Find Her a Grave

by Collin Wilcox

  Bernhardt moved into a small living room as Tate swung the door closed behind them. The house had a shut-up, musty odor. Except for two chromium-plated kitchen chairs, a small coffee table with towels spread across it, and a threadbare couch, probably left behind by the previous tenant, the living room was unfurnished. The small Spanish-style fireplace was littered with refuse. The floor was bare, badly scratched and spotted. Bernhardt stood motionless in the middle of the room, listening. Standing beside him, Tate also stood motionless, staring into the hallway that led back to the rear of the house.

  Bernhardt spoke in a whisper: “Let’s—”

  “Shhh.” Holding a Browning automatic in his right hand, Tate raised his left, a warning. Then, silently, he inclined his head, his gaze fixed on the floor just ahead. The message: he’d heard something. But when Bernhardt listened, he heard nothing. Now Tate frowned, shrugged. Whatever sound he’d heard, the house was silent now.

  “Did you bolt the front door?” Bernhardt whispered.

  Frowning, Tate nodded abruptly. The message: of course he’d bolted the door.

  Nodding in return, holding the .357 ready, Bernhardt advanced slowly, soundlessly into the hallway. There were four doors. One of the doors, Bernhardt knew, led down to the basement and garage, at street level. The first door on the left, opening out, was a closet. Bernhardt grimaced to himself. Of course, the basement door would open inward, not outward.

  Holding his breath, he pushed open the second door—

  —and saw the flight of rough wooden stairs leading down.

  He looked back at Tate, who nodded. Yes, Tate was ready. As always, Tate was ready.

  Slowly, step by step, Bernhardt was descending the stairs. Whoever was down there would see his feet and legs before he saw them.

  One step—two—three. If they were there, handcuffed, they would—

  A thump. Another thump. An incoherent voice, muffled.

  Paula.

  Four more steps down and he was in the basement. The garage was in the front of the house, the utility area in the rear. Paula and Angela sat close together on the concrete floor. They were handcuffed separately around a drain pipe that served two laundry sinks. Incongruously, both women wore identical raincoats and cheap white tennis shoes that looked new. Both were gagged with wide strips of adhesive tape. Above the tape, Paula’s eyes were enormous.

  Without words, choking incoherently on his own rage, Bernhardt holstered the .357, dropped to his knees beside Paula, cradled her head close, an awkward embrace. Her eyes were streaming. “Goddammit,” Bernhardt muttered. “Goddam them.” He felt Tate’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Here.” In his big outstretched palm, Tate offered the two handcuff keys. Bernhardt took one, grasped Paula’s handcuffs, turned them to expose the keyhole. Yes, the key fitted. A moment later she was free. On their knees, they were hugging each other fiercely, she mute, choking and sobbing, Bernhardt suddenly laughing half-hysterically. Beside them, also on his knees, Tate was freeing Angela. Now, still laughing incoherently, Bernhardt touched the adhesive tape covering Paula’s mouth. “You want me to do it? Or do you?”

  Her response was a nod to him, signifying that he should tear the tape off. He pulled her to her feet, steadied her for a moment, drew a deep breath.

  “Okay—here goes.” With his fingernails, he lifted the edge of the topmost strip, waited a moment, then ripped it free. Suddenly a childhood scene came back: his mother, ripping adhesive tape off for him, so many years ago. Ouch time, she’d called it.

  Now he was working at the second strip, ripping it away. Awkwardly, with fingers still stiff from the handcuffs, Paula took a handkerchief from her mouth, threw it from her. Then, crying and laughing, she was kissing him. Never had he held her so close.

  2 P.M., PDT

  SITTING BESIDE BERNHARDT IN the bank’s small customer lounge, Tate chuckled. “I get the feeling we’re under surveillance.” As he spoke, he winked at the video monitor.

  Bernhardt smiled faintly, looked Tate over critically. “Not surprising. We both need shaves. Not to mention showers and clean clothes.”

  “And sleep, too. Don’t forget sleep.”

  “How could I forget sleep? Christ, I’m out on my feet.”

  “How’s Paula doing?”

