Find Her a Grave (3 page)

“What I’ve been doing,” Venezzio said, “I’ve been thinking about this. You understand what I’m saying?”

Gravely, Bacardo nodded.

Venezzio picked up the notebook, slipped it in his shirt pocket. He gestured to the radio, which Bacardo switched off.

“What I want you to do,” Venezzio said, “is think about this too. I want you to figure out a plan, if something happens with my heart. You understand?”

“I understand. Sure. No problem.”

“You think, and I’ll think. Come back in ten days, and we’ll talk.”

“Right.”

“Okay …” Venezzio nodded, allowed his eyes to momentarily close as he drew a deep, ragged breath. Then he raised his hand, wearily signifying dismissal. Meaning that Bacardo should go to the door of the office and summon a guard.

“Tell him to get a golf cart,” Venezzio ordered. “I feel like riding.”

“Sure.” Bacardo rose, hesitated, then decided to touch Venezzio’s shoulder, in sympathy.

“N
O GOLF CART,” BACARDO
said.

Venezzio nodded as they walked through the door to the small exercise yard, a featureless expanse of concrete surrounded by prison buildings with closely barred windows. Overhead, in the clear, bright July sky, a small formation of birds whirled against the sun. At Venezzio’s request, the exercise yard had been cleared for Bacardo’s visit.

“No golf cart,” Venezzio answered. “When we talked it was—what—ten days ago?”

“Yeah. Ten days.”

“Well, the day after you were here, a couple of heart specialists came.”

Bacardo nodded. “I know. I just got the bill.”

“How much?”

“Plenty. The trip, everything, Jesus, it was something like seven thousand dollars. And then there was another bill from the lab. Those guys, we could take lessons.”

“Yeah, well, whatever it was, it’s worth it. They really gave me confidence. And they told me the bill would be stiff, for all the business they lost coming here. So pay.”

“I already paid. I took care of it personally.”

“All right. Good.” Venezzio gestured, and they began walking slowly together.

“So what’d they say?” Bacardo asked.

“They said to start exercising. There’s a treadmill thing that I can hook myself up to, all computerized. I get on that thing, and start walking, and I do what the dials tell me to do. They say walk, I walk. They say stop, I stop. And there’s a tape. When the tape runs out, I send it to the doctors.”

“So you feel—what—okay?”

“Better than okay. I’m eating two meals a day, no meat but a little fish and skinned chicken. No booze, not even wine with dinner. And I feel fine. I’ve lost six pounds since I saw you.” As he spoke, Venezzio changed their direction. Soon they were in the center of the yard. With their backs to the windows of the buildings that surrounded them on three sides, the only place of concealment for directional mikes, they could talk business.

“Tony G.” Venezzio said. “So far, so good, eh?”

“Tony wasn’t so well liked, it turns out.”

“Who’d you take along? Caproni?”

Bacardo shook his head. “I decided to take Maranzano. He’s—well—he’s steady, on something like that. Besides, Caproni and Cella, they get together once in a while.”

“Cella. Yeah. I was going to ask you about Cella. It’s been—what—six days since Tony died?”

“Yeah. Six.”

“Did you talk to Cella afterwards?”

“The next day. We had clams, pasta, a bottle of wine. Great lunch. Fuchini’s, you know.” In tribute Bacardo shook his head. “The way they do clams, with garlic and white wine, you wouldn’t believe it.”

“So Cella’s all right about Tony G.”

“As far as I could see, no problems. He insisted on picking up the check. Absolutely insisted. So that says something. Plus, he sends you his best regards.”

“Ah … good.” Venezzio nodded. Then: “Tony’s funeral, I hear it was first-class.”

Bacardo considered. “It was okay. I mean, everything we could do, we did. But I was expecting more people.”

“His family—what, three children?”

“Four.”

“Take care of them. The whole works. College, everything.”

“Right.”

“Let’s walk a little. We can walk along the wall. If they’re using a shotgun mike, it’s still okay along the wall.”

“Sure.”

As they began to walk, Venezzio said, “About Louise, what we talked about last time.”

“You’re thinking you want to get enough money to her so if anything happens to you, she’ll be okay. Is that it?”

“She and her kid, yeah. Her little girl. Christ—” Venezzio shook his head. “Christ, she’s fifteen already.
Fifteen.”
In wonderment, he shook his head.

Bacardo smiled. “So. You’re a grandfather.”

Another incredulous shaking of the head.

“So she was—what—nine, ten, the last time you saw her?”

“Nine.”

“What’s her name?”

“Angela.”

“Nice name.”

“She’ll be twenty-five before I get out of here. And I’ll be seventy-five.”

“Well,” Bacardo said, “I’ll be sixty-five.”

“Jesus. Time. That’s the real enemy, you know. Time.”

