But there was another image: the swath of jewels, a sparkling crescent that spread across his desk like multicolored bits of cold fire.
And—yes—the final image: the screams of two Chinese children as their mother’s fingers fell to the floor. Their mother’s fingers, or their fingers.
As Bernhardt began to shake his head, he realized that Ricca was speaking again. Almost lost in the confusion of blood pounding in his ears, the other man’s words were hardly audible: “He calls home and gets the word, then you tell him to get the jewels, which are probably in his safe at the office. Or maybe they’re in his house, better yet. Then you bring him out to the car. He goes in the back, between me and you. You and Al pat him down, then put him in beside me. Then you get in the car, in back. Got it?”
Was he nodding? How could he know, since his mind and his muscles had disconnected, left him helpless to—
“If his two people come out with him,” Ricca was saying, “then everything’s off, it all hits the fan. Be sure and tell him that. Tell him if there’s any shooting, then his wife and kids pay.”
Without realizing that he meant to reply, unaware of his own words, Bernhardt protested: “You’re sending me into a goddam trap, a one-way ticket. You—Christ—why don’t you phone Chin?”
Ricca shook his head. “This way there’s more clout. It’s like if one general wants another general to surrender. He doesn’t call the other general on the phone. He sends a go-between. A high-level officer, like that. It’s—you know—it’s protocol.”
11:05 P.M., PDT
WATCHING CHIN WITH A director’s eye, Bernhardt could only admire the other man’s expertise. Even the smallest nuance enhanced the image of the inscrutable Oriental villain. The eyes, the hands, the body language, the voice—everything worked. The phone call had taken ninety seconds, no more. During the entire time, sitting behind the elaborately carved ebony table that served as his desk, Chin’s black eyes, utterly without expression, had never left Bernhardt’s face. Now, with elaborate delicacy, Chin replaced his phone in its cradle. As, still, his eyes were inexorably locked with Bernhardt’s.
When he finally spoke, Chin’s voice was very soft and precise, projecting the icy self-control that had never deserted him: “Before I decide what to do, I must know whether Charlie Ricca is free-lancing, as opposed to acting on orders from the Mafia.”
“I can’t—” Bernhardt felt his throat close, forcing him to begin again: “I can’t tell you that. All I can tell you is that there’s a car outside with three men in it. They’ll take you to your home. That’s where you give them the jewels.”
As if he accepted the statement, Chin nodded thoughtfully, almost dreamily. Then his gaze sharpened, focused on Bernhardt.
“I could, of course, kill you. Or I could hold you hostage, as I did the two young women. The only difference being—” Benignly, Chin smiled. “The only difference being that, secretly, I would have agonized if I’d had to order the women maimed.”
Bernhardt made no response.
“You’re a brave man, Mr. Bernhardt, to come here like this.” Gravely, Chin nodded approval. “Yes—very brave. Or else very foolhardy.”
“I’ve always thought that bravery and foolhardiness are two sides of the same coin.”
“That’s bravery in the heat of battle. Doing this—coming here like this—that was done after careful calculation.” A meaningful pause. Then: “In cold blood, one might say.”
“To be honest, I didn’t have much choice.” Hearing himself say it, Bernhardt was bemused by his own words. Why was he confiding in this suave, smooth-talking sadist who was dressed in a double-breasted suit and spoke like an imitation Harvard graduate?
“How is it that you don’t have a choice?”
“I took Mafia money to help Louise get those jewels.” And, having said it, he could only continue: “The Mafia doesn’t forget. I’ve learned that.”
“I do not forget, either. You understand?”
Once more, Bernhardt remained silent.
“I feel a little sorry for you, Mr. Bernhardt. From now on, wherever you go, there could be someone following, with orders to kill you.”
“Orders from you?”
Chin only smiled. Then he rose to his feet behind the desk. He went to a framed Chinese landscape hinged to the wall. From a small wall safe he took a black silk pouch secured by a golden cord—surely the jewels. He closed the safe, twirled the dial, swung the landscape back in place. Holding the pouch in the palm of his right hand, Chin gestured to a steel door set in the wall behind his desk. “That door leads to the alley. I would have no difficulty leaving by that route. Four of my men in two cars would enter the alley. They would be heavily armed. When they were ready, I would take these”—he bounced the jewels in his hand—“and leave. No one would be able to stop me, least of all Charlie Ricca.”
