tell Angela that I’ll take the job. Then I plan to tell her that, at the first hint of trouble, I’m out. Gone. Long gone.”

  “That’s my plan, too.”

  12:05 P.M., PDT

  SEATED IN HIS TINY office behind the restaurant, Brian Chin tapped the computer’s keys, watched the symbols materialize on the screen: ALB for Alan Bernhardt, the third person on Fabrese’s list. Another sequence, for the Delta data base: ALB, age 44, born NYC. Profession: theatrical director, actor—and private investigator. Time in secondary profession: three years with Dancer Associates. Currently an independent, less than six months’ tenure. Followed by Bernhardt’s address and phone numbers.

  And, finally, Chin’s own private project: JIF for Jimmy Fabrese, 321 West 87th Street, NYC. Profession: supervisor with Acme Dry Cleaners, a suspected front organization for organized crime. In a supplementary organized-crime data base Fabrese was rated a soldier in the Venezzio family, nothing more, no connection with Benito Cella. Sipping tea from a porcelain cup, Chin tapped F7, saved the document, left the computer switched on, ready.

  But ready for what?

  Were there enough pieces to work with, add the essential element of intelligence, make a preliminary pass at a pattern, therefore a plan? He decided to let his head fall back against the soft leather of his executive chair, decided to let his eyes close—decided to work with the pieces of the puzzle currently at hand, a preliminary alignment, a tentative juxtaposition.

  Begin, then, at the beginning: begin with Fabrese, who’d somehow stumbled onto a valuable secret.

  Begin with Fabrese, end with Fabrese, the small-time hood who was probably in over his head.

  Switch, then, to the real players: Louise Rabb, the principal. Also Angela, probably Louise Rabb’s daughter, probable last name also Rabb. Then focus on Alan Bernhardt, the wild card.

  Chin was pleased at the precision with which his people had performed. And pleased, additionally, with the performance of his electronics. Fabrese had left the restaurant at ten-thirty last night. By eleven forty-five, two men and two cars had taken up positions at Thirty-ninth Avenue, where they’d reconnoitered thoroughly, communicating with Chin by cellular phone. “Mother” had been the code name for Louise Rabb, “Chick” for Angela.

  Most of the houses on Thirty-ninth Avenue were row houses, each one attached to houses on either side. But the Rabb house was only attached on the south side, with a service way
on the north. The living room was in front of the house, on the same side as the serviceway. Therefore, after getting Chin’s approval, one member of the team had easily been able to drill a quarter-inch hole of sufficient length to accommodate a spike mike.

  With almost every word being recorded, the two women had talked in the living room for almost two hours before they’d finally gone to bed. Charles Ng, the leader of the team, had brought the tapes to Chin, at his home on Russian Hill. The time had been three A.M., but Ng, on his own authority, had decided to awaken Chin. It had been the correct decision. By five-fifteen, Chin had pieced together the whole story, assuming he was correct in deciding that “Profaci” was really Fabrese. The only puzzle had been the identity of “Alan,” but that question had been resolved when Angela, followed alternately by two cars, had driven to the Vermont Street address this morning, thus establishing Alan Bernhardt’s identity.

  Chin opened his eyes, leaned forward, began making random designs and word combinations on a legal pad, always a helpful exercise whenever psychic overload threatened.

  Across the top of the sheet of paper, in Chinese characters, he doodled a million dollars in jewels, somewhere in the delta south of Sacramento.

  Buried treasure, the stuff of legend: pirates on the Spanish Main. Genghis Khan, his elephants laden with chests of plunder, the riches of the eastern world.

  The legend—and the reality: a third-rate hood, two frightened women, and one part-time private eye, apparently an actor. Plums, ripe for the picking.

  But first, planning was required, the life-or-death difference. So, while Ng presided at Thirty-ninth Avenue and Gregory Barrows, a Caucasian, was calling the shots at Vermont Street, Chin took stock:

  As of now, noon on Sunday, a bright, clear April morning, the situation was static, in equilibrium. Bacardo was still in the air, flying to New York. After more than two hours spent with Bernhardt, Angela had just returned to her mother’s house. During her absence, there had been no sound from inside the house at Thirty-ninth Avenue, despite the fact that Louise Rabb was still inside. Conclusion: except for her daughter, there was no one who could help Louise Rabb.