Find Her a Grave by Collin Wilcox Page B

she’d done—what she’d done, what she’d tried to do, therefore what she might do.
    “It’s been four years,” he began. “You’ve been to visit her grave, in four years.”
    Hesitantly, cautiously, she nodded—once, then twice. She knew he was probing, calculating, deciding.
    “Did you see anything that made you think there was something buried behind her headstone? Fresh dirt, anything like that?”
    She frowned, considered, finally shook her head. But she’d lowered her eyes. What was it that he saw in her face, turned away from him now? Was it fear? Was it greed—the treasure, the closeness of it? Sometimes the sight of great wealth—stacks of money, handfuls of jewels—could turn men to stone. Stone men, with bright, burning eyes. Greedy men.
    Dead men.
    “You knew the jewels were there, somewhere near your mother’s grave.”
    “Yes,” she answered. But I couldn’t—” She faltered, began again: “There was no way I could try to get it. Even if I’d known where it was, I’d’ve been afraid.”
    Bacardo considered the answer, finally nodded. “Afraid, yeah—you’re smart to be afraid. In our organization, you know, nobody feathers his own nest, even the dons. They take what they need—what they want—and pass the rest on. So your father, he took a chance collecting those things for you.”
    She raised her eyes, looked at him fully. “Are we taking a chance, too?”
    “That much money—more than a million dollars—you’re taking a chance.” His voice was dead level; his eyes were dead calm.
    “Ah …” She nodded. Yes, there it was: the tremor of fear in the single word. And, yes, he could see fear shadowing her eyes now, working at her face.
    “There’s a don named Benito Cella—that’s the Cella family. Cella’s about sixty now, the same age as me. And he’ll be the capo di tutti now. The boss of bosses. Like your father was.”
    “Yes.” She nodded. “Yes, I see.”
    “I was Don Carlo’s capo di capo —his chief of staff, you might say.” As he said it, he smiled to himself. Never before had he used those words: chief of staff.
    “So now,” he went on, “Don Benito has got to think about me. I can’t stay in the Venezzio family. The new don, he’d want his own capo di capo. So Cella, he’s going to move his own capo di capo —a man named Salvatore Perrone—out of town, set him up someplace else. Atlantic City, maybe, something like that. Then Cella’ll move me into Perrone’s spot. See?”
    Tentatively, she nodded.
    “So while Cella’s supposed to be making the arrangements, I’m supposed to be taking a vacation, taking a break, giving Don Benito a little room to maneuver.”
    “Yes …”
    “Except that people like me, in my line of work, there’s no such thing as a vacation. I mean, you want to go out to Las Vegas for a weekend, do some gambling, even that’s not a vacation. Because, see, you’d always be met by someone at the airport, and you’d stay at the right hotel—free—and you’d call a couple of people, buy some drinks. And when you do that, buy drinks, whatever, you talk business.” He spread his hands, shrugging. “It’s just the way it happens.”
    “Did—” She broke off, then ventured: “Did someone meet you when you came here? To San Francisco?”
    Holding her gaze, he shook his head. He spoke slowly, deliberately: “No one met me. But they know I’m here.”
    “Are they—do you think they’re following you?”
    Still speaking slowly, gravely: “They could be.”
    “Now? Right now?” Involuntarily, her eyes fled to the front entryway and the door.
    “If I go out of town, even for a day, I always tell someone where I’m going, where I’m staying.”
    “So …” Once more, her eyes moved, this time to the living room window that opened on the street. “So they could be following you.”
    “I’ve got a rental car, and I was careful, coming here. That’s all I can tell you.”
    “But if they do follow us,