OMERTA
PROLOGUE
1967
IN THE STONE-FILLED VILLAGE of Castellammare
del Golfo, facing the dark Sicilian Mediterranean,
a great Mafia Don lay dying. Vincenzo Zeno
was a man of honor, who all his life had been
loved for his fair and impartial judgment,
his help to those in need, and his implacable
punishment of those who dared to oppose his
will.
Around him were three of his former followers,
each of whom had gone on to achieve his own
power and fame: Raymonde Aprile from New York
in America, Octavius Bianco from Palermo,
and Benito Craxxi from Chicago. Each owed
him one last favor.
Don Zeno was the last of the true Mafia chiefs,
having all his life observed the old traditions.
He extracted a tariff on all business, but
never on drugs or prostitution. And never
did a poor man come to his house for money
and go away empty-handed. He corrected the
injustices of the law—the highest judge
in Sicily could make his ruling, but if you
had right on your side, Don Zeno would veto
that judgment with his own force of will,
and arms.
No philandering youth could leave the daughter
of a poor peasant without Don Zeno persuading
him into holy matrimony. No bank could foreclose
on a helpless farmer without Don Zeno interfering
to put things right. No young lad who hungered
for a university education could be denied
it for lack of money or qualification. If
they were related to his cosca, his clan,
their dreams were fulfilled. The laws from
Rome could never justify the traditions of
Sicily and had no authority; Don Zeno would
overrule them, no matter what the cost.
But in the last few years his power had begun
to wane, and he’d had the weakness to marry
a very beautiful young girl, who had produced
a fine male child. She had died in childbirth,
and the boy was now two years old. The old
Mafia don, knowing that the end was near and
that without him his cosca would be pulverized
by the more powerful coscas of Corleone and
Clericuzio, pondered the future of his son.
He had called his three friends to his bedside
because he had an important request, but first
he thanked them for the courtesy and respect
they had shown in traveling so many miles.
Then he told them that he wanted his young
son, Astorre, to be taken to a place of safety
and brought up under different circumstances.
And yet to be brought up in the tradition
of a man of honor, like himself.
“I can die with a clear conscience,” he
said, though his friends knew that in his
lifetime he had decided the deaths of hundreds
of men, “if I can see my son to safety.
For in this two-year-old I see the heart and
soul of a true Mafioso, a rare and almost
extinct quality.”
He told them he would choose one of them to
act as guardian to this unusual child, and
with this responsibility would come great
rewards.
“It is strange,” Don Zeno said, staring
through clouded eyes. “According to tradition,
it is the first son who is the true Mafioso.
But in my case it took until I reached my
eightieth year before I could make my dream
come true. I’m not a man of superstition,
but if I were, I could believe this child
grew from the soil of Sicily itself. His eyes
are as green as olives that spring from my
best trees. And he has the Sicilian sensibility—romantic,
musical, happy. Yet if someone offends him,
he doesn’t forget, as young as he is. But
he must be guided.”
“And so what do you wish from us, Don Zeno?”
Craxxi asked. “For I will gladly take this
child of yours and raise him as my own.”
Bianco stared at Craxxi almost resentfully.
“I know the boy from when he was first born.
He is familiar to me. I will take him as my
own.”
Raymonde Aprile looked at Don Zeno but said
nothing.
“And you, Raymonde?” Don Zeno asked.
Aprile said, “If it is me that you choose,
your son will be my son.”
The Don considered the three of them, all
worthy men. He regarded Craxxi the most intelligent.
Bianco was surely the most ambitious and forceful.
Aprile was a more restrained man of virtue,
a man closer to himself. But he was merciless.
Don Zeno, even while dying, understood that
it was Raymonde Aprile who most needed the
child. He would benefit most from the child’s
love, and he would make certain his son learned
how to survive in their world of treachery.
Don Zeno was silent for a long moment. Finally
he said, “Raymonde, you will be his father.
And I can rest in peace.”
The Don’s funeral was worthy of an emperor.
All the cosca chiefs in Sicily came to pay
their respects, along with cabinet ministers
from Rome, the owners of the great latifundia,
and hundreds of subjects of his widespread
cosca.
Atop the black horse-drawn hearse, Astorre
Zeno, two years old, a fiery-eyed baby attired
in a black frock and black pillbox hat, rode
as majestically as a Roman emperor.
The cardinal of Palermo himself conducted
the service and proclaimed memorably, “In
sickness and in health, in unhappiness and
despair, Don Zeno remained a true friend to
all.” He then intoned Don Zeno’s last
words: “I commend myself to God.” he said.
“He will forgive my sins, for I have tried
every day to be just.”
And so it was that Astorre Zeno was taken
to America by Raymonde Aprile and made a part
of his own household.
CHAPTER 1
1995
WHEN THE STURZO TWINS, Franky and Stace, pulled
into Heskow’s driveway, they saw four very
tall teenagers playing basketball on the small
house court. Franky and Stace got out of their
big Buick, and John Heskow came out to meet
them. He was a tall, pear-shaped man; his
thin hair neatly ringed the bare top of his
skull, and his small blue eyes twinkled. “Great
timing,” he said. “There’s someone I
want you to meet.”
The basketball game halted. Heskow said proudly,
“This is my son, Jocko.” The tallest of
the teenagers stuck out his huge hand to Franky.
“Hey,” Franky said. “How about giving
us a little game?”
Jocko looked at the two visitors. They were
about six feet tall and seemed in good shape.
They both wore Ralph Lauren polo shirts, one
red and the other green, with khaki trousers
and rubber-soled shoes. They were amiable-looking,
handsome men, their craggy features set with
a graceful confidence. They were obviously
brothers, but Jocko could not know they were
twins. He figured them to be in their early
forties.
“Sure,” Jocko said, with boyish good nature.
Stace grinned. “Great! We just drove three
thousand miles and have to loosen up.”
Jocko motioned to his companions, all well
over six feet, and said, “I’ll take them
on my side against you three.” Since he
was the much better player, he thought this
would give his father’s friends a chance.
“Take it easy on them,” John Heskow said
to the kids. “They’re just old guys futzing
around.”
It was midafternoon in December, and the air
was chilly enough to spur the blood. The cold
Long Island sunlight, pale yellow, glinted
off the glass roofs and walls of Heskow’s
flower sheds, his front business.
Jocko’s young buddies were mellow and played
to accommodate the older men. But suddenly
Franky and Stace were whizzing past them for
layup shots. Jocko stood amazed at their speed;
then they were refusing to shoot and passing
him the ball. They never took an outside shot.
It seemed a point of honor that they had to
swing free for an easy layup.
The opposing team started to use their height
to pass around the older men but astonishingly
enough got few rebounds. Finally, one of the
boys lost his temper and gave Franky a hard
elbow in the face. Suddenly the boy was on
the ground. Jocko, watching everything, didn’t
know exactly how it happened. But then Stace
hit his brother in the head with the ball
and said, “Come on. Play, you shithead.”
Franky helped the boy to his feet, patted
him on the ass, and said, “Hey, I’m sorry.”
They played for about five minutes more, but
by then the older men were obviously tuckered
out and the kids ran circles around them.
Finally, they quit.
Heskow brought sodas to them on the court,
and the teenagers clustered around Franky,
who had charisma and had shown pro skills
on the court. Franky hugged the boy he had
knocked down. Then, he flashed them a man-of-the-world
grin, which set pleasantly on his angular
face.
“Let me give you guys some advice from an
old guy,” he said. “Never dribble when
you can pass. Never quit when you’re twenty
points down in the last quarter. And never
go out with a woman who owns more than one
cat.”
The boys all laughed.
Franky and Stace shook hands with the kids
and thanked them for the game, then followed
Heskow inside the pretty green-trimmed house.
Jocko called after them, “Hey, you guys
are good!”
Inside the house, John Heskow led the two
brothers upstairs to their room. It had a
very heavy door with a good lock, the brothers
noticed as Heskow let them in and locked the
door behind them.
The room was big, a suite really, with an
attached bathroom. It had two single beds—Heskow
knew the brothers liked to sleep in the same
room. In a corner was a huge trunk banded
with steel straps and a heavy metal padlock.
Heskow used a key to unlock the trunk and
then flung the lid open. Exposed to view were
several handguns, automatic weapons, and munitions
boxes, in an array of black geometric shapes.
“Will that do?” Heskow asked.
Franky said, “No silencers.”
“You won’t need silencers for this job.”
“Good,” Stace said. “I hate silencers.
I can never hit anything with a silencer.”
“OK,” Heskow said. “You guys take a
shower and settle in, and I’ll get rid of
the kids and cook supper. What did you think
of my kid?”
“A very nice boy,” Franky said.
“And how do you like the way he plays basketball?”
Heskow said with a flush of pride that made
him look even more like a ripened pear.
“Exceptional,” Franky said.
“Stace, what do you think?” Heskow asked.
“Very exceptional,” said Stace.
“He has a scholarship to Villanova,” Heskow
said. “NBA all the way.”
When the twins came down to the living room
a little while later, Heskow was waiting.
He had prepared sautéed veal with mushrooms
and a huge green salad. There was red wine
on the table.
The three of them sat down. They were old
friends and knew each other’s history. Heskow
had been divorced for thirteen years. His
ex-wife and Jocko lived a couple of miles
west in Babylon. But Jocko spent a lot of
time here, and Heskow had been a constant
and doting father.
“You were supposed to arrive tomorrow morning,”
Heskow said. “I would have put the kid off
if I knew you were coming today. By the time
you phoned, I couldn’t throw him and his
friends out.”
“That’s OK,” Franky said. “What the
hell.”
“You guys were good out there with the kids,”
Heskow said. “You ever wonder if you could
have made it in the pros?”
“Nah,” Stace said. “We’re too short,
only six feet. The eggplants were too big
for us.”
“Don’t say things like that in front of
the kid,” Heskow said, horror-stricken.
“He has to play with them.”
“Oh, no,” Stace said. “I would never
do that.”
Heskow relaxed and sipped his wine. He always
liked working with the Sturzo brothers. They
were both so genial—they never got nasty
like most of the scum he had to deal with.
They had an ease in the world that reflected
the ease between them. They were secure, and
it gave them a pleasant glow.
The three of them ate slowly, casually. Heskow
refilled their plates direct from the frying
pan.
“I always meant to ask,” Franky said to
Heskow. “Why did you change your name?”
“That was a long time ago,” Heskow said.
“I wasn’t ashamed of being Italian. But
you know, I look so fucking German. With blond
hair and blue eyes and this nose. It looked
really fishy, my having an Italian name.”
The twins both laughed, an easy, understanding
laugh. They knew he was full of shit, but
they didn’t mind.
When they finished their salad, Heskow served
double espresso and a plate of Italian pastries.
He offered cigars but they refused. They stuck
to their Marlboros, which suited their rugged
western faces.
“Time to get down to business,” Stace
said. “This must be a big one, or why did
we have to drive three thousand fucking miles?
We could have flown.”
“It wasn’t so bad,” Franky said. “I
enjoyed it. We saw America, firsthand. We
had a good time. The people in the small towns
were great.”
“Exceptional,” Stace said. “But still,
it was a long ride.”
“I didn’t want to leave any traces at
the airports,” Heskow said. “That’s
the first place they check. And there will
be a lot of heat. You boys don’t mind heat?”
“Mother’s milk to me,” Stace said. “Now,
who the fuck is it?”
“Don Raymonde Aprile.” Heskow nearly choked
on his espresso saying it.
There was a long silence, and then for the
first time Heskow caught the chill of death
the twins could radiate.
Franky said quietly, “You made us drive
three thousand miles to offer us this job?”
Stace smiled at Heskow and said, “John,
it’s been nice knowing you. Now just pay
our kill fee and we’ll be moving on.”
Both twins laughed at this little joke, but
Heskow didn’t get it.
One of Franky’s friends in L.A., a freelance
writer, had once explained to the twins that
though a magazine might pay him expenses to
do an article, they would not necessarily
buy it. They would just pay a small percentage
of the agreed-upon fee to kill the piece.
The twins had adopted that practice. They
charged just to listen to a proposition. In
this case, because of the travel time and
there were two of them involved, the kill
fee was twenty thousand.
But it was Heskow’s job to convince them
to take the assignment. “The Don has been
retired for three years,” he said. “All
his old connections are in jail. He has no
power anymore. The only one who could make
trouble is Timmona Portella, and he won’t.
Your payoff is a million bucks, half when
you’re done and the other half in a year.
But for that year, you have to lay low. Now
everything is set up. All you guys have to
be is the shooters.”
“A million bucks,” Stace said. “That’s
a lot of money.”
“My client knows it’s a big step to hit
Don Aprile,” Heskow said. “He wants the
best help. Cool shooters and silent partners
with mature heads. And you guys are simply
the best.”
Franky said, “And there are not many guys
who would take the risk.”
“Yeah,” Stace said. “You have to live
with it the rest of your life. Somebody coming
after you, plus the cops, and the feds.”
“I swear to you,” Heskow said, “the
NYPD won’t go all out. The FBI will not
take a hand.”
“And the Don’s old friends?” Stace asked.
“The dead have no friends.” Heskow paused
for a moment. “When the Don retired, he
cut all ties. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Franky said to Stace, “Isn’t it funny,
in all our deals, they always tell us there’s
nothing to worry about?”
Stace laughed. “That’s because they’re
not the shooters. John, you’re an old friend.
We trust you. But what if you’re wrong?
Anybody can be wrong. What if the Don still
has old friends? You know how he operates.
No mercy. We get nailed, we don’t just get
killed. We’ll spend a couple of hours in
hell first. Plus our families are at stake
under the Don’s rule. That means your son.
Can’t play for the NBA in his grave. Maybe
we should know who’s paying for this.”
Heskow leaned toward them, his light skin
a scarlet red as if he were blushing. “I
can’t tell you that. You know that. I’m
just the broker. And I’ve thought of all
that other shit. You think I’m fucking stupid?
Who doesn’t know who the Don is? But he’s
defenseless. I have assurances of that from
the top levels. The police will just go through
the motions. The FBI can’t afford to investigate.
And the top Mafia heads won’t interfere.
It’s foolproof.”
“I never dreamed that Don Aprile would be
one of my marks,” Franky said. The deed
appealed to his ego. To kill a man so dreaded
and respected in his world.
“Franky, this is not a basketball game,”
Stace warned. “If we lose, we don’t shake
hands and walk off the court.”
“Stace, it’s a million bucks,” Franky
said. “And John never steered us wrong.
Let’s go with it.”
Stace felt their excitement building. What
the hell. He and Franky could take care of
themselves. After all, there was the million
bucks. If the truth were told, Stace was more
mercenary than Franky, more business-oriented,
and the million swung him.
“OK,” Stace said, “we’re in. But God
have mercy on our souls if you’re wrong.”
He had once been an altar boy.
“What about the Don being watched by the
FBI?” Franky asked. “Do we have to worry
about that?”
“No,” Heskow said. “When all his old
friends went to jail, the Don retired like
a gentleman. The FBI appreciated that. They
leave him alone. I guarantee it. Now let me
lay it out.”
It took him a half hour to explain the plan
in detail.
Finally Stace said, “When?”
“Sunday morning,” Heskow said. “You
stay here for the first two days. Afterward
the private jet flies you out of Newark.”
“We have to have a very good driver,”
Stace said. “Exceptional.”
“I’m driving,” Heskow said, then added,
almost apologetically, “It’s a very big
payday.”
For the rest of the weekend, Heskow baby-sat
for the Sturzo brothers, cooking their meals,
running their errands. He was not a man easily
impressed, but the Sturzos sometimes sent
a chill to his heart. They were like adders,
their heads constantly alert, yet they were
congenial and even helped him tend to the
flowers in his sheds.
The brothers played basketball one-on-one
just before supper, and Heskow watched fascinated
by how their bodies slithered around each
other like snakes. Franky was faster and a
deadly shooter. Stace was not as good but
more clever. Franky could have made it to
the NBA, Heskow thought. But this was not
a basketball game. In a real crisis, it would
have to be Stace. Stace would be the primary
shooter.
CHAPTER 2
The great 1990s FBI blitz of the Mafia families
in New York left only two survivors. Don Raymonde
Aprile, the greatest and most feared, remained
untouched. The other, Don Timmona Portella,
who was nearly his equal in power but a far
inferior man, escaped by what seemed to be
pure luck.
But the future was clear. With the 1970 RICO
laws so un-democratically framed, the zeal
of special FBI investigating teams, and the
death of the belief in omerta among the soldiers
of the American Mafia, Don Raymonde Aprile
knew it was time for him to retire gracefully
from the stage.
The Don had ruled his Family for thirty years
and was now a legend. Brought up in Sicily,
he had none of the false ideas or strutting
arrogance of the American-born Mafia chiefs.
He was, in fact, a throwback to the old Sicilians
of the nineteenth century who ruled towns
and villages with their personal charisma,
their sense of honor, and their deadly and
final judgment of any suspected enemy. He
also proved to have the strategic genius of
those old heroes.
Now, at sixty-two, he had his life in order.
He had disposed of his enemies and accomplished
his duties as a friend and a father. He could
enjoy old age with a clear conscience, retire
from the disharmonies of his world, and move
into the more fitting role of gentleman banker
and pillar of society.
His three children were safely ensconced in
successful and honorable careers. His oldest
son, Valerius, was now thirty-seven, married
with children, and a colonel in the United
States Army and lecturer at West Point. His
career had been determined by his timidity
as a child; the Don had secured a cadet appointment
at West Point to rectify this defect in his
character.
His second son, Marcantonio, at the early
age of thirty-five, was, out of some mystery
in the variation of his genes, a top executive
at a national TV network. As a boy he had
been moody and lived in a make-believe world
and the Don thought he would be a failure
in any serious enterprise. But now his name
was often in the papers as some sort of creative
visionary, which pleased the Don but did not
convince him. After all, he was the boy’s
father. Who knew him better?
His daughter, Nicole, had been affectionately
called Nikki as a young child but at the age
of six demanded imperiously that she be called
by her proper name. She was his favorite sparring
partner. At the age of twenty-nine, she was
a corporate lawyer, a feminist, and a pro
bono advocate of those poor and desperate
criminals who otherwise could not afford an
adequate legal defense. She was especially
good at saving murderers from the electric
chair, husband killers from prison confinement,
and repeat rapists from being given life terms.
She was absolutely opposed to the death penalty,
believed in the rehabilitation of any criminal,
and was a severe critic of the economic structure
of the United States. She believed a country
as rich as America should not be so indifferent
to the poor, no matter what their faults.
Despite all this she was a very skilled and
tough negotiator in corporate law, a striking
and forceful woman. The Don agreed with her
on nothing.
As for Astorre, he was part of the family,
and closest to the Don as a titular nephew.
But he seemed like a brother to the others
because of his intense vitality and charm.
From the age of three to sixteen he had been
their intimate, the beloved youngest sibling—until
his exile to Sicily eleven years before.
The Don planned his retirement carefully.
He distributed his empire to placate potential
enemies but also rendered tribute to loyal
friends, knowing that gratitude is the least
lasting of virtues and that gifts must always
be replenished. He was especially careful
to pacify Timmona Portella. Portella was dangerous
because of his eccentricity and a passionate
murderousness that sometimes had no relationship
to necessity.
How Portella escaped the FBI blitz of the
1990s was a mystery to everyone. For he was
an American-born don without subtlety, a man
incautious and intemperate, with an explosive
temper. He had a huge body with an enormous
paunch and dressed like a Palermo picciotto,
a young apprentice killer, all colors and
silk. His power was based in the distribution
of illegal drugs. He had never married and
still at age fifty was a careless womanizer.
He only showed true affection for his younger
brother, Bruno, who seemed slightly retarded
but shared his older brother’s brutality.
Don Aprile had never trusted Portella and
rarely did business with him. The man was
dangerous through his weakness, a man to be
neutralized. So now he summoned Timmona Portella
for a meeting.
Portella arrived with his brother, Bruno.
Aprile met them with his usual quiet courtesy
but came to the point quickly.
“My dear Timmona,” he said. “I am retiring
from all business affairs except my banks.
Now you will be very much in the public eye
and you must be careful. If you should ever
need any advice, call on me. For I will not
be completely without resources in my retirement.”
Bruno, a small replica of his brother who
was awed by the Don’s reputation, smiled
with pleasure at this respect for his older
brother. But Timmona understood the Don far
better. He knew that he was being warned.
He nodded respectfully to the Don. “You
have always showed the best judgment of us
all,” he said. “And I respect what you
are doing. Count on me as your friend.”
“Very good, very good,” the Don said.
“Now, as a gift to you, I ask you to heed
this warning. This FBI man, Cilke, is very
devious. Do not trust him in any way. He is
drunk with his success, and you will be his
next target.”
“But you and I have already escaped him,”
Timmona said. “Though he brought all our
friends down. I don’t fear him but I thank
you.”
They had a celebratory drink, and the Portella
brothers left. In the car Bruno said, “What
a great man.”
“Yes,” Timmona said. “He was a great
man.”
As for the Don, he was well satisfied. He
had seen the alarm in Timmona’s eyes and
was assured there would no longer be any danger
from him.
Don Aprile requested a private meeting with
Kurt Cilke, the head of the FBI in New York
City. Cilke, to the Don’s own surprise,
was a man he admired. He had sent most of
the East Coast Mafia chiefs to jail and almost
broken their power.
Don Raymonde Aprile had eluded him, for the
Don knew the identity of Cilke’s secret
informer, the one who made his success possible.
But the Don admired Cilke even more because
the man always played fair, had never tried
frame-ups or power-play harassments, had never
given publicity pin marks on the Don’s children.
So the Don felt it was only fair to warn him.
The meeting was at the Don’s country estate
in Montauk. Cilke would have to come alone,
a violation of the Bureau rules. The FBI director
himself had given approval but insisted Cilke
use a special recording device. This was an
implant in his body, below his rib cage, which
would not show on the outer walls of his torso;the
device was not known to the public, and its
manufacture was strictly controlled. Cilke
realized that the real purpose of the wire
was to record what he said to the Don.
They met on a golden October afternoon on
the Don’s verandah. Cilke had never been
able to penetrate this house with a listening
device, and a judge had barred constant physical
surveillance. This day he was not searched
in any way by the Don’s men, which surprised
him. Obviously Don Raymonde Aprile was not
going to make him an illicit proposal.
As always, Cilke was amazed and even disturbed
by the impression that the Don made on him.
Despite knowing that the man had ordered a
hundred murders, broken countless laws of
society, Cilke could not hate him. And yet
he believed such men evil, hated them for
how they destroyed the fabric of civilization.
Don Aprile was clad in a dark suit, dark tie,
and white shirt. His expression was grave
and yet understanding, the lines in his face
the gentle ones of a virtue-loving man. How
could such a humane face belong to someone
so merciless, Cilke wondered.
The Don did not offer to shake hands out of
a sensibility not to embarrass Cilke. He gestured
for his guest to be seated and bowed his head
in greeting.
“I have decided to place myself and my family
under your protection—that is, the protection
of society,” he said.
Cilke was astonished. What the hell did the
old man mean?
“For the last twenty years you have made
yourself my enemy. You have pursued me. But
I was always grateful for your sense of fair
play. You never tried to plant evidence or
encourage perjury against me. You have put
most of my friends in prison, and you tried
very hard to do the same to me.”
Cilke smiled. “I’m still trying,” he
said.
The Don nodded in appreciation. “I have
rid myself of everything doubtful except a
few banks, surely a respectable business.
I have placed myself under the protection
of your society. In return I will do my duty
to that society. You can make it much easier
if you do not pursue me. For there is no longer
any need.”
Cilke shrugged. “The Bureau decides. I’ve
been after you for so long, why stop now?
I might get lucky.”
The Don’s face became graver and even more
tired. “I have something to exchange with
you. Your enormous success of the past few
years influenced my decision. But the thing
is, I know your prize informant, I know who
he is. And I have told no one.”
Cilke hesitated for only seconds before he
said impassively, “I have no such informant.
And again, the Bureau decides, not me. So
you’ve wasted my time.”
“No, no,” the Don said. “I’m not seeking
an advantage, just an accommodation. Allow
me, because of my age, to tell you what I
have learned. Do not exercise power because
it is easy to your hand. And do not get carried
away with a certainty of victory when your
intellect tells you there is even a hint of
tragedy. Let me say I regard you now as a
friend, not an enemy, and think to yourself
what you have to gain or lose by refusing
this offer.”
“And if you are truly retired, then of what
use is your friendship?” Cilke said, smiling.
“You will have my goodwill,” the Don said.
“That is worth something even from the smallest
of men.”
Later Cilke played the tape for Bill Boxton,
his deputy, who asked, “What the hell was
that all about?”
“That’s the stuff you have to learn,”
Cilke told him. “He was telling me that
he’s not completely defenseless, that he
was keeping an eye on me.”
“What bullshit,” Boxton said. “They
can’t touch a federal agent.”
“That’s true,” Cilke said. “That’s
why I kept after him, retired or not. Still,
I’m wary. We can’t be absolutely sure
. . .”
Having studied the history of the most prestigious
families in America, those robber barons who
had ruthlessly built their fortunes while
breaking the laws and ethics of human society,
Don Aprile became, like them, a benefactor
to all. Like them, he had his empire—he
owned ten private banks in the world’s largest
cities. So he gave generously to build a hospital
for the poor. And he contributed to the arts.
He established a chair at Columbia University
for the study of the Renaissance.
It was true that Yale and Harvard refused
his twenty million dollars for a dormitory
to be named for Christopher Columbus, who
was at the time in disrepute in intellectual
circles. Yale did offer to take the money
and name the dorm after Sacco and Vanzetti,
but the Don was not interested in Sacco and
Vanzetti. He despised martyrs.
A lesser man would have felt insulted and
nursed a grievance, but not Raymonde Aprile.
Instead, he simply gave the money to the Catholic
Church for daily masses to be sung for his
wife, now twenty-five years in Heaven.
He donated a million dollars to the New York
Police Benevolent Association and another
million to a society for the protection of
illegal immigrants. For the three years after
his retirement, he showered his blessings
on the world. His purse was open to any request
except for one. He refused Nicole’s pleas
to contribute to the Campaign Against the
Death Penalty—her crusade to stop capital
punishment.
It is astonishing how three years of good
deeds and generosity can almost wipe out a
thirty-year reputation of merciless acts.
But great men also buy their own goodwill,
self-forgetfulness and forgiveness of betraying
friends and exercising lethal judgment. And
the Don too had this universal weakness.
For Don Raymonde Aprile was a man who had
lived by the strict rules of his own particular
morality. His protocol had made him respected
for over thirty years and generated the extraordinary
fear that had been the base of his power.
A chief tenet of that protocol was a complete
lack of mercy.
This sprang not from innate cruelty, some
psychopathic desire to inflict pain, but from
an absolute conviction:that men always refused
to obey. Even Lucifer, the angel, had defied
God and had been flung from the heavens.
So an ambitious man struggling for power had
no other recourse. Of course there were some
persuasions, some concessions to another man’s
self-interest. That was only reasonable. But
if all that failed, there was only the punishment
of death. Never threats of other forms of
punishment that might inspire retaliation.
Simply a banishment from this earthly sphere,
no more to be reckoned with.
Treachery was the greatest injury. The traitor’s
family would suffer, as would his circle of
friends; his whole world would be destroyed.
For there are many brave, proud men willing
to gamble their lives for their own gain,
but they would think twice about risking their
loved ones. And so in this way Don Aprile
generated a vast amount of terror. He relied
on his generosity in worldly goods to win
their less necessary love.
But it must be said, he was as merciless to
himself. Possessed of enormous power, he could
not prevent the death of his young wife after
she had given him three children. She died
a slow and horrible death from cancer as he
watched over her for six months. During that
time he came to believe that she was being
punished for all the mortal sins he had committed,
and so it was that he decreed his own penance:
He would never remarry. He would send his
children away to be educated in the ways of
lawful society, so they would not grow up
in his world so full of hate and danger. He
would help them find their way, but they would
never be involved in his activities. With
great sadness he resolved that he would never
know the true essence of fatherhood.
So the Don arranged to have Nicole, Valerius,
and Marcantonio sent to private boarding schools.
He never let them into his personal life.
They came home for the holidays, when he played
the role of a caring but distant father, but
they never became part of his world.
And yet despite everything and though they
were aware of his reputation, his children
loved him. They never talked about it among
themselves. It was one of those family secrets
that was not a secret.
No one could call the Don sentimental. He
had very few personal friends, no pets, and
he avoided holiday and social gatherings as
much as possible. Only once, many years before,
he had committed an act of compassion that
astounded his colleagues in America.
Don Aprile, when he returned from Sicily with
the child, Astorre, found his beloved wife
dying of cancer and his own three children
desolate. Not wanting to keep the impressionable
infant in such a circumstance for fear it
would harm him in some way, the Don decided
to place him in the care of one of his closest
advisors, a man named Frank Viola, and his
wife. This proved to be an unwise choice.
At the time, Frank Viola had ambitions to
succeed the Don.
But shortly after the Don’s wife died, Astorre
Viola, at the age of three, became a member
of the Don’s personal family when his “father”
committed suicide in the trunk of his car,
a curious circumstance, and his mother died
of a brain hemorrhage. It was then that the
Don had taken Astorre into his household and
assumed the title of uncle.
When Astorre was old enough to begin asking
about his parents, Don Raymonde told him that
he had been orphaned. But Astorre was a curious
and tenacious young boy, so the Don, to put
an end to all his questions, told him that
his parents had been peasants, unable to feed
him, and had died, unknown, in a small Sicilian
village. The Don knew this explanation didn’t
completely satisfy the boy, and he felt a
twinge of guilt over deceiving him, but he
knew it was important while the child was
still young to keep his Mafia roots a secret—for
Astorre’s own safety and for the safety
of the Aprile children.
...
Don Raymonde was a farseeing man and knew
that his success could not last forever—it
was too treacherous a world. From the beginning
he planned to switch sides, to join the safety
of organized society. Not that he was truly
conscious of his purpose, but great men have
an instinct for what the future will demand.
And in this case, truly, he acted out of compassion.
For Astorre Viola, at the age of three, could
have made no impression, could have given
no hint of what he would later become as a
man. Or how important a part he would play
in the Family.
The Don understood that the glory of America
was the emergence of great families, and that
the best social class sprang from men who
had at first committed great crimes against
that society. It was such men who in the search
for fortune had also built America and left
evil deeds to crumble into forgotten dust.
How else could it be done? Leave the Great
Plains of America to those Indians who could
not conceive of a three-story dwelling? Leave
California to Mexicans who had no technical
ability, no vision of great aqueducts to feed
water to lands that would allow millions to
enjoy a prosperous life? America had the genius
to attract millions of laboring poor from
all over the world, to entice them to the
necessary hard work of building the railroads,
the dams, and the sky-scratching buildings.
Ah, the Statue of Liberty had been a stroke
of promotional genius. And had it not turned
out for the best? Certainly there had been
tragedies, but that was part of life. Was
not America the greatest cornucopia the world
had ever known? Was not a measure of injustice
a small price to pay? It has always been the
case that individuals must sacrifice to further
the advance of civilization and their particular
society.
But there is another definition of a great
man. Primarily that he does not accept that
burden. In some way, criminal, immoral, or
by sheer cunning, he will ride the crest of
that wave of human progress without sacrifice.
Don Raymonde Aprile was such a man. He generated
his own individual power by his intelligence
and by his complete lack of mercy. He generated
fear; he became a legend. But his children,
when they were grown, never believed in the
most atrocious stories.
There was the legend of the beginning of his
rule as Family chief. The Don controlled a
construction company run by a subordinate,
Tommy Liotti, whom the Don had made rich at
an early age with city building contracts.
The man was handsome, witty, a thorough charmer,
and the Don always enjoyed his company. He
had only one fault: He drank to excess.
Tommy married the Don’s wife’s best friend,
Liza, an old-fashioned handsome woman with
a sharp tongue, who felt it her duty to curb
her husband’s obvious pleasure with himself.
This led to some unfortunate incidents. He
accepted her barbs well enough when he was
sober, but when drunk he would slap her face
hard enough to make her bite her tongue.
It was also unfortunate that the husband had
a massive strength, due to working hard and
long on construction sites during his youth.
Indeed, he always wore short-sleeved shirts
to display his magnificent forearms and his
great biceps.
Sadly, the incidents escalated over a period
of two years. One night Tommy broke Liza’s
nose and knocked out a few teeth, which required
expensive surgical repair. The woman did not
dare ask Don Aprile’s wife for protection,
since such a request would probably make her
a widow, and she still loved her husband.
