Find Her a Grave (8 page)

“This is Tony, Louise.”

“Tony …” The single word lingered, not quite a question. Tony Bacardo, that big, awkward, slow-talking, even-tempered man. She’d last seen him when he’d taken her to her father at the prison hospital. Ever since, she’d been expecting this call. All the time was gone now. Everything, gone.

“It’s—it’s about your father, Louise. Don Carlo.”

“Ah …”

Her father, that man some called a monster. Dead. Surely, dead.

Without realizing that she’d done it, she was sitting on the sofa. Would she choke up? Cry? Was that what was expected now?

“He’s dead,” she finally managed to say.

“Yes.”

“When did it happen?”

“It happened last night sometime. They didn’t tell—” A pause. “They didn’t tell the family until early this morning. Eight o’clock, I think. Our time.”

“Was anyone with him when he died?”

“I don’t know. He was in the prison hospital, where he died. And they have their rules.”

“I thought he ran the prison.” It was an accusation.

“Well, that’s true—as long as everyone understands each other. He could have his own doctors, things like that. But he couldn’t have visitors in the hospital. It’s security.”

“What about his—” How should she say it? How
could
she say it? “His family, what about them? His children?”

“Well, Maria—his wife—she wouldn’t’ve visited him, even if they’d let her. And his children—the two children he had with Maria—I don’t know. Maybe Maria said stay away, and that’s what they did. I think that’s probably what happened.”

“What about the funeral?”

“I haven’t heard anything. But the way I think it’ll go, Maria’ll sign all the papers, and our organization will take it from there, pay the bills and everything. There’s an undertaker—Sigler and Sons—they know how to do things.”

“Will you tell me when the funeral is?”

“Are you planning to come, make the trip?”

“Yes. Sure. Angela, too. We’ll both come.”

There was a long, heavy silence. She knew the meaning of that silence, knew what Bacardo was about to say.

“I’m not so sure that’d be a good idea, Louise. Our organization, the top guys—the capos, and the dons—it’s like they’re politicians, you know. They
are
politicians. That’s what it’s all about with us. Your dad, he had every politician in New York in his pocket. Senators, judges, you name it.”

“But my father still went to trial, went to prison.”

“That’s different. That’s federal. He was framed by the feds, the same way Luciano and Genovese were framed. The feds want you bad enough, you got to be careful.”

“Once he told me Maria gave the feds what they needed.”

“We can talk about that when we get together, Louise. This is Thursday. The funeral’ll probably be Monday or Tuesday. Then there’s some things I’ve got to do. Something like this, Don Carlo dying, there’re things have to be settled. You understand?”

“Yes,” she answered. “Yes, I understand.” As, once more, she felt it: the ageless weight of the Mafia, bearing her down, imprisoning her. “What you’re saying, they don’t want me to come to the funeral. Is that it? My own father.”

“Louise—listen. It’s what I said. It’s politics. That’s all. Politics. Christ, you and Angela, you’re all the don cared about. You know that.”

She made no response.

“The business we’ve got with each other, Louise—the words we got from the don, you and me—that was a risk for the don. A big risk. You should understand that, how big the risk was. He wouldn’t’ve done that for anyone else. Never.”

Still she made no response.

“So—” Bacardo spoke hesitantly, tentatively. Then, with finality: “So I’ll see you in a week, maybe ten days, something like that. I’ll come out there, and we’ll do what the don wanted us to do. You understand?”

“I understand.” She said it grudgingly.

“And about the funeral, listen, you send flowers to Sigler and Company. Send a big floral piece—you know, two, three hundred dollars, like that. Charge it to Sigler. And you tell them it’s from ‘Louise and Angela, rest in peace,’ something like that. You do that, and I guarantee your piece’ll be right up front, the closest to the casket. You understand?”

Suddenly weary, suddenly unutterably drained, she nodded to nothing, to no one. Saying: “I understand.”

“Don’t say anything on the wreath about—you know—whose father he was, nothing like that.”

As he said it, the last of her strength flared, focused on one final protest. “You had to say that, didn’t you? You just had to say that.”

A
S THE ORGANIST BEGAN
playing the overture to
Othello,
Don Carlo’s favorite opera, Cella turned, whispered to Bacardo, “When we go to the cemetery, you ride with me. My car’ll be right behind Maria’s car.”