  “She’ll be all right. She’s at her place, sleeping.”

  “Has she still got that gun?”

  Bernhardt nodded. “Yes.”

  “That’s a very gutsy lady. A lot gutsier than she looks.”

  “I know…”

  “What about Crusher?” Tate asked. “What’d the vet say?”

  “They’ll keep him for a couple of days. His lungs’re congested, but they say he’ll be all right.”

  “Ah … good.”

  Bernhardt yawned, settled himself in his chair, considered closing his eyes. It had been fifteen minutes since Louise and Angela had been buzzed back into the bank’s vault. They’d carried their jewels in Louise’s purse.

  “When they make a TV movie of my life,” Tate said, “this goddam caper will take top billing. I mean, just think—a fortune buried up in the goddam swamps by a Mafia kingpin. A guy’s killed, for reasons that still aren’t clear since the murderer obliges us by disappearing in the goddam mist with his killer rifle. So, surprise, we dig it up, a fortune in jewels. But then, slips, a Chinese hoodlum who’s apparently an electronics freak—and who probably offed Profaci or Fabrese or whatever the name was—kidnaps Paula and Angela after he takes out Crusher. And when all the smoke settles, pardon the expression, and nobody gets disfigured, what’d you end up with?” Despairingly, Tate shook his head. “You end up with two diamonds and one ruby and one gold coin. We latch on to—what?—two hundred and sixty-three jewels and twenty gold coins, whatever the count was, all spread out on your desk like we were little kids showing off the loot we got on Halloween, trick or treating. So now, sitting here, your end of the action wouldn’t even cover your thumbnail.”

  “You’re forgetting five thousand dollars. One thousand of which went to you.”

  “Plus twenty-five percent of what those three jewels and that gold piece bring, let’s not forget that.”

  “You want to divvy up now?” Bernhardt asked, an amiable challenge. “I’ll give you whichever stone you want. You’ll be getting a third, not a quarter. So I’ll keep whatever the gold coin brings. What d’you say?”

  “You mean now? Settle up right now?” Taken by surprise, Tate reflexively surveyed the interior of the bank, a bastion of privilege. “Here?”

  “Why not here?”

  “Jesus, Alan, you’re a real player, aren’t you?”

  “What d’you say?”

  “I don’t know shit about jewels.”

  Bernhardt smiled at Tate’s discomfort. “I don’t know shit either. So what d’you say? One way, you have to wait for me to sell them to get your cut. This way, it’s all settled.”

  Responding to the challenge, Tate matched Bernhardt’s smile. “What the hell? Let’s do it.”

  Bernhardt took the double-folded envelope from his shirt pocket. Carefully, he emptied out the three gems, two diamonds and one ruby. “Here.” Cupped in his palm, he held out the gems. Gingerly, Tate took them in his own hand.

  “Jesus …” Now bemusement twisted Tate’s smile. “Jesus, we’re playing blindfolded here.” Then, frowning: “I read somewhere that, carat for carat, a good ruby’s worth more than a good diamond.”

  “Then take the ruby.” As he said it, Bernhardt saw Louise and Angela emerging from the vault. “Hurry up. Here they come.”

  “Ah, shit.” Recovering his habitual nonchalance, Tate casually plucked a diamond and a ruby from his palm, passed them to Bernhardt. “Diamonds are forever, right?”

  “So we’re square, then.” Bernhardt returned the two remaining gems to the envelope, then to his pocket.

  Tate nodded. “Square.” Carefully, he began folding his own diamond inside a parking citation he discovered in an i
nside pocket. Then, as he watched Louise and Angela coming slowly toward them, he asked, “So is this the end? Case closed?”

  Also looking at the two women, Bernhardt answered with coldly measured precision, “No, it isn’t the end. This case is still open.”

  “Ah …” Quizzically, Tate studied the other man’s face. Yes, he’d seen Bernhardt look like this before. Bernhardt wasn’t especially street savvy, and he’d never pretended to be very tough. But Bernhardt was determined. When Bernhardt looked like he looked now, someone was going to pay.

  “So,” Tate said, probing. “So you going to need me, or what?”