It was not Don Aprile’s desire to interfere
in the domestic squabbles of his underlings.
Such things could never be solved. If the
husband had killed the wife, he would not
have been concerned. But the beatings posed
a danger to his business relationship. An
enraged wife could make certain testimonies,
give damaging information. For the husband
kept large quantities of cash in his house
for those incidental bribes so necessary to
the fulfillment of city contracts.
So Don Aprile summoned the husband. With the
utmost courtesy, he made it plain he interfered
in the man’s personal life only because
it affected business. He advised the man to
kill his wife outright or divorce her or never
to ill-treat her further. The husband assured
him it would never happen again. But the Don
was mistrustful. He had noticed that certain
gleam in the man’s eyes, the gleam of free
will. He considered this one of the great
mysteries of life, that a man will do what
he feels like doing with no regard to the
cost. Great men have allied themselves with
the angels at a terrible price to themselves.
Evil men indulge their slightest whim for
small satisfactions while accepting the fate
of burning in Hell.
And so it turned out with Tommy Liotti. It
took nearly a year, and Liza’s tongue grew
sharper with her husband’s indulgence. Despite
the warning from the Don, despite his love
for his children and his wife, Tommy beat
her in the most violent fashion. She ended
up in the hospital with broken ribs and a
punctured lung.
With his wealth and political connections,
Tommy bought one of the Don’s corrupt judges
with an enormous bribe. Then he talked his
wife into coming back to him.
Don Aprile observed this with some anger and
regretfully took charge of the affair. First,
he attended to the practical aspects of the
matter. He obtained a copy of the husband’s
will and learned that like a good family man,
he had left all his worldly goods to his wife
and children. She would be a rich widow. Then
he sent out a special team with specific instructions.
Within the week the judge received a long
box wrapped in ribbons, and in it, like a
pair of expensive long silk gloves, were the
two massive forearms of the husband, one wearing
on its wrist the expensive Rolex watch the
Don had given him years before as a token
of his esteem. The next day the rest of the
body was found floating in the water around
the Verrazano Bridge.
Another legend was chilling because of its
ambiguity, like some childish ghost story.
While the Don’s three children were attending
boarding school, an enterprising and talented
journalist noted for his witty exposure of
the frailties of famous people tracked them
down and enticed them into what seemed like
harmless verbal exchange. The writer had great
fun with their innocence, their preppy clothes,
their juvenile idealism about how to make
a better world. The journalist contrasted
it with their father’s reputation while
admitting that Don Aprile had never actually
been convicted of a crime.
The piece became famous, circulated in newsrooms
throughout the country even before publication.
It was the kind of success a writer dreams
about. Everybody loved it.
The journalist was a nature lover, and every
year he took his wife and two children to
a cabin in upstate New York for hunting and
fishing and living simply. They were there
one long Thanksgiving weekend. On Saturday
the cabin, ten miles from the nearest town,
caught fire. There was no rescue for about
two hours. By then the house had burned to
smoking logs and the journalist and his family
were merely charred and brittle sticks. There
was an enormous outcry and a massive investigation,
but no evidence of foul play could be found.
The conclusion was that the family had been
overcome by smoke before they could escape.
Then a curious thing happened. A few months
after the tragedy, whispers and rumors began
to circulate. Anonymous tips came in to the
FBI, the police, the press. They all suggested
that the fire was an act of vengeance by the
infamous Don Aprile. The press, hot for a
story, clamored for the case to be reopened.
It was, but again there was no indictment.
Yet, despite any proof, this became another
legend of the Don’s ferocity.
But that was the general public; the authorities
were satisfied, in this instance, that the
Don was beyond reproach. Everybody knew journalists
were exempt from any retaliation. You would
have to kill thousands, so what was the point?
The Don was too intelligent to take such a
risk. Still, the legend never died. Some FBI
teams even thought the Don himself had inspired
the rumors to fulfill his legend. And so it
grew.
But there was another side to the Don: his
generosity. If you served him loyally, you
became rich and had a formidable protector
in times of travail. The rewards given by
the Don were enormous but the punishments
final. That was his legend.
After his meetings with Portella and Cilke,
Don Aprile had details to tidy up. He set
in motion the machinery to bring Astorre Viola
back home after his eleven-year exile.
He needed Astorre, indeed had prepared him
for this moment. Astorre was the Don’s favorite,
even above his own children. As a child Astorre
was always a leader, precocious in his sociability.
He loved the Don, and he did not fear him
as his own children sometimes did. And though
Valerius and Marcantonio were twenty and eighteen
years old, when Astorre was ten, he established
his independence from them. Indeed, when Valerius,
somewhat of a military martinet, tried to
chastise him, he fought back. Marcantonio
was much more affectionate to him and bought
him his first banjo to encourage his singing.
Astorre accepted this as the courtesy of one
adult to another.
The only one Astorre took orders from was
Nicole. And though she was two years older,
she treated him as a suitor, as he demanded
even as a small boy. She made him run her
errands and listened soulfully to the Italian
ballads he sang her. And she slapped his face
when he tried to kiss her. For even as a small
boy, Astorre was enraptured by feminine beauty.
And Nicole was beautiful. She had large dark
eyes and a sensual smile; her face revealed
every emotion she felt. She challenged anyone
who tried to insinuate that as a female she
was not as important as any man in her world.
She hated the fact that she was not as physically
strong as her brothers and Astorre, that she
could not assert her will by force but only
by her beauty. All this made her absolutely
fearless, and she taunted them all, even her
father, despite his dread reputation.
After his wife’s death, when the children
were still young, Don Aprile made it a practice
to spend one summer month in Sicily. He loved
the life in his native village, near the town
of Montelepre, and he still owned property
there, a house that had been the country retreat
of a count, called Villa Grazia.
After a few years he hired a housekeeper,
a Sicilian widow named Caterina. She was a
very handsome woman, strong with a rich peasant
beauty and a keen sense of how to run a property
and command respect from the villagers. She
became his mistress. All of this he kept secret
from his family and friends, though now he
was a man of forty and a king in his world.
Astorre Viola was only ten years old the first
time he accompanied Don Raymonde Aprile to
Sicily. The Don had been requested to mediate
a great conflict between the Corleonesi cosca
and the Clericuzio cosca. And it was also
his pleasure to spend a quiet month of tranquillity
at Villa Grazia.
Astorre, at ten, was affable—there was no
other word. He was always cheerful, and his
handsome round face with its olive skin radiated
love. He continually sang in a sweet tenor
voice. And when he was not singing, he offered
lively conversation. Yet he had the fiery
qualities of a born rebel, and he terrorized
the other boys his age.
The Don brought him to Sicily because he was
the best of company for a middle-aged man,
which was a curious commentary on both, as
well as a reflection on how the Don had brought
up his own three children.
Once the Don settled his business affairs,
he mediated the dispute and brought about
temporary peace. Now he enjoyed his days reliving
his childhood in his native village. He ate
lemons, oranges, and olives from their briny
barrels, and he took long walks with Astorre
under the sullen deadly light of the Sicilian
sun that reflected all the stone houses and
countless rocks with a stunning heat. He told
the small boy long-ago stories of the Robin
Hoods of Sicily, their fights against the
Moors, the French, the Spaniards, the pope
himself. And tales of a local hero, the Great
Don Zeno.
At night, together on the terrace of the Villa
Grazia, they watched the azure sky of Sicily
lit with a thousand shooting stars and the
flashes of lightning hurling through the mountains
just a short distance away. Astorre picked
up the Sicilian dialect immediately and ate
the black olives from the barrel as if they
were bits of candy.
In just a few days Astorre established his
leadership in a gang of young village boys.
It was a wonder to the Don that he could do
so, for Sicilian children were full of pride
and feared no one. Many of these ten-year-old
cherubs were already familiar with the lupara,
the ever-present Sicilian shotgun.
Don Aprile, Astorre, and Caterina spent long
summer nights eating and drinking alfresco
in the luxuriant garden, the orange and lemon
trees saturating the air with their citrus
perfume. Sometimes old boyhood friends of
the Don were invited to dinner and a game
of cards. Astorre helped Caterina serve them
drinks.
Caterina and the Don never showed public signs
of affection, but all was understood in the
village, so no man dared to present any gallantries
to Caterina and all showed her the respect
the female head of the house was due. No time
in his life was more pleasant to the Don.
It was just three days before the end of the
visit that the unimaginable happened: The
Don was kidnapped while walking the streets
of the village.
In the neighboring province of Cinesi, one
of the most remote and undeveloped in Sicily,
the head of the village cosca, the local Mafioso,
was a ferocious, fearless bandit by the name
of Fissolini. Absolute in his local power,
he really had no communication with the rest
of the Mafia coscas on the island. He knew
nothing of Don Aprile’s enormous power,
nor did he think it could penetrate his own
remote and secure world. He decided to kidnap
the Don and hold him for ransom. The only
rule he knew he was breaking was that he was
encroaching onto the territory of the neighboring
cosca, but the American seemed a rich enough
prize to warrant the risk.
The cosca is the basic unit of what is called
the Mafia and is usually composed of blood
relatives. Law-abiding citizens such as lawyers
or doctors attach themselves to a cosca for
protection of their interests. Each cosca
is an organization in and of itself but may
ally itself to a stronger and more powerful
one. It is this interlinking that is commonly
called the Mafia. But there is no overall
chief or commander.
A cosca usually majors in a particular racket
in its particular territory. There is the
cosca that controls the price of water and
prevents the central government from building
dams to lower the price. In that way it destroys
the government’s monopoly. Another cosca
will control the food and produce markets.
The most powerful ones in Sicily at this time
were the Clericuzio cosca of Palermo, which
controlled the new construction in all of
Sicily, and the Corleonesi cosca of Corleone,
which controlled the politicians in Rome and
engineered the transportation of drugs all
over the world. Then there were the piddling
coscas who demanded tribute from romantic
youths to sing to the balconies of their beloveds.
All coscas regulated crime. They would not
tolerate lazy good-for-nothings burglarizing
innocent citizens who paid their cosca dues.
Those who stabbed for wallets or raped women
were summarily punished by death. Also, there
was no tolerance of adultery within the coscas.
Both men and women were executed. That was
understood.
Fissolini’s cosca made a poor living. It
controlled the sale of holy icons, was paid
to protect a farmer’s livestock, and organized
the kidnapping of careless wealthy men.
And so it was that Don Aprile and little Astorre,
strolling along the streets of their village,
were picked up in two vintage American army
trucks by the ignorant Fissolini and his band
of men.
The ten men in peasant clothes were armed
with rifles. They plucked Don Aprile off the
ground and threw him into the first truck.
Astorre, without hesitation, jumped into the
open bed of the truck to stay with the Don.
The bandits tried to throw him out, but he
clung to the wooden posts. The trucks traveled
an hour to the base of the mountains around
Montelepre. Then everyone switched to horseback
and donkey and climbed the rocky terraces
toward the horizon. Throughout the trip, the
boy observed everything with large green eyes
but never spoke a word.
Near sunset, they reached a cave set deep
in the mountains. There they were fed a supper
of grilled lamb and homemade bread and wine.
On the campsite was a huge statue of the Virgin
Mary enclosed in a hand-carved dark wooden
shrine. Fissolini was devout in spite of his
ferocity. He also had a natural peasant courtesy
and presented himself to the Don and the boy.
There was no doubt he was chief of the band.
He was short and built powerfully as a gorilla,
and he carried a rifle and two guns on his
body belt. His face was as stony as Sicily,
but there was a merry twinkle in his eyes.
He enjoyed life and its little jokes, especially
that he held in his power a rich American
worth his weight in gold. And yet there was
no malice in him.
“Excellency,” he said to the Don, “I
don’t want you to worry about this young
lad. He will carry the ransom note to town
tomorrow morning.”
Astorre was eating lustily. He had never tasted
anything so delicious as this grilled lamb.
But he finally spoke up with cheerful bravery.
“I’m staying with my Uncle Raymonde,”
he said.
Fissolini laughed. “Good food gives courage.
To show my respect for His Excellency I prepared
this meal myself. I used my mother’s special
spices.”
“I’m staying with my uncle,” Astorre
said, and his voice rang out clear, defiant.
Don Aprile said to Fissolini sternly yet kindly,
“It’s been a wonderful night—the food,
the mountain air, your company. I look forward
to the fresh dew in the country. But then
I advise you to bring me back to my village.”
Fissolini bowed to him respectfully. “I
know that you are rich. But are you that powerful?
I am only going to ask for one hundred thousand
dollars in American money.”
“That insults me,” the Don said. “You
will injure my reputation. Double it. And
another fifty for the boy. It will be paid.
But then your life will be an eternal misery.”
He paused for a moment. “I’m astonished
you could be so rash.”
Fissolini sighed. “You must understand,
Excellency, I am a poor man. Certainly I can
take what I want in my province, but Sicily
is such a cursed country that the rich are
too poor to support men like myself. You must
understand that you are the chance to make
my fortune.”
“Then you should have come to me to offer
your services,” the Don said. “I always
have use for a talented man.”
“You say that now because you are weak and
helpless,” Fissolini said. “The weak are
always so generous. But I will follow your
advice and ask double. Though I feel a little
guilty about that. No human is worth so much.
And I will let the boy go free. I have a weakness
for children—I have four of my own whose
mouths I must feed.”
Don Aprile looked at Astorre. “Will you
go?”
“No,” Astorre said, lowering his head.
“I want to be with you.” He raised his
eyes and looked at his uncle.
“Then let him stay,” the Don said to the
bandit.
Fissolini shook his head. “He goes back.
I have a reputation to keep. I will not be
known as a kidnapper of children. Because
after all, Your Excellency, though I have
the utmost respect, I will have to send you
back piece by piece if they do not pay. But
if they do, I give you the word of honor of
Pietro Fissolini, not a hair of your mustache
will be touched.”
“The money will be paid,” the Don said
calmly. “And now let us make the best of
things. Nephew, sing one of your songs for
these gentlemen.”
Astorre sang to the bandits, who were enchanted
and complimented him, ruffling his hair affectionately.
Indeed it was a magical moment for all of
them, the child’s sweet voice filling the
mountains with songs of love.
Blankets and sleeping bags were brought out
of a nearby cave.
Fissolini said, “Your Excellency, what would
you like for breakfast tomorrow? Some fish,
fresh from the water perhaps? Then some spaghetti
and veal for lunch? We are at your service.”
“I thank you,” the Don said. “A bit
of cheese and fruit will be enough.”
“Sleep well,” Fissolini said. He was softened
by the boy’s look of unhappiness, and he
patted Astorre on the head. “Tomorrow you
will rest in your own bed.”
Astorre closed his eyes to fall asleep immediately
on the ground next to the Don. “Stay beside
me,” the Don said, as he reached his arms
around the boy.
Astorre slept so soundly that the rising cinder-red
sun was over his head when a clatter awoke
him. He rose and saw that the hollow was filled
with fifty armed men. Don Aprile, gentle,
calm, and dignified, was sitting on a great
ledge of stone, sipping from a mug of coffee.
Don Aprile saw Astorre and beckoned to him.
“Astorre, do you want some coffee?” He
pointed a finger at the man before him. “This
is my good friend, Bianco. He has rescued
us.”
Astorre saw a huge man who, though he was
well encased in fat, wore a suit and tie,
and seemed to be unarmed, was far more frightening
than Fissolini. He had a curly head of white
hair and large pink eyes, and he radiated
power. But he seemed to blanket that power
when he spoke with a soft, gravelly voice.
Octavius Bianco said, “Don Aprile, I must
apologize for being so late and that you had
to sleep like a peasant on the ground. But
I came as soon as I got the news. I always
knew Fissolini was a dunce, but I never expected
him to do this.”
There began the sound of hammering, and some
men moved out of Astorre’s vision. He saw
two young boys, nailing together a cross.
Then, lying on the far side of the hollow,
he saw Fissolini and his ten bandits trussed
on the ground and tethered to trees. They
were encased by a web of wire and rope, their
limbs entwined. They looked like a mound of
flies on a lump of meat.
Bianco asked, “Don Aprile, which of these
scum do you wish to judge first?”
“Fissolini,” the Don said. “He is the
leader.”
Bianco dragged Fissolini before the Don; he
was still tightly bound, like a mummy. Bianco
and one of his soldiers lifted him and forced
him to stand. Then Bianco said, “Fissolini,
how could you be so stupid? Didn’t you know
the Don was under my protection or I would
have kidnapped him myself? Did you think you
were just borrowing a flask of oil? Some vinegar?
Have I ever entered your province? But you
were always headstrong, and I knew you would
come to grief. Well, since like Jesus you
must hang from the cross, make your apologies
to Don Aprile and his little boy. And I will
give you mercy and shoot you before we hammer
in the nails.”
“So,” the Don said to Fissolini. “Explain
your disrespect.”
Fissolini stood upright and proud. “But
the disrespect was not for your person, Excellency.
I did not know how important and dear you
were to my friends. That fool, Bianco, might
have kept me fully informed. Excellency, I
have made a mistake and I must pay.” He
stopped for a moment and then shouted angrily
and scornfully at Bianco, “Stop those men
from hammering those nails. I’m going deaf.
And you can’t scare me to death before you
kill me!”
Fissolini paused again and said to the Don,
“Punish me, but spare my men. They followed
my orders. They have families. You will destroy
an entire village if you kill them.”
“They are responsible men,” Don Aprile
said sarcastically. “I would insult them
if they did not share your fate.”
At this moment Astorre, even in his child’s
mind, realized that they were talking life
and death. He whispered, “Uncle, don’t
hurt him.” The Don made no sign of having
heard.
“Go on,” he said to Fissolini.
Fissolini gave him a questioning look, at
once proud and wary. “I will not beg for
my life. But those ten men lying there are
all in my blood family. If you kill them,
you destroy their wives and their children.
Three of them are my sons-in-law. They had
absolute faith in me. They trusted my judgment.
If you let them go, I would make them swear
their undying loyalty to you before I die.
And they will obey me. That is something,
to have ten loyal friends. That is not nothing.
I am told you are a great man, but you cannot
be truly great if you do not show mercy. You
shouldn’t make a habit of it, of course,
but just this once.” He smiled at Astorre.
For Don Raymonde Aprile this was a familiar
moment, and he was in no doubt as to his decision.
He had always distrusted the power of gratitude,
and he believed that no one could direct the
influence of free will in any man, except
by death. He regarded Fissolini impassively
and shook his head. Bianco moved forward.
Astorre strode to his uncle and looked him
square in the eyes. He had understood everything.
He put out his hand to protect Fissolini.
“He didn’t hurt us,” Astorre said. “He
just wanted our money.”
The Don smiled and said, “And that’s nothing?”
Astorre said, “But it was a good reason.
He wanted the money to feed his family. And
I like him. Please, Uncle.”
The Don smiled at him and said, “Bravo.”
Then he remained silent for a long time, ignoring
Astorre tugging at his hand. And for the first
time in many years the Don felt the urge to
show mercy.
Bianco’s men had lit up small cigars, very
strong, and the smoke wafted through the dawn
air carried on the mountain breezes. One of
the men came forward and from his hunting
jacket took out a fresh cigar and offered
it to the Don. With a child’s clarity, Astorre
understood this was not only a courtesy but
a demonstration of respect. The Don took the
cigar, and the man lit it for him within cupped
hands.
The Don puffed his cigar slowly and deliberately,
then said, “I will not insult you by showing
you mercy. But I will offer you a business
arrangement. I recognize you had no malice
and you showed the utmost regard for my person
and the boy. So this is the arrangement. You
live. Your comrades live. But for the rest
of your lives, you will be at my command.”
Astorre felt an enormous relief, and he smiled
at Fissolini. He watched Fissolini kneel to
the ground and kiss the Don’s hand. Astorre
noticed that the surrounding armed men puffed
furiously on their cigars, and even Bianco,
grand as a mountain, trembled with pleasure.
Fissolini murmured, “Bless you, Your Excellency.”
The Don put his cigar down on a nearby rock.
“I accept your blessing, but you must understand.
Bianco came to save me, and you are expected
to do the same duty. I pay him a sum of money,
and I will do the same for you every year.
But one act of disloyalty and you and your
world will be destroyed. You, your wife, your
children, your nephews, your sons-in-law will
cease to exist.”
Fissolini rose from his knees. He embraced
the Don and burst into tears.
And so it was that the Don and his nephew
became most formally united. The Don loved
the boy for persuading him to show mercy,
and Astorre loved his uncle for giving him
the lives of Fissolini and his ten men. It
was a bond that lasted the rest of their lives.
The last night in Villa Grazia, Don Aprile
had espresso in the garden and Astorre ate
olives from their barrel. Astorre was very
pensive, not his usual sociable self.
“Are you sorry to leave Sicily?” the Don
asked.
“I wish I could live here,” Astorre said.
He put the pits of his olives in his pocket.
“Well, we will come every summer together,”
the Don said.
Astorre looked at him like a wise old friend,
his youthful face troubled.
“Is Caterina your girlfriend?” he asked.
The Don laughed. “She is my good friend,”
he said.
Astorre thought about this. “Do my cousins
know about her?”
“No, my children do not know.” Again the
Don was amused by the boy and wondered what
would come next.
Astorre was very grave now. “Do my cousins
know you have such powerful friends like Bianco
who will do anything you tell them they must
do?”
“No,” the Don said.
“I won’t tell them about anything,”
Astorre said. “Not even about the kidnapping.”
The Don felt a surge of pride. Omerta had
been bred into his genes.
Late that night, alone, Astorre went to the
far corner of the garden and dug a hole with
his bare hands. In that hole he put the olive
pits he had secreted in his pocket. He looked
up at the pale night blue of the Sicilian
sky and dreamed of himself as an old man like
his uncle, sitting in this garden on a similar
night, watching his olive trees grow.
After that, everything was fate, the Don believed.
He and Astorre made the yearly trip to Sicily
until Astorre was sixteen. In the back of
the Don’s mind, a vision was forming, a
vague outline of the boy’s destiny.
It was his daughter who created the crisis
that moved Astorre into that destiny. At the
age of eighteen, two years older than Astorre,
Nicole fell in love with him and with her
fiery temperament did little to conceal the
fact. She completely overwhelmed the susceptible
boy. They became intimate with all the hot
furiousness of youth.
The Don could not allow this, but he was a
general who adjusted his tactics to the terrain.
He never gave any hint he knew of the affair.
One night he called Astorre into his den and
told him he would be sent to England for his
schooling and to serve an apprenticeship in
banking with a certain Mr. Pryor of London.
He did not give any further reason, knowing
the boy would realize he was being sent away
to end the affair. But he had not reckoned
with his daughter, who had listened outside
the door. She came storming into the room,
her passionate outrage making her even more
beautiful.
“You’re not sending him away,” she screamed
at her father. “We’ll run away together.”
The Don smiled at her and said placatingly,
“You both have to finish school.”
Nicole turned to Astorre, who was blushing
with embarrassment. “Astorre, you won’t
go?” she said. “Will you?”
Astorre did not answer, and Nicole burst into
tears.
It would be hard for any father not to be
moved by such a scene, but the Don was amused.
His daughter was splendid, truly Mafioso in
the old sense, a prize in any form. Despite
that, for weeks afterward she refused to speak
to her father and locked herself away in her
room. But the Don did not fear she would be
brokenhearted forever.
It amused him even more to see Astorre in
the trap of all maturing adolescents. Certainly
Astorre loved Nicole. And certainly her passion
and her devotion made him feel like the most
important person on earth. Any young man can
be seduced by such attention. But just as
certainly, the Don understood that Astorre
wanted an excuse to be free of any encumbrance
on his march to the glories of life. The Don
smiled. The boy had all the right instincts,
and it was time for his real schooling.
So now, three years after his retirement,
Don Raymonde Aprile felt the security and
satisfaction of a man who has made the right
choices in life. Indeed the Don felt so secure
that he began to develop a closer relationship
with his children, finally enjoying the fruits
of fatherhood—to some degree.
Because Valerius had spent most of the last
twenty years in foreign army posts, he had
never been close to his father. Now that he
was stationed at West Point, the two men saw
each other more often and began to speak more
openly. Yet it was difficult.
With Marcantonio, it was different. The Don
and his second son enjoyed some kind of rapport.
Marcantonio explained his work in TV, his
excitement over the dramatic process, his
duty to his viewers, his desire to make the
world a better place. The lives of such people
were like fairy tales to the Don. He was fascinated
by them.
Over family dinners, Marcantonio and his father
could quarrel in a friendly way for the entertainment
of the others. Once the Don told Marcantonio,
“I have never seen people so good or so
evil as your characters in those dramas.”
Marcantonio said, “That is what our audience
believes. We have to give it to them.”
At one family gathering, Valerius had tried
to explain the rationale for the war in the
Persian Gulf, which in addition to protecting
important economic interests and human rights
had also been a ratings bonanza for Marcantonio’s
TV network. But to all of this the Don just
shrugged. These conflicts were refinements
in power that did not interest him.
“Tell me,” he said to Valerius. “How
do nations really win wars? What is the deciding
factor?”
Valerius considered this. “There is the
trained army, brilliant generals. There are
the great battles, some lost, some won. When
I worked in intelligence, and we analyzed
everything, it comes to this: The country
that produces the most steel wins the war,
simply that.”
The Don nodded, finally satisfied.
His warmest and most intense relationship
was with Nicole. He was proud of her accomplishments,
her physical beauty, her passionate nature,
and her intelligence. And, true, young as
she was, just thirty-two, she was a powerful
up-and-coming lawyer with good political connections,
and she had no fear of anyone in a suit who
represented entrenched power.
Here the Don had helped her secretly; her
law firm was deeply indebted to him. But her
brothers were wary of her for two reasons:
she was unmarried, and she did a great deal
of pro bono work. Despite his admiration for
her, the Don could never take Nicole seriously
in the world. She was, after all, a woman.
And one with troubling taste in men.
At family dinners the father and daughter
argued constantly, like two great cats frolicking
dangerously, occasionally drawing blood. They
had one serious bone of contention, the only
thing that could affect the Don’s constant
affability. Nicole believed in the sacredness
of human life, that capital punishment was
an abomination. She had organized and led
the Campaign Against the Death Penalty.
“Why?” the Don asked.
And Nicole would become infuriated all over
again. Because she believed capital punishment
would eventually destroy humanity. That if
killing was condoned under any circumstances,
then it could be justified by another set
of circumstances, another set of beliefs.
Eventually, it would not serve evolution or
civilization. And believing that brought her
into constant conflict with her brother Valerius.
After all, what else did the army do? The
reasons didn’t matter to her. Killing was
killing and would set us all back to cannibalism
or worse. At every opportunity, Nicole fought
in courts all over the country to save condemned
murderers. Although the Don considered this
the sheerest nonsense, he nonetheless proposed
a toast to her at a family dinner following
her victory in a famous pro bono case. She
had secured commutation of the death sentence
of one of the decade’s most notorious criminals,
a man who had killed his best friend and sodomized
the newly made widow. In his getaway, he had
executed two gas station attendants while
he robbed them. He had gone on to rape and
murder a ten-year-old girl. His career was
brought to a close only when he attempted
to kill two policemen in their cruiser. Nicole
had won the case on grounds of insanity, and
on the assurance that he would live the rest
of his life in an institution for the criminally
insane without the hope of release.
The next family dinner was a celebration to
honor Nicole for winning another case—this
time her own. In a recent trial she had championed
a difficult principle of law at great personal
risk. And she had been brought before the
Bar Association for unethical practice and
had been acquitted. Now she was exuberant.
The Don, in a cheerful mood, showed an uncharacteristic
interest in this case. He congratulated his
daughter on the acquittal but was somewhat
confused, or pretended to be, by the circumstances.
Nicole had to explain it to him.
She had defended a man, thirty years of age,
who had raped, sodomized, and killed a twelve-year-old
girl, then secretly hidden her body so that
it could not be found by the police. Circumstantial
evidence against him had been strong, but
without a corpus, the jury and judge would
be reluctant to give him the death penalty.
The parents of the victim were in anguish
in their frustrated desire to find the body.
The murderer confided to Nicole, as his attorney,
where the body was buried and authorized her
to negotiate a deal—he would reveal the
body’s whereabouts in exchange for a life
sentence rather than execution. However, when
Nicole opened negotiations with the prosecutor,
she was faced with a threat of prosecution
herself if she did not immediately reveal
the whereabouts of the body. She believed
it mattered to society to protect the confidentiality
between attorney and client. Therefore, she
refused, and a prominent judge declared her
in the right.
The prosecutor, after consulting with the
parents of the victim, finally consented to
the deal.
The murderer told them that he had dismembered
the body, placed it in a box filled with ice,
and buried it in a nearby marshland in New
Jersey. And so the body was found and the
murderer sentenced to life imprisonment. But
then the Bar Association brought her up on
charges of unethical negotiation. And today
she had won her acquittal.
The Don toasted to all of his children and
then asked Nicole, “And you behaved honorably
in all this?”
Nicole lost her exuberance. “It was the
principle of the thing. The government cannot
be allowed to breach the lawyer/client privilege
in any one situation, no matter how grave,
or it is no longer sacrosanct.”
“And you felt nothing for the victim’s
mother and father?” the Don asked.
“Of course I did,” Nicole said, annoyed.
“But how could I let this affect a basic
principle of the law? I suffered for that,
I really did; why wouldn’t I? But unfortunately,
in order to set precedents for future law
sacrifices have to be made.”
“And yet the Bar Association put you on
trial,” the Don said.
“To save face,” Nicole said. “It was
a political move. Ordinary people, unschooled
in the complexities of the legal system, can’t
accept these principles of law, and there
was an uproar. So my trial diffused everything.
Some very prominent judge had to go public
and explain that I had the right under the
Constitution to refuse to give that information.”
“Bravo,” the Don said jovially. “The
law is always full of surprises. But only
to lawyers, of course.”
Nicole knew he was making fun of her. She
said sharply, “Without a body of law, no
civilization can exist.”
“That is true,” the Don said as if to
appease his daughter. “But it seems unfair
that a man who commits a terrible crime escapes
with his life.”
“That’s true,” Nicole said. “But our
system of law is based on plea bargaining.
It is true that each criminal gets less punishment
than he deserves. But in a way that’s a
good thing. Forgiveness heals. And in the
long run, those who commit crimes against
our society will be more easily rehabilitated.”
So it was with a good-humored sarcasm that
the Don proposed his toast. “But tell me,”
he said to Nicole. “Did you ever believe
the man innocent by reason of his insanity?
After all, he did exercise his free will.”
Valerius looked at Nicole with cool, measuring
eyes. He was a tall man, forty years of age
with a bristly short mustache and hair already
turning to steel gray. As an intelligence
officer, he had himself made decisions that
overlooked human morality. He was interested
in her reasoning.
Marcantonio understood his sister, that she
aspired to a normal life partly out of shame
for their father’s life. He was more worried
that she would say something rash, something
that her father could never forgive her for.
As for Astorre, he was dazzled by Nicole—her
flashing eyes, the incredible energy with
which she responded to her father’s goading.
He remembered their lovemaking as teenagers
and felt her still obvious affection for him.
But now he was transformed, no longer what
he was when they were lovers. That was understood.
He wondered if her brothers knew about that
long-ago affair. And he too worried that a
quarrel would break the bonds of family, a
family that he loved, that was his only refuge.
He hoped Nicole would not go too far. But
he had no sympathy for her views. His years
in Sicily had taught him differently. But
it amazed him that the two people he cared
most about in the world could be so different.
And it occurred to him that even if she were
right, he could never side with Nicole against
her father.
Nicole looked boldly into her father’s eyes.
“I don’t believe he had free will,”
she said.“He was forced by the circumstances
of his life—by his own distorted perceptions,
his genetic heritage, his biochemistry, the
ignorance of medicine—he was insane. So
of course I believe it.”
The Don pondered this for a moment. “Tell
me,” he said. “If he admitted to you all
his excuses were false, would you still have
tried to save his life?”
“Yes,” Nicole said. “Each individual
life is sacred. The state has no right to
take it.”
The Don smiled at her mockingly. “That’s
your Italian blood. Do you know that modern
Italy has never had the death penalty? All
those human lives saved.” His sons and Astorre
flinched at his sarcasm, but Nicole was unabashed.
She said to him sternly, “It is barbaric
for the state under the mantle of justice
to commit premeditated murder. I would think
that you of all people would agree with that.”
It was a challenge, a reference to his reputation.
Nicole laughed, then said more soberly, “We
have an alternative. The criminal is locked
away in an institution or a prison for life
without hope of release or parole. Then he
is no longer a danger to society.”
