WHEN BACARDO HAD FINISHED talking, Cella continued to walk with his customary deliberate stride. Cella wore a pearl-gray fedora, a dark blue cashmere topcoat, a white shirt, and a striped silk tie. Because his hands were clasped at the small of his back, his head was pitched forward as he walked. Two well-dressed bodyguards followed Bacardo and Cella at a distance of not more than twenty feet. At noon on a sparkling April day, with trees greening and plants blooming, Central Park South was a festival of diversity: young, old, rich, poor, reflective, boisterous—and, yes, drugged-out or insane. Or both.
Just ahead, three black teenagers, two boys and a girl, were sprawled on a park bench.
“Have you got three fives?” Cella asked.
“I think so.” Bacardo took out a sheaf of bills, riffled through them. “Yeah. Three fives.”
Cella gestured to the teenagers. Bacardo nodded, made the deal, sat beside Cella on the bench as the three blacks pranced gleefully away. Cella folded his arms, leaned back, crossed his legs, adjusted his creases. Looking straight ahead, he spoke quietly, judiciously:
“It’s good you told me about it, Tony. We never did much business together, the two of us. But I always liked the way you handled yourself. I always figured that without you, Don Carlo would never’ve gotten as far as he did.”
Also staring straight ahead, Bacardo made no response. With his eyes he briefly followed two young women as they passed. Both women wore tight-fitting jeans that clung to buttocks and pelvis. At age sixty, Bacardo reflected, the spectacle was more provocative than he could remember from earlier years.
“What it comes down to,” Cella said, “is whether she’s entitled to that much money. Don Carlo’s family—Maria and the kids, even though Maria’s a pain in the ass—they’re entitled, no question. But if we paid off every bastard kid our guys had—well—it just wouldn’t work.”
Watching the two women disappear behind a screen of pedestrians, Bacardo decided to make no reply. Cella, he’d decided, liked to work out problems as he talked.
“I remember Janice Frazer,” Cella said. “God, she was something. That body—incredible. You remember?”
“Sure,” Bacardo answered. “I remember.”
“But she turned into a rummy, you say.”
“Afraid so.”
“And her child is forty years old.” Incredulously, Cella shook his head.
Bacardo sighed. “Yeah, I know. Time gets away from you.”
Cella sat silently for a moment, thoughtfully eyeing a horse-drawn carriage slowly making its way south on Fifth Avenue. The horse looked old and tired, plodding along with its head hung low. How old was the horse? Twenty? Older? Would the owner of the carriage work the horse until he dropped? Were there work rules for horses?
Finally Cella spoke: “So these jewels—are they dug up by now, or what?”
“I don’t know. I was going to call the PI—Bernhardt. But then I thought I should talk to you first.”
“You think, though, that they’re dug up.”
“I’m guessing, but I’d say yes. I mean, as far as I could see, everything checked out according to what Don Carlo said. So why should they wait?” Bacardo shrugged. “Get a shovel, dig up the stuff, put it someplace safe.”
“Hmmm.” Judiciously, Cella nodded. Then, quietly, he said, “What I don’t understand, Tony, is why you didn’t do the digging.”
Expecting the question, Bacardo was prepared. “That’s what I went out there to do. I mean, it was Don Carlo’s dying wish, about those jewels. But then Louise said there was someone on my tail.” As he spoke, Bacardo turned to look directly at the other man, hopeful of making eye contact. But Cella still sat impassively, eyes straight ahead. Waiting.
Meaning that everything, then, had been said. Everything but the words that would decide it all—
—loser say his prayers.
“He told Louise his name was Profaci,” Bacardo said. “And he said you sent him out to San Francisco.”
Cella frowned. “Profaci? He said Profaci?”
Decisively Bacardo nodded. Repeating firmly, “Profaci.”
“Huh …” It was a calculating monosyllable. Beneath a frown, Cella’s pale eyes were narrowing.
“I figured the name was a fake,” Bacardo said. “But just the fact that someone was out there dogging me, I figured I wanted to come back, talk to you.”
“This guy—how’d Louise meet him?”
“He rang her doorbell. She said he weighed maybe a hundred sixty, maybe forty years old, lots of dark hair, narrow face, kind of pale. Good dresser. Rough talking, no manners.”
Ruefully Cella smiled. “Like about twenty of our guys, give or take.”
Bacardo considered, decided to say nothing. Once more, a make-or-break silence fell between them before Cella turned on the bench to finally face the other man squarely. Cella began speaking slowly, deliberately: “When you said you wanted to go out to the Coast, I have to tell you that I got a little jumpy. I mean, Carlo wasn’t cold, and there you were, going off to the West Coast on personal business. You know what I’m saying?”
“Sure.” Conscious of the relief he felt, finally with everything coming down on the table, Bacardo nodded deeply. “Sure. I’d feel the same way. Exactly.”
“Which is why I asked Sal to go out there, to see some of our guys, see what they were thinking, with Don Carlo out of it. I figured that if you really were taking care of personal business, there wasn’t any harm. You see what I’m saying.”
“Sure.” Once more, emphatically, Bacardo nodded. “Sure I see. Absolutely.”
“So when you first said it, about this guy on your tail, I thought maybe it was Sal, free-lancing.”
“No.” Once more, decisively, Bacardo shook his head. “No, it didn’t sound like Sal. I mean, forget about the description, this guy sounds like he’s a weasel. And Sal’s no weasel.”
Cella smiled: his first smile since they’d gotten out of their cars and begun walking, almost an hour ago. “No, Sal’s no weasel.”
Bacardo nodded—and waited while Cella made his decision. Finally Cella said, “What I want you to do is find out who this Profaci really is. I mean, he’s out there in California telling people I sent him.” Grimly, Cella shook his head. “This is exactly the kind of thing I won’t have. Do you understand what I’m saying, Tony?”
Bacardo nodded gravely. It was the first direct order he’d gotten from Cella, an important moment. “I understand. I’ll get right on it. Immediately.”
“Good.” Benignly now, a change of pace, Cella smiled. Repeating: “Good. Keep me posted. You’ve got my personal number.”
“Right.”
“About this other thing, the stuff Don Carlo meant for Janice’s girl, well, now that I’ve got the whole picture, no more guessing games, let’s just see what happens out there. I mean, if the woman—Louise—if she and this Bernhardt can work things out, get the jewels with no help from us, then I don’t see any problem, especially if all this stays between us, doesn’t get around. You understand what I’m saying.”
Bacardo’s answer was solemn. “I understand.”
“I mean, okay, Don Carlo was out of line, giving her that much. But on the other hand, Don Carlo was the most important capo di tutti ever. At least in terms of organization, the bottom line, he was a goddam genius. And the more I think about it, the more I think it wouldn’t be smart for me to start off filling Don Carlo’s shoes by going after his daughter.”
Once more, Bacardo nodded. Adding: “His granddaughter, too.”
“Yeah. Right.”
Bacardo drew a long, grateful breath. “So it’s okay, then. We’re all square.”
Cella nodded, smiled—offered his hand, the seal of agreement, all that was required. As he shook the other man’s hand, Bacardo bowed his head slightly, the requisite obeisance. From this moment, he was Cella’s man, a loyalist.
“I appreciate it, Don Benito. And from Don Carlo, too—thanks.”
“Ah, ah.” Still smiling, Cella lifted a playful forefinger. “Just ‘Benito,’ remember? Like this, just the two of us, it’s ‘Benito.’”
“Benito …” Tentatively.
“Benito.” Decisively.