  “I don’t know,” Bernhardt answered, his eyes going reflectively into far focus.

  “You—ah—you want to be careful with these Chinese guys. They got their own style, you know. They blow somebody away, they never even change expression.”

  Rising to his feet as Louise and Angela came closer, Bernhardt made no reply.

  5 P.M., PDT

  BERNHARDT EASED THE DOOR of her apartment open, stepped inside, softly closed the door, and bolted it. He went to the small living room, then stood motionless, listening. It was a small apartment, only one bedroom, a bath, a large living room with a dining table at one end, and a small kitchen that opened on a counter. The building had originally been a Victorian mansion, in later years divided into four apartments. The coved ceilings were high, the woodwork was intricately carved, the fireplace was framed and mantled in marble. Two of the windows in the living room were curved glass, with stained glass at the top. Paula came from a life of privilege. An only child, both her parents were college professors; her father was a nationally recognized economist. The furnishings she’d chosen for the apartment reflected her background: impeccably restrained taste, a good eye for proportion—and money in the bank.

  “Alan … ?” From behind the half-open bedroom door, her voice was blurred by sleep. Or was it exhaustion?

  “Yes.” He went to the bedroom door, pushed it open. She lay on the far side of the double bed, her knees drawn up. She was facing him. Her hands on the counterpane were tightly clenched. Her brown hair was tousled. In her pale, drawn face the dark eyes were abnormally large: waif’s eyes. Without speaking, he sat on the bed, stroked her hair back from her forehead. The time was five o’clock. After he’d taken Louise and Angela to their home, the end of his responsibility, he’d brought Paula here, to her own place. He’d waited while she’d taken a long, hot shower and got into bed. She’d taken an over-the-counter sleeping pill. When they’d gotten into bed together and he’d held her close, he’d whispered the same endearments a parent would whisper to a child, trying to make the memory of something terrible go away. Before she finally went to sleep in his arms, he’d whispered that he would have to leave her for a few minutes, once she’d fallen to sleep. In reply, she’d murmured something unintelligible.

  “How’d you sleep?”

  She tried to smile: a small, wan, wistful attempt that quickly faded. “I’m not sure I did sleep.”

  “Did you hear me go out?”

  “No.”

  “Then you slept.”

  “What time is it?”

  “A little after five.”

  “Can you stay here tonight?”

  “Sure. Of course.” Once more stroking her hair, smiling into her eyes, he swung his legs up on the bed to lie beside her, on top of the bed clothing.

  “How’s Crusher?” she asked.

  “He’ll be all right. He’s at the vet’s for at least tonight.”

  “Poor Crusher. He’s the only one who was really hurt.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say it.”

  She tried another smile as her eyes began to close.

  “Listen,” he said, “I’ve got to go out again in a few minutes. There’s a call I have to take.”

  Her eyes came heavily open. “Can’t you take it here?”

  “No. But I’ve just got to go around the corner. Then I’ll be right back.” As he spoke, he glanced at his watch. In sixteen minutes, exactly, he must be ready to take the call.

  Watching him, her eyes came into sharper focus. She began to frown, an expression of suspicion. “Alan …” She let the rest go meaningfully unsaid. Signifying that she suspected why he must leave her.

  “Before I go—” It was a tentative, elusive beginning. “I want to ask you about the Chinese guy who did the talking. Can you describe him?”

  “Alan, for God’s sake, don’t go after them. You—my God—you and C.B., you wouldn’t stand a chance against this man. It—it’s creepy, how much power he projects, how much evil. He never raises his voice, but everything he says is menacing. And he’s got an organization. Last night, it was like a military operation.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Thirty-five to forty-five, I’d say.” Then, as he’d taught her, she recited the rest of it: “A handsome man, very urbane. Medium build, probably a hundred sixty, no more. Good dresser. Very intelligent. And very vain, I think.”

  “He’s got to be the one I talked to on the phone. If I had to pick one word, ‘urbane’ would be it. Smooth talking, never raises his voice, even when—” About to repeat what the voice on the phone had threatened, he broke off.

