Find Her a Grave (2 page)

“Okay.” Venezzio nodded. “Let’s see how he works out. You need a number one, Tony. Someone to take the load off.”

Bacardo nodded in return. Between them, words had always been few. For a long moment, in silence, Bacardo covertly studied Venezzio. If the man in the street had to choose, “accountant” would be Venezzio’s label, not “mafioso.” Or, more like it, “CPA.” With his narrow, pinched face, his small, compressed mouth, his mild stare, and his no-style glasses, Venezzio looked and acted like a quiet man, no ambition, no trouble to anyone. Only the eyes hinted at the truth: watchful, hard-focused eyes that saw everything, blinked at nothing. His only vanity was his thick head of brown hair, only lightly flecked with gray. When he passed a mirror, Venezzio almost always took a silver comb from his pocket, ran it through his hair, then turned his head from side to side, checking the result. Once a week, without fail, Venezzio had his hair trimmed, always by his personal barber.

“So,” Bacardo finally decided to say, “anything?”

At the question, Venezzio’s mouth briefly up-curved, the mockery of a smile. But behind the glasses with their tinted lenses, an optical necessity, Venezzio’s eyes were steady, constantly registering small, significant calculations and corrections, the moment-to-moment pulsations of the machine within the man. Over the years, how many men had died when Venezzio’s calculations had gone against them?

“How do I look?” Venezzio asked.

It was a puzzle of a question, a test, one of the don’s little games—the game that never ended, loser beware.

Having expected the question, Bacardo decided to say, “You look tired, Carlo. And a little pale.”

With his eyes fixed on Bacardo, Venezzio smiled again: the same hard, bitter smile. “Pale, eh? I look pale?”

Bacardo made no reply, and once more they regarded each other in silence, both men probing, balancing risk against gain, the endless game. Finally Venezzio looked away, let his eyes lose focus as he spoke in a voice Bacardo had never before heard:

“All my life, I’ve been healthy. I never had problems, except for that ulcer, thirty, thirty-five years ago. I always took care of myself, you know that. I quit smoking when I was—what?—twenty-five. Maybe thirty, no more. Okay, I used to drink, that’s no secret. But nothing like most guys drink, nothing heavy. You know.”

Gravely, Bacardo nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

“And when I turned fifty or so, I cut out the hard stuff. And I watch my weight. Two meals a day, that’s it. You know.”

“Sure.”

“All that,” Venezzio said, “that’s on one side. And then there’s the old man—my dad. He was never a drinker, either. And, Christ, he could bend iron bars, I bet, when he was fifty.”

Remembering, Bacardo smiled. “Yeah—your dad. Nobody fucked with your dad.”

“Yeah …” Still with eyes gone blank, Venezzio spoke absently, from far away. Then, with infinite regret: “So then, when he was fifty-two, he had a heart attack.”

“Ah … yeah.” But more than that, Bacardo knew, he must not venture.

“Probably now,” Venezzio said, “these days, they could’ve saved him, all the equipment they’ve got, and the drugs, and everything. But then, back then—” Grimly, as if he were remembering an ancient grudge, Venezzio shook his head.

“Back then, yeah …” As Bacardo said it, images returned: the limousines in the funeral procession, the church in the old neighborhood, packed. And, yes, Don Carlo, tears streaming down his cheeks. Maria had been with him then—Maria, the daughter of a don, beautiful in black. And their two children, so young, so round-eyed.

There was more, Bacardo knew… something more. Never would Venezzio speak of his dead father like this, not without a purpose, without a plan.

A heart attack …

These days, they could have saved him.

The pallor of Venezzio’s face, the effort it had taken, lowering himself onto the sofa. All of it meant something.

“I thought maybe you heard.” As he said it, Venezzio’s eyes were hard-focused, probing, boring in.

Careful to keep his own gaze steady, keep his hands at rest, under control, Bacardo spoke softly, cautiously: “I heard nothing, Carlo. Nothing.”

There was a last uncompromising moment of scrutiny, the final test. Then, also speaking softly, as if admitting to something shameful, Venezzio said, “Five days ago, I had a heart attack.”

“Ah …” As if he, too, experienced the pain, Bacardo touched his chest over his heart. Then: “A small one, though. A warning.”

Venezzio shrugged. “I guess that depends on who you talk to. The nurse said it was a warning. The doctor, he didn’t say that. He said the next one—” He shrugged again. Venezzio was speaking as he always spoke: without inflection, revealing nothing. But, deep behind the eyes, something had gone dead—or, if it was fear, come alive.

