Find Her a Grave

by Collin Wilcox

  Back on stakeout after six hours’ sleep, Ng had just reported that, once again, the two women were in the living room, in urgent conversation. In Ng’s opinion, Louise Rabb was close to the breaking point. Angela, returning from Alan Bernhardt with good news, was trying to reassure her mother. She’d been home for less than ten minutes, during which time Chin had listened while the conversation from inside the house was being recorded. Clearly, Angela had come to an agreement with Alan Bernhardt. If everything went as they hoped, they would be “ready” tonight. Meaning that—

  On the desk, the phone warbled. The console revealed that Barrows was calling from the Bernhardt stakeout.

  “Go ahead,” Chin said.

  “Al is leaving. There’s a woman and a dog with him. His wife, I’d say.”

  “Al” meaning Alan Bernhardt.

  “Are you set up with Wayne?”

  “I think so. Al has to go down the hill. Wayne’s down there.”

  “Does Al park his car on the street?”

  “Yes. There’s no garage.”

  “Then be sure and install a homing device.”

  “I already have,” Barrows answered.

  “Good.” Chin broke the connection. Locked on the homer, Barrows and Wayne Gee would follow Bernhardt, a rolling tail.

  Chin waited for a dial tone, consulted an electronic memo screen, called Ng’s number.

  “Anything?”

  “The other one,” Ng said, groping. “The man.”

  “That’s Al.”

  “Right. Looks like he’s going to get someone for backup. That’s what the women are talking about.”

  “He’s moving now.”

  “This Al,” Ng said, “he’s the main man, it sounds like. What he says, they do.”

  “Hold on.” Chin put Ng on hold, contacted Barrows. “I’d like to send someone with a spike mike to make an installation at Al’s while he’s gone. How does it look?”

  “Iffy, I’d say,” came the prompt response. “He lives in a lower flat, and the building’s attached on both sides. The front’s right on the sidewalk, maybe a five-foot garden with a few rosebushes. At night—late—maybe it’d work. Not now, though. It’s a residential neighborhood. You know, kids playing, lots of action. Especially on Sunday. Everyone’s out front, washing their cars.”

  “How about the back? An alley?”

  “I don’t think there’s an alley. I’m almost sure, in fact.”

  In silence, Chin made his calculations. The conclusion: A fake cable system installation might work—but not on Sunday.

  “Okay, we’ll hold off on the mike. Where’s Al going?”

  “Hard to say. Upper Market, as of right now.”

  “Okay. I’ll be here for at least an hour. Keep in touch.” Chin switched back to Ng, gave instructions that he should be informed minute to minute if anything changed at Thirty-ninth Avenue. Then Chin poured himself a fresh cup of tea, sighed, gently massaged his eyes as, once again, he leaned back in the chair. The time for decisions had come.

  First, as to Jimmy Fabrese: percentagewise, what was the probability that Fabrese had, in fact, come to San Francisco on a secret mission for Benito Cella? Chin considered, decided on ten percent.

  Next, what exactly was Louise Rabb’s connection with the Mafia—and therefore the treasure? Based on the taped conversations, it seemed that when Louise’s father had died, he’d left his daughter a fortune buried somewhere in the delta. Therefore, to calculate risk, it was essential to know the identity of the father. But the data bases on Louise Rabb led nowhere. Born Louise Frazer, mother Janice Frazer, father unknown. Married Jeffrey Rabb, one child, Angela. Divorced after five years, husband now deceased. No credit rating, no police record, no civil action during those five years. Married Jack Castle, no children, husband deceased. C-minus credit rating during the marriage, middle-five-figure income, no police record. Residence, North Hollywood. Moved to San Francisco four years ago, shared residence with Walter Draper. Credit unrated. Changed name from Louise Castle to Louise Rabb. Renting current residence, one year. Estimated net worth, mid-four-figures, no more. Chin had requested a check on Janice Frazer, but the computer’s first pass had revealed nothing usable. Tomorrow, with more mainframes up, additional information would doubtless develop, hopefully including the name of Louise Frazer/Rabb/Castle/Rabb’s father, the grand prize.