The Don looked at her coolly. “One thing
at a time,” he said. “I do approve of
the state taking a human life. And as for
your lifetime without parole or release, that’s
a joke. Twenty years pass and supposedly new
evidence is found, or rehabilitation is assumed
and the criminal has made a new person of
himself, so now spills the milk of human kindness.
The man goes free. But no one cares for the
dead. That’s not really important . . .”
Nicole frowned. “Dad, I didn’t imply that
the victim isn’t important. But taking a
life will not get the victim’s life back.
And the longer we condone killing, under any
circumstances, the longer it will go on.”
Here the Don paused and drank his wine as
he looked around the table at his two sons
and Astorre. “Let me tell you the reality,”
he said, and turned to his daughter. He spoke
with an intensity rare for him. “You say
human life is sacred? From what evidence?
Where in history? The wars that have killed
millions are endorsed by all governments and
religions. The massacres of thousands of enemies
in a political dispute, over economic interests,
are recorded through time. How many times
has the earning of money been placed above
the sanctity of human life? And you yourself
condone the taking of a human life when you
get your client off.”
Nicole’s dark eyes flashed. “I have not
condoned it,” she said. “I have not excused
it. I think it’s barbaric. I have just refused
to lay the ground for more of it!”
Now the Don spoke more quietly but more sincerely.
“Above all this,” he said, “the victim,
your loved one, lies beneath the earth. He
is forever banished from this world. We will
never see his face, we will never hear his
voice, we will never touch his flesh. He is
in darkness, lost to us and our world.”
They all listened silently as the Don took
another sip of wine. “Now, my Nicole. Hear
me. Your client, your murderer, is sentenced
to life imprisonment. He will be behind bars
or in an institution for the rest of his life.
So you say. But each morning he will see the
rising sun, he will taste hot food, he will
hear music, the blood will run in his veins
and interest him in the world. His loved ones
can still embrace him. I understand he can
even study books, learn carpentry to build
a table and chairs. In short, he lives. And
that is unjust.”
Nicole was resolute. She did not flinch. “Dad,
to domesticate animals, you don’t let them
eat raw meat. You don’t let them get a taste
of it or they want more. The more we kill,
the easier it gets to kill. Can’t you see
that?” When he didn’t answer her, she
asked, “And how can you decide what’s
just or unjust? Where do you draw the line?”
It had been meant as a defiance but was more
of a plea to understand all her years of doubt
in him.
They all expected an outburst of fury by the
Don at her insolence, but suddenly he was
in a good humor. “I have had my moments
of weakness,” he said, “but I never let
a child judge his or her parents. Children
are useless and live by our sufferance. And
I consider myself beyond reproach as a father.
I have raised three children who are pillars
in society, talented, accomplished, and successful.
And not completely powerless against fate.
Can any of you reproach me?”
At this point Nicole lost her anger. “No,”
she said. “As a parent no one can reproach
you. But you left something out. The oppressed
are the ones who hang. The rich wind up escaping
the final punishment.”
The Don looked at Nicole with great seriousness.
“Why, then, do you not fight to change the
laws so that the rich hang with the poor?
That is more intelligent.”
Astorre murmured, smiling cheerfully. “There
would be very few of us left.” And that
remark cut the tension.
“The greatest virtue of humanity is mercy,”
Nicole said. “An enlightened society does
not execute a human being, and it refrains
from punishment as much as common sense and
justice allows.”
It was only then that the Don lost his customary
good humor. “Where did you get such ideas?”
he asked. “They are self-indulgent and cowardly—more,
they are blasphemous. Who is more merciless
than God? He does not forgive, He does not
ban punishment. There is a Heaven and there
is a Hell by His decree. He does not banish
grief and sorrow in His world. It is His Almighty
duty to show no more than the necessary mercy.
So who are you to dispense such marvelous
grace? It’s an arrogance. Do you think that
if you are so saintly, you can create a better
world? Remember, saints can only whisper prayers
to God’s ear and only when they have earned
the right to do so by their own martyrdom.
No. It is our duty to pursue our fellowman.
Or what great sins he could be capable of
committing. We would deliver our world to
the devil.”
This left Nicole speechless with anger and
Valerius and Marcantonio smiling. Astorre
bowed his head as if in prayer.
Finally Nicole said, “Daddy, you are just
too outrageous as a moralist. And you certainly
are no example to follow.”
There was a long silence at the table as each
one sat with memories of their strange relationship
with the Don. Nicole never quite believing
the stories she’d heard about her father
and yet fearing they were true. Marcantonio
remembering one of his colleagues at the network
asking slyly, “How does your father treat
you and the other kids?”
And Marcantonio, considering the question
carefully, knowing the man was referring to
his father’s reputation, had said quite
seriously, “My father is very cordial to
us.”
Valerius was thinking how much his father
was like some generals he had served under.
Men who got the job done without any moral
scruples, without any doubts as to their duty.
Arrows that sped to their mark with deadly
swiftness and accuracy.
For Astorre it was different. The Don had
always shown him affection and trust. But
he was also the only one at the table who
knew that the reputation of the Don was true.
He was remembering three years before when
he had returned from his years of exile. The
Don had given him certain instructions.
The Don had told him, “A man my age can
die from stubbing his toe on a door, or from
a black mole on his back, or from a break
in the beating of his heart. It is strange
that a man does not realize his mortality
every second of his life. No matter. He need
not have enemies. But still one must plan.
I have made you a majority heir to my banks;
you will control them and share the income
with my children. And for this reason: Certain
interests want to buy my banks, one headed
by the consul general of Peru. The federal
government continues to investigate me under
the RICO laws so they can seize my banks.
What a nice piece of business for them. They
will find nothing. Now, my instructions to
you are never sell the banks. They will be
more profitable and powerful as time goes
on. In time the past will be forgotten.
“If something unexpected happens, call Mr.
Pryor, to assist you as controller. You know
him well. He is extremely qualified, and he
too profits from the banks. He owes me his
loyalty. Also, I will introduce you to Benito
Craxxi in Chicago. He is a man of infinite
resources and also profits from the banks.
He too is trustworthy. Meanwhile, I will give
you a macaroni business simply to run and
give you a good living. For all this I charge
you with the safety and prosperity of my children.
It is a harsh world, and I have brought them
up as innocents.”
Three years later, Astorre was pondering these
words. Time had passed, and it seemed now
that his services would not be needed. The
Don’s world could not be shattered.
But Nicole was not quite finished with her
arguments. “What about the quality of mercy?”
she said to her father. “You know, what
Christians preach?”
The Don replied without hesitation. “Mercy
is a vice, a pretension to powers we do not
have. Those who give mercy commit an unpardonable
offense to the victim. And that is not our
duty here on earth.”
“So you would not want mercy?” Nicole
asked.
“Never,” the Don said. “I do not seek
it or desire it. If I must, I will accept
the punishment for all my sins.”
It was at this dinner that Colonel Valerius
Aprile invited his family to attend the confirmation
of his twelve-year-old son, in New York City,
two months hence. His wife had insisted on
a big celebration at her family’s old church.
It was in the Don’s newly transformed character
to accept this invitation.
And so on a cold December Sunday noon, bright
with a lemon-colored light, the Aprile family
went to Saint Patrick’s on Fifth Avenue,
where the brilliant sunshine etched the image
of that great cathedral into the streets around
it. Don Raymonde Aprile, Valerius and his
wife, Marcantonio, anxious for a quick getaway,
and Nicole, beautiful in black, watched the
cardinal himself, red-hatted and sipping wine,
give Communion and administer Heaven’s admonitory
ceremonial slap on the cheek.
It was a sweet and mysterious pleasure to
see the boys on the brink of puberty, girls
ripening into nubility in their white gowns
with the red silk scarves draped around, marching
down the aisles of the cathedral, stone angels
and saints watching over them. Confirming
that they would serve God for the rest of
their lives. Nicole had tears in her eyes,
though she didn’t believe a word the cardinal
was saying. She laughed to herself.
Out on the steps of the cathedral, the children
shed their robes and showed off their hidden
finery. The girls in frail cobwebby white
lace dresses, the boys in their dark suits,
glaring white shirts, and traditional red
neckties knitted at their throats to ward
off the Devil.
Don Aprile emerged from the church, Astorre
on one side, Marcantonio on the other. The
children milled around in a circle, Valerius
and his wife proudly holding their son’s
gown as a photographer snapped their picture.
Don Aprile began to descend the steps alone.
He breathed in the air. It was a glorious
day; he felt so alive and alert. And when
his newly confirmed grandson came over to
hug him, he patted his head affectionately
and put a huge gold coin in the boy’s palm—the
traditional gift on a child’s confirmation
day. Then with a generous hand he reached
into his jacket pocket and pulled out a handful
of smaller gold coins to give to the other
boys and girls. He was gratified by their
shouts of joy and indeed by being in the city
itself, its tall gray stone buildings as sweet
as the trees. He was quite alone, only Astorre
a few paces behind. He looked down at the
stone steps in front of him, then paused a
moment as a huge black car pulled up as if
to receive him.
In Brightwaters that Sunday morning Heskow
got up early and went to get baked goods and
the newspapers. He stored the stolen car in
the garage, a huge black sedan packed with
the guns and masks and boxes of ammunition.
He checked the tires, the gas and oil, and
the braking lights. Perfect. He went back
into the house to wake up Franky and Stace,
but of course they were already up and Stace
had the coffee ready.
They ate breakfast in silence and read the
Sunday papers. Franky checked the college
basketball scores.
At ten o’clock Stace said to Heskow, “The
car ready?” and Heskow said, “All set.”
They got into the car and left, Franky sitting
up front with Heskow, Stace in the back. The
trip to the city would take an hour, so they
would have an extra hour to kill. The important
thing was to be on time.
In the car Franky checked the guns. Stace
tried on one of the masks, little white shells
attached to side strings, so that they could
hang them around their necks until they had
to put them on at the last moment.
They drove into the city listening to opera
on the radio. Heskow was an excellent driver,
conservative, steady-paced, no disturbing
acceleration or deceleration. He always left
a good space in front and back. Stace gave
a little grunt of approval, which lifted part
of the strain; they were tense but not jittery.
They knew they had to be perfect. They couldn’t
miss the shot.
Heskow weaved slowly through the city; he
seemed to catch every red light. Then he turned
onto Fifth Avenue and waited half a block
from the cathedral’s great doors. The church
bells began to ring, the sound clanging against
the surrounding steel skyscrapers. Heskow
started up the motor again. All three men
watched the children swirling out into the
streets. It worried them.
Stace murmured, “Franky, the head shot.”
Then they saw the Don come out, walk ahead
of the men on either side of him, and begin
to descend the steps. He seemed to look directly
at them.
“Masks,” Heskow said. He accelerated slightly,
and Franky put his hand on the door handle.
His left hand cradled the Uzi, ready to come
out onto the sidewalk.
The car speeded up and stopped as the Don
reached the last step. Stace jumped out of
the backseat onto the street, the car between
him and his target. In one quick move he rested
his gun on the roof. He shot two-handed. He
only fired twice.
The first bullet hit the Don square in the
forehead. The second bullet tore out his throat.
His blood spurted all over the sidewalk, showering
yellow sunlight with pink drops.
At the same time Franky, on the sidewalk,
fired a long burst of his Uzi over the heads
of the crowd.
Then both men were back in the car and Heskow
screeched down the avenue. Minutes later they
were driving through the tunnel and then onto
the little airport, where a private jet took
them aboard.
At the sound of the first shot Valerius hurled
his son and wife to the ground and covered
them with his body. He actually saw nothing
that happened. Neither did Nicole, who stared
at her father with astonishment. Marcantonio
looked down in disbelief. The reality was
so different from the staged fiction of his
TV dramas. The shot to the Don’s forehead
had split it apart like a melon so that you
could see a slosh of brains and blood inside.
The shot in the throat had hacked away the
flesh in a jagged chunk so that he looked
as if he had been hit with a meat cleaver.
And there was an enormous amount of blood
on the pavement around him. More blood than
you could imagine in a human body. Marcantonio
saw the two men with eggshell masks over their
faces; he also saw the guns in their hands,
but they seemed unreal. He could not have
given any details about their clothing, their
hair. He was paralyzed with shock. He could
not even have said if they were black or white,
naked or clothed. They could have been ten
feet tall or two.
But Astorre had been alert as soon as the
black sedan stopped. He saw Stace fire his
gun and thought the left hand pulled the trigger.
He saw Franky fire the Uzi, and that was definitely
left-handed. He caught a fleeting glance at
the driver, a round-headed man, obviously
heavy. The two shooters moved with the grace
of well-conditioned athletes. As Astorre dropped
to the sidewalk, he reached out to pull the
Don down with him, but he was a fraction of
a second too late. And now he was covered
with the Don’s blood.
Then he saw the children move like a whirlwind
of terror, a huge red dot at the center of
it. They were screaming. He saw the Don splayed
over the steps as if death had disjointed
his skeleton itself. And he felt an enormous
dread of what all this would do to his life
and the lives of those dearest to him.
Nicole came to stand over the Don’s body.
Her knees folded against her will, and she
kneeled next to him. Silently, she reached
out to touch her father’s bloody throat.
And then she wept as if she would weep forever.
CHAPTER 3
THE ASSASSINATION of Don Raymonde Aprile was
an astounding event to the members of his
former world. Who would dare to risk killing
such a man, and to what purpose? He had given
away his empire; there was no realm to steal.
Dead, he could no longer lavish his beneficent
gifts or use his influence to help someone
unfortunate with the law or fate.
Could it be some long-postponed revenge? Was
there some hidden gain that would come to
light? Of course, there might be a woman,
but he had been a widower for close to thirty
years and had never been seen with a woman;
he was not regarded as an admirer of female
beauty. The Don’s children were above suspicion.
Also, this was a professional hit, and they
did not have the contacts.
So his killing was not only a mystery but
almost sacrilegious. A man who had inspired
so much fear, who had gone unharmed by the
law and jackals alike while he ruled a vast
criminal empire for over thirty years—how
could he be brought so to death? And what
an irony, when he had finally found the path
of righteousness and placed himself under
the protection of society, that he would live
for only three short years.
What was even more strange was the lack of
any longtime furor after the Don’s death.
The media soon deserted the story, the police
were secretive, and the FBI shrugged it off
as a local matter. It seemed as if all the
fame and power of Don Aprile had been washed
away in his mere three years of retirement.
The underground world showed no interest.
There were no retaliatory murders—all the
Don’s friends and former loyal vassals seemed
to have forgotten him. Even the Don’s children
seemed to have put the whole affair behind
them and accepted their father’s fate.
No one seemed to care—no one except Kurt
Cilke.
Kurt Cilke, FBI agent in charge in New York,
decided to take a hand in the case, though
it was strictly a local homicide for the NYPD.
He decided to interview the Aprile family.
A month after the Don’s funeral, Cilke took
his deputy agent, Bill Boxton, with him to
call on Marcantonio Aprile. They had to be
careful of Marcantonio. He was head of programming
of a major TV network and had a lot of clout
in Washington. A polite phone call arranged
an appointment through his secretary.
Marcantonio received them in his plush office
suite at the network’s midtown headquarters.
He greeted them graciously, offering them
coffee, which they refused. He was a tall,
handsome man with creamy olive skin, exquisitely
dressed in a dark suit and an extraordinary
pink-and-red tie manufactured by a designer
whose ties were favored by TV anchors and
hosts.
Cilke said, “We’re helping out with the
investigation of your father’s death. Do
you have knowledge of anyone who would bear
him ill will?”
“I really wouldn’t know,” Marcantonio
said, smiling. “My father kept us all at
a distance, even his grandchildren. We grew
up completely outside his circle of business.”
He gave them a small apologetic wave of his
hand.
Cilke didn’t like that gesture. “What
do you think was the reason for that?” he
asked.
“You gentlemen know his past history,”
Marcantonio said seriously. “He didn’t
want any of his children to be involved in
his activities. We were sent away to school
and to college to make our own place in the
world. He never came to our homes for dinner.
He came to our graduations; that was it. And
of course, when we understood, we were grateful.”
Cilke said, “You rose awfully fast to your
position. Did he maybe help you out a little?”
For the first time Marcantonio was less than
affable.
“Never. It’s not unusual in my profession
for young men to rise quickly. My father sent
me to the best schools and gave me a generous
living allowance. I used that money to develop
dramatic properties, and I made the right
choices.”
“And your father was happy with that?”
Cilke asked. He was watching the man closely,
trying to read his every expression.
“I don’t think he really understood what
I was doing, but yes,” Marcantonio said
wryly.
“You know,” Cilke said, “I chased your
father for twenty years and could never catch
him. He was a very smart man.”
“Well, we never could either,” Marcantonio
said. “My brother, my sister, or me.”
Cilke said, laughing as if at a joke, “And
you have no feeling of Sicilian vengeance?
Would you pursue anything of that kind?”
“Certainly not,” Marcantonio said. “My
father brought us up not to think that way.
But I hope you catch his killer.”
“How about his will?” Cilke asked. “He
died a very rich man.”
“You’ll have to ask my sister, Nicole,
about that,” Marcantonio said. “She’s
the executor.”
“But you do know what’s in it?”
“Sure,” Marcantonio said. His voice was
steely.
Boxton broke in. “And you can’t think
of anyone at all who might wish to do him
harm?”
“No,” Marcantonio said. “If I had a
name, I’d tell you.”
“OK,” Cilke said. “I’ll leave you
my card. Just in case.”
Before Cilke went on to talk to the Don’s
two other children, he decided to pay a call
on the city’s chief of detectives. Since
he wanted no official record, he invited Paul
Di Benedetto to one of the fanciest Italian
restaurants on the East Side. Di Benedetto
loved the perks of the high life, as long
as he didn’t have to dent his wallet.
The two of them had often done business over
the years, and Cilke always enjoyed his company.
Now he was watching Paul sample everything.
“So,” Di Benedetto said, “the feds don’t
often spring for such a fancy meal. What is
it that you want?”
Cilke said, “That was a great meal. Right?”
Di Benedetto shrugged with heavy shoulders,
like the roll of a wave. Then he smiled a
little maliciously. For such a tough-looking
guy, he had a great smile. It transformed
his face into that of some beloved Disney
character.
“Kurt,” he said, “this place is full
of shit. It’s run by aliens from outer space.
Sure, they make the food look Italian, they
make it smell Italian, but it tastes like
goo from Mars. These guys are aliens, I’m
telling you.”
Cilke laughed. “Hey, but the wine is good.”
“It all tastes like medicine to me unless
it’s guinea red mixed with cream soda.”
“You’re a hard man to please,” Cilke
said.
“No,” Di Benedetto said. “I’m easy
to please. That’s the whole problem.”
Cilke sighed. “Two hundred bucks of government
money shot to shit.”
“Oh, no,” Di Benedetto replied. “I appreciate
the gesture. Now, what’s up?”
Cilke ordered espresso for both of them. Then
he said, “I’m investigating the Don Aprile
killing. A case of yours, Paul. We kept tabs
on him for years and nothing. He retires,
lives straight. He has nothing anybody wants.
So why the killing? A very dangerous thing
for anybody to do.”
“Very professional,”Di Benedetto said.
“A beautiful piece of work.”
Cilke said, “So?”
“It doesn’t make any sort of sense,”
Di Benedetto said. “You wiped out most of
the Mafia bigwigs, a brilliant job too. My
hat’s off to you. Maybe you even forced
this Don to retire. So the wiseguys that are
left have no reason to knock him off.”
“What about the string of banks he owns?”
Cilke asked.
Di Benedetto waved his cigar. “That’s
your line of work. We just go after the riffraff.”
“What about his family?” Cilke said. “Drugs,
women chasing, anything?”
“Absolutely not,” Di Benedetto said. “Upstanding
citizens with big professional careers. The
Don planned it that way. He wanted them to
be absolutely straight.” He paused now,
and he was deadly serious. “It’s not a
grudge. He squared everything with everybody.
It’s not random. There has to be a reason.
Somebody gains. That’s what we’re looking
for.”
“What about his will?” Cilke asked.
“His daughter files it tomorrow. I asked.
She told me to wait.”
“And you stood still for it?” Cilke asked.
“Sure,” Di Benedetto said. “She’s
a top-notch lawyer, she has clout, and her
law firm is a political force. Why the hell
would I try to get tough with her? I just
ate out of her hand.”
“Maybe I can do better,” Cilke said.
“I’m sure you can.”
Kurt Cilke had known the assistant chief of
detectives, Aspinella Washington, for over
ten years. She was a six-foot-tall African-American
with close-cropped hair and finely chiseled
features. She was a terror to the police she
commanded and the felons she apprehended.
By design, she acted as offensively as possible,
and she really wasn’t too fond of Cilke
or the FBI.
She received Cilke in her office by saying,“Kurt,
are you here to make one of my black brethren
wealthy again?”
Cilke laughed. “No, Aspinella,” he said.
“I’m here looking for information.”
“Really,” she said. “For free? After
you cost the city five million dollars?”
She was wearing a safari jacket and tan trousers.
Beneath her jacket he could see the holstered
gun. On her right hand was a diamond ring
that looked as if it could cut through facial
tissue like a razor.
She still bore a grudge against Cilke because
the FBI had proven a brutality case against
her detectives and on the basis of civil rights
the victim had won a huge judgment—and also
sent two of her detectives to jail. The victim,
who had gotten rich, had been a pimp and drug
pusher whom Aspinella herself had once severely
beaten. Although she had been appointed assistant
chief as a political sop to the black vote,
she functioned much more toughly on black
felons than on whites.
“Stop beating innocent people,” Cilke
said, “and I’ll stop.”
“I never framed anyone who wasn’t guilty,”
she said, grinning.
“I’m just checking in on the Don Aprile
murder,” Cilke said.
“What’s it your business? It’s a local
gang hit. Or are you making that another fucking
civil rights case?”
“Well, it could be related to currency or
drugs,” Cilke said.
“And how do you know that?” Aspinella
asked.
“We have our informers.”
Suddenly Aspinella was in one of her rages.
“You fucking FBI guys come in for info and
then you won’t give me any? You guys are
not even honest-to-god cops. You float around
arresting white-collar pricks. You never get
into the dirty work. You don’t know what
the hell that is. Get the fuck out of my office.”
Cilke was pleased with the interviews. Their
pattern was clear to him. Both Di Benedetto
and Aspinella were going to go into the tank
on the Don Aprile murder. They would not cooperate
with the FBI. They would just go through the
motions. In short, they had been bribed.
There was a reason for his beliefs. He knew
that traffic in drugs could only survive if
police officials were paid off, and he had
word, not good in court, that Di Benedetto
and Aspinella were on the drug lord’s payroll.
...
Before Cilke interviewed the Don’s daughter,
he decided to take his chances with the older
son, Valerius Aprile. For that he and Boxton
had to drive up to West Point, where Valerius
was a colonel in the United States Army and
taught military tactics—whatever the hell
that meant, Cilke thought.
Valerius received them in a spacious office
that looked down upon the parade grounds where
cadets were practicing marching drills. He
was not as affable as his brother had been,
though he was not discourteous. Cilke asked
him if he knew his father’s enemies.
“No,” he said. “I’ve served out of
the country for most of the last twenty years.
I attended family celebrations when I could.
My father was only concerned that I get promoted
to general. He wanted to see me wearing that
star. Even brigadier would have made him happy.”
“He was a patriot, then?” Cilke asked.
“He loved this country,” Valerius said
curtly.
“He got you your appointment as a cadet?”
Cilke pressed.
“I suppose so,” Valerius said. “But
he could never get me made a general. I guess
he had no influence in the Pentagon, or at
any rate I just wasn’t good enough. But
I love it anyway. I have my place.”
“You’re sure you can’t give us a lead
on any of your father’s enemies?” Cilke
asked.
“No, he didn’t have any,” Valerius said.
“My father would have made a great general.
When he retired he had everything covered.
When he used power, it was always with preemptive
force. He had the numbers and the materials.”
“You don’t seem to be that concerned that
somebody murdered your father. No desire for
vengeance?”
“No more than for a fellow officer fallen
in battle,” Valerius said. “I’m interested,
of course. Nobody likes to see his father
killed.”
“Do you know anything about his will?”
“You’ll have to ask my sister about that,”
Valerius said.
Late that afternoon Cilke and Boxton were
in the office of Nicole Aprile, and here they
received a completely different reception.
Nicole’s office could be reached only by
going through three secretarial barriers and
after passing what Cilke recognized as a personal
security aide, who looked as though she could
take both him and Boxton apart in two seconds.
He could tell by the way she moved that she
had trained her body to the strength of a
male. Her muscles showed through her clothing.
Her breasts were strapped down, and she wore
a linen jacket over her sweater and black
slacks.
Nicole’s greeting was not warm, though she
looked very attractive, dressed in a haute
couture suit of deep violet. She wore huge
gold hoop earrings, and her black hair was
shiny and long. Her features were finely cut
and stern but were betrayed by huge soft brown
eyes.
“Gentlemen, I can give you twenty minutes,”
she said.
She was wearing a frilly blouse beneath the
violet jacket, and its cuffs almost covered
her hands as she extended one for Cilke’s
ID. She looked it over carefully and said,
“Special agent in charge? That’s pretty
high up for a routine inquiry.”
She spoke in a tone that was familiar to Cilke,
one that he had always resented. It was the
slightly scolding tone of the federal attorneys
when they dealt with the investigative arm
they oversaw.
“Your father was a very important man,”
Cilke said.
“Yes, until he retired and placed himself
under the protection of the law,” Nicole
said bitterly.
“Which makes his killing even more mysterious,”
Cilke said. “We were hoping you might give
us some idea about the people who might have
a grudge against him.”
“It’s not so mysterious,” Nicole said.
“You know his life much better than I do.
He had plenty of enemies. Including you.”
“Even our worst critics would never accuse
the FBI of a hit on the steps of a cathedral,”
Cilke said dryly. “And I wasn’t his enemy.
I was an enforcer of the law. After he retired
he had no enemies. He bought them off.”
He paused for a moment. “I find it curious
that neither you nor your brothers seem interested
in finding out who the man was who murdered
your father.”
“Because we’re not hypocrites,”Nicole
said. “My father was no saint. He played
the game and paid the price.” She paused.
“And you’re wrong about my not being interested.
In fact I’m going to petition for my father’s
FBI file under the Freedom of Information
Act. And I hope you don’t cause any delay
because then we will be enemies.”
“That’s your privilege,” Cilke said.
“But maybe you can help me by telling me
the provisions of your father’s will.”
“I didn’t draw up the will,” Nicole
said.
“But you are the executor, I hear. You must
know the provisions by now.”
“We’re filing for probate tomorrow. It
will be public record.”
“Is there anything you can tell me now that
may help?” Cilke asked.
“Just that I won’t be taking early retirement.”
“So why won’t you tell me anything today?”
“Because I don’t have to,” Nicole said
coolly.
“I knew your father pretty well,”Cilke
said. “He would have been reasonable.”
For the first time Nicole looked at him with
respect that he knew her father so well.“That’s
true,” she said. “OK. My father gave away
a lot of money before he died. All he left
us was his banks. My brothers and I get forty-nine
percent, and the other fifty-one percent goes
to our cousin, Astorre Viola.”
“Can you tell me anything about him?”
Cilke asked.
“Astorre is younger than me. He was never
in my father’s business, and we all love
him because he’s such a charming nut. Of
course, I don’t love him as much now.”
Cilke searched his memory. He could not recall
a file on Astorre Viola. Yet there would have
to be.
“Could you give me his address and phone
number?” Cilke asked.
“Sure,” Nicole said. “But you’re wasting
your time. Believe me.”
“I have to clean up the details,”Cilke
said apologetically.
“And what gives the FBI an interest?”
Nicole asked. “This is a local homicide.”
Cilke said coolly, “The ten banks your father
owned were international banks. There could
be currency complications.”
“Oh, really,” Nicole said. “Then I better
ask for his file right away. After all, I
own part of those banks now.” She gave him
a suspicious glance. He knew he would have
to keep an eye on her.
The next day Cilke and Boxton drove out to
Westchester County to meet with Astorre Viola.
The wooded estate included a huge house and
three barns. There were six horses in the
meadow, which was enclosed by a waist-high
split-rail fence and wrought-iron gates. Four
cars and a van were parked in the lot in front
of the house. Cilke memorized two of the licenseplate
numbers.
A woman of about seventy let them in and led
them to a plush living room jammed with recording
equipment. Four young men were reading sheet
music on stands, and one was seated at the
piano—a professional combo on sax, bass,
guitar, and drums.
Astorre stood at the microphone opposite them
singing in a hoarse voice. Even Cilke could
tell that this was the kind of music that
would find no audience.
Astorre stopped vocalizing and said to the
visitors, “Can you wait just five minutes
until we finish recording? Then my friends
can pack up and you can have all the time
you want.”
“Sure,” Cilke said.
“Bring them coffee,” Astorre told the
maid. Cilke was pleased. Astorre didn’t
just make a polite offer; he commanded it
for them.
But Cilke and Boxton had to wait longer than
five minutes. Astorre was recording an Italian
folk song—while strumming a banjo—and
he sang in a coarse dialect Cilke did not
understand. It was enjoyable to listen to
him, like hearing your own voice in the shower.
Finally they were alone and Astorre was wiping
his face. “That wasn’t so bad,” he said,
laughing. “Was it?”
Cilke found himself immediately liking the
man. About thirty, he had a boyish vitality
and did not seem to take himself seriously.
He was tall and well built, with a boxer’s
grace. He had a dark-skinned beauty and the
kind of irregular but sharp features you might
see in fifteenth-century portraits. He did
not seem vain, but around his neck he wore
a collar of gold two inches wide, to which
was attached an etched medallion of the Virgin
Mary.
“It was great,” Cilke said. “You’re
cutting a record for distribution?”
Astorre smiled, a wide, good-natured grin.
“I wish. I’m not that good. But I love
these songs, and I give them to friends as
presents.”
Cilke decided to get to work. “This is just
routine,” he said. “Do you know of anyone
who would have wanted to harm your uncle?”
“No one at all,”Astorre said, straight-faced.
Cilke was tired of hearing this. Everyone
had enemies, especially Raymonde Aprile.
“You inherit controlling interest in the
banks,” Cilke said. “Were you that close?”
“I really don’t understand that,” Astorre
said. “I was one of his favorites when I
was a kid. He set me up in my business and
then sort of forgot about me.”
“What kind of business?” Cilke asked.
“I import all the top-grade macaroni from
Italy,”
Cilke gave him a skeptical look. “Macaroni?”
Astorre smiled; he was used to this reaction.
It was not a glamorous business. “You know
how Lee Iacocca never says automobiles, he
always says cars? Now, in my business, we
never say pasta or spaghetti, we always say
macaroni.”
“And now you’ll be a banker?” Cilke
said.
“I’ll give it a whirl,” Astorre said.
After they left, Cilke asked Bill Boxton,
“What do you think?” He liked Boxton enormously.
The man believed in the Bureau, as he did—that
it was fair, that it was incorruptible and
far superior to any other law-enforcement
agency in its efficiency. These interviews
were partly for his benefit.
“They all sound pretty straight to me,”
Boxton said. “But don’t they always?”
Yes, they always did, Cilke thought. Then
something struck him. The medallion hanging
from Astorre’s gold collar had never moved.
The last interview was the most important
to Cilke. It was with Timmona Portella, the
reigning Mafia boss in New York, the only
one besides the Don who had escaped prosecution
after Cilke’s investigations.
Portella ran his enterprises from the huge
penthouse apartment of a building he owned
on the West Side. The rest of the building
was occupied by subsidiary firms that he controlled.
The security was as tight as Fort Knox, and
Portella himself traveled by helicopter—the
roof was equipped with a landing pad—to
his estate in New Jersey. His feet rarely
touched the pavement of New York.
Portella greeted Cilke and Boxton in his office
with its overstuffed armchairs and bulletproof
walls of glass that gave a wonderful view
of the city skyline. He was a huge man, immaculately
dressed in a dark suit and gleaming white
shirt.
Cilke shook Portella’s meaty hand and admired
the dark tie hanging from his thick neck.
“Kurt, how can I help you?” Portella said
in a voice that rang through the room. He
ignored Bill Boxton.
“I’m just checking out the Aprile affair,”
Cilke said. “I thought you might have some
information that could help me.”
“What a shame, his death,” Portella said.
“Everybody loved Raymonde Aprile. It’s
a mystery to me who could have done this.
In the last years of his life Aprile was such
a good man. He became a saint, a real saint.
He gave away his money like a Rockefeller.
When God took him his soul was pure.”
“God didn’t take him,” Cilke said dryly.