“I’ve got to tell my driver,” Bacardo whispered in return.

“He’s already been told.”

With his eyes on the casket, Bacardo nodded.

C
ELLA LEANED FORWARD, TOUCHED
the button that raised the limousine’s glass partition. As the glass went up, Cella pointed to the tiny bar. “Drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“Likewise.” Cella unbuttoned his morning coat, settled back. “So what’d you think? Good service?”

“I thought the priest did better than the monsignor.”

“No question. The pope should put that old fart out to pasture somewhere.”

Bacardo smiled, but said nothing. Until the funeral procession began to move, both men had made small talk broken by awkward silences. Finally, as they moved away from the curbside, Cella said, “I hope your wife doesn’t hold it against me, taking you away like this.”

“She couldn’t care less. She’s only here because I’m here. Truth to tell, Don Carlo made her nervous. She never liked him.”

Cella’s laugh was spontaneous, appreciative. “Carlo made a lot of people nervous. It’s the secret of his success.”

Bacardo’s answering chuckle was also quick, also appreciative.

“I wanted our people to see us together,” Cella explained.

“Sure …” He let the single word linger, then said, “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

They rode for a time in silence. Then, with his eyes forward, Cella spoke softly, precisely, significantly:

“So. Do you want the Venezzio family, Tony? The job’s open.”

Also looking straight ahead, also speaking softly, precisely, Bacardo answered, “No, thanks, Benito. I—” Suddenly he broke off.
Benito,
he’d said. Not
Don Benito,
but simply
Benito,
the first time he’d ever done it, an unpardonable familiarity. Take the don’s job, and he could call Cella
Benito.
Turn down the job, and it was
Don Benito.
Forever.

“I’ve thought about it,” Bacardo admitted. “You realize that. And Don Carlo, he told me he’d do what he could for me with you and the council. But I’m sixty years old. Ten years ago, when they locked Don Carlo up, I admit I thought about it. But sixty—” Wearily, Bacardo shook his head. “Sixty, that’s no age to try and go all the way, start taking chances.”

Fingering a pearl stickpin, then stroking his impeccably styled silver-gray hair, Cella nodded in return. “I think it’s the right decision, Tony. It shows class. That’s why you’re respected, you know that. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t respect you.”

Bacardo nodded, but made no reply. The funeral procession was on the expressway now, picking up speed.

“So,” Cella said, his voice rising on a note of crisp finality. “So you don’t want Don Carlo’s family. So how about coming to work for me?” Smiling cordially, he turned to face the other man squarely. Signifying, Bacardo knew, that they’d come down to it, the make-or-break moment, no turning back—no mistakes allowed.

“You might not want to move up, Tony. But I do. I’ll say it right out:
capo di tutti.
And for that, I need a new number one. Sal, he’s fine. He’s honest, and he’s got heart. But he doesn’t have respect, not like you. Sal’s a second stringer.”

Also turned to face his companion squarely, Bacardo nodded: a calm, measured response. “Sure. That’s great. I’d like that.”

“Okay, then. It’s a deal.”

Solemnly they shook hands. Then they embraced, the Mafia seal of brotherhood. Finally they drew back, and, as if they were embarrassed by the necessary expression of affection, both men once more turned to face front.

“What about Sal?” Bacardo asked.

“There’s a good spot for him down in Atlantic City. It’s all set.” As he took time to reflect, Cella’s colorless eyes wandered. Then: “Your wife, she’s going to the cemetery. Right?”

Puzzled, Bacardo nodded. Repeating: “Yeah. Right.”

“The reason I asked, I’ll give Sal a ride back into town, after the ceremony. I’ll give him the word then. He likes Atlantic City. The ocean—he’s crazy about the ocean. Plus, his girlfriend’s giving him a hard time. So it’ll be fine. No problem.”

Bacardo smiled, decided no comment was required.

“Let’s give it a week or two, give Sal a chance to get used to the idea.”

“Maybe two weeks might be better.”

“Two weeks is fine. Get on that boat of yours, take a cruise.” As Cella said it, the limousine slowed for the expressway exit.

“I was thinking maybe I’d go out to California for a few days. A week, maybe. Then maybe I’ll come back, take a cruise. There’s something I’ve got to take care of out in California. Maybe it’ll only take a day or two. Then I’ll come back, maybe take a ten-day cruise.” Pleased at the prospect, Bacardo nodded. Effortlessly, it seemed, everything was working out.

