Find Her a Grave (7 page)

Flight 235A to San Francisco,
the printout read. And:
Flight 87 to Sacramento.

In the margin of the itinerary slip, four words had been handwritten:
Janice Frazer, Fowler’s Landing.
It was Maranzano’s scrawl.

Carefully he refolded the envelope, returned it to the pocket, refolded the topcoat’s lapel. Then, drawing a long, shaky breath, he turned back to face the house, both hands resting once more on the steering wheel. Safe.

W
ITH THE TINY FLASHLIGHT
Maranzano shone a slim beam of light on the ground. With his free hand he carefully brushed the fresh dirt away from the newly laid square of sod. He switched off the flashlight, straightened, looked carefully around, slowly pivoting. The night was still, the sky overcast. Holding up his wrist, he checked the time: midnight. The whole job, from the time he’d arrived, had taken twenty-five minutes. It was longer than he’d estimated; the ground had been hard and dry, the digging had been slow. Lying at his feet, the plastic shopping bag rustled faintly in the gentle breeze. He stooped, picked up the small collapsible shovel, began to turn the large knurled nut that would collapse the shovel to backpacking size. He laid the collapsed shovel on the ground, picked up the plastic bag, upended it, shook out the dirt left from the sod. He put the shovel and penlight in the bag, used the paper toweling he’d brought to clean the dirt from his hands. Then, with time passing, each minute a risk, he picked up the plastic bag. He began walking to the gate. He’d left it closed but unlatched. His rental car was parked a few feet from the wrought-iron fence, perhaps a hundred feet from the gate. He’d parked the car on the grass in the shadows cast by a small grove of trees.

When he was still thirty feet from the gate, he saw headlights. The car was coming slowly, making steady progress down the narrow, uneven road that led past the gate. A large tree grew close beside the pathway he was on. He must move fast enough to reach the tree before the car’s headlights picked him up—but not so fast that the movement would attract attention. “In the dark,” Bacardo had told him once, “if you move too fast, they’ll see you.” He’d been only twenty when Bacardo had told him. He’d been the lookout when Bacardo and two others went in after Tommy the Cork. They’d found Tommy in bed—with a boy.

When he was five feet from the tree’s shadow, the oncoming car’s headlights dipped down, then bobbed up—and caught him. Instantly immobilized, he waited until the headlights dipped again. Then, two strides took him into the shadows, hidden behind the trunk of the tree. Safe.

Safe?

No, not until the car passed would he be safe.

Carefully, he lowered the plastic shopping bag to the ground. His .38 was thrust into his belt, on the left side. The gun had a two-inch barrel, easy to conceal but useless beyond fifty feet, even in daylight.

By now the driver had seen Maranzano’s car, parked in the grass beside the fence. Had it been a mistake to park the car so far from the gate?

Soon he would know.

Because, yes, the car was slowing, stopping. The headlights shone for a moment after the engine died, then went out.

Revealing, across the car roof, a police patrol car’s light bar, plain in the pale light from the sky.

Slowly, the driver’s door swung open, and the driver laboriously climbed out. He was a big, slow-moving man who stooped, reached inside the dark car. When he straightened, he was adjusting a wide-brimmed Smokey the Bear hat on his head. With a long flashlight in his left hand, the policeman began walking toward Maranzano’s car. As he walked he unsnapped the safety strap of his holster, then continued with his hand resting on the butt of his service revolver.

Still in the shadow cast by the single tree, Maranzano used his right hand to slip an ice pick from its homemade leather sheath slung beneath his left arm. After a moment’s thought he slipped the ice pick point first into the left sleeve of the light wool jacket he wore, adjusting the pick so that the handle was cupped in his left hand. Then, leaving the plastic shopping bag where it lay, he stepped boldly away from the tree, began walking toward the gate, dragging his feet noisily on the gravel pathway. As he pushed open the gate he called out cheerfully, “Looking for me, Officer?”

“This your car?”

“Well,” Maranzano said, walking along the fence toward the policeman, “yes and no, I suppose is the answer. I rented it in Sacramento. Why? Has one like it been stolen?”

Suddenly the flashlight came on, focused blinding-bright on his face.
“Hey.”
He put indignation in the single word, the pissed-off taxpayer protesting. Repeating: “Hey, you
mind?”