“It was an extremely professional hit. There
has to be a motive.” Portella’s eye twitched,
but he said nothing, so Cilke went on. “You
were his colleague for many years. You must
know something. What about this nephew of
his who inherits the banks?”
“Don Aprile and I had some business together
many years ago,” Portella said. “But when
Aprile retired he could just as easily have
killed me. The fact that I’m alive proves
we were not enemies. About his nephew I knew
nothing except that he is an artist. He sings
at weddings, at little parties, even in some
small nightclubs. One of those young men that
old folks like myself are fond of. And he
sells good macaroni from Italy. All my restaurants
use it.” He paused and sighed. “It is
always a mystery when a great man is killed.”
“You know your help will be appreciated,”
Cilke said.
“Of course,” Portella said. “The FBI
always plays fair. I know my help will be
appreciated.”
He gave Cilke and Boxton a warm smile, which
showed square, almost perfect teeth.
On the way back to the office, Boxton said
to Cilke, “I read that guy’s file. He’s
big into porn and drugs, and he’s a murderer.
How come we could never get him?”
“He’s not as bad as most of the others,”
Cilke said. “And we’ll get him someday.”
Kurt Cilke ordered an electronic surveillance
on the homes of Nicole Aprile and Astorre
Viola. A domesticated federal judge issued
the necessary order. Not that Cilke was really
suspicious—he just wanted to be certain.
Nicole was born a troublemaker, and Astorre
looked too good to be true. It was out of
the question to bug Valerius, since his home
was on the West Point grounds.
Cilke had learned that the horses in Astorre’s
meadow were his passion. That he brushed and
groomed one stallion each morning before he
took it out. Which was not so bad, except
that he rode dressed in full English regalia,
red coat and all, including a black suede
hunting cap.
He found it hard to believe that Astorre was
so helpless a target that three muggers in
Central Park had taken a pass at him. He had
escaped, it seemed—but the police report
was foggy about what had happened to the muggers.
Two weeks later Cilke and Boxton were able
to listen to the tapes he had planted in the
house of Astorre Viola. The voices were those
of Nicole, Marcantonio, Valerius, and Astorre.
On tape they became human to Cilke; they had
taken off their masks.
“Why did they have to kill him?” Nicole
asked, her voice breaking with grief. There
was none of the coldness she had shown to
Cilke.
“There has to be a reason,” Valerius said
quietly. His voice was much gentler when talking
to his family. “I never had any connection
to the old man’s business, so I’m not
worried about myself. But what about you?”
Marcantonio spoke scornfully; obviously he
did not like his brother. “Val, the old
man got you an appointment to West Point because
you were a wimp. He wanted to toughen you
up. Then he helped in your intelligence work
overseas. So you’re in this. He loved the
idea you could be a commander. General Aprile—he
loved the sound of it. Who knows what strings
he pulled.” His voice sounded far more energetic,
more passionate on tape than in person.
There was a long pause, and then Marcantonio
said, “And of course he got me started.
He bankrolled my production company. The big
talent agencies gave me a break on their stars.
Listen, we were not in his life, but he was
always in ours. Nicole, the old man saved
you ten years of dues paying by getting you
that job at the law firm. And Astorre, who
do you think got your macaroni shelf space
in the supermarkets?”
Suddenly Nicole was furious. “Dad may have
helped me get through the door, but the only
one responsible for my success in my career
is me. I had to fight those sharks at the
firm for everything I got. I’m the one who
put in eighty-hour weeks reading the fine
print.” She paused, her voice cold now.
She must have turned to Astorre then. “And
what I want to know is why Dad put you in
charge of the banks. What the hell do you
have to do with anything?”
Astorre’s voice sounded helpless with apology.
“Nicole, I have no idea. I didn’t ask
for this. I have a business, and I love my
singing and riding. Besides, there’s a bright
side for you. I have to do all the work, and
the profits are divided equally among the
four of us.”
“But you have control and you’re only
a cousin,” Nicole said. She added sarcastically,
“He sure must have loved your singing.”
Valerius said, “Are you going to try to
run the banks yourself?”
Astorre’s voice was filled with mock horror.
“Oh, no, no, Nicole will give me a list
of names, a CEO to do that.”
Nicole sounded tearful with frustration. “I
still don’t understand. Why didn’t Dad
appoint me? Why?”
“Because he didn’t want any one of his
children to have leverage over the others,”Marcantonio
said.
Astorre said quietly, “Maybe it was to keep
you all out of danger.”
“How do you like that FBI guy coming on
to us like he’s our best friend?” Nicole
said. “He hounded Dad for years. And now
he thinks we’re going to spill all our family
secrets to him. What a creep.”
Cilke felt a flush coming to his cheeks. He
hadn’t deserved that.
Valerius said,“He’s doing his duty, and
that’s not an easy job. He must be a very
intelligent man. He sent a lot of the old
man’s friends to jail. And for a long time.”
“Traitors, informers,” Nicole said scornfully.
“And those RICO laws they enforce very selectively.
They could send half of our political leaders
to jail under those laws, and most of the
Fortune Five Hundred.”
“Nicole, you’re a corporate lawyer,”
Marcantonio said. “Cut the crap.”
Astorre said thoughtfully, “Where do the
FBI agents get those snazzy suits? Is there
a special ‘Tailor to the FBI’?”
“It’s the way they wear them,”Marcantonio
said. “That’s the secret. But on TV we
can never get a guy like Cilke right. Perfectly
sincere, perfectly honest, honorable in every
way. Yet you never trust him.”
“Marc, forget your phony TV shows,” Valerius
said. “We are in a hostile situation, and
there are two significant intelligence aspects.
The why, then the who. Why was Dad killed?
Then, who could it possibly be? Everyone says
he had no enemies and nothing that anyone
wanted.”
“I have a petition to see Dad’s file at
the Bureau,” Nicole said. “That may give
us a clue.”
“What for?” Marcantonio said. “We can’t
do anything about it. Dad would want us to
forget it. This should be left to the authorities.”
Nicole sounded scornful. “So we don’t
give a crap who killed our father? How about
you, Astorre? Do you feel like that too?”
Astorre’s voice was soft, reasonable. “What
can we do? I loved your father. I’m grateful
he was so generous to me in his will. But
let’s wait and see what happens. Actually,
I like Cilke. If there’s anything to find,
he’ll find it. We all have good lives, so
why twist them out of shape?” He paused
and then said, “Look, I have to call one
of my suppliers, so I have to go. But you
can stay here and talk things out.”
There was a long silence on the tape. Cilke
couldn’t help feeling goodwill toward Astorre
and resentment against the others. Still,
he was satisfied. These were not dangerous
people; they would cause him no trouble.
“I love Astorre,” Nicole’s voice said
now. “He was closer to our father than any
of us. But he’s such a flake. Marc, can
he possibly go anywhere with that singing?”
Marcantonio laughed.“We see thousands of
guys like him in our business. He’s like
a football star in a small high school. He’s
fun, but he hasn’t really got the goods.
But he’s got a good business and he enjoys
it, so what the hell?”
“He has control of multibillion-dollar banks—everything
we have, and what really interests him is
singing and horseback riding,” said Nicole.
Valerius said ruefully and with humor, “Sartorially
splendid, but he has a lousy seat.”
Nicole said, “How could Dad do that?”
“He made something very good out of that
macaroni business,” Valerius said.
“We have to protect Astorre,” Nicole said.
“He’s too nice to run banks and too trusting
to deal with Cilke.”
At the end of the tape Cilke turned to Boxton.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Oh, like Astorre, I think you’re a splendid
fellow,” Boxton said.
Cilke laughed. “No, I mean, are these people
possible suspects in the murder?”
“No,” Boxton said. “First, they are
his kids, and second, they don’t have the
expertise.”
“They are smart though,” Cilke said. “They
ask the right question. Why?”
“Well, it’s not our question,” Boxton
said. “This is local, not federal. Or do
you have a connection?”
“International banks,” Cilke said. “But
no sense wasting any more of the Bureau’s
money; cancel all the phone taps.”
Kurt Cilke liked dogs because they could not
conspire. They could not hide hostility, and
they were not cunning. They did not lie awake
at night planning to rob and murder other
dogs. Treachery was beyond their scope. He
had two German shepherds to help guard his
home, and he walked with them through the
nearby woods at night with complete harmony
and trust.
When he went home that night, he was satisfied.
There was no danger in the situation, not
from the Don’s family. There would be no
bloody vendetta.
Cilke lived in New Jersey with a wife he truly
loved and a ten-year-old daughter he adored.
His house was wrapped up with a tight security-alarm
system plus the two dogs. The government paid.
His wife had refused training to use a gun,
and he relied on remaining anonymous. His
neighbors thought he was a lawyer (which he
was), as did his daughter. Cilke always kept
his gun and bullets locked up with his Bureau
ID when he was at home.
He never took his car to the railroad station
for his commute to the city. Petty thieves
might steal the car radio. When he arrived
back in New Jersey, he called his wife on
his cell phone and she came to pick him up.
It was a five-minute ride home.
Tonight Georgette gave him a cheerful kiss
on the mouth, a warm touch of flesh. His daughter,
Vanessa, so boundlessly alive, bowled into
him for a hug. The two dogs frolicked around
him but were restrained. They all fitted easily
into the big Buick.
It was this part of his life that Cilke treasured.
With his family he felt secure, at peace.
His wife loved him, he knew that. She admired
his character, that he did his work without
malice or trickery, with a sense of justice
to his fellowman no matter how depraved. He
valued her intelligence and trusted her enough
to talk to her about his work. But of course
he could not tell her everything. And she
was busy with her own work, writing about
famous women in history, teaching ethics at
a local college, fighting for her social causes.
Now Cilke watched his wife as she prepared
dinner. Her beauty always enchanted him. He
watched Vanessa setting the table, imitating
her mother, even trying to walk with that
graceful balletlike movement. Georgette did
not believe in having household help of any
kind, and she had raised her daughter to be
self-reliant. At the age of six, Vanessa was
already making her own bed, cleaning her room,
and helping her mother cook. As always, Cilke
wondered why his wife loved him, felt blessed
that she did.
Later, after they put Vanessa to bed (Cilke
checked the bell she could ring if she needed
them), they went into their own bedroom. And
as always, Cilke felt the thrill of almost
religious fervor when his wife undressed.
Then her huge gray eyes, so intelligent, became
smoky with love. And afterward, falling into
sleep, she held his hand to guide them through
her dreams.
Cilke had met her when he was investigating
radical college organizations suspected of
minor terrorist acts. She was a political
activist who taught history at a small New
Jersey college. His investigation showed she
was simply a liberal and had no connection
with a radical extremist group. And so Cilke
wrote in his report.
But when he interviewed her as part of the
investigation, he had been struck by her absolute
lack of prejudice or hostility toward him
as an FBI agent. In fact, she seemed curious
about his work, how he felt about it, and
oddly enough he answered her frankly: simply
that he was one of the guardians of a society
that could not exist without some regulation.
He added half-jokingly that he was the shield
between people like her and those who would
devour her for their own agenda.
The courtship was short. They married quickly,
really so that their common sense would not
interfere with their love, for they both recognized
they were opposites in almost every way. He
shared none of her beliefs; when it came to
the world he lived in, she was an innocent.
She definitely shared none of his reverence
for the Bureau. But she listened to his complaints,
how he resented the character assassination
of the Bureau saint, J. Edgar Hoover. “They
paint him as a closet homosexual and reactionary
bigot. What he really was was a dedicated
man who simply did not develop a liberal conscience.”
He told her, “Writers deride the FBI as
the Gestapo or KGB. But we have never resorted
to torture, and we have never framed anybody—unlike
the NYPD, for instance. We have never planted
false evidence. The kids in college would
lose their freedom if it wasn’t for us.
The right wing would destroy them, they are
so dumb politically.”
She smiled at his passion, was touched by
it.
“Don’t expect me to change,” she told
him, smiling. “If what you say is true,
we have no quarrel.”
“I don’t expect you to change,” Cilke
said. “And if the FBI affects our relationship,
I’ll just get another job.” He didn’t
have to tell her what a sacrifice that would
be for him.
But how many people can say that they are
perfectly happy, that they have one human
being they can absolutely trust? He took such
comfort in his guardianship and faithfulness
to her spirit and her body. She could sense
his alertness every second of the day for
her safety and survival.
Cilke missed her terribly when he was away
on training courses. He never was tempted
by other women because he never wanted to
be a conspirator against her. He cherished
his return to her, to her trusting smile,
her welcoming body, as she waited for him
in the bedroom, naked, vulnerable, pardoning
him for his work, a benediction to his life.
But his happiness was haunted by the secrets
he had to keep from her, the serious complications
of his job, his knowledge of a world that
festered with the pus of evil men and women,
the stains of humanity that spilled over into
his own brain. Without her, it was simply
not worth living in the world.
At one time, early, still shaky with fear
of happiness, he had done the one thing he
was truly ashamed of. He had bugged his own
home to record his wife’s every word, then
listened in the basement to the tapes. He
had listened to every inflection. And she
had passed the test; she was never malicious,
never petty or traitorous. He had done that
for a year.
That she loved him despite his imperfections,
his feral cunning, his need to hunt down fellow
human beings seemed to Cilke a miracle. But
he was always afraid that she would discover
his true nature and then abhor him. And so
in his work, he also became as fastidious
as possible and acquired his reputation for
fairness.
Georgette never doubted him. She had proved
that one night when they were dinner guests
at the director’s house, along with twenty
other guests, a semiofficial affair and a
signal honor.
At one point during the evening the director
managed to secure a moment alone with Cilke
and his wife. He said to Georgette, “I understand
you are involved in many liberal causes. I
respect your right to do so, of course. But
perhaps you don’t truly comprehend that
your actions could damage Kurt’s career
in the Bureau?”
Georgette smiled at the director and said
gravely,“I do know that, and that would
be the Bureau’s mistake and misfortune.
Of course, if it became too much of a problem,
my husband would resign.”
The director turned to Cilke, a look of surprise
on his face. “Is that true?” he asked.
“Would you resign?”
Cilke didn’t hesitate. “Yes, it’s true.
I’ll turn in the papers tomorrow if you
like.”
The director laughed. “Oh, no,” he said.
“We don’t come by men like you often.”
Then he gave Georgette his steely aristocratic
eye. “Uxoriousness may be the last refuge
of the honest man,” he said.
They all laughed at the laborious witticism
to show their goodwill.
CHAPTER 4
FOR FIVE MONTHS after the Don’s death, Astorre
was busy conferring with some of the Don’s
old retired colleagues, taking measures to
protect the Don’s children from harm and
investigating the circumstances of his murder.
Most of all he had to find a reason for such
a daring and outrageous act. Who would give
the order to kill the great Don Aprile? He
knew he had to be very careful.
Astorre had his first meeting with Benito
Craxxi in Chicago.
Craxxi had retired from all illegal operations
ten years before the Don. He was the man who
had been the great consiglieri of the National
Mafia Commission itself and had an intimate
knowledge of all Family structures in the
United States. He had been the first to spot
the decay in the power of the great Families,
foreseeing their decline. And so he had prudently
retired to play the stock market, where he
was pleasantly surprised that he could steal
as much money with no risk of legal punishment
whatsoever. The Don had given Craxxi’s name
to Astorre as one of the men he must consult,
if necessary.
Craxxi, at seventy, lived with two bodyguards,
a chauffeur, and a young Italian woman who
served as cook and house-keeper and was rumored
to be his sexual companion. He was in perfect
health, for he had lived a life of moderation;
he ate prudently and drank only occasionally.
For breakfast a bowl of fruit and cheese;
for lunch an omelet or vegetable soup, mostly
beans and escarole; for dinner a simple cutlet
of beef or lamb and a great salad of onions,
tomatoes, and lettuce. He smoked only one
cigar a day, directly after dinner with his
coffee and anisette. He spent his money generously
and wisely. He was also careful to whom he
gave advice. For a man who gives the wrong
counsel is as hated as any enemy.
But with Astorre, he was generous, for Craxxi
was one of the many men who was greatly in
the debt of Don Aprile. It was the Don who
had protected Craxxi when he retired, always
a dangerous move in the business.
It was a breakfast meeting. There were bowls
of fruit—glossy yellow pears, russet apples,
a bowl of strawberries almost as large as
lemons, white grapes, and dark red cherries.
A huge crag of cheese was laid out on a wooden
board like a sliver of gold-crated rock. The
housekeeper served them coffee and anisette
and disappeared.
“So, my young man,” Craxxi said. “You
are the guardian Don Aprile has chosen.”
“Yes,” Astorre said.
“I know he trained you for this task,”
Craxxi said. “My old friend always looked
ahead. We consulted on it. I know you are
qualified. The question remains, do you have
the will?”
Astorre’s smile was engaging, his countenance
open. “The Don saved my life and gave me
everything I have,” he said. “I am what
he made me. And I vowed I would protect the
family. If Nicole isn’t made a partner in
the law firm, if Marcantonio’s TV network
fails, if something happens to Valerius, they
still have the banks. I’ve had a happy life.
I regret the reason I have the task. But I
gave the Don my word, and I must keep it.
If not, what can I believe in the rest of
my life?”
There were moments of his childhood that flashed
through his mind, moments of great joy for
which he felt gratitude. Scenes of himself
as a boy in Sicily with his uncle, walking
through the vast mountainous terrain, listening
to the Don’s stories. He dreamed then of
a different time, when justice was served,
loyalty valued, and great deeds accomplished
by kind and powerful men. And at that moment
he missed both the Don and Sicily.
“Good,” Craxxi said, interrupting Astorre’s
reverie and bringing him back to the present.
“You were at the scene. Describe everything
to me.”
Astorre did so.
“And you are certain that both shooters
were left-handed?” Craxxi asked.
“At least one, and probably the other,”
Astorre said.
Craxxi nodded slowly and seemed lost in thought.
After what seemed long moments, he looked
directly at Astorre and said, “I think I
know who the shooters were. But not to be
hasty. It is more important to know who hired
them and why. You must be very careful. Now,
I have thought very much of this matter. The
most probable suspect is Timmona Portella.
But for what reasons and to please who? Now,
Timmona was always rash. But the killing of
Don Aprile had to be a very risky enterprise.
Even Timmona feared the Don, retirement or
not.
“Now, here is my thought about the shooters.
They are brothers who live in Los Angeles,
and they are the most highly qualified men
in the country. They never talk. Few people
even know they are twins. And they are both
left-handed. They have courage, and they are
born fighters. The danger would appeal to
them, and the reward must have been great.
Also, they must have had some reassurances—that
the authorities would not pursue the case
with conviction. I find it strange that there
was no official police or federal surveillance
of the confirmation at the cathedral. After
all, Don Aprile was still an FBI target even
after he retired.
“Now, understand, everything I’ve said
is theory. You will have to investigate and
confirm. And then, if I am correct, you must
strike with all your might.”
“One thing more,” Astorre said. “Are
the Don’s children in danger?”
Craxxi shrugged. He was carefully peeling
the skin off a golden pear. “I don’t know,”
he said. “But don’t be too proud to ask
them to help. You yourself are undoubtedly
in some peril. Now, I have a final suggestion
for you. Bring your Mr. Pryor from London
to run your banks. He is a supremely qualified
man in every way.”
“And Bianco in Sicily?” Astorre asked.
“Leave him there,” Craxxi said. “When
you are further along, we will meet again.”
Craxxi poured anisette into Astorre’s coffee.
Astorre sighed. “It seems strange,” he
said. “I never dreamed I would have to act
for the Don, the great Don Aprile.”
“Ah, well,” Craxxi said. “Life is cruel
and hard for the young.”
For twenty years Valerius had lived in the
military-intelligence world, not a fictional
world like his brother’s. He seemed to anticipate
everything Astorre said and reacted without
any surprise.
“I need your help,” Astorre said. “You
may have to break some of your strict rules
of conduct.”
Valerius said dryly, “Finally you’re showing
your true colors. I wondered how long it would
take.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Astorre
said, somewhat surprised. “I think your
father’s death was a conspiracy that involved
the NYPD and the FBI. You may think I’m
fantasizing, but that’s what I hear.”
“It’s not impossible,” Valerius said.
“But I don’t have access to secret documents
in my job here.”
“But you must have friends,” Astorre said.
“In the intelligence agencies. You can ask
them certain questions.”
“I don’t have to ask questions,” Valerius
said, smiling. “They gossip like magpies.
That ‘need to know’ is all bullshit. Have
you any idea what you’re after?”
“Any information about the killers of your
father,” Astorre said.
Valerius leaned back in his chair, puffing
on a cigar, his only vice. “Don’t bullshit
me, Astorre,” he said. “Let me tell you
something. I did an analysis. It could be
a gangland act of retaliation or revenge.
And I thought about you being in control of
the banks. The old man always had a plan.
I figure it like this. The Don made you his
point man for the family. What follows from
that? That you are trained, that you were
his agent in place to be activated only at
a crucial moment in time. There is an eleven-year
gap in your life, and your cover is too good
to be true—an amateur singer, a sporting
horseman? And the gold collar you always wear
is suspicious.” He stopped, took a deep
breath, and said, “How’s that for analysis?”
“Very good,” Astorre said. “I hope you
kept it to yourself.”
“Certainly,” Valerius said. “But then
it follows that you are a dangerous man. And
that therefore there is an extreme action
you will take. But some advice: Your cover
is thin; it will be blown before much longer.
As for my help, I live a very good life and
I’m opposed to everything I think you are.
So for now my answer is no. I won’t help.
If things change, I’ll get in touch.”
A woman came out to guide Astorre into Nicole’s
office. Nicole gave him a hug and a kiss.
She was still fond of him; their teen romance
had left no bitter scars.
“I have to speak to you in private,” Astorre
said.
Nicole turned to her bodyguard. “Helene,
can you leave us alone? I’m safe with him.”
Helene gave Astorre a long look. She was impressing
herself on his consciousness, and she succeeded.
Like Cilke, Astorre noted her extreme confidence—the
kind of confidence shown by a card player
with an ace in the hole or a person holding
a concealed weapon. He looked to see where
it could be hidden. The tight trousers and
jacket molded her impressive physique—no
gun there. Then he noted the slit in her trouser
leg. She was wearing an ankle holster, which
wasn’t really that smart. He smiled at her
as she left, exerting his charm. She looked
back at him blankly.
“Who recruited her?” Astorre asked.
“My father,” Nicole said. “It worked
out very well. It’s amazing how she can
handle muggers and mashers.”
“I’ll bet,” Astorre said. “Did you
manage to get the old man’s file from the
FBI?”
“Yes,” Nicole said. “And it’s the
most horrible list of allegations I’ve ever
read. I simply don’t believe it, and they
could never prove any of it.”
Astorre knew that the Don would want him to
deny the truth. “Will you let me have the
file for a couple of days?” he asked.
Nicole gave her blank-faced lawyer stare.
“I don’t think you should see it right
now. I want to write an analysis of it, underline
what’s important, then give it to you. Actually,
there’s nothing that will help you. Maybe
you and my brothers shouldn’t see it.”
Astorre looked at her thoughtfully, then smiled.
“That bad?”
“Let me study it,” Nicole said. “The
FBI are such shits.”
“Whatever you say is OK with me. Just remember,
this is a dangerous business. Look after yourself.”
“I will,” Nicole said. “I have Helene.”
“And I’m here if you need me.” Astorre
placed his hand on Nicole’s arm to reassure
her, and for a moment she looked at him with
such longing he felt uncomfortable. “Just
call.”
Nicole smiled. “I will. But I’m OK. I
am.” In fact, she was really looking forward
to her evening with an incredibly charming
and attractive diplomat.
In his elaborate office suite lined with six
TV screens, Marcantonio Aprile was having
a meeting with the head of the most powerful
advertising agency in New York. Richard Harrison
was a tall, aristocratic-looking man, perfectly
dressed, with the appearance of a former model
but the intensity of a paratrooper.
On Harrison’s lap was a small case of videotapes.
With absolute assurance, without asking permission,
he went to a TV set and inserted one of the
tapes.
“Watch this,” he said. “It’s not one
of my clients, but I think it’s just astounding.”
The videotape played a commercial for American
pizza, and the pitchman was Mikhail Gorbachev,
the former president of the Soviet Union.
Gorbachev sold with quiet dignity, never saying
a word, just feeding his grandchildren pizza
while the crowd voiced its admiration.
Marcantonio smiled at Harrison. “A victory
for the free world,” he said. “So what?”
“The former leader of the Soviet Republic,
and now he’s clowning around doing a commercial
for an American pizza company. Isn’t that
astonishing? And I hear they only paid him
half a million.”
“OK,” Marcantonio said. “But why?”
“Why does anyone do anything so humiliating?”
Harrison said. “He needs the money desperately.”
And suddenly Marcantonio thought of his father.
The Don would feel such contempt for a man
who had ruled a great country and did not
provide financial security for his family.
Don Aprile would think him the most foolish
of men.
“A nice lesson in history and human psychology,”
Marcantonio said. “But again, so what?”
Harrison tapped his box of videos. “I have
more, and I anticipate some resistance. These
are a little more touchy. You and I have done
business for a long time. I want to make sure
you let these commercials run on your network.
The rest will necessarily follow.”
“I can’t imagine,” Marcantonio said.
Harrison inserted another tape and explained.
“We have purchased the rights to use deceased
celebrities in our commercials. It is such
a waste that the famous dead cease to have
a function in our society. We want to change
that and restore them to their former glory.”
The tape began to play. There was a succession
of shots of Mother Teresa ministering to the
poor and sick of Calcutta, her nun’s habit
draping over the dying. Another shot of her
receiving the Nobel Peace Prize, her homely
face shining, her saintly humility so moving.
Then a shot of her ladling out soup from a
huge pot to the poor in the streets.
Suddenly the picture blazes with color. A
richly dressed man comes to a pot with an
empty bowl. He says to a beautiful young woman,
“Can I have some soup? I hear it’s wonderful.”
The young woman gives him a radiant smile
and ladles some soup into his bowl. He drinks,
looking as if he’s in ecstasy.
Then the screen dissolves to a supermarket
and a whole shelf of soup cans labeled “Calcutta.”
A voice-over proclaims,“Calcutta Soup, a
life giver to rich and poor alike. Everyone
can afford the twenty varieties of delicious
soup. Original recipes by Mother Teresa.”
“I think that’s done in pretty good taste,”
Harrison said.
Marcantonio raised his eyebrows.
Harrison inserted another video. A brilliant
shot of Princess Diana in her wedding dress
filled the screen, followed by shots of her
in Buckingham Palace. Then dancing with Prince
Charles, surrounded by her royal entourage,
all in frenetic motion.
A voice-over intones, “Every princess deserves
a prince. But this princess had a secret.”
A young model holds up an elegant crystal
bottle of perfume, the product label clear.
The voice-over continues, “With one small
spray of Princess perfume, you too can capture
your prince—and never have to worry about
vaginal odor.”
Marcantonio pressed a button on his desk and
the screen went black.
Harrison said, “Wait, I have more.”
Marcantonio shook his head. “Richard, you
are amazingly inventive—and insensitive.
Those commercials will never play on my network.”
Harrison protested, “But some of the proceeds
go to charity—and they are in good taste.
I hoped you would lead the way. We’re good
friends, after all.”
“So we are,” Marcantonio said. “But
still, the answer is no.”
Harrison shook his head and slowly put his
videos back in the box.
Marcantonio, smiling, asked, “By the way,
how did the Gorbachev spot do?”
Harrison shrugged. “Lousy. The poor son
of a bitch couldn’t even sell pizza.”
Marcantonio cleared up other work and prepared
for his evening duties. Tonight he had to
attend the Emmys. His network had three big
tables for its executives and stars and several
nominations. His date was Matilda Johnson,
an established newscaster.
His office had a bedroom suite with a bathroom
and shower attached and a closet full of clothes.
He often stayed there overnight when he had
to work late.
At the ceremony he was mentioned by some of
his winners as being important to their success.
This was always pleasant. But while he was
clapping and kissing cheeks, he thought of
all the awards celebrations and dinners he
had to attend during the year: the Oscars,
the People’s Choice Awards, the AFI tributes,
and other special awards to aging stars, producers,
and directors. He felt like a teacher awarding
homework stars to elementary schoolchildren
who would run home to show their mothers.
And then he felt a momentary shame for his
malice—these people deserved their honors,
needed the approval as much as they needed
the money.
After the ceremony he amused himself by watching
actors with slight credentials trying to impress
their personalities on people like himself
who had clout, and an editor of a successful
magazine being courted by some freelance writers—he
noted the wariness on her face, the careful
and cold cordiality, as if she were Penelope
waiting for a more famous suitor.
Then there were the anchors, the heavyweights,
men and women of intelligence, charisma, and
talent who had the exquisite dilemma of wooing
stars they wanted for interviews while discouraging
those not yet quite important enough.
The star actors were sparkling with hope and
desire. They were already successful enough
to make the jump from TV to the movie screens,
never to return—or so they thought.
Finally Marcantonio was exhausted; the continual
grinning with enthusiasm, the cheery voice
he must use to losers, the note of exuberance
with his winners all wore him out. Matilda
whispered to him, “Are you coming to my
place tonight, a little later?”
“I’m tired,” Marcantonio said. “Tough
day, tough night.”
“That’s OK,” she said with sympathy.
They both had tight schedules. “I’ll be
in town for a week.”
They were good friends because they didn’t
have to take advantage of each other. Matilda
was secure. She didn’t need a mentor or
a patron. And Marcantonio never took part
in negotiations with news talent; that was
a job for the chief of Business Affairs. The
lives they led could not possibly result in
marriage. Matilda traveled extensively; he
worked fifteen hours a day. But they were
buddies who sometimes spent the night together.
They made love, gossiped about the business,
and appeared together at some social functions.
And it was understood that theirs was a secondary
relationship. The few times Matilda fell in
love with some new man, their nights were
cut out. Marcantonio never fell in love, so
this was not a problem for him.
Tonight he suffered a certain fatigue with
the world he lived in. So he was almost delighted
to find Astorre waiting for him in the lobby
of his apartment building.
“Hey, great to see you,” Marcantonio said.
“Where have you been?”
“Busy,” Astorre said. “Can I come up
and have a drink?”
“Sure,” Marcantonio said. “But why the
cloak and dagger? Why didn’t you call? You
could have been hanging out in this lobby
for hours; I was supposed to go to a party.”
“No problem,” Astorre said. He’d had
his cousin under surveillance all evening.
In the apartment Marcantonio fixed them both
drinks.
Astorre seemed a little embarrassed. “You
can initiate projects at your network, right?”
“I do it all the time,” Marcantonio said.
“I have one for you,” Astorre said. “It
has to do with your father being killed.”
“No,” Marcantonio said. It was his famous
no in the industry that barred all further
discussion. But it didn’t seem to intimidate
Astorre.
“Don’t say no to me like that,” Astorre
said. “I’m not selling you something.
This concerns the safety of your brother and
sister. And you.” Then he gave a huge grin.
“And me.”
“Tell me,” Marcantonio said. He saw his
cousin in an astonishing new light. Could
that happy-go-lucky kid have something in
him after all?
“I want you to do a documentary on the FBI,”
Astorre said. “Specifically how Kurt Cilke
managed to destroy most of the Mafia Families.
There would be a huge audience for that, right?”
Marcantonio nodded. “What’s your purpose?”
“I just can’t get any data on Cilke,”
Astorre told him. “It would be too dangerous
to try. But if you’re doing a documentary,
no government agency will dare to step on
your toes. You can find out where he lives,
his history, how he operates, and where he
stands in the power structure of the Bureau.
I need all that info.”
“The FBI and Cilke would never cooperate,”
Marcantonio said. “That would make a show
difficult.” He paused. “It’s not like
the old days when Hoover was director. These
new guys play their cards very close.”
“You can do it,” Astorre said. “I need
you to do it. You have an army of producers
and investigative reporters. I have to know
all about him. Everything. Because I think
he may be part of a conspiracy against your
father and our family.”
“That’s a really crazy theory,” Marcantonio
said.
“Sure,” Astorre said. “Maybe it’s
not true. But I know it was no simple gangland
killing. And that Cilke does a funny kind
of inquiry. Almost like he’s smoothing over
tracks, not uncovering them.”
“So I help you get the information. Then
what can you do?”
Astorre spread his hands and smiled. “What
can I do, Marc? I just want to know. Maybe
I can make some kind of a deal. And I just
have to look at the documentation. I won’t
make a copy of it. You won’t be compromised.”
Marcantonio stared at him. His mind was making
the adjustment to the pleasant, charming face
of Astorre. He said thoughtfully, “Astorre,
I’m curious about you. The old man left
you in control. Why? You’re a macaroni importer.
