“MY GOD, MOM.” EXASPERATED, Angela slammed her hand down flat on the kitchen counter, turned to confront her mother, who was standing at the sink. Louise was staring down at nothing, head bowed, shoulders slumped. “My God,” Angela repeated, you’ve got to decide. Don’t you see that? You can’t have it both ways. Either you trust Tony Bacardo, or you don’t. You trust him, or you trust Profaci. But whichever you decide, you’ve got to do it now. Right now.”
Louise pushed herself away from the sink, went to the small round table in the breakfast nook, sank into a chair. She spoke in a low, listless voice: “I’ve already trusted Tony Bacardo. Don’t you see that? I gave him the words.”
“You didn’t have a choice. You had to tell him.”
“I did have a choice. Right up to the second I told him, I had a choice. But I was wrong to do it. I should’ve waited. I should’ve talked to you first. That’s what I should’ve done.”
Angela went to her mother, sat at the glass-topped table, gently took her mother’s hands in hers, waited for her mother to lift her head, meet her gaze. She spoke softly, gently: “You’re talking to me now, Mom.”
Louise began to shake her head, an empty gesture of utter defeat. “God, I’ve made such a mess of things. I—everything I’ve done, it’s turned out wrong.”
“That’s not true. When you and Jack were married, those were good years. He was fun.”
Smiling almost timidly, Louise ruefully shook her head, resigned. “Good years—it’s true. Jack drank too much and he was the most insecure man in the world, and he spent two dollars for every one he took in. But you’re right. He was fun.” Now, half smiling, she squeezed her daughter’s hand. “Actors. You know about actors.”
Angela’s answering smile shared her mother’s mood of reflection. “Yeah, I know.” Then, embarrassed, Angela took back her hands, sat up straighter.
Now, they both knew, was the time for her mother to speak.
In a leaden monotone, reciting, Louise said, “It’s buried behind the headstone of my mother’s grave.”
For a long moment Angela made no response, as if she hadn’t heard. Then, gravely, she nodded. “Thanks, Mom.” She nodded again, cleared her throat, blinked. Repeating softly, “Thanks.”
Louise shrugged, bit her lip. “I should’ve told you last night. I should’ve told you before I told him.”
“You told me now.” Suddenly Angela went to the cupboard, took down two glasses. “Want a drink of water?”
Louise shook her head. Then, suddenly, she spoke in a high plaintive voice, a child’s anguished plea: “What’re we going to do, Angela?”
Angela filled a glass, drank, set the empty glass on the counter. “It comes down to Tony Bacardo. Did he come here to help you? Or did he come here to take the treasure for himself?”
Louise nodded. “I know.”
“You trusted Tony. You trusted him enough to give him the words. And he—”
“My father trusted him. I just—just did what my father told me to do.”
“What about Profaci? Do you trust him?”
“No,” Louise answered. Then, as if she were puzzled, she repeated, “No, I don’t trust him. There’s something about him that—that’s creepy. Maybe it’s—I don’t know—maybe it’s that he looks like a killer. It’s something in his eyes. He looked at me, it was like he was thinking about how easy it’d be to kill me. That’s the way it felt. It felt like—”
“You realize,” Angela interrupted, “that if Tony Bacardo shows up, then that cancels out everything Profaci said.”
Louise frowned. “I don’t see what you mean.”
“If Bacardo’s after the jewels, then he bought a shovel and went up to Fowler’s Landing and dug up the jewels. By now, he’s on his way back to New York. He’s—”
On the wall beside the refrigerator, the telephone warbled. At the first ring, Angela took it from its cradle. “Hello?” She listened briefly. Then: “Yes. Just a second, please.” She covered the mouthpiece as she gestured with the phone to her mother. “It’s him. Bacardo.”