Free Find Her a Grave by Collin Wilcox

rules.”
    “I thought he ran the prison.” It was an accusation.
    “Well, that’s true—as long as everyone understands each other. He could have his own doctors, things like that. But he couldn’t have visitors in the hospital. It’s security.”
    “What about his—” How should she say it? How could she say it? “His family, what about them? His children?”
    “Well, Maria—his wife—she wouldn’t’ve visited him, even if they’d let her. And his children—the two children he had with Maria—I don’t know. Maybe Maria said stay away, and that’s what they did. I think that’s probably what happened.”
    “What about the funeral?”
    “I haven’t heard anything. But the way I think it’ll go, Maria’ll sign all the papers, and our organization will take it from there, pay the bills and everything. There’s an undertaker—Sigler and Sons—they know how to do things.”
    “Will you tell me when the funeral is?”
    “Are you planning to come, make the trip?”
    “Yes. Sure. Angela, too. We’ll both come.”
    There was a long, heavy silence. She knew the meaning of that silence, knew what Bacardo was about to say.
    “I’m not so sure that’d be a good idea, Louise. Our organization, the top guys—the capos, and the dons—it’s like they’re politicians, you know. They are politicians. That’s what it’s all about with us. Your dad, he had every politician in New York in his pocket. Senators, judges, you name it.”
    “But my father still went to trial, went to prison.”
    “That’s different. That’s federal. He was framed by the feds, the same way Luciano and Genovese were framed. The feds want you bad enough, you got to be careful.”
    “Once he told me Maria gave the feds what they needed.”
    “We can talk about that when we get together, Louise. This is Thursday. The funeral’ll probably be Monday or Tuesday. Then there’s some things I’ve got to do. Something like this, Don Carlo dying, there’re things have to be settled. You understand?”
    “Yes,” she answered. “Yes, I understand.” As, once more, she felt it: the ageless weight of the Mafia, bearing her down, imprisoning her. “What you’re saying, they don’t want me to come to the funeral. Is that it? My own father.”
    “Louise—listen. It’s what I said. It’s politics. That’s all. Politics. Christ, you and Angela, you’re all the don cared about. You know that.”
    She made no response.
    “The business we’ve got with each other, Louise—the words we got from the don, you and me—that was a risk for the don. A big risk. You should understand that, how big the risk was. He wouldn’t’ve done that for anyone else. Never.”
    Still she made no response.
    “So—” Bacardo spoke hesitantly, tentatively. Then, with finality: “So I’ll see you in a week, maybe ten days, something like that. I’ll come out there, and we’ll do what the don wanted us to do. You understand?”
    “I understand.” She said it grudgingly.
    “And about the funeral, listen, you send flowers to Sigler and Company. Send a big floral piece—you know, two, three hundred dollars, like that. Charge it to Sigler. And you tell them it’s from ‘Louise and Angela, rest in peace,’ something like that. You do that, and I guarantee your piece’ll be right up front, the closest to the casket. You understand?”
    Suddenly weary, suddenly unutterably drained, she nodded to nothing, to no one. Saying: “I understand.”
    “Don’t say anything on the wreath about—you know—whose father he was, nothing like that.”
    As he said it, the last of her strength flared, focused on one final protest. “You had to say that, didn’t you? You just had to say that.”

TUESDAY, APRIL 17th
11:15 A.M., EDT
    A S THE ORGANIST BEGAN playing the overture to Othello, Don Carlo’s favorite opera, Cella turned, whispered to Bacardo, “When we go to the cemetery, you ride with me. My car’ll be right behind Maria’s