I always thought of you as a charming eccentric
with your scarlet riding jacket and your little
music group. But the old man would never trust
the man you seem to be.”
“I don’t sing anymore,” Astorre said,
smiling. “I don’t ride much either. The
Don always had a good eye; he had faith in
me. You should have the same.” He paused
for a moment and then said with utmost sincerity,
“He picked me so that his children wouldn’t
have to take the heat. He chose me and taught
me. He loved me but I was expendable. It’s
that simple.”
“You have the ability to fight back?”
Marcantonio said.
“Oh, yes,” Astorre said, and he leaned
back and smiled at his cousin. It was a deliberately
sinister smile that a TV actor would give
to show that he was evil, but it was done
with such mocking high spirits that Marcantonio
laughed.
He said, “That’s all I have to do? I won’t
be involved further?”
“You’re not qualified to go further,”
Astorre said.
“Can I think it over for a few days?”
“No,” Astorre said. “If you say no,
it will be me against them.”
Marcantonio nodded. “I like you, Astorre,
but I can’t do it. It’s just too much
risk.”
The meeting with Kurt Cilke in Nicole’s
office proved a surprise for Astorre. Cilke
brought Bill Broxton and insisted that Nicole
be present. He was also very direct.
“I have information that Timmona Portella
is trying to establish a billion-dollar fund
in your banks. Is that true?” Cilke asked.
“That’s private information,” Nicole
said. “Why should we tell you?”
“I know he made the same offer he made your
father,” Cilke said. “And your father
refused.”
“Why should all this interest the FBI?”
Nicole asked in her “go fuck yourself”voice.
Cilke refused to be irritated. “We think
he is laundering drug money,” he said to
Astorre. “We want you to cooperate with
him so we can monitor his operation. We want
you to appoint some of our federal accountants
to positions in your bank.” He opened his
briefcase. “I have some papers for you to
sign, which will protect both of us.”
Nicole took the papers out of his hand and
read the two pages very quickly.
“Don’t sign,” she warned Astorre. “The
banks customers have a right to privacy. If
they want to investigate Portella, they should
get a warrant.”
Astorre took the papers and read them. He
smiled at Cilke. “I trust you,” he said.
He signed the papers and handed them to Cilke.
“What’s the quid pro quo?” Nicole asked.
“What do we get for cooperating?”
“Performing your duty as good citizens,”
Cilke said. “A letter of commendation from
the president, and the stopping of an audit
of all your banks that could cause you a lot
of trouble if you’re not absolutely clean.”
“How about a little information on my uncle’s
murder?” Astorre said.
“Sure,” Cilke said. “Shoot.”
“Why was there no police surveillance at
the confirmation service?” Astorre asked.
“That was the decision of the chief of detectives,
Paul Di Benedetto,” Cilke said. “And also
his right hand. A woman named Aspinella Washington.”
“And how come there were no FBI observers?”
Astorre asked.
“I’m afraid that was my decision,” Cilke
said. “I didn’t feel there was any need.”
Astorre shook his head. “I don’t think
I can go through with your proposition. I
need a few weeks to think it over.”
“You’ve already signed the papers,”
Cilke said. “This information is now classified.
You can be prosecuted if you reveal this conversation.”
“Why would I do that?” Astorre asked.
“I just don’t want to be in the banking
business with the FBI or Portella.”
“Think it over,” Cilke said.
When the two FBI men left, Nicole turned on
Astorre with fury. “How dare you veto my
decision and sign those papers! That was just
stupid.”
Astorre was glaring at her; it was the first
time she had ever seen any trace of anger
in him. “He feels secure with that piece
of paper I signed,” Astorre said. “And
that’s what I want him to feel.”
CHAPTER 5
MARRIANO RUBIO was a man with a finger in
a dozen pies, all of which had fillings of
pure gold. He held the post of consul general
for Peru, though he spent much of his time
in New York. He also was international representative
of big-business interests for many South American
countries and for Communist China. He was
a close personal friend of Inzio Tulippa,
the leader of the primary drug cartel in Colombia.
Rubio was as fortunate in his personal life
as he was in business. A forty-five-year-old
bachelor, he was a respectable womanizer.
He kept only one mistress at a time, all suitable
and generously supported when they were replaced
by a younger beauty. He was handsome, an interesting
conversationalist, a marvelous dancer. He
had a truly great wine cellar and an excellent
three-star chef.
But like many fortunate men, Rubio believed
in pushing fate. He enjoyed pitting his wits
against dangerous men. He needed risk to flavor
the exotic dish that was his life. He was
involved in the illegal shipping of technology
to China; he established a line of communication
on the highest levels for the drug barons;
and he was the bagman who paid off American
scientists to emigrate to South America. He
even had dealings with Timmona Portella, who
was as eccentrically dangerous as Inzio Tulippa.
Like all high-risk gamblers, Rubio prided
himself on an ace in the hole. He was safe
from all legal peril because of his diplomatic
immunity, but he knew there were other dangers,
and in those areas he was careful.
His income was enormous, and he spent lavishly.
There was such power in being able to buy
anything he wanted in the world, including
the love of women. He enjoyed supporting his
ex-mistresses, who remained valued friends.
He was a generous employer and intelligently
treasured the goodwill of people dependent
on him.
Now, in his New York apartment, which was
very fortunately part of the Peruvian consulate,
Rubio dressed for his dinner date with Nicole
Aprile. The engagement was as usual with him,
part business and part pleasure. He had met
Nicole at a Washington dinner given by one
of her prestigious corporate clients. At first
sight he had been intrigued by her not-quite-regular
beauty, the sharp, determined face with intelligent
eyes and mouth, her small, voluptuous body,
but also by her being the daughter of the
great Mafia chief Don Raymonde Aprile.
Rubio had charmed her, but not out of her
senses, and he was proud of her for that.
He admired romantic intelligence in a woman.
He would have to win her respect with deeds,
not words. Which he had immediately set about
doing by asking her to represent one of his
clients in a particularly rich deal. He had
learned that she did a great deal of pro bono
work to abolish the death penalty and had
even defended some notorious convicted murderers
to put off their executions. To him she was
the ideal modern woman—beautiful, with a
highly professional career, and compassionate
in the bargain. Barring some sort of sexual
dysfunction, she would make a most agreeable
companion for a year or so.
All this was before the death of Don Aprile.
Now the main purpose of his courtship was
to learn if Nicole and her two brothers would
put their banks at the disposal of Portella
and Tulippa. Otherwise there would be no point
in killing Astorre Viola.
Inzio Tulippa had waited long enough. More
than nine months after the killing of Raymonde
Aprile, he still had no arrangement with the
inheritors of the Don’s banks. A great deal
of money had been spent; he had given millions
to Timmona Portella to bribe the FBI and the
police in New York, and to procure the services
of the Sturzo brothers, and yet he was no
further in his plans.
Tulippa was not the vulgar impersonation of
a high-powered drug dealer. He came from a
reputable and wealthy family and had even
played polo for his native land of Argentina.
He now lived in Costa Rica, and he had a diplomatic
Costa Rican passport, which gave him immunity
from prosecution in any foreign land. He handled
the relations with the drug cartels in Colombia,
with the growers in Turkey, refineries in
Italy. He made arrangements for transport,
the necessary bribing of officials from the
highest rank to the lowest. He planned the
smuggling of huge loads into the United States.
He was also the man who lured American nuclear
scientists to South American countries and
supplied the money for their research. In
all ways he was a prudent, capable executive,
and he had amassed an enormous fortune.
But he was a revolutionary. He furiously defended
the selling of drugs. Drugs were the salvation
of the human spirit, the refuge of those damned
to despair by poverty and mental illness.
They were the salve for the lovesick, for
the lost souls in our spiritually deprived
world. After all, if you no longer believed
in God, society, your own worth, what were
you supposed to do? Kill yourself? Drugs kept
people alive in a realm of dreams and hope.
All that was needed was a little moderation.
After all, did drugs kill as many people as
alcohol and cigarettes, as poverty and despair?
No. On moral grounds, Tulippa was secure.
Inzio Tulippa had a nickname all over the
world. He was known as “the Vaccinator.”
Foreign industrialists and investors with
enormous holdings in South America—whether
oil fields, car manufacturing plants, or crops,
necessarily had to send top executives there.
There were many from the United States. Their
biggest problem was the kidnapping of their
executives on foreign soil, for which they
had to pay ransoms in the millions of dollars.
Inzio Tulippa headed a company that insured
these executives against kidnapping, and every
year he visited the United States to negotiate
contracts with these corporations. He did
this not only for money but because he needed
some of the industrial and scientific resources
of these companies. In short, he performed
a vaccinating service. This was important
to him.
But he had a more dangerous eccentricity.
He viewed the international persecution of
the illegal drug industry as a holy war against
himself, and he was determined to protect
his empire. So he had ridiculous ambitions.
He wanted to possess nuclear capabilities
as a lever in case disaster ever struck. Not
that he would use it except as a last resort,
but it would be an effective bargaining weapon.
It was a desire that would seem ridiculous
to everyone except the New York FBI agent
in charge, Kurt Cilke.
. . .
At one point in his career, Kurt Cilke had
been sent to an FBI antiterrorist school.
His selection for the six-month course had
been a mark of his high standing with the
director. During that time he had access (complete
or not, he didn’t know) to the most highly
classified memoranda and case scenarios on
the possible use of nuclear weapons by terrorists
from small countries. The files detailed which
countries had weapons. To public knowledge
there was Russia, France, and England, possibly
India and Pakistan. It was assumed that Israel
had nuclear capability. Kurt read with fascination
scenarios detailing how Israel would use nuclear
weapons if an Arab bloc were at the point
of overwhelming it.
For the United States there were two solutions
to the problem. The first was that if Israel
were so attacked, the United States would
side with Israel before it had to use nuclear
weapons. Or, at the crucial point, if Israel
could not be saved, the United States would
have to wipe out Israel’s nuclear capability.
England and France were not seen as problems;
they could never risk nuclear war. India had
no ambitions, and Pakistan could be wiped
out immediately. China would not dare; it
did not have the industrial capacity short-term.
The most immediate danger was from small countries
like Iraq, Iran, and Libya, where leaders
were reckless, or so the scenarios claimed.
The solution here was almost unanimous. Those
countries would be bombed to extinction with
nuclear weapons.
The greatest short-term danger was that terrorist
organizations secretly financed and supported
by a foreign power would smuggle a nuclear
weapon into the United States and explode
it in a large city. Probably Washington, D.C.,
or New York. This was inevitable. The proposed
solution was the formation of task forces
to use counterintelligence and then the utmost
punitive measures against these terrorists
and whoever backed them. It would require
special laws that would abridge the rights
of American citizens. The scenarios acknowledged
the impossibility of these laws until somebody
finally succeeded at blowing up a good portion
of an American metropolis. Then the laws would
pass easily. But until then, as one scenario
airily remarked, “It was the luck of the
draw.”
There were only a few scenarios depicting
criminal use of nuclear devices. This was
almost absolutely discounted on the grounds
that the technical capacity, the procurement
of material, and the broad scope of people
involved would inevitably lead to informers.
One solution to this was that the Supreme
Court would condone a death warrant without
any judicial process on any such criminal
mastermind. But this was fantasy, Kurt Cilke
thought. Mere speculation. The country would
have to wait until something happened.
But now, years later, Cilke realized it was
happening. Inzio Tulippa wanted his own little
nuclear bomb. He lured American scientists
to South America and built them labs and supplied
money for their research. And it was Tulippa
who wanted access to Don Aprile’s banks
to establish a billion-dollar war chest for
the purchase of equipment and material—so
Cilke had determined in his own investigation.
What was he to do now?
He would discuss it soon with the director
on his next trip to FBI headquarters in Washington.
But he doubted they would be able to solve
the problem. And a man like Inzio Tulippa
would never give up.
. . .
Inzio Tulippa arrived in the United States
to meet with Timmona Portella and to pursue
the acquisition of Don Aprile’s banks. At
the same time, the head of the Corleonesi
cosca of Sicily, Michael Grazziella, arrived
in New York to work out with Tulippa and Portella
the details on the distribution of illegal
drugs all over the world. Their arrivals were
very different.
Tulippa arrived in New York on his private
jet, which also carried fifty of his followers
and bodyguards. These men wore a certain uniform:
white suits, blue shirts, and pink ties, with
floppy yellow Panama hats on their heads.
They could have been members of some South
American rhumba band. Tulippa and his entourage
all carried Costa Rican passports; Tulippa,
of course, had Costa Rican diplomatic immunity.
Tulippa and his men moved into a small private
hotel owned by the consul general in the name
of the Peruvian consulate. And Tulippa did
not slink around like some shady drug dealer.
He was, after all, the Vaccinator, and the
representatives of the large American corporations
vied to make his stay a pleasant one. He attended
the openings of Broadway shows, the ballet
at Lincoln Center, the Metropolitan Opera,
and concerts given by famous South American
artists. He even appeared on talk shows in
his role as president of the South American
Confederation of Farm Workers and used the
forums to defend the use of illegal drugs.
One of these interviews—with Charlie Rose
on PBS—became notorious.
Tulippa claimed it was a disgraceful form
of colonialism that the United States fought
against the use of cocaine, heroin, and marijuana
all over the world. The South American workers
depended on the drug crops to keep themselves
alive. Who could blame a man whose poverty
entered his dreams to purchase a few hours
of relief by using drugs? It was an inhumane
judgment. And what about tobacco and alcohol?
They did much more damage.
At this, fifty followers in the studio, Panama
hats in laps, applauded vigorously. When Charlie
Rose asked about the damage drugs wreaked,
Tulippa was especially sincere. His organization
was pouring huge sums of money into research
to modify drugs so that they would not be
harmful; in short, they would be prescription
drugs. The programs would be run by reputable
doctors rather than pawns of the American
Medical Association, who were so unreasonably
antinarcotics and lived in dread of the United
States Drug Enforcement Agency. No, narcotics
could be the next great blessing for humanity.
The fifty yellow Panama hats went flying into
the air.
Meanwhile, the Corleonesi cosca chief, Michael
Grazziella, made an altogether different entry
into the United States. He slipped in unobtrusively,
with only two bodyguards. He was a thin and
scrawny man with a faunlike head and a knife
scar across his mouth. He walked with a cane,
for a bullet had shattered his leg when he
was a young Palermo picciotto. He had a reputation
for diabolical cunning—and it was said that
he had planned the murder of the two greatest
anti-Mafia magistrates in Sicily.
Grazziella stayed at Portella’s estate as
his guest. He had no qualms about his own
safety, for Portella’s entire drug-dealing
business depended on him.
The conference had been arranged to plan a
strategy to control the Aprile banks. This
was of the utmost importance in order to launder
the billions of dollars of black-market money
from drugs and also to acquire power in the
financial world of New York. And for Inzio
Tulippa, it was crucial not only to launder
his drug money but to finance his nuclear
arsenal. It would also make his role as the
Vaccinator safer.
They all met at the Peruvian consulate, which
was security-proof in addition to supplying
the cloak of diplomatic immunity. The consul
general, Marriano Rubio, was a generous host.
Since he received a cut of all their revenues
and he would head their legitimate interests
in the States, he was full of goodwill.
Gathered around the small oval table, they
made an interesting scene.
Grazziella looked like an undertaker in his
black shiny suit, white shirt, and thin black
tie, for he was still in mourning for his
mother, who had died six months before. He
spoke in a low, doleful voice with a thick
accent, but he was clearly understood. He
seemed such a shy, polite man to have been
responsible for the death of a hundred Sicilian
law-enforcement officials.
Timmona Portella, the only one of the four
whose native tongue was English, spoke in
a loud bellow, as if all the others were deaf.
His attire too seemed to shout: He wore a
gray suit and lime green shirt with a shiny
blue silk tie. The perfectly tailored jacket
would have hidden his huge belly if it was
not unbuttoned to show blue suspenders.
Inzio Tulippa looked classically South American,
with a white, loose-draped silk shirt and
scarlet handkerchief around his neck. He carried
his yellow Panama hat in his hand reverently.
He spoke a lilting accented English, and his
voice had the charm of a nightingale. But
today he had a forbidding frown on his sharp
Indian face; he was a man not pleased with
the world.
Marriano Rubio was the only man who seemed
pleased. His affability charmed them all.
His voice was well bred in the English style,
and he was dressed in a style he called en
pantoufle: pajamas of green silk and a bathrobe
of a darker forest green. He wore soft brown
slippers lined with white wool fur. After
all, it was his building and he could relax.
Tulippa opened the discussion, speaking directly
to Portella with a deadly politeness. “Timmona,
my friend,” he said, “I paid handsomely
to get the Don out of the way, and we still
do not own the banks. This after waiting almost
a year.”
The consul general spoke in his lubricating,
calming way. “My dear Inzio,” he said,
“I tried to buy the banks. Portella tried
to buy the banks. But we have an obstacle
we did not foresee. This Astorre Viola, the
Don’s nephew. He has been left in control,
and he refuses to sell.”
“So?” Inzio said. “Why is he still alive?”
Portella laughed, a huge bellow. “Because
he is not so easy to kill,” he said. “I
put a four-man surveillance team on his house,
and they disappeared. Now I don’t know where
the hell he is, and he has a cloud of bodyguards
whenever he moves.”
“Nobody is that hard to kill,” Tulippa
said, the charming lilt of his voice delivering
the words like a lyric to a popular song.
Grazziella spoke for the first time. “We
knew Astorre back in Sicily, years ago. He
is a very lucky man, but then, he is also
extremely Qualified. We shot him in Sicily
and thought him dead. If we strike again,
we must be sure. He is a dangerous man.”
Tulippa said to Portella, “You claim you
have an FBI man on the payroll? Use him, for
the sake of God.”
“He’s not that bent,” Portella said.
“The FBI is classier than the NYPD. They
would never do a straight-out hit job.”
“OK,” Tulippa said. “So we snatch one
of the Don’s kids and use them to bargain
with Astorre. Marriano, you know his daughter.”
He winked. “You can set her up.”
Rubio did not warm to this proposal. He puffed
on his thin after-breakfast cigar and then
said stormily, without courtesy, “No.”
He paused. “I’m fond of the girl. I won’t
put her through anything like that. I veto
any of you doing so.”
At this the other men raised their eyebrows.
The consul general was inferior to them in
actual power. He saw their reaction and smiled
at them, again becoming his affable self.
“I know I have this weakness. I fall in
love. But indulge me. I’m on strong and
correct political ground. Inzio, I know kidnapping
is your métier, but it doesn’t really work
in America. Especially a woman. Now, if you
take one of the brothers and make a quick
deal with Astorre, you have a chance.”
“Not Valerius,” Portella said. “He is
army intelligence and has CIA friends. We
don’t want to bring down that load of shit.”
“Then it will have to be Marcantonio,”
the consul general said. “I can do a deal
with Astorre.”
“Make a bigger offer for the banks,” Grazziella
said softly. “Avoid violence. Believe me,
I’ve been through this kind of thing. I’ve
used guns instead of money, and it’s always
cost me more.”
They looked at him with astonishment. Grazziella
had a fearsome reputation for violence.
“Michael,” the consul general said, “you’re
talking about billions of dollars. And Astorre
still won’t sell.”
Grazziella shrugged. “If we must take action,
so be it. But be very careful. If you can
get him out in the open during negotiations,
then we can get rid of him.”
Tulippa gave them all a huge grin. “That’s
what I like to hear. And Marriano,” he said,
“don’t keep falling in love. That is a
very dangerous vice.”
Marriano Rubio finally persuaded Nicole and
her brothers to sit down with his syndicate
and discuss the sale of the banks. Of course,
Astorre Viola also had to be present, though
Nicole could not guarantee this.
Before the meeting Astorre briefed Nicole
and her brothers on what to say and exactly
how to behave. They understood his strategy:
that the syndicate was to think he alone was
their opponent.
This meeting was held in a conference room
of the Peruvian consulate. There were no caterers,
but a buffet had been prepared and Rubio himself
poured their wine. Due to scheduling differences,
the meeting took place at ten in the evening.
Rubio made the introductions and led the meeting.
He handed Nicole a folder. “This is the
proposition in detail. But to put it very
briefly, we offer fifty percent over the market
price. Though we will have complete control,
the Aprile interest will receive ten percent
of our profits over the next twenty years.
You can all be rich and enjoy your leisure
without the terrible strains that such a business
life entails.”
They waited while Nicole glanced briefly through
the papers. Finally she looked up and said,
“This is impressive, but tell me why such
a generous offer?”
Rubio smiled at her fondly. “Synergy,”
he said. “All business now is synergy; as
with computers and aviation, books and publishing,
music and drugs, sports and TV. All synergy.
With the Aprile banks, we will have a synergy
in international finance, we will control
the building of cities, the election of governments.
This syndicate is global and we need your
banks, so our offer is generous.”
Nicole spoke to the other members of the syndicate.
“And you gentlemen are all equal partners?”
Tulippa was quite taken with Nicole’s dark
good looks and stern speech, so he was at
his most charming when he answered. “We
are legally equal in this purchase, but let
me assure you I consider it an honor to be
in association with the Aprile name. No one
admired your father more.”
Valerius, stone-faced, spoke out coolly, directly
to Tulippa. “Don’t misunderstand me, I
want to sell. But I prefer an outright sale
without the percentage. On a personal level,
I want to be completely out of this thing.”
“But you are willing to sell?” Tulippa
asked.
“Certainly,” Valerius said. “I want
to wash my hands of it.”
Portella started to speak, but Rubio cut him
off.
“Marcantonio,” he said, “how do you
feel about our offer? Does it appeal to you?”
Marcantonio said in a resigned voice, “I’m
with Val. Let’s make the deal without the
percentages. Then we can all say good-bye
and good luck.”
“Fine, we can make the deal that way,”
Rubio said.
Nicole said coolly, “But then of course
you have to increase the premium. Can you
handle that?”
Tulippa said, “No problem,” and gave her
a dazzling smile.
Grazziella, his face concerned, his voice
polite, asked, “And what about our dear
friend Astorre Viola? Does he agree?”
Astorre gave an embarrassed laugh. “You
know I’ve come to like the banking business.
And Don Aprile made me promise I would never
sell. I hate to go against my whole family
here, but I have to say no. And I control
a majority of voting stock.”
“But the Don’s children have an interest,”
the consul general said. “They could sue
in a court of law.”
Astorre laughed aloud.
Nicole said tightly, “We would never do
that.”
Valerius smiled sourly, and Marcantonio seemed
to find the idea hilarious.
Portella muttered, “The hell with this,”
and started to rise to leave.
Astorre said in a voice of conciliation, “Be
patient. I may get bored with being a banker.
In a few months we can meet again.”
“Certainly,” Rubio said. “But we may
not be able to hold the financial package
together for that long. You may get a lower
price.”
There was no shaking of hands when they parted.
After the Apriles left with Astorre, Michael
Grazziella said to his colleagues, “He is
just buying time. He will never sell.”
Tulippa sighed, “Such a simpatico man. We
could become good friends. Maybe I should
invite him to my plantation in Costa Rica.
I could show him the best time of his life.”
The others laughed. Portella said coarsely,
“He’s not going on a honeymoon with you,
Inzio. I have to take care of him up here.”
“With better success than before, I hope,”
Tulippa said.
“I underestimated him,” Portella said.
“How could I tell? A guy who sings at weddings?
I did the job on the Don right. No complaints
there.”
The consul general, his handsome face beaming
in appreciation, said, “A magnificent job,
Timmona. We have every confidence in you.
But this new job should be done as soon as
possible.”
When they left the meeting, the Aprile family
and Astorre went for a late supper to the
Partinico restaurant, which had private dining
rooms and was owned by an old friend of the
Don’s.
“I think you all did very well,” Astorre
told them. “You convinced them you were
against me.”
“We are against you,” Val said.
“Why do we have to play this game?” Nicole
said. “I really don’t like it.”
“These guys may be involved in your father’s
death,” Astorre said. “I don’t want
them to think they can get anyplace by hurting
any of you.”
“And you’re confident you can handle anything
they throw at you,” Marcantonio said.
“No, no,” Astorre protested. “But I
can go into hiding without ruining my life.
Hell, I’ll go to the Dakotas and they’ll
never find me.” His smile was so broad and
convincing that he would have fooled anyone
but the children of Don Aprile. “Now,”
he said. “Let me know if they contact any
of you directly.”
“I’ve gotten a lot of calls from Detective
Di Benedetto,” Valerius said.
Astorre was surprised. “What the hell is
he calling you for?”
Valerius smiled at him. “When I was in field
intelligence, we got what was labeled ‘What
do you know’ calls. Somebody wanted to give
you information or help in some deal. What
they really wanted was information on how
your investigation was doing. So Di Benedetto
calls me as a courtesy to keep me up to date
on his case. Then he pumps me for info on
you, Astorre. He has a great interest in you.”
“That’s very flattering,” Astorre said
with a grin. “He must have heard me sing
someplace.”
“No chance,” Marcantonio said dryly. “Di
Benedetto has been calling me too. He says
he has an idea for a cop series. There’s
always room for another cop show on TV, so
I’ve been encouraging him. But the stuff
he’s sent me is just bullshit. He’s not
serious. He just wants to keep track of us.”
“Good,” Astorre said.
“Astorre, you want them to target you instead
of us?” Nicole said. “Isn’t that too
dangerous? That Grazziella guy gives me the
creeps.”
“Oh, I know about him,” Astorre said.
“He’s a very reasonable man. And your
consul general is a true diplomat; he can
control Tulippa. The only one I have to worry
about right now is Portella. The guy is just
dumb enough to start real trouble.” He said
all this as though it were just an everyday
business dispute.
“But how long does this go on?” Nicole
asked.
“Give me another few months,” Astorre
told her. “I promise that we will all be
in agreement by then.”
Valerius gave him a disdainful look. “Astorre,
you were always an optimist. If you were an
intelligence officer under my command, I’d
transfer you to the infantry just to wake
you up.”
It was not a happy dinner. Nicole kept studying
Astorre as if she were trying to learn some
secret. Valerius obviously had no confidence
in Astorre, and Marcantonio was reserved.
Finally Astorre raised a glass of wine and
said cheerfully, “You are a gloomy crew,
but I don’t care. This is going to be a
lot of fun. Here’s to your father.”
“The great Don Aprile,” Nicole said sourly.
Astorre smiled at her and said, “Yes, to
the great Don.”
Astorre always rode in the late afternoon.
It relaxed him, gave him a good appetite for
dinner. If he was courting a woman, he always
made her ride with him. If the woman couldn’t
ride, he gave her lessons. And if she didn’t
like horses, he would cease to pursue her.
He had built a special riding trail on his
estate that led through the forest. He enjoyed
the chattering of the birds, the rustle of
small animals, the occasional siting of a
deer. But most of all he enjoyed dressing
up for riding. The bright red jacket, the
brown riding boots, the whip in his hand that
he never used. The black suede hunting cap.
He smiled at himself in the mirror, fancying
himself an English lord of the manor.
He went down to the stables, where he kept
six horses, and was pleased to see that the
trainer, Aldo Monza, had already fitted out
one of his stallions. He mounted and slowly
cantered onto the forest trail. Picking up
speed, he rode through a tattered canopy of
red and gold leaves that made a lace curtain
against the sinking sun. Only slender sheaves
of gold lit the trail. The horse’s hooves
kicked up the smell of decaying leaves. He
saw the fragrant pile of wheaty manure and
spurred his horse past it, then rode onto
a split in the trail, which gave him a different
route to circle home. The gold on the trail
disappeared.
He reined in the horse. At that moment two
men appeared before him. They were dressed
in the floppy clothes of farm laborers. But
they wore masks, and metal gleamed silver
in their hands. Astorre spurred his horse
and put his head down along its flank. The
forest filled with light and the sound of
exploding bullets. The men were very close,
and Astorre felt the bullets hit him in the
side and back. The horse panicked into a wild
gallop as Astorre concentrated on keeping
his seat. He galloped on down the trail, and
then two other men appeared. They were not
masked or armed. He lost consciousness and
slid off the horse and into their arms.
Within an hour Kurt Cilke received a report
from the surveillance team that had rescued
Astorre Viola. What really surprised him was
that Astorre, beneath all his foppish dress,
wore a bulletproof vest that covered his torso
the length of his red riding jacket. And not
just your ordinary Kevlar, but one specially
handmade. Now, what the hell was a guy like
Astorre doing wearing armor? A macaroni importer,
a club singer, a flaky horse rider. Sure,
the impact of the bullets had stunned him,
but they had not penetrated. Astorre was already
out of the hospital.
Cilke started writing a memo to have Astorre’s
life investigated from childhood on. The man
might be the key to everything. But he was
sure of one thing: He knew who had attempted
to murder Astorre Viola.
Astorre met with his cousins at Valerius’s
home. He told them of the attack, how he had
been shot. “I’ve asked you for help,”
he said. “And you refused and I understood.
But now I think you should reconsider. There
is some sort of a threat to all of you. I
think it could be solved by selling off the
banks. That would be a win-win situation.
Everybody gets what they want. Or we can go
for a win-lose situation. We keep the banks
and fight off and destroy our enemies, whoever
they are. Then there is the lose-lose situation,
which we must be careful not to fall into.
That we fight our enemies and win but the
government gets us anyway.”
“That’s an easy choice,” Valerius said.
“Just sell the banks. The win-win.”
Marcantonio said, “We’re not Sicilians;
we don’t want to throw everything away for
the sake of vengeance.”
“We sell the banks and we’re throwing
away our future,” Nicole said calmly. “Marc,
someday you’d like your own network. Val,
with big political donations you could become
an ambassador or a secretary of defense. Astorre,
you could sing with the Rolling Stones.”
She smiled at him. “OK,that’s a little
far-fetched,” she said, changing her tone.
“Forget the jokes. Is killing our father
nothing to us? Do we reward them for murder?
I think we should help Astorre as much as
we can.”
“Do you know what you’re saying?” Valerius
said.
“Yes,” Nicole said quietly.
Astorre said to them gently, “Your father
taught me that you can’t let other men impose
their will on you or life’s not worth living.
Val, that’s what war is, right?”
“War is a lose-lose decision,” Nicole
said sharply.
Valerius showed his irritation. “No matter
what the liberals say, war is a win-lose situation.
You are much better off to win a war. Losing
is an unthinkable horror.”
“Your father had a past,” Astorre said.
“That past now has to be reckoned with by
all of us. So now I ask you for your help
again. Remember, I am under your father’s
orders, and my job is to protect the family,
which means holding on to the banks.”
Valerius said, “I’ll have some information
for you within a month.”
Astorre said, “Marc?”
Marcantonio said, “I’ll get to work on
that program right away. Let’s say two months,
three.”
Astorre looked at Nicole. “Nicole, have
you completed the analysis of the FBI file
on your father?”
“No, not yet.” She seemed upset. “Shouldn’t
we get Cilke’s help on this?”
Astorre smiled. “Cilke is one of my suspects,”
he said. “When I have all the information
we can decide what to do.”
In a month Valerius came through with some
informationunexpected, unwelcome. Through
his CIA contacts, he had learned the truth
about Inzio Tulippa. He had contacts in Sicily,
Turkey, India, Pakistan, Colombia, and other
Latin American countries. He even had a relationship
with the Corleonesi in Sicily and was more
than their equal.
According to Valerius, it was Tulippa who
was financing certain nuclear-research labs
in South America. Tulippa who was desperately
trying to set up a huge fund in America to
buy equipment and material. Who, in his dreams
of grandeur, wanted to possess an awful weapon
of defense against the authorities if worse
ever came to worst. It therefore followed
that Timmona Portella was a front for Tulippa.
This was happy news for Astorre. This was
another player in the game, another front
on which to have to fight.
“Is what Tulippa plans possible?” Astorre
asked.
“He certainly thinks it is,” Valerius
said. “And he has the protection of government
officials where he’s located the labs.”
“Thanks, Val,” Astorre said, patting his
cousin on the shoulder affectionately.
“Sure,” Valerius said. “But that’s
all the help you get from me.”
It took six weeks for Marcantonio to research
the network profile on Kurt Cilke. A huge
file of information was given to Astorre by
Marcantonio, hand to hand. Astorre kept it
for twenty-four hours and returned it.
It was only Nicole who worried him. She’d
lent him a copy of the FBI file on Don Aprile,
but there was a whole section that was completely
blacked out. When he questioned her about
this she said, “That’s how I received
it.”
Astorre had studied the document carefully.
The blacked-out section seemed to be about
the period of time when he was only two years
old. “That’s OK,” he told Nicole. “It’s
too long ago to be important.”
