Find Her a Grave

by Collin Wilcox

  “What I mean is, after we hang up, I’m going to make some calls. I’m sure—absolutely sure—that we aren’t going to roll over on this. I mean, something like this—nobody does this to us. The first thing I did today—I got back in town last night—I laid all this out with my boss. Everything. That’s what I came back here for, to get square with the boss. You know that. And we’re square, him and me. He said it was okay about Louise and the stuff. Which means—” For emphasis, solemnly, Bacardo paused. Then: “Which means that what’s happened is that this Chinaman has rubbed my boss’s nose in this. You understand what I’m saying?”

  As Bernhardt heard the words he felt it begin: a sense of danger, an awareness that the chain of events was inexorably tightening around him. Around him, and Paula, too.

  “What I’m telling you,” Bacardo was saying softly, “is that you’d better be ready to back all this up.”

  “Everything I said is true.” Bernhardt was satisfied with his voice: calm, measured, firm.

  “And your girlfriend. She knows what this Chinaman looks like. Is that right?”

  “That’s right. But I don’t want her—”

  “When did you give the stuff to this Chinaman? What time?”

  “It was about one o’clock this afternoon. Our time.”

  “And—” A pause, to calculate. “And it’s a little before six out there.”

  “Right.”

  “Okay.” Another pause. “I’ve got to make those calls. Something like this, we can’t waste any time. Tomorrow at this time, the stuff could already be fenced. You understand?”

  “Yes. But—”

  “Have you ever heard of Charlie Ricca?”

  Charlie Ricca, the Mafia’s man in San Francisco. Handsome, ostensibly affable, a stereotypical glad-hander. Natty dresser, full head of iron-gray hair, sparkling blue eyes, big grin. Charlie Ricca, mobster, always seen at the head of his entourage.

  “Yes.” It was a cautious monosyllable. “I’ve heard of Ricca.”

  “Okay. Tonight, you be where we can call you. And your girlfriend, too. Both of you.”

  “Listen, Tony, she’s in no shape to—”

  “Give me a phone number for tonight.”

  “Well, Jesus, it’s—” Helplessly, he gave him Paula’s number.

  “Is that your office?”

  “No—Christ—I already told you, I’m staying with—”

  “Okay. I’ve got to get off. Remember, it’s Charlie Ricca. Got it?”

  “Yes, I’ve got it.”

  “All right.” The line clicked, went dead.

  8:30 P.M., PDT

  “IS IT THE MONEY, Alan? Is that it?” In the question, there was an unmistakable undertone of accusation. Paula had spent last night in the anteroom of hell. She couldn’t bear the thought of returning, risking the same terrible trauma.

  “It’s—” He shook his head doggedly. Then, earnestly: “It’s everything. Sure, some of it’s the money. Seventy-five, a hundred thousand dollars—I’d be a hypocrite if I denied it. But, Jesus, this guy should be punished for what he did to you and Angela.”

  “The police punish criminals, Alan. Law enforcement. Not private detectives.”

  “This whole thing, right from the beginning, has been outside the law,” he answered. “I’ve always known that. You’ve always known that.”

  “But it’s Louise’s decision, if she wants them punished. Not yours.”

  “Yeah, well …” He sighed heavily, regretfully shook his head. “Well, the truth is, it seems to be the Mafia’s decision now. Apparently the head man—Benito Cella, I guess—has decreed that Louise can have the jewels, no problem. So when these Chinese gangsters copped the jewels, that’s now seen as a challenge to the Mafia. Plus, a Mafia soldier was murdered, never mind that he was probably playing a double game. It’s—” Bernhardt gestured, threw the ethics question up for grabs. “It’s like these goddam spy novels. Nothing’s what it seems.”

  They sat at either end of Paula’s living room couch, each twisted to face the other. Paula’s legs were tucked up beneath her robe. There were dark smudges of fatigue under her eyes and tension lines around her mouth. Her voice was roughened with fatigue. Both of them, Bernhardt knew, were exhausted. And, worse, they were in disagreement. Perhaps serious disagreement. Would this be their first fight?

