“SO WHAT YOU’RE TELLING me,” Bacardo was saying, “is that Fabrese was putting the arm on Louise, to try and get to the jewels. So when you got the jewels, dug them up, Fabrese was following you, going to hijack the jewels. He called himself Profaci. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“He was definitely following us,” Bernhardt answered. “And Louise is sure about the alias.” As he said it, he saw two teenage boys walking purposefully toward the phone booth. Bernhardt turned his back on them, spoke into the phone: “What he intended to do, that’s supposition.”
“And this Chinaman took Fabrese off your back. Then the Chinaman just walked away.”
“I assume it was the Chinaman that killed Fabrese. But we didn’t actually see him at the graveyard.”
“The treasure,” Bacardo said. “How was it packaged?”
“It was in a white plastic sewer pipe. About a foot long, sealed on the ends. Maybe five inches in diameter.”
“How’d you get it open?”
“We used a hacksaw.” As he said it, Bernhardt realized that he was being tested. The conclusion: Bacardo had handled the treasure, and probably assembled the jewels, and sealed them in the canister. Meaning that, probably, Bacardo had taken a count of the jewels.
And, yes, Bacardo’s next question was the proof: “What was in the container? What kind of jewels? How many?”
“There were two hundred sixty-three jewels. They were all cut, but they weren’t mounted. And twenty gold coins.”
“So Louise took twenty-six jewels and two coins, you say. And she gave the rest to this goddam Chinaman. All because of threats he made on the phone.” It was a flat statement of fact heavily laden with contempt.
Bernhardt made no response.
“You let her hand everything over.”
“They were going to chop off her daughter’s fingers, for God’s sake. And Paula—the woman I happen to be in love with—they were going to do the same to her. Chop off their fingers, and cut off their noses, too.”
“So you just rolled over, you and this nigger you hired. You let this Chinaman get away with a goddam fortune. You put three jewels in your pocket, like it was some kind of a tip, and you—”
“Listen, Tony.” Bernhardt drew a deep, tight breath. “The way this Chinese guy operates, I wasn’t going to take chances. And neither was Louise. Okay, so she lost a fortune in ill-gotten gains. She can still—”
“What’s this ‘ill-gotten gains’ shit? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means. It means hot money. It means we can’t call the police. It means that—”
“What you don’t seem to get,” Bacardo cut in, “is that this fucking Chinaman has made fools of us. I don’t know what game Fabrese was playing. I’ve got my suspicions, knowing Fabrese. But whatever game it was, we’d’ve taken care of it. Us. Not some goddam Chinaman. So this Chinaman is way over the line. He’s whacked one of our people. And then, for Christ’s sake, he hijacked a fortune that belongs to the daughter of a don. He’s—”
Furiously, Bacardo broke off. Then, ominously quiet: “He’s making us look terrible out there on the Coast. And that’s not going to happen, Bernhardt. You got that?”
Bernhardt made no reply. Suddenly he realized that the Mafia, like every successful enterprise, was acutely conscious of its image. He smiled to himself at the wayward thought. While, outside the phone booth, two women had joined the teenage boys. All four were frowning. Bernhardt shrugged, pointed to the phone, pretended to frown with helpless vexation because of something he was hearing on the phone.
“—positive about all this?” Bacardo was asking.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“What I mean is, after we hang up, I’m going to make some calls. I’m sure—absolutely sure—that we aren’t going to roll over on this. I mean, something like this—nobody does this to us. The first thing I did today—I got back in town last night—I laid all this out with my boss. Everything. That’s what I came back here for, to get square with the boss. You know that. And we’re square, him and me. He said it was okay about Louise and the stuff. Which means—” For emphasis, solemnly, Bacardo paused. Then: “Which means that what’s happened is that this Chinaman has rubbed my boss’s nose in this. You understand what I’m saying?”
As Bernhardt heard the words he felt it begin: a sense of danger, an awareness that the chain of events was inexorably tightening around him. Around him, and Paula, too.
“What I’m telling you,” Bacardo was saying softly, “is that you’d better be ready to back all this up.”
“Everything I said is true.” Bernhardt was satisfied with his voice: calm, measured, firm.
“And your girlfriend. She knows what this Chinaman looks like. Is that right?”
“That’s right. But I don’t want her—”
“When did you give the stuff to this Chinaman? What time?”
“It was about one o’clock this afternoon. Our time.”
“And—” A pause, to calculate. “And it’s a little before six out there.”
“Right.”
“Okay.” Another pause. “I’ve got to make those calls. Something like this, we can’t waste any time. Tomorrow at this time, the stuff could already be fenced. You understand?”
“Yes. But—”
“Have you ever heard of Charlie Ricca?”
Charlie Ricca, the Mafia’s man in San Francisco. Handsome, ostensibly affable, a stereotypical glad-hander. Natty dresser, full head of iron-gray hair, sparkling blue eyes, big grin. Charlie Ricca, mobster, always seen at the head of his entourage.
“Yes.” It was a cautious monosyllable. “I’ve heard of Ricca.”
“Okay. Tonight, you be where we can call you. And your girlfriend, too. Both of you.”
“Listen, Tony, she’s in no shape to—”
“Give me a phone number for tonight.”
“Well, Jesus, it’s—” Helplessly, he gave him Paula’s number.
“Is that your office?”
“No—Christ—I already told you, I’m staying with—”
“Okay. I’ve got to get off. Remember, it’s Charlie Ricca. Got it?”
“Yes, I’ve got it.”
“All right.” The line clicked, went dead.