Now Astorre could no longer be put off. He
had enough information to begin his war.
Nicole had been dazzled by Marriano Rubio
and his courtship. She had never really recovered
from Astorre’s betrayal of her when she
was a young girl, when he had elected to obey
her father. Though she had had some prudent
short affairs with powerful men, she knew
that men would always conspire against women.
But Rubio seemed an exception. He never got
angry with her when her schedule interfered
with their plans to be together. He understood
her career came first. And he never indulged
in that ridiculous, insulting emotion of many
men who thought their jealousy was proof of
true love.
It helped that he was generous in his gifts;
it was even more important that she found
him interesting and enjoyed listening to him
talk about literature and the theater. But
his greatest virtue was that he was an enthusiastic
lover, expert in bed, and aside from that
did not take up too much of her time.
One evening Rubio took Nicole to dinner at
Le Cirque with some of his friends: a world-famous
South American novelist who charmed Nicole
with his sly wit and extravagant ghost stories;
a renowned opera singer who at every dish
hummed an aria of delight and ate as though
he were going to the electric chair; and a
conservative columnist, the reigning oracle
on world affairs for The New York Times who
took great pride in being hated by liberals
and conservatives alike.
After dinner Rubio took Nicole home to his
opulent apartment in the Peruvian consulate.
There he made love to her passionately, both
physically and with whispered words. Afterward,
he lifted her naked from his bed and danced
with her while reciting poetry in Spanish.
Nicole had a wonderful time. Especially when
they were quiet and he poured them champagne
and said sincerely, “I do love you.” His
magnificent nose and brow shone with truthfulness.
How brazen men were. Nicole felt a quiet satisfaction
that she had betrayed him. Her father would
have been proud of her. She had acted in a
truly Mafioso fashion.
As head of the New York FBI office, Kurt Cilke
had far more important cases than the murder
of Don Raymonde Aprile. One was the broad
investigation of six giant corporations that
conspired illegally to ship banned machinery,
including computer technology, to Red China.
Another was the conspiracy of the major tobacco
companies perjuring themselves before a congressional
investigating committee. The third was the
emigration of middle-level scientists to South
American countries such as Brazil, Peru, and
Colombia. The director wanted to be briefed
on these cases.
On the flight down to Washington, Boxton said,
“We have the tobacco guys nailed; we have
the China shipments nailed–internal documents,
informers saving their asses. The only thing
we don’t have is those scientists. But I
guess you become a deputy director after this.
They can’t deny your record.”
“That’s up to the director,” Cilke said.
He knew why the scientists were down in South
America, but he didn’t correct Boxton.
In the Hoover Building, Boxton was barred
from the meeting.
. . .
It was eleven months after the killing of
Don Aprile. Cilke had prepared all his notes.
The Aprile case was dead, but he had better
news on even more important cases. And this
time there was a real chance that he would
be offered one of the key deputy director’s
jobs in the Bureau. He had made his mark with
good work, and he had put in his time.
The director was a tall, elegant man whose
descendants came to America on the Mayflower.
He was extremely wealthy in his own right
and had entered politics as a public duty.
And he had laid down strict rules at the beginning
of his tenure. “No hanky-panky,” he said
good-humoredly in his Yankee twang. “By
the book. No loopholes in the Bill of Rights.
An FBI agent is always courteous, always fair.
He is always correct in his private life.”
Any bit of scandal—wife beating, drunkenness,
too close a relationship with a local police
official, any third-degree antics—and you
were out on your ass even if your uncle was
a senator. These had been the rules for the
last ten years. Also, if you got too much
press, even good, you were on your way to
surveillance of igloos in Alaska.
The director invited Cilke to sit down in
an extremely uncomfortable chair on the other
side of his massive oak desk.
“Agent Cilke,” he said, “I called you
down for several reasons. Number one: I have
placed in your personal file a special commendation
for your work against the Mafia in New York.
Due to you we have broken their backs. I congratulate
you.” He leaned over to shake Cilke’s
hand. “We don’t make it public now because
the Bureau takes credit for its individual
achievements. And also, it might place you
in some danger.”
“Only from some crazy,” Cilke said. “The
criminal organizations understand they cannot
harm an agent.”
“You’re implying that the Bureau carries
out personal vendettas,” the director said.
“Oh, no,” Cilke said. “It’s just that
we would pay more attention.”
The director let that pass. There were boundaries.
Virtue always had to tread a very thin line.
“It’s not fair to keep you on the hook,”
the director said. “I’ve decided not to
appoint you one of my deputies here in Washington.
Not at the present time. For these reasons.
You are enormously street-smart, and there
is still work to be done in the field. The
Mafia, for lack of a better word, is still
operational. Number two: Officially you have
an informant whose name you refuse to divulge
even to the top supervising personnel of the
Bureau. Unofficially, you have told us. That
is classified AFLAX. So you’re OK, unofficially.
Third: Your relationship with a certain New
York chief of detectives is too personal.”
The director and Cilke had other items on
their meeting agenda. “And how is our operation
‘Omerta’?” the director asked. “We
must be very careful that we have legal clearance
on all our operations.”
“Of course,” Cilke said, straight-faced.
The director knew damn well that corners would
have to be cut. “We’ve had a few obstacles.
Raymonde Aprile refused to cooperate with
us. But of course that obstacle no longer
exists.”
“Mr. Aprile was very conveniently killed,”
the director said sardonically. “I won’t
insult you by asking if you had any prior
knowledge. Your friend Portella, perhaps?”
“We don’t know,” Cilke said. “Italians
never go to authorities. We just have to look
for dead bodies turning up. Now, I approached
Astorre Viola as we discussed. He signed the
confidentiality papers but refused to cooperate.
He won’t do business with Portella, and
he won’t sell the banks.”
“So what do we do now?” the director asked.
“You know how important this is. If we can
indict the banker under RICO, we can get the
banks for the government. And that ten billion
would go to fight crime. It would be an enormous
coup for the Bureau. And then we can put an
end to your association with Portella. He’s
outlived his usefulness. Kurt, we are in a
very delicate situation. Only my deputies
and myself know of your cooperation with Portella.
That you receive payments from him, that he
thinks of you as his confederate. Your life
could be in danger.”
“He wouldn’t dare harm a federal agent,”
Cilke said. “He’s crazy, but he’s not
that crazy.”
“Well, Portella has to go down in this operation,”
the director said. “What are your plans?”
“This guy Astorre Viola is not the innocent
everyone says he is,” Cilke said. “I’m
having his past checked out. Meanwhile, I’m
going to ask Aprile’s children to override
him. But I worry, can we make RICO stick all
the way back ten years for something they
do now?”
“That’s the job of our attorney general,”
the director said. “We just have to get
our foot in the door, and then a thousand
lawyers will go all the way back. We’re
bound to come up with something the courts
can uphold.”
“About my secret Cayman account that Portella
puts money into,” Cilke said. “I think
you should draw some out so that he thinks
I’m spending it.”
“I’ll arrange that,” the director said.
“I must say, your Timmona Portella is not
frugal.”
“He really believes I sold out,” Cilke
said, smiling.
“Be careful,” the director said. “Don’t
give them the grounds that would make you
a true confederate, an accomplice to a crime.”
“I understand,” Cilke said. And thought,
easier said than done.
“And don’t take unnecessary risks,”
the director said. “Remember, drug people
in South America and Sicily are linked with
Portella, and they are reckless fellows.”
“Shall I keep you advised day by day orally
or in writing?” Cilke asked.
“Neither,” the director said. “I have
absolute confidence in your integrity. And
besides, I don’t want to have to lie to
some congressional committee. To become one
of my deputies, you will have to clear these
things up.” He waited expectantly.
Cilke never dared even to think his real thoughts
in the presence of the director, as if the
man could read his mind. But still, the rebellion
flashed. Who the fuck did the director think
he was, the American Civil Liberties Union?
With his memos to emphasize that the Mafia
was not Italian, Muslims were not terrorists,
that blacks were not the criminal class. Who
the fuck did he think committed the street
crimes?
But Cilke said quietly, “Sir, if you want
my resignation, I’ve built up enough time
for an early retirement.”
“No,” the director said. “Answer my
question. Can you clean up your relationships?”
“I have given the names of all the informants
to the Bureau,” Cilke said. “As for cutting
corners, that’s a matter of interpretation.
As for being friends with the local police
force, that’s PR for the Bureau.”
“Your results speak for your work,” the
director said. “Let’s try another year.
Let’s go on.” He paused for a long moment
and sighed. Then he asked almost impatiently,
“Have we got enough on the tobacco-company
executives for perjury in your judgment?”
“Easily,” Cilke said, and wondered why
the director even asked. He had all the files.
“But it could be their personal beliefs,”
the director said. “We have polls that show
that half the American people agree with them.”
“That’s not relevant to the case,” Cilke
said. “The people in the poll did not commit
perjury in their testimony to Congress. We
have tapes and internal documents that prove
the tobacco executives knowingly lied. They
conspired.”
“You’re right,” the director said with
a sigh. “But the attorney general has made
a deal. No criminal indictments, no prison
time. They will pay fines of hundreds of billions
of dollars. So close that investigation. It’s
out of our hands.”
“Fine, sir,” Cilke said. “I can always
use the extra manpower on other things.”
“Good for you,” the director said. “I’ll
make you even happier. On that shipping of
illegal technology to China, that’s very
serious business.”
“There’s no option,” Cilke said. “Those
companies deliberately broke a federal law
for financial gain and breached the security
of the United States. The heads of those companies
conspired.”
“We do have the goods on them,” the director
said, “but you know conspiracy is a catchall.
Everybody conspires. But that’s another
case you can close and save the manpower.”
Cilke said incredulously, “Sir, are you
saying a deal has been made on that?”
The director leaned back in his chair and
frowned at Cilke’s implied insolence, but
he made allowances. “Cilke, you are the
best field man in the Bureau. But you have
no political sense. Now listen to me, and
never forget this: You cannot send six billionaires
to prison. Not in a democracy.”
“And that’s it?” Cilke asked.
“The financial sanctions will be very heavy,”
the director said. “Now, on to other things,
one very confidential. We’re going to exchange
a federal prisoner for one of our informers
who is being held hostage in Colombia, a very
valuable asset in our war on the drug trade.
This is a case you’re familiar with.”
He referred to a case four years ago in which
a drug dealer took five hostages, a woman
and four children. He killed them and also
killed a Bureau agent. He was given life without
parole. “I remember that you were adamant
on the death penalty,” the director said.
“Now we are going to let him go, and I know
you won’t be too happy. Remember, all this
is secret, but the papers will probably dig
it up and there will be an enormous fuss.
You and your office will never comment. Is
that understood?”
Cilke said, “We can’t let anyone kill
our agents and get away with it.”
“That attitude is not acceptable in a federal
officer,” the director said.
Cilke tried not to show his outrage. “Then
all our agents will be endangered,” Cilke
said. “That’s how it is on the streets.
The agent was killed trying to save the hostages.
It was a cold-blooded execution. Setting the
killer free is an insult to the life of that
agent.”
“There can be no vendetta mentality in the
Bureau,” the director said. “Otherwise
we’re no better than they are. Now, what
do you have about those scientists who’ve
emigrated?”
At that moment Cilke realized he could no
longer trust the director. “Nothing new,”
he lied. He had decided from now on he would
not be part of the agency’s political compromises.
He would play a lone hand.
“Well, now you have a lot of manpower, so
work on it,” the director said. “And after
you nail Timmona Portella, I’d like to bring
you up here as one of my deputies.”
“Thank you,” Cilke said. “But I’ve
decided after I clear up Portella, I’m taking
my retirement.”
The director gave a deep sigh. “Reconsider
it. I know how all this deal making must distress
you. But remember this: The Bureau is not
only responsible for protecting society against
lawbreakers, but we must also take only the
actions that, in the long run, benefit our
society as a whole.”
“I remember that from school,” Cilke said.
“The end justifies the means.”
The director shrugged. “Sometimes. Anyway,
reconsider your retirement. I’m putting
a letter of recommendation in your file. Whether
you stay or go, you will receive a medal from
the president of the United States.”
“Thank you, sir,” Cilke said. The director
shook his hand and escorted him to the door.
But he had one final question. “What happened
to that Aprile case? It’s been months and
it seems nothing has been done.”
“It’s NYPD, not ours,” Cilke said. “Of
course, I looked into it. So far no motive.
No clues. I would think there’s no chance
of it being solved.”
That night Cilke had dinner with Bill Boxton.
“Good news,” Cilke told him. “The tobacco
and the China machine cases are closed. The
attorney general is going after financial
sanctions, not criminal. That frees a lot
of manpower.”
“No shit,” Boxton said. “I always thought
the director was straight. A square shooter.
Will he resign?”
“There are square shooters and there are
square shooters with little nicks on the edges,”
Cilke said.
“Anything else?” Boxton asked.
“When I bring Portella down, I get to be
the director’s deputy. Guaranteed. But by
then I’ll be retired.”
“Yeah,” Boxton said. “Put in a word
for me for that job.”
“No chance. The director knows you use four-letter
words.” He laughed.
“Shit,” Boxton said, in mock disappointment.
“Or is it fuck?”
The next night Cilke walked home from the
railroad station. Georgette and Vanessa were
in Florida visiting Georgette’s parents
for a week, and he hated taking a taxi. He
was surprised not to hear the dogs barking
when he walked up the driveway. He called
out for them but nothing happened. They must
have wandered off into the neighborhood or
the nearby woods.
He missed his family, especially at mealtimes.
He had eaten dinner alone or with other agents
in too many cities all over America, always
alert to any kind of danger. He prepared a
simple meal for himself as his wife had taught
him to do—a vegetable, a green salad, and
a small steak. No coffee, but a brandy in
a small thimble of a glass. Then he went upstairs
to shower and call his wife before reading
himself to sleep. He loved books, and he was
always made unhappy when the FBI was portrayed
as heavy villains in detective novels. What
the hell did they know?
When he opened the bedroom door he could smell
the blood instantly and his whole brain fell
into a chaotic jumble; all the hidden fears
of his life came rushing in on him.
The two German shepherds lay on his bed. Their
brown and white fur was mottled red, their
legs tied together, their muzzles wrapped
in gauze. Their hearts had been cut out and
rested on their bellies.
With great effort, his mind came together.
Instinctively, he called his wife to make
sure she was OK. He told her nothing. Then
he called the FBI duty officer for a special
forensic team and a cleanup squad. They would
have to get rid of all the bedclothes, the
mattress, the rug. He did not notify the local
authorities.
Six hours later the FBI teams had left and
he wrote a report to the director. He poured
himself a regular-sized glass of brandy and
tried to analyze the situation.
For a moment he considered lying to Georgette,
concocting a story about the dogs running
away. But there were the missing rug and bedsheets
to be explained. And besides, it wouldn’t
be fair to her. She had a choice to make.
More than anything, she would never forgive
him if he lied. He would have to tell her
the truth.
The next day Cilke flew first to Washington
to confer with the director and then down
to Florida, where his wife and daughter were
vacationing with his in-laws.
There, after having lunch with them, he took
Georgette for a walk along the beach. As they
watched the glimmering blue water he told
her about the dogs being killed, that it was
an old Sicilian Mafia warning used to intimidate.
“According to the papers you got rid of
the Mafia in this country,” Georgette said
musingly.
“More or less,” Cilke said. “We have
a few of the drug organizations left, and
I’m pretty sure who did this.”
“Our poor dogs,” Georgette said. “How
can people be so cruel? Have you talked to
the director?”
Cilke felt a surge of irritation that she
was so concerned about the dogs. “The director
gave me three options,” he said. “That
I resign from the Bureau and relocate. I refused
that option. The second was that I relocate
my family under Bureau protection until this
case is over. The third is that you remain
in the house as if nothing has happened. We
would have a twenty-four-hour security team
guarding us. A woman agent would live in the
house with you, and you and Vanessa will be
accompanied by two bodyguards wherever you
go. There will be security posts set up around
the house with the latest alarm equipment.
What do you think? In six months this will
all be over.”
“You think it’s a bluff,” Georgette
said.
“Yes. They don’t dare harm a federal agent
or his family. It would be suicide for them.”
Georgette gazed out at the calm blue water
of the bay. Her hand clasped his more tightly.
“I’ll stay,” she said. “I’d miss
you too much, and I know you won’t leave
this case. How can you be certain you’ll
finish in six months?”
“I’m certain,” Cilke said.
Georgette shook her head. “I don’t like
you being so certain. Please don’t do anything
awful. And I want one promise. When this case
is over, you’ll retire from the Bureau.
Start your own law practice or teach. I can’t
live this way the rest of my life.” She
was in deadly earnest.
The phrase that stuck in Cilke’s head was
that she would miss him too much. And as he
so often did, he wondered how a woman like
her could possibly love a man like him. But
he had always known that someday she would
make this demand. He sighed and said, “I
promise.”
They continued their walk along the beach
and then sat in a little green park that protected
them against the sun. A cool breeze from the
bay ruffled his wife’s hair, making her
look very young and happy. Cilke knew he could
never break his promise to her. And he was
even proud of her cunning in extracting his
promise at the exact proper moment, when she
risked her life to stay on his side. After
all, who would want to be loved by an unintelligent
woman? At the same time Agent Cilke knew his
wife would be horrified, humiliated by what
he was thinking. Her cunning was probably
innocent. Who was he to judge it? She had
never judged him, never suspected his own
not-so-innocent cunning.
CHAPTER 6
FRANKY AND STACE STURZO owned a huge sporting-goods
store in L.A. and a house in Santa Monica
that was only five minutes from the Malibu
beach. Both of them had been married once,
but their marriages didn’t take, so now
they lived together.
They never told any of their friends they
were twins, although they had the same easygoing
confidence and extraordinary athletic suppleness.
Franky was the more charming and temperamental.
Stace was the more levelheaded, just a little
stolid, but they were both noted for their
amiability.
They belonged to one of the large classy gyms
that dotted L.A., a gym filled with digital
body-building machines and wide-screen wall
TV’s to watch while working out. It had
a basketball court, a swimming pool, and even
a boxing ring. Its staff of trainers were
good-looking, sculptured men and pretty, well-toned
women. The brothers used the gym to work out
and also to meet women who trained there.
It was a great hunting ground for men like
them, surrounded by hopeful actresses trying
to keep their bodies beautiful and bored,
neglected wives of high-powered movie people.
But mostly Franky and Stace enjoyed pickup
basketball games. Good players came to the
gym—sometimes even a reserve on the L.A.
Lakers. Franky and Stace had played against
him and felt they had held their own. It brought
back fond memories of when they had been high
school all-stars. But they had no illusions
that in a real game they would have been so
fortunate. They had played all out, and the
Laker guy had just been having a good time.
In the gym’s health-food restaurant, they
struck up friendships with the female trainers
and gym members and even sometimes a celebrity.
They always had a good time, but it was a
small part of their lives. Franky coached
the local grade-school basketball team, a
job he took very seriously. He always hoped
to discover a superstar in the making, and
he radiated a stern amiability that made the
kids love him. He had a favorite coaching
tactic. “OK,” he would say, “you’re
twenty points down, it’s the last quarter.
You come out and score the first ten points.
Now you got them where you want them—you
can win. It’s just nerve and confidence.
You can always win. You’re ten points down,
then five, then you’re even. And you’ve
got them!”
Of course, it never worked. The kids were
not developed enough physically or tough enough
mentally. They were just kids. But Franky
knew the really talented ones would never
forget the lesson and that it would help them
later on.
Stace concentrated on running the store, and
he made the final decision on which hit jobs
they would take. There had to be minimum risk
and maximum price. Stace believed in percentages
all the way and also had a gloomy temperament.
What the brothers had going for them was that
they rarely disagreed on anything. They had
the same tastes and they were almost always
evenly matched in physical skills. They sometimes
sparred against each other in the boxing ring
or played each other one-on-one on the basketball
court. This cemented their relationship. They
trusted each other absolutely.
They were now forty-three years old and their
lives suited them, but they often talked about
getting married again and having families.
Franky kept a mistress in San Francisco, and
Stace had a girlfriend in Vegas, a showgirl.
Both women had shown no inclination for marriage,
and the brothers felt they were just treading
water, hoping for someone to show up.
Since they were so genial, they made friends
easily and had a busy social life. Still,
they spent the year after killing the Don
with some apprehension. A man like the Don
could not be killed without some danger.
Around November, Stace made the necessary
call to Heskow about picking up the second
five hundred grand of the payment. The phone
call was brief and seemingly ambiguous.
“Hi,” Stace said. “We’re coming in
about a month from now. Everything OK?”
Heskow seemed glad to hear from him. “Everything’s
perfect,” he said. “Everything’s ready.
Could you be more specific on time? I don’t
want you coming when I’m out of town somewhere.”
Stace laughed and said casually, “We’ll
find you. OK? Figure a month.” Then he hung
up.
The money pickup in a deal like this always
had an element of danger. Sometimes people
hated to pay up for something already done.
That happened in every business. Then sometimes
people had delusions of grandeur. They thought
they were as good as the professionals. The
danger was minimal with Heskow—he had always
been a reliable broker. But the Don’s case
was special, as was the money. So they didn’t
want Heskow to have a fix on their plans.
The brothers had taken up tennis the past
year, but it was the one sport that defeated
them. They were so athletically gifted that
they could not accept this defeat, though
it was explained to them that tennis was a
sport where you had to acquire the strokes
early in life by instruction, that it really
depended on certain mechanics, like learning
a language. So they had made arrangements
to stay for three weeks at a tennis ranch
in Scottsdale, Arizona, for an introductory
course. From there they would travel to New
York to meet Heskow. Of course, during these
weeks at the tennis ranch they could pass
some of their evenings in Vegas, which was
less than an hour from Scottsdale by plane.
The tennis ranch was superluxurious. Franky
and Stace were given a two-bedroom adobe cottage
with air-conditioning, an Indian-motif dining
room, a balconied living room, and a small
kitchen. They had a superb view of the mountains.
There was a built-in bar, a big refrigerator,
and a huge TV.
But the three weeks started off on a sour
note. One of the instructors gave Franky a
hard time. Franky was easily the best in the
group of beginners, and he was especially
proud of his serve, which was completely unorthodox
and wild. But the instructor, a man named
Leslie, seemed particularly irritated by it.
One morning Franky hit the ball to his opponent,
who couldn’t come near it, and he said proudly
to Leslie, “That’s an ace, right?”
“No,” Leslie said coldly. “That’s
a foot fault. Your toe went over the serving
line. Try again, with a proper serve. The
one you have will more often be out than in.”
Franky hit another serve, fast and accurate.
“Ace, right?” he said.
“That is a foot fault,” Leslie said slowly.
“And that serve is a bullshit serve. Just
get the ball in. You’re a very decent player
for a hacker. Play the point.”
Franky was annoyed but controlled himself.
“Match me up with somebody who’s not a
hacker,” he said. “Let’s see how I do.”
He paused. “How about you?”
Leslie looked at him with disgust. “I don’t
play matches with hackers,” he said. He
pointed to a young woman in her late twenties
or early thirties. “Rosie?” he said. “Give
Mr. Sturzo a one-set match.”
The girl had just come to the court. She had
beautiful tanned legs coming out of white
shorts, and she wore a pink shirt with the
tennis-ranch logo. She had a mischievous pretty
face, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail.
“You have to give me a handicap,” Frank
said disarmingly. “You look too good. Are
you an instructor?”
“No,” Rosie said. “I’m just here to
get some serving lessons. Leslie is a champ
trainer for that.”
“Give him a handicap,” Leslie said. “He’s
way below you in the levels.”
Franky said quickly, “How about two games
in each four-game set?”He would bargain
down to less.
Rosie gave him a quick, infectious smile.
“No,” she said, “that won’t do you
any good. What you should ask for is two points
in each game. Then you would have a chance.
And if we get to deuce, I have to win by four
instead of two.”
Franky shook her hand. “Let’s go,” he
said. They were standing close together, and
he could smell the sweetness of her body.
She whispered, “Do you want me to throw
the match?”
Franky was thrilled. “No,” he said. “You
can’t beat me with that handicap.”
They played with Leslie watching, and he didn’t
call the foot faults. Franky won the first
two games, but after that Rosie rolled over
him. Her ground strokes were perfect, and
she had no trouble at all with his serve.
She was always standing where Franky had to
hit the ball, and though several times he
got to deuce, she put him away 6–2.
“Hey, you’re very good for a hacker,”
Rosie said. “But you didn’t start playing
until you were over twenty, right?”
“Right.” Franky was beginning to hate
the word hacker.
“You have to learn the strokes and serve
when you’re a kid,” she said.
“Is that right?” Franky teased. “But
I’ll beat you before we leave here.”
Rosie grinned. She had a wide, generous mouth
for such a small face. “Sure,” she said.
“If you have the best day of your life and
I have my worst.” Franky laughed.
Stace came up and introduced himself. Then
he said, “Why don’t you have dinner with
us tonight? Franky won’t invite you because
you beat him, but he’ll come.”
“Ah, that’s not true,” Rosie said. “He
was just about to ask me. Is eight o’clock
OK?”
“Great,” Stace said. He slapped Franky
with his racquet.
“I’ll be there,” Franky said.
They had dinner at the ranch restaurant, a
huge vaulting room with glass walls that let
in the desert and mountains. Rosie proved
to be a find, as Franky told Stace later.
She flirted with both of them, she talked
all the sports and knew her stuff, past and
present—the great championship games, the
great players, the great individual moments.
And she was a good listener; she drew them
out. Franky even told her about coaching the
kids and how his store provided them with
the best equipment, and Rosie said warmly,
“Hey, that’s great, that’s just great.”
Then they told her they had been high school
basketball all-stars in their youth.
Rosie also had a good appetite, which they
approved of in a woman. She ate slowly and
daintily, and she had a trick of lowering
her head and tilting it to the side with an
almost mock shyness when she talked about
herself. She was studying for a Ph.D. in psychology
at New York University. She came from a moderately
wealthy family, and she had already toured
Europe. She had been a tennis star in high
school. But she said all this with a self-deprecating
air that charmed them, and she kept touching
their hands to maintain contact with them
as she spoke.
“I still don’t know what to do when I
graduate,” she said. “With all my book
knowledge, I can never figure people out in
real life. Like you two guys. You tell me
your history, you are two charming bastards,
but I have no idea what makes you tick.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Stace said.
“What you see is what you get.”
“Don’t ask me,” Franky said to her.
“Right now my whole life is centered on
how to beat you at tennis.”
After dinner the two brothers walked Rosie
down the red clay path to her cottage. She
gave them each a quick kiss on the cheek,
and they were left alone in the desert air.
The last image they took with them was Rosie’s
pert face gleaming in the moonlight.
“I think she’s exceptional,” Stace said.
“Better than that,” Franky said.
For the rest of Rosie’s two weeks at the
ranch, she became their buddy. In late afternoons
after tennis they went golfing together. She
was good, but not as good as the brothers.
They could really whack the ball far out and
had nerves of steel on the putting green.
A middle-aged guy at the tennis ranch came
with them to the golf course to make up a
foursome and insisted on being partnered with
Rosie and playing for ten dollars a hole,
and though he was good, he lost. Then he tried
to join them for dinner that night at the
tennis ranch. Rosie rebuffed him, to the delight
of the twins. “I’m trying to get one of
these guys to propose to me,” she said.
It was Stace who got Rosie into bed by the
end of the first week. Franky had gone down
to Vegas for the evening to gamble and to
give Stace a clear shot. When he returned
at midnight, Stace wasn’t in the room. The
next morning when he appeared Franky asked
him, “How was she?”
“Exceptional,” Stace said.
“You mind if I take a shot?” Franky asked.
This was unusual. They had never shared a
woman; it was one area where their tastes
differed. Stace thought it over. Rosie fitted
in perfectly with both of them. But the three
couldn’t keep hanging out together if Stace
was getting Rosie and Franky was not. Unless
Franky brought another girl into the combo—and
that would spoil it.
“It’s OK,” Stace said.
So the next night Stace went down to Vegas
and Franky took his shot with Rosie. Rosie
made no trouble at all, and she was delightful
in bed—no fancy tricks, just good-hearted
fun and games. She didn’t seem uncomfortable
about it at all.
But the next day when the three of them had
breakfast, Franky and Stace didn’t know
quite how to act. They were a little too formal
and polite. Deferential. Their perfect harmony
was gone. Rosie polished off her eggs and
bacon and toast and then leaned back and said
with amusement, “Am I going to have trouble
with you two guys? I thought we were buddies.”
Stace said sincerely, “It’s just that
we’re both crazy about you, and we don’t
know exactly how to handle this.”
Rosie said, laughing, “I’ll handle it.
I like you both a lot. We’re having a good
time. We’re not getting married, and after
we leave the tennis ranch, we’ll probably
never see each other again. I’ll go back
to New York, and you guys will go back to
L.A. So let’s not spoil it now unless one
of you is the jealous type. Then we can just
cut out the sex part.”
The twins were suddenly at ease with her.
“Fat chance,” Stace said.
Franky said, “We’re not jealous, and I’m
going to beat you at tennis one time before
we leave here.”
“You haven’t got the strokes,” Rosie
said firmly, but she reached out and clasped
both their hands.
“Let’s settle it today,” Franky said.
Rosie tilted her head shyly. “I’ll give
you three points a game,” she said. “And
if you lose, you won’t give me any more
of that macho crap.”
Stace said, “I’ll put a hundred bucks
on Rosie.”
Franky smiled wolfishly at both of them. There
was no way he would let himself lose to Rosie
with a three-point handicap. He said to Stace,
“Make that bet five.”
Rosie had a mischievous smile on her face.
“And if I win, Stace gets tonight with me.”
Both brothers laughed aloud. It gave them
pleasure that Rosie was not that perfect,
that she had a touch of malice in her.
Out on the tennis court, nothing could save
Franky—not his whirlwind serve, not his
acrobatic returns or the three-point spot.
Rosie had a top spin she had never used before
that completely baffled Franky. She zipped
him 6–0. When the set was over, Rosie gave
Franky a kiss on the cheek and whispered,
“I’ll make it up to you tomorrow night.”
As promised, she slept with Stace after the
three of them had dinner. This alternated
for the rest of the week.
The twins drove Rosie to the airport the day
she left. “Remember, if you ever get to
New York, give me a ring,” she said. They
had already given her an open invitation to
stay with them anytime she came to L.A. Then
she surprised them. She held out two small
gift-wrapped boxes. “Presents,” she said,
and smiled happily. The twins opened the boxes,
and each found a Navajo ring with a blue stone.
“To remember me by.”
Later, when the brothers went shopping in
town, they saw the rings on sale for three
hundred bucks.
“She could have bought us a tie each or
one of those funny cowboy belts for fifty
bucks,” Franky said. They were extraordinarily
pleased.
They had another week to spend at the ranch,
but they spent little of it playing tennis.
They golfed and flew to Vegas in the evenings.
But they made it a rule not to spend the night
there. That’s how you could lose big—take
a shellacking in the early-morning hours when
your energy was down and your judgment was
impaired.
Over dinner they talked about Rosie. Neither
would say a disloyal word about her, though
in their hearts they held her in lower esteem
because she had fucked both of them.
“She really enjoyed it,” Franky said.
“She never got mean or moody after.”
“Yeah,” Stace said. “She was exceptional.
I think we found the perfect broad.”
“But they always change,” Franky said.
“Do we call her when we get to New York?”
Stace asked.
“I will,” Franky said.
...
A week after they left Scottsdale they registered
at the Sherry-Netherland in Manhattan. The
next morning they rented a car and drove out
to John Heskow’s house on Long Island. When
they pulled into the driveway, they saw Heskow
sweeping his basketball court clean of a thin
skin of snow. He raised his hand in welcome.
Then he motioned them to pull into the garage
attached to the house. His own car was parked
outside. Franky jumped out of the car before
Stace pulled in, to shake Heskow’s hand
but really to put him in close range if anything
happened.
Heskow unlocked the door and ushered them
inside.
“It’s all ready,” he said. He led them
upstairs to the huge trunk in the bedroom
and unlocked it. Inside were stacks of money
rubber-banded into six-inch bundles, along
with a folded leather bag, almost as big as
a suitcase. Stace threw the bundles onto the
bed. Then the brothers rifled through each
stack to make sure they were all hundreds
and that there were no counterfeits. They
only counted the bills in one stack and multiplied
it by one hundred. Then they loaded the money
into the leather bag. When they were finished,
they looked up at Heskow. He was smiling.
“Have a cup of coffee before you go,”
he said. “Take a leak or whatever.”
