Read Online Find Her a Grave by Collin Wilcox - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Collin Wilcox
Ads: Link
that?”
“A couple of months—yeah.” Maranzano’s answering nod was equally judicious. “Yeah, I guess so. He drives all right, there’s nothing wrong with his driving. But I just wonder, if there was a problem, something came up, I don’t know where Jimmy’d be.”
“Maybe under a table.”
“Yeah, well.” Maranzano shrugged, sipped his coffee. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Okay.” Bacardo signaled the waiter for the check, dropped money on the table. Explaining: “I’ve got to be going. Long Island, you know, driving myself …” He shook his head, then pushed back his chair. “You got your car?”
“No. I went home first, and Fabrese took the car to the parking garage. That’s Manhattan, you know. Having a car—I wouldn’t ever have one, if it wasn’t for business.”
“So you took a cab.”
“Right.”
“Well, then, I’ll take you home, drop you off.”
“Aw—no. There’s no need, Tony. It’s no problem, taking a cab.”
“No.” On his feet, Bacardo gestured to the restaurant’s rear exit that led to a small parking lot. “No, come on. We can talk. There’s something else that I want to talk to you about.”
“Well, fine.”
Together they walked to the exit, then out to the parking lot. Always polite, Bacardo was unlocking the Cadillac’s door for him. Quickly, Maranzano slid into the car, found the latch for the driver’s door, pushed it open. Bacardo got in behind the wheel, settled himself, closed the door, looked at the man beside him. “Hey.” Bacardo twisted the key in the ignition, brought the engine to life. “Hey, buckle up there.”
“I never buckle up in the city.”
“You ride with me, you buckle up. Most accidents happen within a couple of miles of home. That’s the statistics.”
“Okay, okay.” In amiable mock surrender, Maranzano raised his hands, then went about the business of fastening his belt. Saying finally: “There. All set.”
“Good.” Bacardo nodded, put his foot on the brake, moved the shift selector to “R,” carefully looked back through the rear window—
—glanced down at Eddie Caproni, crouched in the darkness behind the front seat. Waiting. Ready.
Bacardo turned to face front. He kept his foot firmly on the brake, immobilizing the car, to give Eddie the best chance.
There was a hiss as the slim plastic-coated steel cable looped over Maranzano’s head. Instantly Maranzano threw himself forward, fighting the bite of the noose, his fingers clawing at his throat. But Caproni had both knees braced against the front seat, back bowed, hauling on the noose. Because he was strangling, Maranzano’s eyes were bulging. Because he was fighting to keep the noose tight, biting deep into the skin of his victim’s neck, Caproni’s eyes were bulging, too.
1990
THURSDAY, APRIL 12th
10 A.M., PDT
S HE CROSSED THE LIVING room to the telephone, answered on the second ring.
“Is this Louise?” It was a man’s voice, deep and thick.
“Yes.”
“This is Tony, Louise.”
“Tony …” The single word lingered, not quite a question. Tony Bacardo, that big, awkward, slow-talking, even-tempered man. She’d last seen him when he’d taken her to her father at the prison hospital. Ever since, she’d been expecting this call. All the time was gone now. Everything, gone.
“It’s—it’s about your father, Louise. Don Carlo.”
“Ah …”
Her father, that man some called a monster. Dead. Surely, dead.
Without realizing that she’d done it, she was sitting on the sofa. Would she choke up? Cry? Was that what was expected now?
“He’s dead,” she finally managed to say.
“Yes.”
“When did it happen?”
“It happened last night sometime. They didn’t tell—” A pause. “They didn’t tell the family until early this morning. Eight o’clock, I think. Our time.”
“Was anyone with him when he died?”
“I don’t know. He was in the prison hospital, where he died. And they have their
“A couple of months—yeah.” Maranzano’s answering nod was equally judicious. “Yeah, I guess so. He drives all right, there’s nothing wrong with his driving. But I just wonder, if there was a problem, something came up, I don’t know where Jimmy’d be.”
“Maybe under a table.”
“Yeah, well.” Maranzano shrugged, sipped his coffee. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Okay.” Bacardo signaled the waiter for the check, dropped money on the table. Explaining: “I’ve got to be going. Long Island, you know, driving myself …” He shook his head, then pushed back his chair. “You got your car?”
“No. I went home first, and Fabrese took the car to the parking garage. That’s Manhattan, you know. Having a car—I wouldn’t ever have one, if it wasn’t for business.”
“So you took a cab.”
“Right.”
“Well, then, I’ll take you home, drop you off.”
“Aw—no. There’s no need, Tony. It’s no problem, taking a cab.”
“No.” On his feet, Bacardo gestured to the restaurant’s rear exit that led to a small parking lot. “No, come on. We can talk. There’s something else that I want to talk to you about.”
“Well, fine.”
Together they walked to the exit, then out to the parking lot. Always polite, Bacardo was unlocking the Cadillac’s door for him. Quickly, Maranzano slid into the car, found the latch for the driver’s door, pushed it open. Bacardo got in behind the wheel, settled himself, closed the door, looked at the man beside him. “Hey.” Bacardo twisted the key in the ignition, brought the engine to life. “Hey, buckle up there.”
“I never buckle up in the city.”
“You ride with me, you buckle up. Most accidents happen within a couple of miles of home. That’s the statistics.”
“Okay, okay.” In amiable mock surrender, Maranzano raised his hands, then went about the business of fastening his belt. Saying finally: “There. All set.”
“Good.” Bacardo nodded, put his foot on the brake, moved the shift selector to “R,” carefully looked back through the rear window—
—glanced down at Eddie Caproni, crouched in the darkness behind the front seat. Waiting. Ready.
Bacardo turned to face front. He kept his foot firmly on the brake, immobilizing the car, to give Eddie the best chance.
There was a hiss as the slim plastic-coated steel cable looped over Maranzano’s head. Instantly Maranzano threw himself forward, fighting the bite of the noose, his fingers clawing at his throat. But Caproni had both knees braced against the front seat, back bowed, hauling on the noose. Because he was strangling, Maranzano’s eyes were bulging. Because he was fighting to keep the noose tight, biting deep into the skin of his victim’s neck, Caproni’s eyes were bulging, too.
1990
THURSDAY, APRIL 12th
10 A.M., PDT
S HE CROSSED THE LIVING room to the telephone, answered on the second ring.
“Is this Louise?” It was a man’s voice, deep and thick.
“Yes.”
“This is Tony, Louise.”
“Tony …” The single word lingered, not quite a question. Tony Bacardo, that big, awkward, slow-talking, even-tempered man. She’d last seen him when he’d taken her to her father at the prison hospital. Ever since, she’d been expecting this call. All the time was gone now. Everything, gone.
“It’s—it’s about your father, Louise. Don Carlo.”
“Ah …”
Her father, that man some called a monster. Dead. Surely, dead.
Without realizing that she’d done it, she was sitting on the sofa. Would she choke up? Cry? Was that what was expected now?
“He’s dead,” she finally managed to say.
“Yes.”
“When did it happen?”
“It happened last night sometime. They didn’t tell—” A pause. “They didn’t tell the family until early this morning. Eight o’clock, I think. Our time.”
“Was anyone with him when he died?”
“I don’t know. He was in the prison hospital, where he died. And they have their
Similar Books
