Free Find Her a Grave by Collin Wilcox Page A

car.”
    “I’ve got to tell my driver,” Bacardo whispered in return.
    “He’s already been told.”
    With his eyes on the casket, Bacardo nodded.

12:40 P.M., EDT
    C ELLA LEANED FORWARD, TOUCHED the button that raised the limousine’s glass partition. As the glass went up, Cella pointed to the tiny bar. “Drink?”
    “No, thanks.”
    “Likewise.” Cella unbuttoned his morning coat, settled back. “So what’d you think? Good service?”
    “I thought the priest did better than the monsignor.”
    “No question. The pope should put that old fart out to pasture somewhere.”
    Bacardo smiled, but said nothing. Until the funeral procession began to move, both men had made small talk broken by awkward silences. Finally, as they moved away from the curbside, Cella said, “I hope your wife doesn’t hold it against me, taking you away like this.”
    “She couldn’t care less. She’s only here because I’m here. Truth to tell, Don Carlo made her nervous. She never liked him.”
    Cella’s laugh was spontaneous, appreciative. “Carlo made a lot of people nervous. It’s the secret of his success.”
    Bacardo’s answering chuckle was also quick, also appreciative.
    “I wanted our people to see us together,” Cella explained.
    “Sure …” He let the single word linger, then said, “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
    They rode for a time in silence. Then, with his eyes forward, Cella spoke softly, precisely, significantly:
    “So. Do you want the Venezzio family, Tony? The job’s open.”
    Also looking straight ahead, also speaking softly, precisely, Bacardo answered, “No, thanks, Benito. I—” Suddenly he broke off. Benito, he’d said. Not Don Benito, but simply Benito, the first time he’d ever done it, an unpardonable familiarity. Take the don’s job, and he could call Cella Benito. Turn down the job, and it was Don Benito. Forever.
    “I’ve thought about it,” Bacardo admitted. “You realize that. And Don Carlo, he told me he’d do what he could for me with you and the council. But I’m sixty years old. Ten years ago, when they locked Don Carlo up, I admit I thought about it. But sixty—” Wearily, Bacardo shook his head. “Sixty, that’s no age to try and go all the way, start taking chances.”
    Fingering a pearl stickpin, then stroking his impeccably styled silver-gray hair, Cella nodded in return. “I think it’s the right decision, Tony. It shows class. That’s why you’re respected, you know that. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t respect you.”
    Bacardo nodded, but made no reply. The funeral procession was on the expressway now, picking up speed.
    “So,” Cella said, his voice rising on a note of crisp finality. “So you don’t want Don Carlo’s family. So how about coming to work for me?” Smiling cordially, he turned to face the other man squarely. Signifying, Bacardo knew, that they’d come down to it, the make-or-break moment, no turning back—no mistakes allowed.
    “You might not want to move up, Tony. But I do. I’ll say it right out: capo di tutti. And for that, I need a new number one. Sal, he’s fine. He’s honest, and he’s got heart. But he doesn’t have respect, not like you. Sal’s a second stringer.”
    Also turned to face his companion squarely, Bacardo nodded: a calm, measured response. “Sure. That’s great. I’d like that.”
    “Okay, then. It’s a deal.”
    Solemnly they shook hands. Then they embraced, the Mafia seal of brotherhood. Finally they drew back, and, as if they were embarrassed by the necessary expression of affection, both men once more turned to face front.
    “What about Sal?” Bacardo asked.
    “There’s a good spot for him down in Atlantic City. It’s all set.” As he took time to reflect, Cella’s colorless eyes wandered. Then: “Your wife, she’s going to the cemetery. Right?”
    Puzzled, Bacardo nodded. Repeating: “Yeah. Right.”
    “The reason I asked, I’ll give Sal a ride back into town, after the ceremony.