“Thanks,” Stace said. “Is there anything
we should know? Any fuss?”
“None at all,” Heskow said. “Everything’s
perfect. Just don’t be too flashy with the
dough.”
“It’s for our old age,” Franky said,
and the brothers laughed.
“What about his kids?” Franky asked. “They
didn’t make any noise?”
“They were brought up straight,” Heskow
said. “They’re not Sicilians. They are
very successful professionals. They believe
in the law. And they’re lucky they’re
not suspects.”
The twins laughed and Heskow smiled. It was
a good joke.
“Well, I’m just amazed,” Stace said.
“Such a big man and so little fuss.”
“Well, it’s been a year now and not a
peep,” Heskow said.
The brothers finished their coffee and shook
hands with Heskow. “Keep well,” Heskow
said. “I may be calling you again.”
“You do that,” Franky said.
Back in the city the brothers dumped the money
into a joint security safe-deposit box. Actually,
two. They didn’t even dip any casual spending
money. Then they went back to the hotel and
called Rosie.
She was surprised and delighted to hear from
them so soon. Her voice was eager as she urged
them to come to her apartment at once. She
would show them New York, her treat. So that
evening they arrived at her apartment and
she served them drinks before they all left
for dinner and the theater.
Rosie took them to Le Cirque, which she told
them was the finest restaurant in New York.
The food was great, and even though it was
not on the menu, at Franky’s request they
cooked him up a plate of spaghetti that was
the best he’d ever tasted. The twins could
not get over the fact that a fancy restaurant
could serve the food they liked so much. They
also noted that the maître d’ treated Rosie
in a very special way, and that impressed
them. They had their usual great time, Rosie
urging them to tell their stories. She looked
especially beautiful. It was the first time
they had seen her dressed formally.
Over coffee, the brothers gave Rosie their
present. They had bought it at Tiffany’s
that afternoon and had it wrapped in a maroon
velvet box. It had cost five grand, a simple
gold chain with a diamond-encrusted locket
of white platinum.
“From me and Stace,” Franky said. “We
chipped in.”
Rosie was stunned. Her eyes became watery
and gleaming. She put the chain over her head
so that the locket rested between her breasts.
Then she leaned over and kissed both of them.
It was a simple sweet kiss on the lips that
tasted of honey.
The brothers had once told Rosie they had
never gone to a Broadway musical, so the next
night she was taking them to see Les Misérables.
She promised them they would really love it.
And they did, but with a few reservations.
Later, in her apartment, Franky said, “I
don’t believe he didn’t kill the cop Javert
when he had the chance.”
“It’s a musical,” Stace said. “Musicals
don’t make sense even in the movies. It’s
not their job.”
But Rosie disputed this. “It shows Jean
Valjean has become a really good man,” she
said. “It’s about redemption. A man who
sins and steals and then reconciles with society.”
This irritated even Stace. “Wait a minute,”
he said. “The guy started off a thief. Once
a thief, always a thief. Right, Franky?”
Now Rosie took fire. “What would you two
guys know about a man like Valjean?” And
that broke the brothers up. Rosie smiled her
good-humored smile. “Which of you is staying
tonight?” she asked.
She waited for the answer and finally said,
“I don’t do three-somes. You have to take
turns.”
“Who do you want to stay?” Franky asked.
“Don’t start that,” Rosie warned. “Or
we’ll have a beautiful relationship like
in the movies. No screwing. And I’d hate
that,” she said, smiling to take the edge
off. “I love you both.”
“I’ll go home tonight,” Franky said.
He wanted her to know she didn’t have power
over him.
Rosie kissed Franky good night and accompanied
him to the door. She whispered, “I’ll
be special tomorrow night.”
They had six days to spend together. Rosie
had to work on her dissertation during the
day, but she was available in the evenings.
One night the twins took her to a Knicks game
at the Garden when the Lakers were in town,
and they were delighted that she appreciated
all the fine points of the game. Afterward
they went to a fancy deli and Rosie told them
that the next day, the day before Christmas
Eve, she had to leave town for the week. The
brothers had assumed she would spend Christmas
with her family. But now they noticed that
for the first time since they had known her,
she looked a little depressed.
“No, I’m spending Christmas alone in a
house my family owns upstate. I wanted to
duck all that phony Christmas stuff, to just
study and sort out my life.”
“So just cancel and spend Christmas with
us,” Franky said. “We’ll change our
flight back to L.A.”
“I can’t,” Rosie said. “I have to
study, and that’s the best place.”
“All alone?” Stace asked.
Rosie ducked her head. “I’m such a dope,”
she said.
“Why don’t we go up with you for just
a few days?” Franky asked. “We’ll leave
the day after Christmas.”
“Yeah,” Stace said, “we could use some
peace and quiet.”
Rosie’s face was glowing. “Would you really?”
she said happily. “That’s so great. We
could go skiing on Christmas. There’s a
resort just thirty minutes from the house.
And I’ll cook a Christmas dinner.” She
paused for a moment and then said unconvincingly,
“But promise you’ll leave after Christmas;
I really have to work.”
“We have to get back to L.A.,” Stace said.
“We have a business to run.”
“God, I love you guys,” Rosie said.
Stace said casually, “Franky and me were
talking. You know we’ve never been to Europe,
and we thought when you’re finished with
school this summer, we could all go together.
You be our guide. Top of the line in everything.
Just a couple of weeks. We could have a great
time if you were with us.”
“Yeah,” Franky said. “We can’t go
alone.” They all laughed.
“That is just a wonderful idea,” Rosie
said. “I’ll show you London and Paris
and Rome. And you will absolutely adore Venice.
You may never leave. But hell, summer is a
long time away, you guys. I know you, you’ll
be chasing other women by then.”
“We want you,” Franky said almost angrily.
“I’ll be ready when I get the call,”
Rosie said.
On the morning of December 23, Rosie pulled
up to their hotel to pick up the twins. She
was driving a huge Cadillac whose trunk held
her big suitcases and a few gayly wrapped
presents and still had room for their more
modest ones.
Stace took the backseat and let Franky ride
up front with Rosie. The radio was playing,
and none of them talked for about an hour.
That was what was great about Rosie.
While waiting for Rosie to pick them up, the
brothers had had a conversation over breakfast.
Stace could see Franky was uneasy with him,
which was rare between the twins.
“Spit it out,” Stace said.
“Don’t take this wrong,” Franky said.
“I’m not jealous or anything. But could
you lay off Rosie while we’re up there?”
“Sure,” Stace said. “I’ll tell her
I caught the clap in Vegas.”
Franky grinned and said, “You don’t have
to go that far. I’d just like to try having
her for myself. Otherwise, I’ll lay off
and you can have her.”
“You’re a jerk,” Stace said. “You’ll
ruin everything. Look, we didn’t muscle
her, we didn’t con her. This is what she
wants to do. And I think it’s great for
us.”
“I’d just like to try it by myself,”
Franky said again. “Just for a little while.”
“Sure,” Stace said. “I’m the older
brother, I have to watch out for you.” It
was their favorite joke, and indeed it always
did seem Stace was a few years older than
Franky instead of ten minutes.
“But you know she’ll be wise to you in
two seconds,” Stace said. “Rosie is smart.
She’ll know you’re in love with her.”
Franky looked at his brother with astonishment.
“I’m in love with her?” he said. “Is
that it? Jesus fucking Christ.” And they
both laughed.
Now the car was out of the city and rolling
through the farmland of Westchester County.
Franky broke the silence. “I never saw so
much snow in my life,” he said. “How the
hell can people live here?”
“Because it’s cheap,” Rosie said.
Stace asked, “How much longer?”
“About an hour and a half,” Rosie said.
“You guys need to stop?”
“No,” Franky said, “let’s get there.”
“Unless you have to stop,” Stace said
to Rosie.
Rosie shook her head. She looked very determined,
hands tight on the wheel, peering intently
at the slow-falling snow-flakes.
About an hour later they went through a small
town, and Rosie said, “Just another fifteen
minutes.”
The car went up a steep incline, and on top
of a small hill was a house, gray as an elephant,
surrounded by snow-covered fields, the snow
absolutely pure white and unmarked, no foot-prints,
no car tracks.
Rosie pulled to a stop at the front-porch
entrance, and they got out. She loaded them
down with suitcases and the Christmas boxes.
“Go on in,” she said. “The door is open.
We don’t lock up out here.”
Franky and Stace crunched up the steps of
the porch and opened the door. They were in
an enormous living room decorated with animal
heads on the walls, and there was a huge fire
in a hearth as big as a cave.
Outside suddenly, they could hear the roar
of the Cadillac’s motor, and at that moment
six men appeared from the two entryways of
the house. They were holding guns, and the
leader, a huge man with a great mustache,
said in a slightly accented voice, “Don’t
move. Don’t drop the packages.” Then the
guns were pressed against their bodies.
Stace understood at once, but Franky was worried
about Rosie. It took him about thirty seconds
to put it together—the roar of the engine
and Rosie not being there. Then with the worst
feeling he had ever had in his life, he realized
the truth. Rosie was bait.
CHAPTER 7
ON THE NIGHT before Christmas Eve Astorre
attended a party given by Nicole at her apartment.
She had invited professional colleagues and
members of her pro bono groups, including
her favorite, the Campaign Against the Death
Penalty.
Astorre liked parties. He loved to chat with
people he would never see again and who were
so different from him. Sometimes he met interesting
women with whom he had brief affairs. And
he always hoped to fall in love; he missed
it. Tonight Nicole had reminded him of their
teenage romance, not coy or flirting but with
good humor.
“You broke my heart when you obeyed my father
and went to Europe,” she said.
“Sure,” Astorre said. “But that didn’t
stop you from meeting other guys.”
For some reason Nicole was very fond of him
tonight. She held his hand in an intimate
schoolgirl way, she kissed him on the lips,
she clung to him as if she knew that he was
about to escape her once again.
This confused him because all his old tenderness
was aroused, but he understood starting up
again with Nicole would be a terrible mistake
at this junction of his life. Not with the
decisions he had to make. Finally she led
him to a group of people and introduced him.
Tonight there was a live band, and Nicole
asked Astorre to sing in his now gravelly
but warm lilting voice, which he always loved
doing. They sang an old Italian love ballad
together.
When he serenaded Nicole, she clung to him
and looked into his eyes searching for something
in his soul. Then, with a final sorrowful
kiss, she let him go.
Afterward Nicole had a surprise for him. She
led him to a guest, a quietly beautiful woman
with wide intelligent gray eyes. “Astorre,”
she said, “this is Georgette Cilke, who
chairs the Campaign Against the Death Penalty.
We often work together.”
Georgette shook his hand and complimented
him on his singing. “You remind me of a
young Dean Martin,” she said.
Astorre was delighted. “Thank you,” he
said. “He’s my hero. I know his entire
catalogue of songs by heart.”
“My husband is a big fan, too,” Georgette
said. “I like his music, but I don’t like
the way he treats women.”
Astorre sighed, knowing he was on the losing
end of an argument, but one he had to make
anyway as a certified soldier to the cause.
“Yes, but we must separate the artist from
the man.”
Georgette was amused by the gallantry of Astorre’s
defense. “Must we?” she asked with a wry
smile. “I don’t think we should ever condone
that kind of behavior.”
Astorre could see Georgette wasn’t going
to give in on this point, so all he did was
begin to sing a few bars of one of Dino’s
most famous Italian ballads. He looked deeply
into her green eyes, swaying to the music,
and he saw her beginning to smile.
“OK, OK,” she said. “I’ll admit the
songs are good. But I’m still not ready
to let him off the hook.”
She touched him gently on the shoulder before
drifting away. Astorre spent the rest of the
party observing her. She was a woman who did
nothing to enhance her beauty but had a natural
grace and a gentle kindness that took away
any threat that beauty makes. And Astorre,
like everybody in the room, fell a little
bit in love with her. Yet she seemed genuinely
unaware of the affect she had on people. She
had not an ounce of the flirt in her.
By this time Astorre had read Marcantonio’s
documentary notes on Cilke, a stubborn ferret
on the trail of human flaws, coldly efficient
in his work. And he also had read that his
wife truly loved him. There was the mystery.
Halfway through the party, Nicole came up
to him and whispered that Aldo Monza was in
the reception room.
“I’m sorry, Nicole,” Astorre said. “I
have to go.”
“OK,” Nicole said. “I was hoping you’d
get to know Georgette better. She is absolutely
the brightest and best woman I’ve ever met.”
“Well, she is beautiful,” Astorre said,
and he thought to himself how foolish he still
was about women—already he was building
such fantasy on one meeting.
When Astorre went into the reception room,
he found Aldo Monza sitting uncomfortably
in one of Nicole’s fragile but beautiful
antique chairs. Monza rose and whispered to
him, “We have the twins. They await your
pleasure.”
Astorre felt his heart sink. Now it would
begin. Now he would be tested, again. “How
long will it take to drive up there?”he
asked.
“Three hours at least. We have a blizzard.”
Astorre looked at his watch. It was ten-thirty
P.M. “Let’s get started,”he said.
When they left the building the air was white
with snow and the parked cars were half buried
in drifts. Monza had a huge dark Buick waiting.
Monza drove, Astorre beside him. It was very
cold, and Monza turned on the heater. Gradually
the car turned into an oven smelling of tobacco
and wine.
“Sleep,” Monza said to Astorre. “We
have a long ride ahead of us, and a night
of labor.”
Astorre let his body relax and his mind slip
into dreams. Snow blurred the road. He remembered
the burning heat of Sicily and the eleven
years during which the Don had prepared him
for this final duty. And he knew how inevitable
was his fate.
Astorre Viola was sixteen years old when Don
Aprile ordered him to study in London. Astorre
was not surprised. The Don had sent all his
children to private schools and made them
grow up in college; it was not only because
he believed in education but to keep them
isolated from his own business and way of
life.
In London Astorre stayed with a prosperous
couple who had emigrated many years before
from Sicily and who seemed to have a very
comfortable life in England. They were middle-aged
and childless, and they had changed their
name from Priola to Pryor. They looked extremely
English, their skins bleached by English weather,
their dress and movement serenely un-Sicilian.
Mr. Pryor went off to work wearing a bowler
hat and carrying a furled umbrella; Mrs. Pryor
dressed in the flowered dresses and swooping
bonnets of dowdy English matrons.
In the privacy of their home they reverted
to their origins. Mr. Pryor wore patched baggy
pants and collarless black shirts, while Mrs.
Pryor dressed in a very loose black dress
and cooked in the old Italian style. He called
her Marizza and she called him Zu.
Mr. Pryor worked as the chief executive of
a private bank that was a subsidiary of a
huge Palermo bank. He treated Astorre as a
favorite nephew yet kept his distance. Mrs.
Pryor indulged him with food and affection
as if he were a grandson.
Mr. Pryor gave Astorre a car and a handsome
living allowance. Schooling had already been
arranged at a small obscure university just
outside London that specialized in business
and banking but also had a good reputation
in the arts. Astorre enrolled in the required
curriculum, but his real interest was in his
acting and singing classes. He filled his
schedule with electives in music and history.
It was during this stay in London that he
fell in love with the imagery of fox hunting—not
the killing and the chase but the pageantry—the
red coats, the brown dogs, the black horses.
In one of his acting classes Astorre met a
girl his own age, Rosie Conner. She was extremely
pretty, with that air of innocence that can
be devastating to young men and provocative
to older ones. She was also talented and played
some of the leading roles in the plays staged
by the class. Astorre, on the other hand,
was relegated to smaller parts. He was handsome
enough, but something in his personality prevented
him from sharing himself with an audience.
Rosie had no such problem. It was as if she
were inviting every audience to seduce her.
They took vocal classes together too, and
Rosie admired Astorre’s singing. It was
evident the teacher did not share her admiration;
in fact, he advised Astorre to drop his music
courses. He did not really have more than
a pleasant voice, but even worse, he had no
musical comprehension.
After only two weeks Astorre and Rosie became
lovers. This was more by her initiation than
by his, though by this time he was madly in
love with her—as madly in love as any sixteen-year-old
can be. He almost completely forgot Nicole.
Rosie seemed more amused than passionate.
But she was so vibrantly alive, she adored
him when she was with him; she was ardent
in bed and always generous in every way. A
week after they became lovers, she bought
him an expensive present: a red hunting jacket
with a black suede hunting cap and fine leather
whip. She presented them as something of a
joke.
As young lovers do, they told each other their
life stories. Rosie told him her parents owned
a huge ranch in South Dakota and that she
had spent her childhood in a dreary Plains
town. She finally escaped by insisting she
wanted to study drama in England. But her
childhood had not been a total loss. She had
learned to ride, hunt, and ski, and in high
school she had been a star in the drama club
as well as on the tennis court.
Astorre poured his heart out to her. He told
her how he longed to be a singer, how he loved
the English way of life with its old medieval
structures, its royal pageantry, its polo
matches and fox hunts. But he never told her
about his uncle, Don Raymonde Aprile, and
his childhood visits to Sicily.
She made him dress in his hunting garb and
then undressed him. “You are so handsome,”
she said. “Maybe you were an English lord
in a past life.”
This was the only part of her that made Astorre
uncomfortable. She truly believed in reincarnation.
But then she made love to him and he forgot
everything else. It seemed that he had never
been so happy, except in Sicily.
But at the end of one year, Mr. Pryor took
him into his den to give him some bad news.
Mr. Pryor was wearing pantaloons and a peasant
knit jacket, his head covered with a checkered,
billed cap whose shadow hid his eyes.
He said to Astorre, “We have enjoyed your
stay with us. My wife loves your singing.
But now regretfully we must say our good-byes.
Don Raymonde has sent orders for you to go
to Sicily to live with his good friend Bianco.
There is some business you must learn there.
He wants you to grow up a Sicilian. You know
what that means.”
Astorre was shocked by the news but never
questioned that he must obey. And though he
yearned to be in Sicily again, he could not
bear the thought of never seeing Rosie again.
He said to Mr. Pryor, “If I visit London
once a month, can I stay with you?”
“I would be insulted if you did not,”
Mr. Pryor said. “But for what reason?”
Astorre explained about Rosie, professed his
love for her.
“Ah,” Mr. Pryor said, sighing with pleasure.
“How fortunate you are to be parted from
the woman you love. True ecstasy. And that
poor girl, how she will suffer. But go, don’t
worry. Leave me her name and address so I
can look after her.”
Astorre and Rosie had a tearful farewell.
He swore he would fly back to London each
month to be with her. She swore she would
never look at another man. It was a delicious
separation. Astorre would worry about her.
Her appearance, her cheerful manner, her smile
always invited seduction. The very qualities
he loved her for were always a danger. He
had seen it many times, as lovers always do,
believing that all the men in the world must
desire the woman he loved, that they too must
be attracted to her beauty, her wit and high
spirits.
Astorre was on the plane to Palermo the very
next day. He was met by Bianco, but a drastically
changed Bianco. The huge man now wore a tailored
silk suit and white broad-brimmed hat. He
dressed to fit his status, for now Bianco’s
cosca ruled most of the construction business
in war-ravaged Palermo. It was a rich living
but far more complicated than in the old days.
Now he had to pay off all the city and ministry
officials from Rome and defend his territory
from rival coscas like the powerful Corleonesi.
Octavius Bianco embraced Astorre and recalled
the long-ago kidnapping and then told him
of Don Raymonde’s instruction. Astorre was
to be trained to be Bianco’s bodyguard and
pupil in business deals. This would take at
least five years, but at the end of that time,
Astorre would be a true Sicilian and so worthy
of his uncle’s trust. He had a head start:
Because of his childhood visits he could speak
the Sicilian dialect like a native.
Bianco lived in an enormous villa just outside
Palermo, staffed with servants and a platoon
of guards around the clock. Because of his
wealth and power he was now connected intimately
with the high society of Palermo. During the
day Astorre was trained in shooting and explosives
and instruction with the rope. In the evenings
Bianco took him to meet friends in their homes
and in the coffee bars. Sometimes they attended
society dances, where Bianco was the darling
of the rich conservative widows and Astorre
sang gentle love songs to their daughters.
What amazed Astorre the most was the open
bribery of high-placed officials from Rome.
One Sunday the national minister of reconstruction
came to visit and cheerfully, without any
trace of shame, took a suitcase full of cash,
thanking Bianco effusively. He explained almost
apologetically that half of it had to go to
the prime minister of Italy himself. Later,
when Astorre and Bianco were back home, Astorre
asked if that was possible.
Bianco shrugged. “Not half, but I would
hope some. It’s an honor to give His Excellency
a little pocket money.”
During the following year Astorre visited
Rosie in London, flying in for just one day
and night at a time. These were nights of
bliss for him.
Also, that year he had his baptism of fire.
A truce had been arranged between Bianco and
the Corleonesi cosca. A leader of the Corleonesi
was a man named Tosci Limona. A small man
with a terrible cough, Limona had a striking
hawklike profile and deep-socketed eyes. Even
Bianco voiced some fear of him.
The meeting between the two leaders was to
take place on neutral ground and in the attendance
of one of the highest-ranking magistrates
in Sicily.
This judge, called the Lion of Palermo, took
great pride in his absolute corruption. He
reduced the sentences of Mafia members convicted
of murder, and he refused to allow prosecutions
to go forward. He made no secret of his friendship
with the Corleonesi cosca and that of Bianco.
He had a great estate ten miles from Palermo,
and it was here that the meeting was to take
place in order to ensure that no violence
would be done.
The two leaders were permitted to bring four
bodyguards each. They also shared the Lion’s
fee for arranging the meeting and presiding
over it and, of course, the rent of his home.
With his huge mane of white hair almost obscuring
his face, the Lion was the picture of respectable
jurisprudence.
Astorre commanded Bianco’s group of bodyguards,
and he was impressed by the affection shown
between the two men. Limona and Bianco showered
each other with embraces, kissing cheeks and
clasping hands stoutly. They laughed and whispered
intimately over the elaborate dinner the Lion
presented to them.
So he was surprised when, once the party was
over and he and Bianco were alone, Bianco
said to him, “We have to be very careful.
That bastard Limona is going to kill us all.”
And Bianco proved to be right.
A week later an inspector of police on Bianco’s
payroll was murdered as he left the home of
his mistress. Two weeks after that one of
the society swells of Palermo, a partner in
Bianco’s construction business, was killed
by a squad of masked men invading his house
and riddling him with bullets.
Bianco responded by increasing the number
of his body-guards and taking special pains
to secure the vehicles he traveled in. The
Corleonesi were known for their skill with
explosives. Bianco also stuck very close to
his villa.
But there came a day when he had to go into
Palermo to pay off two high-ranking city officials
and decided to dine in his favorite restaurant
there. He chose a Mercedes and a top driver/
guard. Astorre sat in the back seat with him.
A car preceded him and a car followed, both
with two armed men in addition to the drivers.
They were driving along a broad boulevard
when suddenly a motorcycle with two riders
zoomed out of a side street. The passenger
had a Kalashnikov rifle and pumped bullets
toward the car. But Astorre had already shoved
Bianco to the floor and then returned fire
as the cyclists zoomed away. The motorcycle
went down another side street and vanished.
Three weeks later, under cover of night, five
men were captured and brought to Bianco’s
villa, where they were tied up and hidden
in the cellar. “They are Corleonesi,”
Bianco said to Astorre. “Come down the cellar
with me.”
The men were bound in Bianco’s old peasant
style, their limbs interlocked. Armed guards
stood over them. Bianco took one of the guard’s
rifles and without saying a word shot all
five men in the back of the head.
“Throw them in the streets of Palermo,”
he commanded. Then he turned to Astorre. “After
you decide to kill a man, never speak to him.
It makes things embarrassing for both of you.”
“Were they the cyclists?” Astorre asked.
“No,” Bianco said. “But they will serve.”
And it did. From then on peace reigned between
the Palermo cosca and the Corleonesi.
Astorre had not been back to London to see
Rosie for almost two months. Early one morning
he received a call from her. He had given
her his number, to be used only in an emergency.
“Astorre,” she said in a very calm voice.
“Can you fly back right away? I’m in terrible
trouble.”
“Tell me what it is,” Astorre said.
“I can’t, over the phone,” Rosie said.
“But if you really love me, you’ll come.”
When Astorre asked Bianco’s permission to
leave, Bianco said, “Bring money.” And
he gave him a huge bundle of English pounds.
When Astorre arrived at Rosie’s apartment,
she let him in quickly and then carefully
locked the door. Her face was dead white,
and she was huddled in a bulky bathrobe he
had never seen before. She gave him a quick
grateful kiss. “You’re going to be angry
with me,” she said sadly.
In that moment Astorre thought she was pregnant,
and he said quickly, “Darling, I can never
be angry at you.”
She held him tightly. “You’ve been gone
over a year, you know. I tried so hard to
be faithful. But that’s a long time.”
Suddenly Astorre’s mind was clear, icy.
Here again was betrayal. But there was something
more. Why had she wanted him to come so quickly?
“OK,” he said, “why am I here?”
“You have to help me,” Rosie said, and
led him into the bedroom.
There was something in the bed. Astorre threw
back the sheet to find a middle-aged man lying
on his back, completely naked, yet with a
dignified look. This was partly due to the
small silver goatee or perhaps more to the
delicate carvings of his face. His body was
spare and thin, with a great mat of fur across
his chest; oddest of all, he wore gold-rimmed
spectacles over his open eyes. Though his
head was large for his body, he was a handsome
man. He was about as dead a man as Astorre
had ever seen, despite the fact that there
were no wounds. The spectacles were crooked,
and Astorre reached to straighten them.
Rosie whispered, “We were making love and
he went into this horrible spasm. He must
have had a heart attack.”
“When did this happen?” Astorre asked.
He was in minor shock.
“Last night,” Rosie said.
“Why didn’t you just call the emergency
medical team?” Astorre said. “It’s not
your fault.”
“He’s married and maybe it is my fault.
We used amyl nitrate. He had trouble climaxing.”
She said it without any embarrassment.
Astorre was genuinely astonished by her self-possession.
Looking at the corpse, he had the strange
feeling that he should dress the man and remove
his spectacles. He was too old to be naked,
at least fifty—it didn’t seem right. He
said to Rosie without malice but with the
incredulity of the young, “What did you
see in this guy?”
“He was my history professor,” Rosie said.
“Really very sweet, very kind. It was a
spur-of-the-moment thing. This was only the
second time. I was so lonely.” She paused
for a moment and then, looking directly into
his eyes, said, “You’ve got to help me.”
“Does anyone know he was seeing you?”
Astorre asked.
“No.”
“I still think we should call the police.”
“No,” Rosie said. “If you’re afraid,
I’ll take care of it myself.”
“Get dressed,” Astorre said with a stern
look. He pulled the sheet back over the dead
man.
An hour later they were at Mr. Pryor’s house;
he answered the door himself. Without a word,
he took them to the den and listened to their
story. He was very sympathetic to Rosie and
patted her hand in consolation, at which point
Rosie burst into tears. Mr. Pryor took off
his cap and actually clucked with sympathy.
“Give me the keys to your apartment,”
he said to Rosie. “Stay the night here.
Tomorrow you can return to your home and everything
will be in order. Your friend will have disappeared.
You will then stay here a week before you
go back to America.”
Mr. Pryor showed them to their bedroom as
if he assumed that nothing had happened to
spoil their love affair. And then he took
leave of them to take care of business.
Astorre always remembered that night. He lay
on the bed with Rosie, comforting her, wiping
her tears. “It was only the second time,”
she whispered to him. “It didn’t mean
anything, and we were such close friends.
I missed you. I admired him for his mind,
and then one night it just happened. He couldn’t
climax, and I hate to say this about him,
but he couldn’t even keep an erection. So
he asked to use the nitrate.”
She seemed so vulnerable, so hurt, so broken
by her tragedy that all Astorre could do was
comfort her. But one thing stuck in his mind.
She had stayed in her home with a dead body
for over twenty-four hours until he arrived.
That was a mystery, and if there was one mystery,
there could be others. But he wiped away her
tears and kissed her cheeks to comfort her.
“Will you ever see me again?” she asked
him, digging her face into his shoulder, making
him feel the softness of her body.
“Of course I will,” Astorre said. But
in his heart he wasn’t so sure.
The next morning Mr. Pryor reappeared and
told Rosie she could return to her flat. Rosie
gave him a grateful hug, which he accepted
warmly. He had a car waiting for her.
After she left, Mr. Pryor, correct in bowler
hat and umbrella, took Astorre to the airport.
“Don’t worry about her,” Mr. Pryor said.
“We will take care of everything.”
“Let me know,” Astorre said.
“Of course. She is a marvelous girl, a Mafioso
woman. You must forgive her little trespass.”
CHAPTER 8
DURING THOSE YEARS in Sicily, Astorre was
trained to be a Qualified Man. He even led
a squad of six of Bianco’s cosca men into
Corleone itself to execute their premier bombardier,
a man who had blown up an Italian Army general
and two of the most able anti-Mafia magistrates
in Sicily. It was a daring raid that established
his reputation in the upper levels of the
Palermo cosca led by Bianco.
Astorre also led an active social life and
frequented the cafés and nightclubs of Palermo—mostly
to meet beautiful women. Palermo was full
of the young Mafia picciotti, or foot soldiers,
of different coscas, all insistent on their
manhood, all careful to cut a fine figure
with their tailored suits, their manicured
nails, and hair slicked back like skin. All
looking to make their mark—to be feared
and to be loved. The youngest of them were
in their teens, sporting finely groomed mustaches,
their lips red as coral. They never gave an
inch to another male, and Astorre avoided
them. They were reckless, killing even those
of high rank in their world and thus ensuring
their own almost immediate death. For the
killing of a fellow Mafia member was like
the seduction of his wife, punished by murder.
To assuage their pride, Astorre always showed
these picciotti an amiable deference. And
he was popular with them. It helped that he
fell half in love with a club dancer called
Buji and so avoided their ill will in matters
of the heart.
Astorre spent several years as Bianco’s
right-hand man against the Corleonesi cosca.
Periodically he received instructions from
Don Aprile, who no longer made his annual
visit to Sicily.
The great bone of contention between the Corleonesi
and Bianco’s cosca was a matter of long-term
strategy. The Corleonesi cosca had decided
on a reign of terror against the authorities.
They assassinated investigating magistrates
and blew up generals sent to suppress the
Mafia in Sicily. Bianco believed that this
was harmful in the long run despite some immediate
benefits. But his objections led to his own
friends being killed. Bianco retaliated, and
the carnage became so pervasive that both
sides again sought a truce.
During his years in Sicily, Astorre made one
close friend. Nello Sparra was five years
older than Astorre and played with a band
in a Palermo nightclub where the hostesses
were very pretty and some did duty as high-class
prostitutes.
Nello did not lack for money—he seemed to
have various sources of income. He dressed
beautifully in the Palermo Mafioso style.
He was always high-spirited and ready for
adventure, and the girls in the club loved
him because he gave them small presents on
their birthday and holidays. And also because
they suspected he was one of the secret owners
of the club, which was a nice safe place to
work thanks to the strict protection of the
Palermo cosca that controlled all the entertainment
in the province. The girls were only too glad
to accompany Nello and Astorre to private
parties and excursions into the countryside.
Buji was a tall, striking, and voluptuous
brunette who danced at Nello Sparra’s nightclub.
She was famous for her temper and her independence
in taking lovers. She never encouraged a picciotto:
The men who courted her had to have money
and power. She had a reputation for being
mercenary in a frank and open way that was
considered Mafioso. She required expensive
gifts, but her beauty and ardor made the rich
men of Palermo eager to satisfy her needs.
Over the years Buji and Astorre established
a liaison on the hazardous brink of true love.
Astorre was Buji’s favorite, though she
did not hesitate to abandon him for an especially
remunerative weekend with a rich Palermo businessman.
When she first did this Astorre tried to reproach
her, but she overwhelmed him with her common
sense.
“I’m twenty-one years old,” she said.
“My beauty is my capital. When I’m thirty
I can be a housewife with a bunch of kids
or be independently wealthy with my own little
shop. Sure, we have good times, but you will
return to America, where I have no wish to
go—and where you have no wish to take me.
Let’s just enjoy ourselves as free human
beings. And despite everything, you will get
the best of me before I get tired of you.
So stop this nonsense. I have my own living
to make.” Then she added slyly, “And besides,
you have too dangerous a trade for me to count
on you.”
Nello owned an enormous villa outside Palermo,
on the seashore. With ten bedrooms, it easily
accommodated their parties. On the grounds
was a swimming pool shaped like the island
of Sicily and two clay tennis courts, which
were rarely used.