  Finally Paula spoke: “It’s the money you took from Bacardo. That’s when it all started, for you.”

  “That’s not really true. It started when Angela called. And I distinctly remember that you—”

  Paula’s door buzzer sounded. Bernhardt’s eyes flew to the door; yes, the dead bolt was in place.

  “Don’t answer it,” Paula whispered. Also fixed on the door, her eyes were wide.

  “Paula, I’ve got to answer it. I don’t have a choice.”

  “It’s them. The Mafia.” They were standing now, both of them facing the door.

  He stepped close, touched her arm. “Go into the bedroom. Let me talk to them.”

  “I’ll go into the bedroom—to get dressed.” She turned away, strode purposefully into the bedroom. Beneath the white terrycloth robe, the movement of her body, taut with indignation, was incredibly provocative.

  Once more the buzzer sounded. Longer. More insistently. Was it the Mafia? He’d given Bacardo Paula’s phone number, not her address.

  “Just a minute.” He went to the coatrack, slipped on the light poplin jacket that would conceal the .357 still holstered at his belt. As he went to the door he checked the time: 8:40. A little more than two hours had elapsed since he’d talked to Bacardo.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Charlie Ricca.” The voice sounded casually matter-of-fact: a neighbor, come to visit.

  “Just a minute.” Bernhardt retracted the dead bolt, released the lock. He drew a long, deep breath. Then, with the .357 loose in the spring holster, he turned the knob, opened the door.

  Yes, it was Charlie Ricca. The tabloid image was definitive: the pink-jowled face glowing with health, the jovial blue eyes snapping, the thick gray hair meticulously styled with a Hollywood flair—and the affable, photogenic smile. Only the clothing was unfamiliar. Instead of a thousand-dollar suit and a hundred-dollar tie, Ricca wore a designer leather jacket, cavalry twill trousers, and beautifully burnished ankle-high desert boots. The two men standing behind him also wore leather jackets.

  “Mr. Bernhardt? Alan Bernhardt?” As he spoke, Ricca extended a thick, muscular hand. “Charlie Ricca.” As they shook hands he said, “You’re expecting us. Right?”

  “Yes … right.” Bernhardt stepped back, gestured the three men inside. In the small, delicately furnished living room, the three men in their bulky leather jackets projected an aura of impassive power. Ricca was a short man, thickly built. The other two men were bigger and taller. The three men together evoked an aura from a bygone era: two impassive, stone-eyed Nazi storm troopers and their quick-witted, personable officer.

  “This is Jimmy.” Ricca gestured to one of the men, who nodded and smiled. Incongruously, Jimmy’s smile and his lowered eyes suggested a certain shyness.

  “And this is Al.” Unsmiling, the other man nodded once, then looked away.

  “Would you—” Bernhardt cleared his throat, began again: “Would you like to sit down?”

  Ricca looked at his watch, then nodded. He took the room’s most comfortable armchair, gesturing the other two men to the sofa. Bernhardt sat facing Ricca, who crossed his legs, adjusted his trouser creases, and smiled at him. Beneath his leather jacket Ricca wore a western shirt with pearl buttons.

  “So you’re a private eye.” The remark was an expression of both amusement and easygoing condescension. It was the same mix of reactions that Bernhardt often got from the police.

  When Bernhardt chose not to reply, Ricca shrugged, saying, “Well, Tony Bacardo seems to think you’re all right. That’s good enough for me.”

  Using as much acting skill as he could muster to lace the single
word with irony, Bernhardt said, “Thanks.” As, suddenly, a flash of insight illuminated the incongruity of the scene: a photogenic mobster, two dead-eyed thugs, and himself seated in Paula’s bandbox Victorian living room, making small talk. How had it happened?

  There was, of course, a one-word answer: money. And the companion word: greed.

  “Tony said a woman saw the guy,” Ricca said. “So is this her place?” As he spoke he looked at the closed bedroom door.

  Bernhardt nodded. “This is her place. She’s getting dressed. Last night she was teargassed and kidnapped. Then she was handcuffed to a goddam water pipe, she and Angela. So I don’t want her to—”

  “Who’s Angela?” Ricca interrupted abruptly.

