Find Her a Grave by Collin Wilcox Page A

I’d say maybe ten pounds, give or take.”
    “That’s fine. I was thinking, is all, if it’s fifty pounds, something like that, then I’d have to make plans.”
    “No. Fifteen pounds. No more.”
    “Well, that’s fine. So—eight o’clock. You’re sure that’s okay, so early?”
    “It’s fine. Eight o’clock.”

TUESDAY, MAY 20th
8 A.M., EDT
    “V ERY NICE,” FABRESE SAID , bringing the Oldsmobile to a stop in the wide combed-gravel driveway. “Has he got his own dock?”
    “I think so. He’s crazy about boats.”
    “It’s hard to imagine, Tony belonging to a yacht club, all those Ivy Leaguers.”
    Ignoring the remark, Maranzano glanced at his watch: good, exactly eight o’clock. “I’ll just be ten, fifteen minutes. Then we’ve got to haul ass for the airport. Ten minutes after ten, my flight leaves. So that’s nine-thirty I’ve got to be there.”
    “The rush hour—” Fabrese shook his head doubtfully. “I don’t know. It’ll be an hour and fifteen minutes to Kennedy.”
    Without comment, Maranzano swung open the passenger door and walked down the driveway. Fabrese watched him move, that cocky, compact walk, eyes straight ahead, concentrating. Every day, Maranzano was coming on stronger, pulling the feeling closer around him, getting deeper into his part: the capo, don’t fuck with the capo. Yesterday, a trip to the prison, everything hush-hush. The conference with Venezzio, the man himself. Followed by the phone call from the gas station, probably to Bacardo, passing the word along to Venezzio’s top gun outside, no time to waste. And now, ahead, Bacardo coming out on the front porch of his big two-story brick-and-stone house on the water, shaking hands and gesturing for Maranzano to come in. Bacardo, still in his pajamas and bathrobe.
    Them that had, got. And Maranzano was getting. Fast. Two weeks ago he’d been a soldier, taking orders, driving his own car, holding doors for the dons, even for the capos, if that’s the way it worked out. Sometimes, like Luciano had said, that’s what it all came down to: who held the doors for who, and who had to smile, whether the joke was good or bad.
    Ten, fifteen minutes, Maranzano had said.
    Fabrese turned in the seat to look at the sun coming off Long Island Sound, the water sparkling beneath a clear, high sky. He’d heard about Tony Bacardo’s boat, a big cabin cruiser. Someday—someday soon, maybe—Maranzano would be invited out on that boat, drinking beer, wearing a yachting cap, one of those blue caps with the embroidered ship’s wheel and anchor, hot shit.
    Now Fabrese twisted, looked into the back seat where Maranzano had put his suitcase and his topcoat. He’d been wearing the topcoat when he came out of his apartment building, carrying the suitcase. Before he’d gotten into the car, in front, he’d taken off the topcoat. He’d carefully checked the inside pocket, then he’d folded the topcoat neatly, laying it across the rear seat cushion, with the suitcase on the floor.
    Meaning that, in the inside pocket of the topcoat, Maranzano had probably put his airline ticket.
    Ten, fifteen minutes …
    Coffee, maybe, with Bacardo, a few minutes to get their signals straight, make sure Maranzano understood whatever job Venezzio had given him—whatever job would take him out of town.
    Out of town where?
    The answer, Fabrese knew, could be imprinted on the airline ticket.
    It was unusual for a New York capo to go out of town on business.
    So unusual that Cella, for one, might want to know.
    He turned, looked at the house. From any one of a half dozen windows, it would be possible for someone to see him as he rested his right arm casually on the back of the front seat—
    —and then, still casually, dropped the arm down behind the seat—
    —as he was doing now.
    For a long moment, watching the house, his arm behind the seat, concealed, he sat motionless.
    Then, as his fingers found the topcoat, camel hair, soft to the touch, he moved