  But tomorrow could be too late.

  By tomorrow, according to the tapes, the jewels could be in a safe-deposit box, beyond reach.

  Whatever was done, therefore, must be done tonight.

  With Fabrese?

  Or without Fabrese?

  It was a question that depended on the efficacy of the data base that contradicted Fabrese’s claim to represent Benito Cella. The service that provided the data base was reliable, especially for corporate intelligence. But how reliable could a data base be that outlined the structure of organized crime? By definition, the information was hearsay, gathered for law enforcement and the media. But now, with Venezzio just dead, how could—?

  Chin’s telephone rang softly. It was the third line he’d programmed for the Rabb operation—the number he’d given Jimmy Fabrese.

  Yes, it was Fabrese’s voice: abrupt and abrasive: “Brian? This is Jimmy.”

  “Yes …” He couldn’t bring himself to say “Jimmy.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “I think,” Chin said, “that we’re making progress. It’ll take a few hours before everything comes together. But I think I can see how this is going to develop.”

  “That man—the tall one with the aviator glasses, needs a haircut. What about him?”

  “We’re working on that now.”

  “Where are you? The restaurant?”

  “Yes. But I don’t think we should be seen together here.”

  “You mean …?” As Fabrese let the question die, apprehension clouded his voice.

  “I’d just like to be careful. Are you still at your hotel?”

  “Yeah. But I want to get some handle on this, Brian. I’ve got to call some people back east, put them in the picture.”

  “How soon do you have to call them?”

  “It’s already four o’clock back there.”

  “Ah …” Chin pretended to consider. Then, speaking carefully: “I think it’s clear that your suspicions were correct. There has been some skimming.”

  “Th—there has?” It was a quick, spontaneous question, revealing sudden unease. Then, transparently trying to recover, Fabrese spoke brusquely, on the offensive: “That’s what I was saying yesterday. There’s skimming. No question.”

  “I know. I was confirming what you said.”

  “How’d you find out? Did you talk to Louise? If you did, then you fucked up, Brian. I didn’t want her to know we’re—”

  “She has no idea that I know. None.”

  “Well, then, how’d you—?”

  “The woman,” Chin interrupted smoothly. “Louise. Who was her father?”

  Instantly, a silence descended. Just as, instantly, Chin realized the mistake he’d made. Was, he’d said. Not is. But was. For such a mistake, a man could easily die.

  But to correct himself would compound the danger.

  Finally—ominously—Fabrese said, “Why’re you asking about Louise’s father?”

  There was no time to consider, no time to invent a story. Now—here, now—only the truth would serve:

  “You wanted the two women put under surveillance. Of course, we used electronic listening devices. We heard them talking for almost two hours last night. And today—Sunday—they’ve been talking.”

  “And they talked about Louise’s father?” Fabrese spoke softly, cautiously, as if the mere mention of the father meant danger. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  Improvising now, taking his moment-to-moment cue from Fabrese’s unease, strength in pursuit of weakness, the Chinese way, Chin said, “It would be wise for us to lay our cards on the table, Jimmy. Do
n’t you think so?”

  “Well, sure. But I told you yesterday that I’ve got to be careful. I can’t—”

  “You suggested that Benito Cella had sent you out here to find out whether Tony Bacardo might be skimming Mafia funds. You said your investigation was made necessary by the death of Carlo Venezzio. You also said that Bacardo was Venezzio’s number one. Correct?”

  “Yeah …” It was a hesitant response.

  “So,” Chin said, speaking now with the assurance of a teacher reciting well-remembered lessons, “if we begin drawing lines, and we connect the death of Venezzio to the arrival in San Francisco of Tony Bacardo, and then we connect those lines to Louise, and then, finally, if we add perhaps three hours of anxious conversation between the two women you asked me to watch, then it’s possible to draw some conclusions.”

  “These conversations you keep talking about. What d’you mean, exactly? What’d you hear?”

  “What I mean exactly,” Chin said, “is that when I piece together what the two women are saying, it seems obvious to me that Louise’s father has just died, leaving her a fortune in—”

  “Hold it,” Fabrese cut in. “Right there. Hold it. Either we meet and talk about this, or else we each get to pay phones. You don’t know what you’re messing with here.”