Also standing, Bernhardt nodded. “I believe you could.”
“I’d kill you, of course, before I left.”
Bernhardt felt the center of himself fall away. But, as if the sensation were stage fright, those last desolate moments before the actor steps onto the stage, he felt himself retreating into a let’s-pretend persona: the cold, controlled investigator, in command. Saying quietly: “If you kill me, you’ve still got to deal with Ricca. And the law, too.” He looked meaningfully at his watch. The time was eleven-twenty. Ricca’s deadline was eleven-thirty.
“You’d better decide,” he said. “You’ve got ten minutes.”
Chin smiled, then spoke reflectively: “When I turned thirty, I decided it was time to marry and have a family. As you doubtless know, my business interests include bringing people from Hong Kong.” The small smile widened slightly. “Call it the import business, if you like. One aspect of the business is women—very young, very beautiful young women. Therefore, when I decided to marry, it was natural that I would choose one of these women. Her name is Gah Bou, which means Little Fawn. She bore me two children, a boy and a girl. I’m very fond of these children. If Ricca should harm Gah Bou, I could bear it. But if those children were harmed, all because of a bag of jewels—” Still smiling slightly, perhaps wistfully, he looked down at the silk pouch. Then, to Bernhardt: “I’m ready. Are you ready?”
“I’m ready.”
1:10 A.M., PDT
WITH HIS EYES ON the jewels, Ricca spoke to Bernhardt: “Do you know how many there’re supposed to be?”
“Two hundred thirty-seven jewels,” Bernhardt answered. “And eighteen gold coins.”
“Okay …” Ricca gestured to the jewels, which were piled on a newspaper spread on a chrome-and-formica kitchen table. “You count them. Count them good, because you’re responsible.”
Bernhardt turned to Brian Chin, who stood beside the table. In his impeccably cut double-breasted suit, Chin looked incongruous in the brightly lit kitchen. “Have you got a ruler?”
Chin moved his head to his wife, a silent command. She went to a drawer and produced a plastic ruler. Bernhardt thanked her, then turned his attention to the jewels. The four of them—Bernhardt, Ricca, Chin and Gah Bou—all stood around the table. Ricca’s eyes were fixated on the jewels, avidly watching them reflect the light as Bernhardt counted. Also watching, Chin stood impassively, arms calmly folded. Jimmy, one of Ricca’s men, stood in the doorway of the kitchen. The .45 caliber Colt automatic Jimmy held was lowered, trained on Chin’s legs. Al and another of Ricca’s men were in the living room, guarding Chin’s two children and his mother. In the two cars parked at the curb three more Mafia gunmen stood watch.
During the time it took Bernhardt to complete his count, no one in the kitchen changed position. From the living room, Bernhardt heard a child’s voice. It was the boy, asking an unintelligible question about his guard’s gun. The guard’s answer was also unintelligible.
Finally Bernhardt nodded, spoke to Ricca: “They’re all there.”
“You sure?”
“Shall I count them again?”
Impatiently, Ricca shook his head. Then he spoke to Chin’s wife: “You go into the living room, sit with your kids.”
She looked at Chin, who nodded. She turned, left the room. She wore blue jeans and a gray cashmere sweater. The movement of her perfectly proportioned body was superb.
“Okay.” Ricca pointed to the jewels, spoke to Bernhardt. “Put ’em in the bag.” Ricca eyed Bernhardt’s waist-length poplin field jacket with its elastic waistband. “Will they fit in a pocket?”
“I don’t think so.” But, a surprise, the black silk pouch could be carried in one of the jacket’s two bellows pockets.
“Ah, good.” Satisfied, Ricca nodded. Then, as if the disappearance of the pouch had liberated him, brought him back to the business at hand, Ricca turned to Chin, spoke briskly:
“What we’re going to do now,” he said, “is we’re going to go outside, me and Jimmy and you and Bernhardt. I’ve got three men outside, in two cars. There’s a Lincoln and an Oldsmobile. Two of my men are in the front seat of the Lincoln. The third man is behind the wheel of the Olds. Bernhardt’ll get in the back seat of the Lincoln. You’ll get in beside him. I’ll get in beside you. Jimmy—” As Ricca spoke, Jimmy came to attention. “Jimmy’ll get in the front seat of the Olds, beside the driver. Al—” Ricca gestured to the living room. In response, Chin nodded. Yes, he knew Al’s name. “Al’ll stay here. Another guy stays, too.”