  But in a low, hushed voice, she finished it: “Even when he was threatening to cut off my fingers, he never raised his voice. Is that what you were going to say, Alan?” As she spoke, the terror remembered returned in a rush, once more haunting the shadows deep in her eyes. But then, just as quickly, her eyes cleared. She set her small jaw, drew a deep breath, then spoke fervently, furiously: “The bastard. The goddam smooth-talking bastard.”

  He smiled. On the road back, Paula had made the first turn.

  The lady’s got guts, Tate had said.

  Yes, the lady did indeed have guts.

  Bernhardt moved close, kissed her once, hard. Then, exclaiming as he looked at his watch, he rolled off the bed. “I’ll lock the door. Back soon—a half hour, no more.”

  “Alan …”

  “Gotta go.” He waved, strode quickly to the door.

  5:50 P.M., PDT

  “SO WHAT YOU’RE TELLING me,” Bacardo was saying, “is that Fabrese was putting the arm on Louise, to try and get to the jewels. So when you got the jewels, dug them up, Fabrese was following you, going to hijack the jewels. He called himself Profaci. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “He was definitely following us,” Bernhardt answered. “And Louise is sure about the alias.” As he said it, he saw two teenage boys walking purposefully toward the phone booth. Bernhardt turned his back on them, spoke into the phone: “What he intended to do, that’s supposition.”

  “And this Chinaman took Fabrese off your back. Then the Chinaman just walked away.”

  “I assume it was the Chinaman that killed Fabrese. But we didn’t actually see him at the graveyard.”

  “The treasure,” Bacardo said. “How was it packaged?”

  “It was in a white plastic sewer pipe. About a foot long, sealed on the ends. Maybe five inches in diameter.”

  “How’d you get it open?”

  “We used a hacksaw.” As he said it, Bernhardt realized that he was being tested. The conclusion: Bacardo had handled the treasure, and probably assembled the jewels, and sealed them in the canister. Meaning that, probably, Bacardo had taken a count of the jewels.

  And, yes, Bacardo’s next question was the proof: “What was in the container? What kind of jewels? How many?”

  “There were two hundred sixty-three jewels. They were all cut, but they weren’t mounted. And twenty gold coins.”

  “So Louise took twenty-six jewels and two coins, you say. And she gave the rest to this goddam Chinaman. All because of threats he made on the phone.” It was a flat statement of fact heavily laden with contempt.

  Bernhardt made no response.

  “You let her hand everything over.”

  “They were going to chop off her daughter’s fingers, for God�
�s sake. And Paula—the woman I happen to be in love with—they were going to do the same to her. Chop off their fingers, and cut off their noses, too.”

  “So you just rolled over, you and this nigger you hired. You let this Chinaman get away with a goddam fortune. You put three jewels in your pocket, like it was some kind of a tip, and you—”

  “Listen, Tony.” Bernhardt drew a deep, tight breath. “The way this Chinese guy operates, I wasn’t going to take chances. And neither was Louise. Okay, so she lost a fortune in ill-gotten gains. She can still—”

  “What’s this ‘ill-gotten gains’ shit? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know what it means. It means hot money. It means we can’t call the police. It means that—”

  “What you don’t seem to get,” Bacardo cut in, “is that this fucking Chinaman has made fools of us. I don’t know what game Fabrese was playing. I’ve got my suspicions, knowing Fabrese. But whatever game it was, we’d’ve taken care of it. Us. Not some goddam Chinaman. So this Chinaman is way over the line. He’s whacked one of our people. And then, for Christ’s sake, he hijacked a fortune that belongs to the daughter of a don. He’s—”

  Furiously, Bacardo broke off. Then, ominously quiet: “He’s making us look terrible out there on the Coast. And that’s not going to happen, Bernhardt. You got that?”

  Bernhardt made no reply. Suddenly he realized that the Mafia, like every successful enterprise, was acutely conscious of its image. He smiled to himself at the wayward thought. While, outside the phone booth, two women had joined the teenage boys. All four were frowning. Bernhardt shrugged, pointed to the phone, pretended to frown with helpless vexation because of something he was hearing on the phone.

  “—positive about all this?” Bacardo was asking.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”