“Listen, whatever time you need, no problem. Just—you know—keep in touch.”

“Fine.”

“And listen.” Cella touched the other man’s arm, smiled into his eyes, the well-known Cella charm. “Listen, call me Benito, okay? Maybe not—you know—in public. But there’s just the two of us, it’s Tony and Benito.”

C
ELLA WAITED FOR THE
glass partition to rise. Then, gesturing to the limousine’s tiny bar: “How about a drink, Sal? Don Carlo, rest in peace.” A twisting of Cella’s thin lips signified that the toast was ironic.

“Are you having one?”

“Today,” Cella answered, “I’m having one.”

“Then I’ll have one. Scotch on the rocks, please.”

Cella made the drinks, handed one to Salvatore Perrone, a small, formal ceremony. Both men saluted each other, then gravely drank. Staring reflectively into the depths of his glass, Cella allowed a moment of silence to pass as the limousine waited its turn to join the procession leaving the cemetery. Finally he said, “Tony isn’t interested in moving up.”

“I never thought he was,” Perrone answered. Like Cella, Perrone was a slightly built man of medium height. His hair was sparse, his face was narrow and deeply lined. A knife scar ran from the corner of his right eye down to the point of his chin. He spoke in a low, expressionless voice. Whatever emotion Perrone felt, it was never reflected in his dark, watchful eyes. He never laughed, almost never smiled. Unlike Cella, Perrone was visibly uncomfortable in his rented morning clothes.

“And you don’t want Carlo’s family.”

Sipping his drink, Perrone considered. “The other dons, I don’t think they’d let it happen, you putting me in there when you move up to
capo di tutti.
You’d have too much power. Every vote, you’d have two of them locked up—two out of five.”

Cella nodded, pretended to consider the point as he sipped the Scotch. The limousine was inching forward, still caught in traffic. Finally he said, “I’m going to think about it. Don Carlo dies, I show a profit. There should be some way for you to come out, too. Maybe a family of your own, out of town.”

Perrone made no response, neither by word nor gesture. This, he knew, was only a probe: Cella moving the chess pieces.

Cella finished his drink, put the empty glass in the rack, smiled reflectively. His voice was thoughtfully measured as he said, “It’s funny, about people. You and Tony, neither of you’re interested in moving up.”

Perrone shrugged. “It’s like animals, the animal kingdom. There’s always got to be a top dog. Some guys—you and Don Carlo—it’s natural for you to fight for the top job. But me and Tony, we’re not interested. Simple as that.”

“I suppose you’re right. My folks, they could never understand why I even went into the organization.” He smiled, adding, “Maybe it’s just as well that they didn’t understand.”

Making no reply, Perrone finished his own drink, put his glass in the rack. The limousine was moving faster now; ahead the expressway overpass was coming into view. For a time, the two men rode in silence, each at ease with the other, no conversation required. Finally Cella spoke:

“About Tony. There’s something going on with Tony.”

Perrone turned to look at the other man’s face, but made no response, let nothing show. Over the years, Perrone had learned to watch—and wait.

“When I took Tony to the cemetery,” Cella said, “I had two things on my mind. I wanted to—you know—show respect for Carlo. I mean, I’m sure not going to ride with Maria, that bitch. So that left Tony. You see.”

“I see. Sure.”

“Also, I wanted to make sure he wasn’t thinking about taking over the don’s family.”

No reply, only a watchful silence.

“But,” Cella said, speaking softly, deliberately, “something’s going on with Tony. I want you to check it out.”

Still no reply.

“When Venezzio had his first heart attack—that was almost five years ago, now—the first thing he did, of course, he had Tony G. taken out, to show he was still boss.”

“Tony G. was living on borrowed time, the son of a bitch.”

“I’m not saying he wasn’t. But the thing is, Tony G. was a capo, just like you. And when a don wants a capo whacked, the four other dons have to go along. That’s written in stone.”

“Which is why Don Carlo did it. To show it
wasn’t
written in stone, not for him.”

“Okay, but why’d he have Frankie Maranzano whacked?” It was a delicately timed question, suggesting an intriguing puzzle.

Somberly, Perrone nodded—and said nothing. Some questions were too dangerous to answer.