They walked in silence for several paces. Finally Bacardo said, “Well, it shouldn’t be so hard. Get some money together, start feeding it to her. She invests it right, she’ll be all set. Both of them.”

“Except that I don’t want her to have anything until I die. It’ll be—you know—like a will, for her.”

Startled, Bacardo looked at the other man. In their organization, nothing was written down. Ever. No records were kept. Ever.

“I don’t mean a real will. Relax.”

“Ah …” Bacardo nodded.

“What I mean, Louise’s no good with money. She gets with some guy, he starts sucking away, and pretty soon she’s broke. So I want to fix it so she’ll have it when I die, but not before. Or anyhow, not till I say it’s all right.”

“How’re you going to do that?”

“I thought you were figuring out something,” Venezzio said.

“
I was. But I wasn’t figuring on any delay. I thought you were talking about now, give it to her now.”

“Okay. Forget about the delay. What’d you figure?”

“Well, I was figuring maybe get together some money, but mostly jewels. Unmounted jewels, that’s better than gold.”

Venezzio nodded. “Okay. So then what?”

“Well, where’s she live? In California?”

“Right.”

“Okay. So we collect, just to say something, let’s say a couple of hundred thousand in old money. Then we get, say, eight hundred thousand in jewels.
Good
jewels.”

“I was thinking a million and a half. But the jewels, that’s good.” Approvingly, Venezzio nodded. “They’re better than cash, if there’s inflation. And lighter than gold.” He nodded again.

“And easier to sell, if you do it right. Gold, there’s a paper trail a lot of times.”

“Okay,” Venezzio said. “We get the jewels. Then what?”

“Well, I was thinking she should get maybe five safe-deposit boxes, in different cities, whatever. And—”

“I don’t know.” Dubiously, Venezzio shook his head. “Safe-deposit boxes—all it takes is a judge and a court order, and the feds’re all over you.”

“Yeah, but she’s clean, isn’t she?”

Emphatically, Venezzio nodded. “She’s clean. Absolutely.”

“Okay—well—safe-deposit boxes, that’s only one idea I had. The other idea, I had something fancy.”

Venezzio frowned. “Fancy? What?”

“We give her a house, and hide the stuff in it. You know—in the walls, under the floor, whatever. When the time comes, I tell her where to look.” Bacardo spread his hands. “No problem.”

As Venezzio considered, he gestured for them to turn, begin another lap, walking parallel to the wall. Finally he shook his head. “It might leak out. You know—carpenters, whatever.”

“We must have somebody can hammer a nail. That’s all it’d take.”

“I want only one guy in on this. You. Or maybe one other guy, if we need him. But I’ve got to know this other guy. And I don’t know any carpenters.”

“This whole thing, it isn’t easy. I mean, if you want me to put a million five together, get somebody to ride shotgun, and we get on a plane and I fly out to California, or wherever, that’s one thing. But if you want to stash the stuff until, God forbid, you die, that’s something else. And you can’t write it down, ‘open on my death,’ anything like that. So that means when the time comes—maybe a year from now, maybe five, ten, twenty years from now—I find her and I say—”

“No. That’s wrong. We’re just talking about when I’m in here. Ten years. No more.”

“Okay. Ten years. So what’m I going to do, put the stuff in my hall closet for ten years? Do I want that responsibility? Let’s face it, some of the guys—Cella, let’s say, he finds out …” He let it go ominously unfinished.

“No,” Venezzio said. “I’m not saying any hall closet. But the stuff’s got to be safe.”

“For ten years, safe? Without even Louise knowing?” Bacardo shook his head. “Things happen in ten years. Let’s say, God forbid, you should die in here. So then Cella decides, hey, he’ll whack me, make his move. So what then? Where’s Louise then, if—?”

“Wait.” Venezzio held up a hand. “Wait, I think I know a way.”

“Hmmm.” Deliberately, Bacardo let the skepticism show. Was Don Carlo losing it?

“I’m going to figure someplace for the stash. I’ll decide on one guy to handle it. He’ll know where he’s stashing something, but he won’t know what it is. All he’ll know is that he’s doing something for me. So—” Venezzio broke off, letting the words catch up to the thoughts. His eyes had sharpened, working out the plan, seeing how it would go. His voice, too, was sharpening: “So you’ll collect the stuff, and get it ready. So then our guy, the one I pick, he gets the bundle from you. He doesn’t know what’s in it, and you don’t tell him. It’s just a bundle, period. He takes the bundle, does what I tell him to do. So after he’s done the job, you come here. I give you four or five words, whatever. Then I tell Louise to come here, later. I’ll give her four or five words, too, to put together with the words you’ve got. So you put them together, and you know where the bundle is.”

Slowly, thoughtfully, Bacardo nodded. “Yeah, that could work. That could work fine.”