  “Oh, yes,” Chin answered. “I know what I’m messing with. The question is, do you know what you’re messing with?”

  “I’m not going to talk on this line anymore. Fuck it.”

  Chin sighed, glanced at his watch. Mafiosi, someone had once said, were stupid and paranoid and greedy. Also vicious and religious and patriotic.

  “It’s exactly one o’clock,” Chin said. “There’s a park on Kearny and Sacramento. That’s in Chinatown. It’s called Prospect Park, mostly for children to play. I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes. From your hotel, it’s ten minutes by cab.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  1:25 P.M., PDT

  SEATED ON OPPOSITE ENDS of the bench, surrounded by the shrieks of Chinese children at play, they stared at each other in silence. The pleasantries had been brief, unsmiling. Now, each man having made his final calculations, Fabrese was the first to speak: “What I want is for you to pick up where you left off on the phone. That’s all you have to do. Just tell me what you heard, never mind trying to guess what it means. I’ll take care of the guesswork.”

  “Ah.” For the first time since they’d sat down together, Chin permitted himself a small, private smile. “But guesswork, you see, is the most enjoyable part of the process. Imagination, you see.” He tapped his forehead. “Exercise for the mind.”

  “You said you used electronics—listening devices. Have you got what they said on tape?”

  Projecting elaborate regret, Chin shook his head. “We tried, of course. But the quality just wasn’t there.”

  “Okay.” Fabrese’s gesture was abrupt: a gathering anger, gracelessly suppressed. “Okay. Go ahead.”

  “My impression, as I said on the phone, was that Louise Rabb’s father had just died. He was a mafioso—a very powerful mafioso. And he left a fortune in jewels for his daughter. The jewels are buried within a hundred miles of San Francisco.” Chin broke off, looked blandly at the other man. “Does that agree with what you know—or suspect?”

  “Never mind what I suspect. Just get to it.”

  Chin’s smile was gentle, cat-and-mouse complacent. “My conclusion, you mean.”

  “That’s what I mean.” Fabrese spoke grimly.

  “Well, the conclusion is obvious. Louise’s father, I think, was Carlo Venezzio, who arranged to have a treasure buried for his daughter. When Venezzio died, it would be natural for Tony Bacardo to help Louise get the treasure. So he arrived in San Francisco Friday, two days ago. My guess is that Bacardo miscalculated what was necessary to get the jewels. Or perhaps he had second thoughts. Or perhaps—” The meaningful pause accentuated the final possibility. “Perhaps he realized that he would need backup—someone besides the daughter and the granddaughter of Carlo Venezzio. Someone, I imagine, who was familiar with guns.”

  Struggling to overcome the tremors of both excitement and fear that began in the pit of his stomach and would soon be exposed in his face, Fabrese made no reply, permitted himself no expression beyond a narrowing of his eyes, a tightening around the mouth.

  “In any case,” Chin said, “Bacardo is now in New York, or soon will be. And the two women are in their house on Thirty-ninth Avenue. And you—” Chin smiled gently. “You’re here.” The smile lingered as Chin added, “You’re here, and you’re worried. Or, at least, you are very concerned.”

  “Never mind me. What about the tall guy with the aviator glasses? I thought you were going to tail him, too.”

  “We haven’t been able to track him down. But we’ve got two people at Louise’s house. So if our friend goes there, we’ll have someone available to—”

  “I get the feeling,” Fabrese interrupted, “that it could all come down tonight.”

  Chin nodded. “Yes, I have that feeling, too. If they get the jewels tonight, they can get them to a safe-deposit box in the morning.”

  “I also get the feeling,” Fabrese said, “that the tall guy could be the muscle—the one with the gun.”

  Once more, Chin nodded.

  2:40 P.M., PDT

  WHEN BERNHARDT HAD FINISHED, C. B. Tate sat perfectly still, quizzically staring. Then, in exaggerated wonderment, he shook his head. “For a mild-mannered actor,” he said, “you do seem to have a knack for connecting with some pretty awesome characters.”