“Is this a one-way ride?” Chin asked. His voice, Bernhardt realized, was dead level. His face was impassive. Once again, Brian Chin was giving a magnificent performance: ice water in his veins, no fear showing, even facing death. While, certainly, his thoughts were running wild.
Ignoring the question, Ricca said, “When we were coming here, I saw a couple of cars following us. They were your guys, weren’t they?” It was a low-keyed question, matter-of-factly asked.
Gravely, Chin nodded.
“And when we patted you down in front of your restaurant, before you got in my car, you were carrying a mini walkie-talkie. Which you’ve still got in your pocket.”
Once more, Chin nodded.
“Okay.” Satisfied, Ricca also nodded. He drew a large automatic pistol from beneath the sports jacket he wore. He pulled back the slide, checked the load, released the slide, eased off the hammer. “Okay,” he repeated. “Now, I want you to call your guys, tell them we’re coming out. Tell them Jimmy’ll come first. Then Bernhardt. Then you. Then me. You probably have some kind of a signal that’ll tell your guys how you want them to handle this. Maybe your guys have Uzis, something like that. But if you tell them to start a war, rescue you, some shit like that—well, naturally, you’ll be the first to go. First you, then your family.”
“I expect to be the first to go no matter what happens.” Still Chin’s voice was dead level; his eyes revealed nothing.
Ricca’s smile was directed at Chin. The smile was genuine, Bernhardt realized. Signifying a simple professional respect. How many gangsters could face death so calmly? Still smiling, Ricca shook his head. “Maybe not. We’ve got a way to go, you and me. You want my advice, you’ll take it one step at a time. Don’t do anything dumb.” When Chin made no reply, Ricca gestured impatiently. “You going to call your guys, or what?”
Chin let a long, thoughtful moment of silence pass before, with measured deliberation, he took a tiny portable radio from an inside pocket. He extended the antenna, punched out a number. Then he began speaking in Chinese. Startled, Bernhardt looked at Ricca. But Ricca only nodded. The message: he’d expected Chin to speak in Chinese. In less than a minute, Chin returned the radio to his pocket, nodded to Ricca.
“Okay.” Ricca looked first at Bernhardt, then at Jimmy. “Ready?” When each man nodded, Ricca spoke to Bernhardt directly: “You better get that three fifty-seven in your hand, unless you’re some kind of a fast-draw artist.”
Bernhardt drew the gun with his right hand; with his left hand, once again, he verified that, yes, the jewels were safe in his jacket pocket.
“Okay,” Ricca repeated, “let’s go, like I just said, in that order. You first, Jimmy. Then Bernhardt.”
Nodding, Jimmy began moving out of the kitchen and into a short central hallway, leading the way to the front door. When Ricca reached the archway to the living room he spoke to Al: “You and Freddy stay put. I’ll call you on the phone, tell you when.” Momentarily Ricca swept the grandmother and mother with a look of practiced intimidation. “Anybody gives you a problem, Al, you shoot. Got it?”
Al nodded. “Got it.”
“Good.” Ricca motioned for Jimmy to open the front door and begin descending the outside stairs, followed by Bernhardt, Chin, and Ricca. At the curb, the man riding passenger in the front seat of the Lincoln was getting out of the car. In his left hand he carried a sawed-off shotgun. With his right he pulled open the car’s rear door, then stood with his back to the car. His head was in constant motion; he held the sawed-off with both hands, ready. As Bernhardt followed Jimmy down the single flight of concrete steps to the sidewalk, he saw a car turning onto the quiet residential street. On both sides of the street, cars were parked in almost every available parking place. The car in motion could carry Chin’s gunmen, a flying wedge: cavalry, in the vanguard of the main attack. On these stairs, how close behind him was Chin? When the shooting started, Chin would certainly throw himself on Bernhardt’s back.
UNDERWORLD SHOOTOUT IN QUIET RUSSIAN HILL DISTRICT, the headline would read. Followed by the subhead: MAFIA BATTLES CHINESE GANG, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR DIES CARRYING A FORTUNE IN GEMS.