“Okay, then.” As he spoke, Venezzio gestured to the door that led to the administration building, where a guard waited to pass them through. Now Venezzio’s voice was fading; in his eyes, the deal-making glint had dulled. “Okay, so you start getting it together—a little cash, maybe fifteen, twenty gold coins, but mostly jewels. Diamonds, mostly. Use Fineberg. You can’t do better than Fineberg. But pay him twelve percent, no more. Otherwise, he gets his legs broken. Right?”

Bacardo nodded. “I agree. Fineberg.”

“I’m not kidding, though, about the legs. The last time we did business together, he was right on the edge. Tell him that. Then remind him about Tony G., about what can happen.”

“I don’t think I have to remind him. I think he knows.”

“Just make sure he knows.”

“I’ll make sure.”

“The jewels—Fineberg knows: big ones, unmounted. He’ll know. A million dollars, you can hold in one hand.”

“I know.”

“So—what—six months to get the stuff together, play it safe?”

“Maybe eight, nine months. Business is off, you know. There’s a lot of our guys with not much to do. So they start asking questions, looking around, thinking about the angles.”

“Well, whatever. Nine months, a year, whatever. But keep your ass covered. This one, it’s got to be done right.”

“Sure. Of course.” Bacardo let it show, his irritation that the other man would think he had to spell it all out.

And, as if he was tuned in, his special gift, Venezzio said, “Sorry, Tony. I’m—suddenly I’m tired. You understand.”

“Sure, I understand. No problem.”

“Okay. So we’re all set, then.”

“All set.”

“Don’t forget what I said, about Fineberg.”

Bacardo nodded, but decided not to reply.
Was
Don Carlo losing it? Or was he just tired, after the heart attack?

They were almost to the door, which the guard was opening with his key. “About Cella,” Venezzio said. “Keep in touch with him. Make sure he understands about Tony G.”

“Sure. I already told you, he understands.”

“Just make certain. War, we don’t need.”

“War?” Bacardo broke stride, looked at the other man.
“War?”

“Just keep in touch with him. Next time, you pick up the check for lunch. Got it?”

“Got it.”

R
ESPECTFULLY, BACARDO WOULD REMAIN
standing until Cella had been seated. One of Cella’s bodyguards held his chair. The other bodyguard stood at the door of the small private dining room.

“Thank you,” Cella said. The bodyguard nodded to Cella, nodded to Bacardo, then stepped back. The room’s only windows opened on the dead-end alley that ran along the side of The Chop House. Since the alley windows were steel-shuttered, both guards could withdraw, take tables in the restaurant, one close to the door of the private dining room, one close to the restaurant’s front door. Their waiter was Sal Raffetto, a member of the Magglio family. Completely reliable, Raffetto was known to both Cella and Bacardo. The Chop House’s private dining room was not wired, had never been wired, would never be wired. It was an agreement guaranteed by all five New York families.

As the bodyguards withdrew, Raffetto entered, gave his greeting, presented the menus.

“So,” Cella said, smiling cordially across the table at Bacardo. “So eat. Enjoy. A bottle of Chianti?”

Returning the smile, Bacardo nodded. “Fine.”

Cella gave the wine order to Raffetto, who withdrew. In his late fifties, Cella was perfectly groomed, a slim, silver-haired man with the long, narrow, finely drawn face of an aesthetic. He was always seen wearing an impeccably tailored gray suit, a white shirt with silver cuff links, and a dark tie. Sicilians, Cella’s family had come to America when their only son was five years old. Mother and father had worked hard to see their son graduate from college—or from a Catholic seminary. A quiet, serious, often brooding student, Benito had been admitted to Columbia when he was only sixteen, and in his sophomore year had elected to major in theater arts. He was a compelling actor with a gift for projecting menace, and he soon became a protégé of Columbia’s principal professor of drama. But in his junior year Cella was accused of aggravated assault on a prostitute. The state’s case failed when the prostitute refused to testify, but Cella was forced to leave college. Without hesitation, he turned to crime. By age thirty, a trusted member of the Gentile family, Cella began specializing in loan-sharking. Soon he was supervising a dozen companies the Mafia had forced into bankruptcy and then bought for pennies on the dollar. In 1975, after Joseph Gentile was murdered as he left a whorehouse, the Gentile family became the Cella family. It was an open secret that, wearing his customary gray suit, Cella had rolled down the rear window of his Mercedes and pulled the trigger on Gentile himself, a single shot to the head from a distance of more than fifty feet, at night. Discussing the remarkable feat of marksmanship, admiring the steadiness of hand, one of the dons had dubbed Cella “The Undertaker.” The name stuck, but only out of Cella’s hearing. To satisfy the Mafia coda, at age thirty Cella had married an immigrant Italian girl. Ten years later he sent her back to Italy, childless, a psychological ruin. After her banishment Cella returned to prostitutes, exchanging hundred-dollar bills for the violent pleasures of sadism.