  A big, massively built black man, Tate spoke with a deep, rich feel for the rhythms of ghetto patois, his native tongue. Born in the projects south of San Francisco, a survivor of three years spent in the California correctional system, Tate had been saved ten years ago. His messiah had been a cigar-chomping bailbondsman named Bernard Feigenbaum, who knew a gladiator when he saw one. For six years, Tate had backed up Morey Edelstein, Feigenbaum’s only living relative younger than fifty. Edelstein had been a skip tracer and freelance bounty hunter who enjoyed the game of running down bail jumpers but who feared the physical violence that often followed. Since one of Tate’s talents was violence, he and Edelstein soon reached an accommodation. If Tate made him look good, Edelstein would pay Tate a bonus equal to a quarter of Edelstein’s take, apart from Tate’s own take. But, one rainy Friday night in Baltimore, having tracked down a stripper known as Charlie who also dealt in cocaine, Tate had missed a straight razor when he’d searched the lady—and Edelstein had paid with his life. After the funeral Tate told Feigenbaum that he intended to set up shop for himself, bounty hunting. Feigenbaum became his first client.

  “So what d’you think?” Bernhardt asked. “Interested?”

  “A thousand dollars …” Tate spoke with the richly textured resonance he always reserved for the discussion of substantial sums of money. In addition to the Sausalito houseboat in which they now sat, Tate also maintained a Corvette, two ex-wives, and three children, one of whom was determined to be a doctor.

  “Anything beyond the thousand?” Tate asked. “Bonuses? Incentives?”

  Bernhardt shifted his gaze to the houseboat’s floor-to-ceiling window that offered a perfect view of San Francisco in the distance and the blue of the bay sparkling at eye level in the foreground. Finally Bernhardt said, “If I get lucky—very lucky—I could come up with a hundred thousand, plus what I got up front. That’ll take a month, minimum. If it happens, I’ll give you ten percent.” He considered, then amended: “Anything over twenty-five thousand, let’s say, I’ll give you ten percent—when I get it. If I get it. Otherwise—” He pointed to the envelope that lay on Tate’s coffee table. “Otherwise, that’s it. A thousand dollars for you, four thousand for me. Up front.”

  “We got a deal. Coffee?”

  “Thanks. Cream. No sugar.”

  “I remember.” Tate rose, walked to the open kitchen counter, put on a burnished copper kettle. Nex
t he went to a small cupboard and took out a loose-leaf notebook and ballpoint pen. Whenever they did business together, Bernhardt always wrote the terms and conditions in the notebook, duly signed and dated. The practice, both men realized, was one reason for a friendship that had begun almost five years before, when Bernard Feigenbaum, a little-theater buff, had goaded Tate into trying out for the lead in The Emperor Jones, presented by the Howell Theater and directed by Alan Bernhardt. Of all the fledgling actors Bernhardt had ever directed, Tate had projected the most kinetic energy, the most raw, smoldering power—and the most instinctive control. When the Sentinel’s review came out, Tate read it twice, smiled his characteristically complex smile, and announced that his acting days were behind him. Unless, of course, Hollywood called.

  Tate made their coffee, served it, scanned what Bernhardt had written, signed the agreement, then consulted his watch. “It’s almost three o’clock. What time d’you figure to start?”

  “I’m thinking that we leave San Francisco about eight. It’s a three-hour drive, at least. Allow, say, a half hour to look around, another hour to get the stuff. That’d be about midnight. Meaning that we get back to San Francisco about three o’clock. All of us—you, me, the two women, and Paula—we all stay together at my place until the banks open tomorrow morning. Once the stuff is in a safe-deposit box, our job’s done.”

  “You said ‘Paula.’ How’s she fit in?”

  “The mother—Louise—doesn’t want the daughter—Angela—to go along. But she doesn’t want to leave Angela alone, either. So I figure we’ll leave Angela at my place. She and Paula will wait for us there.”

  “How about that dog of yours—Crusher? Maybe we should take him with us.”

  “I don’t know …” Dubiously, Bernhardt shook his head. “He’s not very disciplined. Besides, I’d like to leave him with Paula and Angela at my place.”