As both men sat facing each other, the silence between them began to lengthen past the breaking point. Bacardo realized that he must be the first to speak.

“Lots of guys, you know, they have a heart attack and it’s no problem. They just watch themselves, eat right, exercise, and they live forever.”

No response. Nothing but the eyes, boring in.

Bacardo drew a deep breath, began again: “What we’ve got to do is get a good doctor to look at you. These prison quacks, what’d they know?”

As if to dismiss the subject, Venezzio gestured, an indifferent response. “Sure. But what’d
any
of them know? Something like the heart, it’s a crapshoot.” Then, a familiar mannerism, Venezzio took a ballpoint pen and a small notebook from his shirt pocket. They were about to do business.

“One thing,” Venezzio began, “is that our guys inside here, they know what happened. You understand?”

Slowly, meaningfully, Bacardo nodded. “Yeah, I understand.”

Venezzio clicked the pen, wrote in the notebook, turned the pad for Bacardo to see:

Tony G.,
written in Venezzio’s cramped, precise hand.

“You want …?” It was a question that would never be completed, not in words. Not here, in the warden’s office, almost surely bugged. Venezzio nodded—once. For Tony Gallino, it was the death sentence.

“Soon?” It was the only question that was allowed. The meaning: would the council be consulted, one slim hope for Tony G?

“Soon.”

Meaning that, no, the council would not be told—or asked.

Meaning that, for Don Carlo’s heart attack, Tony G. must pay. It was coincidence, nothing more. To prove that Don Carlo was still
capo di tutti,
it was necessary that an example be made of someone. For years, systematically, Tony G. had been skimming, mostly gambling receipts. So Tony G. had drawn the short straw, bad luck for Tony.

Acknowledging the order, Bacardo nodded—once. Signifying that he would pick one man and do the job himself.

Many years ago, still in their teens, they’d tried to hijack a Puerto Rican poker game, he and Tony G.—the “two Tonys.” They’d carried switchblades and iron pipes wrapped in friction tape. One of the players had pulled a gun, an enormous long-barreled revolver, the first gun Bacardo had ever faced. He’d run—and stumbled. And fell. Tony G. could have gotten away clean, but instead he’d turned, come back, shouted something in Spanish to the Puerto Rican with the gun. The Puerto Rican had started, staring at Tony G. Then, amazingly, the Puerto Rican had begun laughing, a wild, loud laugh. Then, with the gun, the Puerto Rican had—

“—something else,” Venezzio was saying. Still he spoke quietly, evenly—all business. Expectantly, Bacardo looked at the other man. Awaiting orders.

Once more, Venezzio wrote on the pad.

Janice Frazer.

Instantly, Bacardo sensed the significance of the two words, written on the same page beneath
Tony G.
It was the turning point, Venezzio’s final accounting. Kill Tony G., and that point was made.

Leaving only Janice Frazer, the name that was never spoken, the woman who never was. Janice, and one name more—the name Venezzio was writing now:
Louise.

“Yes,” Bacardo said, “I understand.” As he said it, the memories returned, taking shape and substance: Janice Frazer, the incredibly beautiful peaches-and-cream waitress, no more than nineteen years old. He and Venezzio had been together when Venezzio had first seen her. Venezzio had been twenty-nine, married to Maria for less than a year, with one child on the way. Maria had been nineteen, too, the same age as Janice. But Maria was the daughter of a Mafia don; Janice was a runaway teenager from the Midwest.

And Louise was the love baby Janice bore—the baby Janice took with her when she left New York.

At twenty-nine, Venezzio had only been eight years away from the top job,
capo di tutti.
Luciano couldn’t stop him, and neither could Genovese.

Only Janice Frazer could have ruined his chances—Janice and her love baby. Louise.

“We never talked about them,” Venezzio said. “But everyone knew. You, and everyone else. You knew.”

“I—” Uncertain how to say it, Bacardo broke off. Then: “I saw her a few times, dropped off a couple of envelopes, like that. After she had her baby.”

“Ah …” Venezzio nodded. “Yeah. Right.”

“We never talked about her, though, you and me. Not really.”

Gesturing to Bacardo’s pocket, Venezzio said, “Turn it on.”

Nodding, Bacardo withdrew the small pocket radio he always brought with him. He found a music station, golden oldies, and put the radio between them on the couch.

“A little louder,” Venezzio ordered.