In response, the flashlight beam dropped, focused now on his torso. But the voice from behind the light came cold and hard: “What’re you doing here, this time of night?”

He moved his head in the direction from which he’d come, smiling as he said, “I was coming along that goddam levee road, and the next thing I knew, I could hardly see the goddam hood ornament, all that ground fog.”

“That’s the levee road. This is here. What’re you doing here?”

“I’m lost, is what I’m doing here. I’m looking for Fowler’s Landing. Can you help me out?”

“But why’re you parked here, is what I’m asking. And where were you when I drove up?”

Maranzano sighed loudly, another pissed-off-taxpayer protest. “Well, Officer, if you really have to know, I was taking a shit. My stomach, the last hour or two, it’s tied up in knots. So—” He shrugged, man-to-man admitting, “So I was out beating the bushes, you might say, looking for some paper on the ground.” Now, man-to-man smiling: “You ever have to shit, and you don’t have any paper?”

The flashlight beam had fallen waist-high now, an accommodation. Yes, it would all work out. And, confirming it: “I’ve got some newspaper in the car.”

“Well, thanks anyhow.” The smile was wide open now, as friendly as he could make it. “But I’m all set now. Some litter-bug, thank God. But if you don’t mind, if you can spare some of that newspaper, maybe I’ll take it along. Just in case.”

“Sure. No problem.”

“Thanks, Officer. I appreciate it.”

“What’s your name?”

“It’s Matuska. Frank Matuska. That’s Polish.”

“Ah—Polish.” The policeman nodded. Then, politely: “Just let me see some identification, Mr. Matuska. Then I’ll get that newspaper and you can be on your way.”

“Oh. Sure.” Careful not to do it too suddenly, he began a movement with his left hand, to reach in his left hip pocket for the wallet that contained his fake ID. But the handle of the ice pick rested in the palm of his left hand. Could he reach the left hip pocket with his right hand? No, it was not possible. Could he support the ice pick with the little finger of his left hand, using the other three fingers and thumb to withdraw the wallet? No. Never.

“What’s the problem?” As he spoke, the policeman moved back one cautious step, then another. He’d opened six feet between them, guarding against a knife attack. Now his right hand was in motion, dropping toward the butt of his holstered revolver. The flashlight beam was focusing on Maranzano’s left arm, still half concealed behind his back.

“It’s this button. They’re new pants.” As he spoke, Maranzano used his right hand to unbutton his jacket, exposing the revolver thrust in his belt.

“Hey!”

The flashlight was falling away, leaving sudden darkness between them. Maranzano’s hand was on the butt of his revolver, jerking it from his waistband. The policeman was crouching, an indistinct blur after the flashlight’s glare. Maranzano fired point-blank: one shot, and another, double action.

“Ah.”
It was a sharp, sudden sigh.
“Ah,
Jesus. Don’t.” Now the policeman was trying to keep his balance, keep standing. He raised his left hand, as if to ward off a third shot. His right hand was pawing awkwardly at his revolver, still in its holster. Maranzano took a step forward, pulling the trigger with the muzzle of his pistol less than a foot from the policeman’s torso, lined up on the heart. With the third shot, the policeman dropped instantly to his knees, then fell heavily on his face, lying motionless. Standing over the body, Maranzano decided on a fourth shot to the temple. “The insurance shot,” Bacardo called it. “The executioner’s pop.”

“N
O DESSERT?” BACARDO ASKED
. “You sure?”

Maranzano raised an affable hand, then patted his hard, flat stomach. “Thanks, no. The first time in my life, I’m starting to watch what I eat.”

“What d’you weigh?”

“Stripped, a hundred seventy.” He smiled. “That’s on a good day.”

“A hundred seventy, though …” Bacardo looked over the younger man sitting across the table. “Your height and build, that’s okay.”

“That’s
okay. No more, though. I’ve made up my mind.”

“Well, what about a brandy?”

“How about an espresso?” Maranzano countered.

“Espresso. Fine.” Bacardo waved to the waiter, ordered two espressos. Then: “You’re probably wondering why I asked you tonight. And the answer is just—you know—get acquainted, let some of the guys see us together, get them used to the idea, now you’re a capo. Diplomacy, I guess you’d say.”

“And it’s appreciated, Tony. It’s appreciated very much.” As he said it, Maranzano was conscious of the satisfaction, the privilege, calling Bacardo Tony.