  “Angela Rabb.” He paused. Then, low-keyed, for maximum impact: “Carlo Venezzio’s granddaughter.”

  “Ah …” Ricca nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, I see.”

  Watching the other man’s reaction, Bernhardt realized that, yes, Carlo Venezzio’s reach extended beyond the grave. Every discipline had its pantheon of deities.

  “So can both of them, the women, identify this Chinaman?”

  “Yes. But—”

  The door to the bedroom opened. Paula was dressed in a sweater, jeans, and slippers. She hadn’t bothered with makeup. Ignoring the other two men, Bernhardt introduced her to Ricca, who rose to his feet, politely offered his chair. Coldly, she declined. Bernhardt began again: “But I don’t want Paula to get involved in whatever you’re going to—”

  “Hey, no problem.” Smiling, Ricca reached in a side pocket, produced a photograph, handed it to Paula. “Is that the guy?”

  She hardly glanced at the photo before she nodded. “Yes—that’s him.” Her voice was wan, but her eyes were dark with hatred. On his feet, Bernhardt took the photo from her. It was a grainy telephoto shot of a Chinese man standing with his arms folded. He was leaning against a sports car, staring off into the distance. He was slightly frowning, as if he were impatiently waiting for someone. Yes, the man in the photo fitted Paula’s earlier description: regular features, medium build, well dressed, seemingly suave and self-confident.

  “Who is he?” Bernhardt asked.

  “His name is Brian Chin,” Ricca answered. “He came over here from Hong Kong maybe eight years ago, something like that. He’s kind of a free-lancer, does a little drugs, a little loan-sharking. The old Chinese guys, the regular families, they don’t have anything to do with Chin. He doesn’t give a shit. When Tony called me about all this, I right away thought it was Chin. He’s very smooth, very smart. And he’s got an organization. He takes these guys from Hong Kong, doesn’t pay them shit. And girls, too. It’s the same with girls. He gets them from Hong Kong. Beautiful girls, never more than twenty years old.” Smiling meaningfully, he looked at Paula. “These girls, they—”

  Bernhardt cut in angrily. “Okay, so he’s the one. Brian Chin. Now what?”

  Amused, locker-room-lascivious now, Ricca lazily shifted his gaze to Bernhardt, then back to Paula. “Ah … so that’s how it is, eh?”

  Grimly, Bernhardt made no reply.

  Ricca allowed himself another moment of supercilious amusement aimed at Bernhardt. Then, suddenly, he rose to his feet. “Okay, let’s see what happens. I’ve got some more guys downstairs, and three cars.” He looked again at Paula, smiled, bowed mockingly before, all business now, he turned to Bernhardt. “You carrying a gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “A permit?”

  “Of course.”

  “What kind of a gun?”

  “It’s a Ruger revolver. Three fifty-seven.”

  “Okay.” Ricca nodded approval, then strode to the door. “Okay. We’ll go downstairs, see where we stand.”

  10:20 P.M., PDT

  “I’D JUST AS SOON we weren’t doing this, you want the truth,” Ricca said. “The way I see it, Tony Bacardo fucked up. Maybe Carlo Venezzio fucked up, too; that’s not for me to say. But anyhow, when the don died, Tony should’ve gone right to Don Benito, got the word, up or down. Tony should’ve had more sense than to come out here all by himself, chasing his tail. He goes to Don Benito, lays it all out. Then he brings a crew with him, does the job right.”

  Bernhardt made no reply. They’d been talking alone for almost an hour in the rear seat of one of Ricca’s cars. The car was parked on Grant Street, in Chinatown. Point by point, Ricca had insisted on knowing everything, even the smallest detail—including the two gems and the one gold coin, safely zipped in an inside pocket of Bernhardt’s poplin jacket. Twice during the last hour one of Ricca’s men had come to tap on the car. Ricca had gotten out, conversed briefly with his underling, then returned to sit beside Bernhardt.

  “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.”<
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  “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.