Traveling slowly, the oncoming car drew abreast of the Chin house. Two figures were inside: two men, Caucasians, both facing forward, incurious. Ahead, Jimmy was on the sidewalk. As, yes, the car was peacefully passing, proceeding up the block. Three more steps down, and Bernhardt, too, stood on the sidewalk. Now the passenger door of the Oldsmobile swung open. At the Lincoln, Jimmy turned back to face Bernhardt. Jimmy held his big automatic with the muzzle raised, the approved pre-combat stance.
“Okay,” Jimmy said, jerking his head to Bernhardt. “Get in the car. Move.”
As Bernhardt stooped, Jimmy hissed, “Be careful of that goddam gun. Don’t let him grab it off you.” Bernhardt nodded, shifted the .357 to his left hand as he slid into the car, holding the revolver between his thigh and the door. The bulk of the jewels in his left pocket pressed against the Lincoln’s door, a palpable presence. Incredibly, since he’d left the shelter of the house and begun descending the front stairs, he hadn’t been aware of the jewels: a million dollars, in the pocket of his jacket.
A million dollars, and already one dead.
Now Chin was sitting close beside Bernhardt. Also guarding his pistol, Ricca entered the car. Jimmy slammed the door, exchanged a look with Ricca. Both men nodded. Jimmy straightened, went to the Oldsmobile, got in beside the driver. In the front seat of the Lincoln, the gunman on the passenger side turned to face the three men in the rear seat. He held a large-caliber stainless-steel revolver similar to Bernhardt’s. Trained on Chin’s chest, the revolver rested on the back of the front seat. Still holding his .357 along his left thigh, Bernhardt twisted to face Chin. Ricca, too, was facing Chin. Impassively, Chin stared straight ahead. Once more, Bernhardt could only marvel at the role Chin was portraying with such incredible composure.
Suddenly Ricca spoke: the boss, briskly taking charge. “Okay. So far so good. Now, Brian, I want you to get in touch with your guys again.” Ricca gestured to the pocket that held Chin’s miniature walkie-talkie.
“Oh?” Chin’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. “Why is that?”
“They’re around here somewhere, right?”
Chin considered the question, then gravely nodded.
“How many cars?”
“Two.”
“How many men?”
“Four. Two in each car.”
“So they’re—what—within a block or two, something like that?”
“Yes.” Chin’s inflection sug
gested a delicate irony, a supercilious superiority to Ricca’s streetwise patois. Repeating mockingly: “Something like that.”
“Okay.” Pleased, Ricca nodded. “So here’s what I’m going to do, Brian.” A pause, for added weight. “What I’m going to do, I’m going to give you a choice. It’s you or one of your guys, take your pick.”
“You mean—” Chin frowned, began again: “You mean either I die or one of them dies?”
Ricca smiled. “You got it. And, at that, you’re getting off lucky. If I was calling it, you wouldn’t get a choice.”
“Orders from New York,” Chin said.
Grimly, Ricca nodded. “That’s right, asshole. Just so I’m sure you know what this is all about, what you did was hijack jewels that belonged to Carlo Venezzio. So you robbed from our people. And that’s like a death sentence, you rob from us. And then, Christ, you kill one of our soldiers. Plus, you kidnap Carlo Venezzio’s granddaughter. And for all that, Cella’s willing to let you live.” Marveling, Ricca shook his head. “To be honest, I don’t get it. I mean, something like this happened and I was running things, I’d kill two of your guys, not just one. And I’d take two million dollars, plus the jewels. But Cella, he’s—you know—a statesman, whatever you want to call it. He doesn’t want to start a war out here, not when he isn’t even the official head man yet. So you’re lucky, Brian. Believe me, you’re the luckiest Chinaman around.”
“When I killed Fabrese,” Chin said, “he was in the process of hijacking those jewels. I stopped him.”
“The answer to that one,” Ricca said, “is that I couldn’t care less. This whole thing is a mess, and all I want is to get it over with. So I’m obeying orders. No more, no less. So you decide, Brian. It’s your move.”
“And if I should refuse to make the call—then what?”
“Then we all drive out by the ocean, and we put a bullet in your head.”
“And if I make the call?”
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