“Also,” Bacardo said, “I wanted to tell you that Don Carlo appreciated it, how you took care of that thing for him.”

“That cop—” As if to thrust the thought angrily away, Maranzano gestured, a quick chop of his muscular hand. “A rube cop. Jesus.”

Bacardo was ready with a reassuring smile. “The difference between rube cops and New York cops, you know, there’s not much juice out in the sticks. So they got no choice but to be honest. The other way, there’s no advantage.”

Maranzano nodded, smiled appreciatively, waited for the waiter to serve the espresso. Then, looking around the restaurant, he asked, “Where’s Eddie? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without Eddie.”

“He had a root canal today. He wanted to come, but I said no. He’s on painkillers, feels like shit. And there’s something I’ve got to do tomorrow, I need him. So I told him to stay home tonight, take it easy.”

“Does Eddie live out on Long Island, too?”

“He lives fifteen, twenty minutes away from me. Most of the time he’s got my Caddie, keeps it overnight.”

“Ah …” Approvingly, Maranzano nodded. “Yeah, I see. That’s good. Perfect.”

Bacardo sipped the espresso, frowned, added sugar. “Jesus, this stuff stands right up, eh?”

“I know.”

Bacardo stirred in the sugar, asking, “What about Fabrese, speaking of drivers? How’s he working out?” The question was casually asked, but Bacardo’s eyes flicked quickly, catching the other man’s reaction.

“Well,” Maranzano answered, “you want the truth, it seems to me that he asks too many questions.”

“Yeah …” Heavily, Bacardo nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. What d’you want to do, keep him on for another couple of months, then put him back on the street, something like that?”

“A couple of months—yeah.” Maranzano’s answering nod was equally judicious. “Yeah, I guess so. He drives all right, there’s nothing wrong with his driving. But I just wonder, if there was a problem, something came up, I don’t know where Jimmy’d be.”

“Maybe under a table.”

“Yeah, well.” Maranzano shrugged, sipped his coffee. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Okay.” Bacardo signaled the waiter for the check, dropped money on the table. Explaining: “I’ve got to be going. Long Island, you know, driving myself …” He shook his head, then pushed back his chair. “You got your car?”

“No. I went home first, and Fabrese took the car to the parking garage. That’s Manhattan, you know. Having a car—I wouldn’t ever have one, if it wasn’t for business.”

“So you took a cab.”

“Right.”

“Well, then, I’ll take you home, drop you off.”

“Aw—no. There’s no need, Tony. It’s no problem, taking a cab.”

“No.” On his feet, Bacardo gestured to the restaurant’s rear exit that led to a small parking lot. “No, come on. We can talk. There’s something else that I want to talk to you about.”

“Well, fine.”

Together they walked to the exit, then out to the parking lot. Always polite, Bacardo was unlocking the Cadillac’s door for him. Quickly, Maranzano slid into the car, found the latch for the driver’s door, pushed it open. Bacardo got in behind the wheel, settled himself, closed the door, looked at the man beside him. “Hey.” Bacardo twisted the key in the ignition, brought the engine to life. “Hey, buckle up there.”

“I never buckle up in the city.”

“You ride with me, you buckle up. Most accidents happen within a couple of miles of home. That’s the statistics.”

“Okay, okay.” In amiable mock surrender, Maranzano raised his hands, then went about the business of fastening his belt. Saying finally: “There. All set.”

“Good.” Bacardo nodded, put his foot on the brake, moved the shift selector to “R,” carefully looked back through the rear window—

—glanced down at Eddie Caproni, crouched in the darkness behind the front seat. Waiting. Ready.

Bacardo turned to face front. He kept his foot firmly on the brake, immobilizing the car, to give Eddie the best chance.

There was a hiss as the slim plastic-coated steel cable looped over Maranzano’s head. Instantly Maranzano threw himself forward, fighting the bite of the noose, his fingers clawing at his throat. But Caproni had both knees braced against the front seat, back bowed, hauling on the noose. Because he was strangling, Maranzano’s eyes were bulging. Because he was fighting to keep the noose tight, biting deep into the skin of his victim’s neck, Caproni’s eyes were bulging, too.

S
HE CROSSED THE LIVING
room to the telephone, answered on the second ring.

“Is this Louise?” It was a man’s voice, deep and thick.

“Yes.”