“Say when.”

“That’s fine.” For a moment they listened to the soft, syrupy strains of “Deep Purple.” Then Venezzio began to speak.

“I never lost track of Janice. You know that.”

Bacardo nodded, a slow, measured inclination of his large, rough-featured peasant’s head. “I knew that, yeah.”

“Until she had the baby, it was all right to have her in New York. But when she had the baby, she started making demands. So I had to send her away. I waited until the baby—Louise—was six months old, but then Janice had to go. Especially when, Jesus, Maria had Carlo Junior just about the same time. Carlo and Louise, they’re both the same age—thirty-five now.” Venezzio shook his head, an expression of memories remembered with regret. “Life’s funny, you know. Very funny.”

“Funny. Yeah.”

“Janice took the kid and went out west. She had relatives out there. So every once in a while, I’d—you know—drop in on her, you know what I mean.”

This, Bacardo knew, was the story no one else had ever heard—the story no one would ever hear again.

This was a story with a purpose.

“Maria, you know—” Venezzio drew a deep breath, began to shake his head. “Maria, as soon as she had Carlo, she started laying it to me. I was pretty much—you know—just starting out then, climbing the ladder, and whenever I did something she didn’t like she’d go to her old man. Don Salvatore always spoiled her, I knew that when I married her. I always figured one reason he never got married after Lucia died was because he was hung up on Maria. Fathers and daughters, you know—it happens.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“But, anyhow, by the time we had Maria—that tells you something, you know, the mother naming her daughter after herself—by that time, that was pretty much it for the marriage. We lived together, went through the motions, but that’s all.”

“Like almost everyone.”

“Yeah.” Venezzio smiled, a thinning of his lips, no more. Never had Bacardo seen Venezzio really smile. Or laugh. It was, someone had once said, the secret of his success. If a man smiled, he could forgive. But Venezzio never forgave. Or forgot.

“But you always had—” Bacardo pointed to Janice’s name in the notebook lying beside the transistor radio.

In response, Venezzio nodded. “Yeah. Right. I always kept track of her—her and the little girl. And I have to say, speaking of fathers and daughters, I always liked it, being with the girl. She was someone to—you know—give presents to, take to Disneyland, like that.”

“Sure.” Bacardo said it quietly, sympathetically. Then: “Did you ever go to that other one? Epcot Center?”

“No.”

“Amazing. Really amazing.”

A short silence fell as they listened to Tony Bennett winding up “That Old Black Magic,” one of Bacardo’s favorites. Then Bacardo decided to ask, “So how’re they doing now?”

“Well …” Venezzio pointed to Janice’s name. “She’s dead. She died about a year ago.” He spoke without inflection, without emotion. “She went out west, like I said. For a while—a few years—she did all right, she and Lou—she and the little girl. I took care of them, saw they had everything they needed. If I couldn’t make it, I’d send someone, make sure she was all right. I sent you, I remember, once or twice.”

“Twice.”

“Yeah. Twice. And for a while—years—she
was
all right. They had a nice house, and the little girl did fine in school and everything. You know—the way most people live, with white picket fences, and a garden, and bicycles on the lawn.

“But then she started to drink—” Venezzio pointed to Janice’s name. “When she was a girl, her mother drank, and her father was never around. That’s why she left home, because her mother was a drinker. So then, Jesus,
she
starts drinking.”

“That happens. It happens a lot. The parents are boozers, so are the kids.”

“Yeah, well—” Venezzio gestured, an expression of helplessness, of futility. “Well, that’s what happened. She drank herself to death, ruined her liver.”

“She seemed real nice,” Bacardo offered. “Always real—you know—cheerful, very friendly. Some women—beauties—they aren’t friendly. They figure they got the looks, that’s it.”

Looking away, lost in memory, Venezzio made no reply.

“Did she always have the house with the white picket fence?”

“Always. She always kept it nice, too. And you’re right, she was always cheerful. Some people, you know, they get mean when they drink. Or else they start slobbering. Not her, though. Maybe she’d get a little loud, but that was all.”

“What about the little girl? She’s thirty-five, you said. Is she married?”

“She was married, with a child of her own. She’s been married twice. Once it was a divorce, and once her husband died. It was out in Los Angeles. She doesn’t live there now, but that’s where she lived when—” He left the rest of it unsaid. But a glance at Venezzio’s face revealed the rest of it: with a divorce behind her, and now widowed, Venezzio’s daughter was struggling, needed help.