On weekends the villa would fill up with Nello’s
extended family, who came to visit from the
countryside. The children who did not swim
were penned into the tennis courts with their
toys and old racquets to play with the small
yellow tennis balls, which they kicked around
like soccer balls until they were strewn on
the clay like small yellow birds.
Astorre was included in this family life and
accepted as a darling nephew. Nello became
like a brother to him. At night Nello even
invited him up to the club bandstand and they
sang Italian love ballads to the audience,
which cheered them enthusiastically and to
the delight of the hostesses.
The Lion of Palermo, that eminently corruptible
judge, again offered his house and his presence
for a meeting between Bianco and Limona. Again,
they were each allowed to bring four bodyguards.
Bianco was even willing to give up a small
piece of his Palermo construction empire to
secure peace.
Astorre was taking no chances. He and his
three guards were heavily armed for the meeting.
Limona and his entourage were waiting at the
magistrate’s home when Bianco, Astorre,
and the guards arrived. A multicourse dinner
had been prepared. None of the bodyguards
sat down to the meal, only the magistrate—his
full white mane tied out of the way with a
pink ribbon—and Bianco and Limona. Limona
ate very little but was extremely amiable
and receptive to Bianco’s expressions of
affection. He promised that there would be
no more assassination of officials, especially
the ones in Bianco’s pocket.
At the end of the dinner, as they prepared
to go into the living room for a final discussion,
the Lion excused himself and said he would
be back in five minutes. He did so with a
deprecatory smile that made them understand
he was answering a call of nature.
Limona opened another bottle of wine and filled
Bianco’s glass. Astorre went to a window
and glanced down into the huge driveway. A
lone car was waiting, and as he watched, the
great white head of the Lion of Palermo appeared
in the driveway. The magistrate got into the
car, which quickly sped away.
Astorre did not hesitate one moment. His mind
instantly pieced things together. His gun
was in his hand without his even thinking.
Limona and Bianco had their arms entwined,
drinking from their glasses. Astorre stepped
close to them, brought up his gun, and fired
into Limona’s face. The bullet hit the glass
first before entering Limona’s mouth, and
shards of glass flew like diamonds over the
table. Astorre immediately turned his gun
on Limona’s four bodyguards and started
firing. His own men had their guns out shooting.
The bodies fell to the floor.
Bianco looked at him dumbfounded.
Astorre said, “The Lion has left the villa,”
and Bianco immediately understood that it
had been a trap.
“You must be careful,” Bianco told Astorre,
gesturing at Limona’s corpse. “His friends
will be after you.”
It is possible for a headstrong man to be
loyal, but it is not so easy for him to keep
himself out of trouble. And so it proved with
Pietro Fissolini. Following Don Raymonde’s
rare show of mercy toward him, Fissolini never
betrayed the Don, but he betrayed his own
family. He seduced the wife of his nephew
Aldo Monza. And this was many years after
his promise to the Don, when he was sixty
years old.
This was extraordinarily foolhardy. When Fissolini
seduced his nephew’s wife, he destroyed
his leadership of the cosca. Because in the
Mafia’s separate clusters, to maintain power,
one must put family above all. What made the
situation even more dangerous was that the
wife was the niece of Bianco. Bianco would
not tolerate any vengeance on his niece by
the husband. The husband inevitably had to
kill Fissolini, his favorite uncle and the
leader of the cosca. Two provinces would engage
in bloody strife, and it would decimate the
countryside. Astorre sent word to the Don
asking for his instructions.
The reply came: “You saved him once; you
must decide again.”
Aldo Monza was one of the most valued members
of the cosca and the extended family. He had
been one of the men spared death by the Don
years earlier. So when Astorre summoned him
to the Don’s village, he came willingly.
Astorre barred Bianco from the conference
with assurances that he would protect the
daughter.
Monza was tall for a Sicilian, nearly six
feet. He was magnificently built, his body
molded by hard labor since he was a child.
But his eyes were cavernous and his face barely
covered with flesh pulled so tight his head
looked like a skull. It made him seem particularly
unattractive and dangerous—and, in some
sense, tragic. Monza was the most intelligent
and most educated of Fissolini’s cosca.
He had studied in Palermo to be a veterinarian,
and he always carried his professional bag.
He had a natural sympathy for animals and
was always much in demand. Yet he was as fiercely
dedicated to the Sicilian code of honor as
any peasant. Next to Fissolini, he was the
most powerful man in the cosca.
Astorre had made his decision. “I am not
here to plead for Fissolini’s life. I understand
that your cosca has agreed to your vengeance.
I understand your grief. But I am here to
plead for the mother of your children.”
Monza stared at him. “She was a traitor,
to me and my children. I cannot let her live.”
“Listen to me,” Astorre said. “No one
will seek vengeance for Fissolini. But the
woman is Bianco’s niece. He will seek vengeance
for her death. His cosca is stronger than
yours. It will be a bloody war. Think of your
children.”
Monza gave a contemptuous wave of his hand.
“Who knows even if they are mine? She is
a whore.” He paused. “And she will die
a whore’s death.” His face became illumined
with death. He was beyond rage. He was willing
to destroy the world.
Astorre tried to imagine the man’s life
in his village, his wife lost, his dignity
betrayed by his uncle and his wife.
“Listen very carefully,” Astorre said.
“Years ago Don Aprile spared your life.
Now he asks this favor. Take your revenge
on Fissolini as we know you must. But spare
your wife, and Bianco will arrange to have
her and the children go to relatives in Brazil.
As for you personally, I make this offer with
approval from the Don. Come with me as my
personal assistant, my friend. You will live
a rich and interesting life. And you will
be spared the shame of living in your village.
You will also be safe from the vengeance of
Fissolini’s friends.”
It pleased Astorre that Aldo Monza made no
gesture of anger or surprise. For five minutes
he remained silent, thinking carefully. Then
Monza said, “Will you continue payment to
my family cosca? My brother will lead them.”
“Certainly,” Astorre said. “They are
valuable to us.”
“Then after I kill Fissolini, I will come
with you. Neither you nor Bianco can interfere
in any way. My wife does not go to Brazil
until she sees the dead body of my uncle.”
“Agreed,” Astorre said. And remembering
Fissolini’s joyful, jolly face and roguish
smile, he felt a pang of regret. “When will
it happen?”
“On Sunday,” Monza said. “I will be
with you on Monday. And may God burn Sicily
and my wife in a thousand eternal hells.”
“I will go with you back to your village,”
Astorre said. “I will take your wife under
my protection. I’m afraid you may be carried
away.”
Monza shrugged. “I cannot let my fate be
decided by what a woman puts in her vagina.”
The Fissolini cosca met early that Sunday
morning. The nephews and sons-in-law had to
decide whether or not to kill Fissolini’s
younger brother also, to avoid his vengeance.
Certainly, the brother must have known of
the seduction and, by not speaking, condoned
it. Astorre did not take any part in that
discussion. He simply made clear that the
wife and children could not be harmed. But
his blood chilled at the ferocity of these
men over what seemed to him not so grave an
offense. He realized now how merciful the
Don had been with him.
He understood it was not only a sexual matter.
When a wife betrays her husband with a lover,
she lets a possible Trojan horse into the
political structure of the cosca. She can
leak secrets and weaken defenses; she gives
her lover power over her husband’s Family.
She is a spy in a war. Love is no excuse for
such treachery.
So the cosca assembled Sunday morning for
breakfast in the home of Aldo Monza, and then
the women went to mass with the children.
Three men of the cosca took Fissolini’s
brother out to the fields—and to his death.
The others listened to Fissolini hold court
with the rest of his cosca gathered around
him. Only Aldo Monza didn’t laugh at his
jokes. Astorre, as an honored guest, sat next
to Fissolini.
“Aldo,” Fissolini said to his nephew with
a raffish smile, “you’ve become as sour
as you look.”
Monza stared back at his uncle. “I can’t
be as cheerful as you, Uncle. After all, I’m
not sharing your wife, am I?”
At the same time, three men of the cosca grabbed
Fissolini and held him to his chair. Monza
went into the kitchen and came back with his
bag of veterinary tools. “Uncle,” he said,
“I am teaching what you have forgotten.”
Astorre turned his head away.
In the bright Sunday-morning sunlight, on
the dirt road leading to the famous Church
of the Blessed Virgin Mary, a huge white horse
cantered slowly. On that horse was Fissolini.
He was fastened to the saddle with wire, and
his back was supported by a huge wooden crucifix.
He almost looked alive. But on his head, like
a crown of thorns, was a nest of twigs filled
with green grass to form a mound, and mounted
on that nest were his penis and testicles.
From them, running down his forehead were
tiny spiders of blood.
Aldo Monza and his beautiful young wife watched
from the steps of the church. She started
to cross herself, but Monza struck down her
arm and held her head straight to see. Then
he shoved her out into the road to follow
the corpse.
Astorre followed her and guided her to his
car to take her to Palermo and safety.
Monza made a move toward him and the woman,
his face masked with hate. Astorre gazed at
him quietly and raised a warning finger. Monza
let them go.
...
Six months after the killing of Limona, Nello
invited Astorre for a weekend at his villa.
They would play tennis and bathe in the sea.
They would feast on the fantastic local fish,
and they would have the company of two of
the prettiest dancers at the club, Buji and
Stella. And the villa would be clear of relatives,
who would be attending a huge family wedding
in the countryside.
It was beautiful Sicilian weather, with that
particular shadow to the sunlight that kept
the heat from being unbearable and made the
sky a startling canopy overhead. Astorre and
Nello played tennis with the girls, who had
never seen a racquet before but hit out lustily
and sent balls flying over the fence. Finally
Nello suggested they go for a walk on the
beach and a swim.
The five bodyguards were enjoying themselves
in the shade of the verandah, the servants
bringing them drinks and food. But this did
not relax their vigilance. For one thing,
they enjoyed watching the lithe bodies of
the two women in their bathing suits, speculating
about which of them was better in bed, and
all agreeing on Buji, whose vivacious speech
and laughter gave evidence of a higher potential
for arousal. Now they prepared for the walk
on the beach in good humor, even rolling up
their trouser legs.
But Astorre motioned for them. “We’ll
stay in sight,” he told them. “Enjoy your
drinks.”
The four of them strolled down the beach just
out of reach of the surf, Astorre and Nello
in front and the two women behind them. When
the women had gone fifty yards, they began
to strip off their bathing suits. Buji took
down her shoulder straps to show her breasts
and cupped them to hold the sun.
They all jumped into the surf, which was mild
and rippling. Nello was a first-class swimmer,
and he dove underwater and came up between
Stella’s legs so that when he stood she
was on his shoulders. He shouted to Astorre,
“Come on out!!” and Astorre waded to where
he could swim, Buji holding on to him from
behind. He pushed her underwater, sinking
with her below the surface, but instead of
being frightened, Buji tugged at his shorts
to uncover his behind.
Submerged, he felt a throbbing in his ears.
At the same time he saw Buji’s exposed white
breasts suspended in the green water below
the sea and her laughing face close to his.
Then the throbbing in his ears came to a roar,
and he surfaced, Buji clinging to his bare
hips.
The first thing he saw was a speedboat roaring
toward him, its motor a thunderstorm churning
up air and water. Nello and Stella were on
the beach. How did they get there so fast?
Far off, he could see his bodyguards, trousers
rolled, starting to run toward the sea from
the villa. He pushed Buji underwater and away
from him and tried to wade to the beach. But
he was too late. The speedboat was very close,
and he saw a man with a rifle aiming carefully.
The noise of the shots was muffled by the
roar of the motor.
The first bullet spun Astorre around so that
he was a broad target to the gunman. His body
seemed to jump out of the water, then collapsed
below the surface. He could hear the boat
receding, and then he felt Buji tugging at
him, dragging him, and trying to lift him
onto the beach.
When the bodyguards arrived they found Astorre
facedown in the surf, a bullet in his throat,
Buji weeping at his side.
It took Astorre four months to recover from
his wounds. Bianco had him hidden in a small
private hospital in Palermo where he could
be guarded and given the best treatment. Bianco
visited him every day, and Buji came on her
days off from the club.
It was near the end of his stay that Buji
brought him a two-inch-wide gold neckband
from the center of which hung a gold disk
etched with an image of the Virgin Mary. She
put it around his neck like a collar and positioned
the medallion over his wound. It had been
treated with adhesive that made it stick to
the skin. The disk was no bigger than a silver
dollar, but it covered the wound and looked
like an adornment. Still, there was nothing
effeminate about it.
“That does the job,” Buji said affectionately.
“I couldn’t bear looking at it.” She
kissed him gently.
“You just wash off the adhesive once a day,”
Bianco said.
“I’ll get my throat slit by somebody who
wants gold,” Astorre said wryly. “Is this
really necessary?”
“Yes,” Bianco said. “A man of respect
cannot flaunt an injury inflicted by an enemy.
Also, Buji is right. Nobody can bear the sight
of it.”
The only thing that registered with Astorre
was that Bianco had called him a man of respect.
Octavius Bianco, that ultimate Mafioso, had
done him the honor. He was surprised and flattered.
After Buji left—for a weekend with the wealthiest
wine merchant in Palermo—Bianco held a mirror
up for Astorre. The band of gold was handsomely
made. The Madonna, Astorre thought; she was
all over Sicily, in roadside shrines, in cars
and houses, on children’s toys.
He said to Bianco, “Why is it the Madonna
Sicilians worship, instead of the Christ?”
Bianco shrugged. “Jesus was, after all,
a man, and so cannot be fully trusted. Anyway,
forget all that. It’s done. Before you go
back to America, you will spend a year with
Mr. Pryor in London to learn about the banking
business. Your uncle’s orders. There is
another thing. Nello must be killed.”
Astorre had gone over the whole affair many
times in his mind and knew Nello was guilty.
But what was the reason? They had been good
friends for such a long time, and it had been
a genuine friendship. But then there had come
the killing of the Corleonesi. Nello must
be related in some way to the Corleonesi cosca
and he had no choice.
And there was the fact that Nello had never
tried to visit him in the hospital. In fact,
Nello had disappeared from Palermo. He played
at the club no more. Still, Astorre hoped
he might be wrong.
“Are you sure it was Nello?” Astorre said.
“He was my dearest friend.”
“Who else could they use?” Bianco said.
“Your most bitter enemy? Of course, your
friend. In any case you will have to punish
him yourself as a man of respect. So get well.”
On Bianco’s next visit Astorre said to him,
“We have no proof against Nello. Let the
matter rest, and make your peace with the
Corleonesi. Let the word go out that I died
of my wounds.”
At first Bianco argued furiously, but then
he accepted the wisdom of Astorre’s advice
and thought him a clever man. He could make
peace with the Corleonesi, and the score would
be even. As for Nello, he was just a pawn
and not worth killing. Until another day.
It took a week for arrangements to be made.
Astorre would return to the United States
through London, to be briefed by Mr. Pryor.
Bianco told Astorre that Aldo Monza would
be sent to America directly to stay with Don
Aprile and would be waiting for him in New
York.
Astorre spent a year with Mr. Pryor in London.
It was an enlightening experience.
In Mr. Pryor’s den, over a jug of wine with
lemon, it was explained that there were extraordinary
plans for him. That his stay in Sicily had
been part of a specific plan by the Don to
prepare him for a certain important role.
Astorre asked him about Rosie. He had never
forgotten her—her grace, her pure joy in
living, her generosity in all things, including
lovemaking. He missed her.
Mr. Pryor raised his eyebrows. “That Mafioso
girl,” he said. “I knew you would not
forget her.”
“Do you know where she is?” Astorre asked.
“Certainly,” Pryor said. “In New York.”
Astorre said hesitantly, “I’ve been thinking
about her. After all, I was gone a long time
and she was young. What happened was very
natural. I was hoping to see her again.”
“Of course,” Mr. Pryor said. “Why would
you not? After dinner I will give you all
the information you need.”
So late that night in Mr. Pryor’s den, Astorre
got the full story on Rosie. Mr. Pryor played
tapes of Rosie’s phone conversations that
revealed her meetings with men in her flat.
These tapes made clear that Rosie had sexual
liaisons with them, that they gave her expensive
gifts and money. It was a shock for Astorre
to hear her voice, using tones that he had
thought were meant only for him—the clear
laugh, the witty, affectionate quips. She
was extremely charming and never coarse or
vulgar. She made herself sound like a high
school girl going on a prom date. Her innocence
was a work of genius.
Mr. Pryor was wearing his cap low over his
eyes, but he was watching Astorre.
Astorre said, “She’s very good, isn’t
she?”
“A natural,” Mr. Pryor said.
“Were these tapes made when I was going
with her?” Astorre asked.
Mr. Pryor made a deprecating gesture. “It
was my duty to protect you. Yes.”
“And you never said anything?” Astorre
said.
“You were really madly in love,” Mr. Pryor
said. “Why should I spoil your pleasure?
She was not greedy, she treated you well.
I was young myself once, and believe me, in
love the truth is of no importance. And despite
everything, she is a marvelous girl.”
“A high-class call girl,” Astorre said,
almost bitterly.
“Not really,” Mr. Pryor said. “She had
to live by her wits. She ran away from home
when she was fourteen, but she was highly
intelligent and wanted an education. She also
wanted to live a happy life. All perfectly
natural. She could make men happy, a rare
talent. It was fair that they should pay a
price.”
Astorre laughed. “You are an enlightened
Sicilian. But what about spending twenty-four
hours with the dead body of a lover?”
Mr. Pryor laughed with delight. “But that
is the best part of her. Truly Mafioso. She
has a warm heart but a cold mind. What a combination.
Magnificent. But then, you must always be
wary of her. Such a person is always dangerous.”
“And the amyl nitrate?” Astorre asked.
“Of that she is innocent. Her affair with
the professor had been going on before she
met you, and he insisted on the drug. No,
what we have here is a girl who straightforwardly
thinks of her own happiness to the exclusion
of everything else. She has no social inhibitions.
My advice to you is stay in touch. You may
want to make some professional use of her.”
“I agree,” Astorre said. He was surprised
that he felt no anger toward Rosie. That her
charm was all she needed to be forgiven. He
would let it go, he told Mr. Pryor.
“Good,” Mr. Pryor said. “After a year
here, you will go to Don Aprile.”
“And what will happen to Bianco?” Astorre
asked.
Mr. Pryor shook his head and sighed. “Bianco
must yield. The Corleonesi cosca is too strong.
They will not pursue you. The Don made the
peace. The truth is that Bianco’s success
has made him too civilized.”
Astorre kept track of Rosie. Partly out of
caution, partly out of fond remembrance of
the great love of his life. He knew that she
had returned to school and was working toward
her Ph.D. in psychology at New York University
and that she lived in a secure apartment building
nearby where she had finally become more professional
with older and richer men.
She was very clever. She ran three liaisons
at a time and apportioned her rewards among
expensive gifts of money, jewelry, and vacations
to the spas of the rich—where she made further
contacts. No one could call her a professional
call girl, since she never asked for anything,
but she never refused a gift.
That these men fell in love with her was a
foregone conclusion. But she never accepted
their offers of marriage. She insisted that
they were friends who loved each other, that
marriage was not suitable for her or them.
Most of the men accepted this decision with
grateful relief. She was not a gold digger;
she did not press for money and showed no
evidence of greed. All she wanted was to live
in a luxurious style, free of encumbrance.
But she did have an instinct to squirrel money
away for a rainy day. She had five different
bank accounts and two safe-deposit boxes.
It was a few months after the Don’s death
that Astorre decided to see Rosie again. He
was certain that it was only to get her help
in his plans. He told himself that he knew
her secrets and she could not dazzle him again.
And she was in his debt and he knew her fatal
secret.
He knew also that in a certain sense she was
amoral. That she put herself and her pleasure
in an exalted realm, an almost religious belief.
She believed with all her heart that she had
a right to be happy and that this took precedence
over everything else.
But more than anything, he wanted to see her
again. Like many men, the passage of time
had lessened her betrayals and heightened
her charms. Now her sins seemed more a youthful
carelessness, not some proof that she did
not love him. He remembered her breasts, how
they blotched with pink when she made love;
the way she ducked her head in shyness; her
infectious high spirits; her gentle good humor.
The way she walked so effortlessly with her
stiltlike legs and the incredible heat of
her mouth on his lips. Despite all this, Astorre
convinced himself that this visit was strictly
business. He had a job for her to do.
Rosie was about to enter her apartment building
when he stepped in front of her, smiled, and
said hello. She was carrying books in her
right arm and she dropped them on the pavement.
Her face blushed with pleasure; her eyes sparkled.
She threw her arms around him and kissed him
on the mouth.
“I knew I’d see you again,” she said.
“I knew you’d forgive me.” Then she
pulled him into the building and led him up
one flight of stairs to her apartment.
There she poured them drinks, wine for her,
brandy for him. She sat next to him on the
sofa. The room was luxuriously furnished,
and he knew where the money came from.
“Why did you wait so long?” Rosie asked.
As she spoke, she was removing the rings from
her fingers, detaching her earrings, tugging
at the lobes. She slipped off the three bracelets
from her left arm, all gold and diamonds.
“I was busy,” Astorre said. “And it
took me a long time to find you.”
Rosie gave him an affectionate, tender look.
“Do you still sing? Do you still ride in
that ridiculous red outfit?” She kissed
him again, and Astorre felt a warmth in his
brain, a hopeless response.
“No,” he said. “Rosie, we can’t go
back.”
Rosie pulled him to his feet. “It was the
happiest time of my life,” she said. Then
they were in the bedroom, and in seconds they
were naked.
Rosie took a bottle of perfume from her night
table and sprayed first herself, then him.
“No time for a bath,” she said, laughing.
And then they were in bed together and he
saw the pink blotches grow slowly over her
breasts.
For Astorre it was a disembodied experience.
He enjoyed the sex but he could not enjoy
Rosie. A vision arose in his mind of her keeping
vigilance over the dead professor’s body
for a night and a day. Had he been alive,
could he have been helped to live? What had
Rosie done alone with death and the professor?
Lying on her back, Rosie reached out to touch
his check. She ducked her head down and murmured
softly, “That old black magic doesn’t
work anymore.” She had been toying with
the gold medallion on his neck, saw the ugly
purple wound, and kissed it.
Astorre said, “It was fine.”
Rosie sat up, her naked torso and breasts
hanging over him. “You can’t forgive me
for the professor, that I let him die and
stayed with him. Isn’t that right?”
Astorre didn’t answer. He would never tell
her what he knew about her now. That she had
never changed.
Rosie got out of bed and started to dress.
He did the same.
“You’re a much more terrible person,”
Rosie said. “The adopted nephew of Don Aprile.”
And your friend in London who helped clean
up my mess. He did a very professional job
for an English banker, but not when you know
he immigrated from Italy. It wasn’t hard
to figure out.”
They were in the living room, and she made
them another drink. She looked earnestly into
his eyes. “I know what you are. And I don’t
mind, I really don’t. We’re really soul
mates. Isn’t that perfect?”
Astorre laughed. “The last thing I want
to find is a soul mate,” he said. “But
I did come to see you on business.”
Rosie was impassive now. All the charm was
gone from her face. She began to slip her
rings back onto her fingers. “My price for
a quickie is five hundred dollars,” she
said. “I can take a check.” She smiled
at him mischievously—it was a joke. He knew
she only took gifts on holidays and birthdays,
and those were far more substantial. In fact,
the apartment they were in had been a birthday
gift from an admirer.
“No, seriously,” said Astorre. And then
he told her about the Sturzo brothers and
what he wanted her to do. And he put the closer
on it. “I’ll give you twenty thousand
now for expenses,” he said, “and another
hundred thousand when you’re done.”
Rosie looked at him very thoughtfully. “And
what happens afterward?” she asked.
“You don’t have to worry,” Astorre said.
“I see,” Rosie said. “And what if I
say no?”
Astorre shrugged. He didn’t want to think
about that. “Nothing,” he said.
“You won’t turn me in to the English authorities?”
she said.
“I could never do that to you,” Astorre
said, and she could not doubt the sincerity
in his voice.
Rosie sighed. “OK.” And then he saw her
eyes sparkle. She grinned at him. “Another
adventure,” she said.
Now, riding out through Westchester, Astorre
was awakened from his memories by Aldo Monza
pressing his leg. “A half hour to go,”
Monza said. “You have to prepare yourself
for the Sturzo brothers.”
Astorre stared out the car window at the fresh
snowflakes falling. They were in a countryside
barren but for large, bare trees,whose sparkling
branches stuck out like magician’s wands.
The blanket of luminescent snow made the covered
stones seem like bright stars. At that moment
Astorre felt a cold desolation in his heart.
After this night, his world would change,
he would change, and in some way his true
life would begin.
Astorre reached the safe house in a landscape
ghostly white, snow in huge drifts.
Inside, the Sturzo twins were handcuffed,
their feet shackled, and special restraining
jackets fitted onto their bodies. They were
lying on the floor of one bedroom, guarded
by two armed men.
Astorre regarded them with sympathy. “It’s
a compliment,” he told them. “We appreciate
how dangerous you are.”
The two brothers were completely different
in their attitudes. Stace seemed calm, resigned,
but Franky glared at them with hatred that
transfigured his face from its usual amiable
look into a gargoyle.
Astorre sat on the bed. “I guess you guys
have figured it out,” he said.
Stace said quietly, “Rosie was bait. She
was very good, right, Franky?”
“Exceptional,” Franky said. He was trying
to keep his voice from ranging hysterically
high.
“That’s because she really liked you guys,”
Astorre said. “She was crazy about you,
especially Franky. It was tough for her. Very
tough.”
Franky said contemptuously, “Then why did
she do it?”
“Because I gave her a lot of money,” Astorre
said. “Really a lot of money. You know how
that is, Franky.”
“No, I don’t,” Franky said.
“I figure it took a big price for two smart
guys like you to take the contract on the
Don,” Astorre said. “A million? Two million?”
Stace said, “You have it all wrong. We had
no part in that. We’re not that stupid.”
Astorre said, “I know you’re the shooters.
You have a rep for having big balls. And I
checked you out. Now, what I want from you
is the name of the broker.”
“You’re wrong,” Stace said. “There
is no way you can put that on us. And who
the hell are you, anyway?”
“I’m the Don’s nephew,” Astorre said.
“His sweeper-upper. And I’ve been checking
you two guys out for nearly six months. At
the time of the shooting, you weren’t in
L.A. You didn’t show for over a week. Franky,
you missed two games coaching the kids. Stace,
you never dropped in to see how the store
went. You never even called. So just tell
me where you were.”
“I was in Vegas gambling,” Franky said.
“And we could talk better if you took off
some of these restraints. We’re not fucking
Houdinis.”
Astorre gave him a sympathetic smile. “In
a bit,” he said. “Stace, how about you?”
“I was up with my girlfriend in Tahoe,”
Stace said. “But who the hell can remember?”
Astorre said, “Maybe I’ll have better
luck talking to you separately.”
He left them and went down to the kitchen,
where Monza had coffee waiting for him. He
told Monza to put the brothers into different
bedrooms and keep two guards with each man
at all times. Aldo was working with a six-man
team.
“Are you sure you have the right fellows?”
Monza said.
“I think so,” Astorre said. “If not
them, it’s just their bad luck. I hate to
ask you, Aldo, but you may have to help them
talk.”
“Well, they don’t always talk,” Monza
said. “It’s hard to believe, but people
are willful. And these two look very hard
to me.”
“I just hate to go that low,” Astorre
said.
He waited an hour before going up to the room
where Franky was. Night had fallen, but reflected
in the lamplight outside he could see snowflakes
swirling slowly down. He found Franky on the
floor in full restraints.
“It’s very simple,” Astorre said to
him. “Give us the name of the broker, and
you may get out of here alive.”
Franky looked at him with hatred. “I’ll
never fucking tell you anything, you asshole.
You got the wrong guys. And I’ll remember
your face and I’ll remember Rosie.”
“That’s absolutely the wrong thing to
say,” Astorre told him.
“Were you fucking her too?” Franky said.
“You’re a pimp?”
Astorre understood. Franky would never forgive
the betrayal by Rosie. What a frivolous response
to a serious situation.
“I think you’re being stupid,” Astorre
said. “And you guys have a rep for being
smart.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what you think,”
Franky said. “You can’t do anything if
you have no proof.”
“Really? So I’m wasting my time with you,”
Astorre said. “I’ll go talk with Stace.”
Astorre went down to the kitchen for more
coffee before he went up to Stace. He pondered
the fact that Franky could look so confident
and speak so brashly while under such strict
constraints. Well, he would have to do better
with Stace. He found the man propped up uncomfortably
in bed.
“Take his jacket off,” Astorre said. “But
check his cuffs and shackles.”
“I figured it out,” Stace said to him
calmly. “You know we have a stash. I can
arrange for you to pick it up and end this
nonsense.”
“I just had a talk with Franky,” Astorre
said. “I was disappointed in him. You and
your brother are supposed to be very smart
guys. Now you talk to me about money, and
you know this is about you hitting the Don.”
“You have it wrong,” Stace said.
Astorre said gently, “I know you weren’t
in Tahoe, and I know Franky wasn’t in Vegas.
You are the only two freelancers who had the
balls to take the job. And the shooters were
lefties like you and Franky. So all I want
to know is, who was your broker?”
“Why should I tell you?” Stace said. “I
know the story is over. You guys didn’t
wear masks, you exposed Rosie, so you are
not going to let us out of here alive. No
matter what you promise.”
Astorre sighed. “I won’t try to con you.
That’s about it. But you have one thing
you can bargain for. Easy or hard. I have
a very Qualified Man with me, and I’m going
to put him to work on Franky.” As he said
this, Astorre felt a queasiness in his stomach.
He remembered Aldo Monza working on Fissolini.
“You’re wasting your time,” Stace said.
“Franky won’t talk.”
“Maybe not,” Astorre said. “But he’ll
be taken apart piece by piece, and each piece
will be brought to you to check. I figure
you to talk to save him from that. But why
even start down that road? And Stace, why
would you want to protect that broker? He
was supposed to cover you, and he didn’t.”
Stace didn’t answer. Then he said, “Why
don’t you let Franky go?”
Astorre said, “You know better than that.”
“How do you know I won’t lie to you?”
Stace said.
“Why the hell should you?” Astorre said.
“What do you gain? Stace, you can keep Franky
from going through something really terrible.
You have to see it clear.”
“We were just the shooters, doing a job,”
Stace said. “The guy higher is the one you
want. Why can’t you just let us go?”
Astorre was patient. “Stace, you and your
brother took the job of killing a great man.
Big price, big ego thing. Come on. It boosted
you. You guys took your shot and lost, and
now you have to pay or else the whole world
is on a tilt. It has to be. Now, all you have
is the choice, easy or hard. In an hour from
now you can be looking at a very important
piece of Franky on that table. Believe me,
I don’t want to do that, I really don’t.”
Stace said, “How do I know you’re not
full of shit?”
Astorre said, “Think, Stace. Think how I
set you up with Rosie. A lot of time and patience.
Think, I got you to this place and have seven
armed men. A lot of expenses and a lot of
trouble. And just before Christmas Eve. I’m
a very serious fellow, Stace, you can see
that. I’ll give you an hour to think it
over. I promise if you talk, Franky will never
know it’s coming.”
Astorre went down to the kitchen again. Monza
was waiting for him.
“So?” Monza said.
“I don’t know,” Astorre said. “But
I have to be at Nicole’s Christmas Eve party
tomorrow, so we have to end this tonight.”
“It won’t take me over an hour,” Monza
said. “He’ll either talk or be dead.”
Astorre relaxed by the roaring fire for a
short time and then went upstairs again to
see Stace. The man looked weary and resigned.
He had thought it over. He knew Franky would
never talk—Franky thought there was still
hope. Stace believed Astorre had put all the
cards on the table. And now Stace comprehended
the fears of all the men he had killed, their
last despairing and fruitless hopes for some
fate to save them. Against all probabilities.
And he didn’t want Franky to die like that,
piece by piece. He studied Astorre’s face.
It was stern, implacable despite his youth.
He had the gravity of a high judge.
The heavily falling snow was coating the windowpanes
like white fur. Franky, in his room, was daydreaming
about being in Europe with Rosie, the snow
coating the Paris boulevards, falling into
the canals of Venice. The snow like magic.
Rome like magic.
Stace lay on his bed worrying about Franky.
They had taken the shot and lost. And it was
the end of the story. But he could help Franky
think they were only twenty points down.
“I’m OK with it now,” Stace said. “Make
sure Franky doesn’t know what’s happening,
OK?”
“I promise,” Astorre said. “But I’ll
know if you’re lying.”
“No,” Stace said. “What’s the point?
The broker is a guy named Heskow, and he lives
in a town called Brightwaters, just past Babylon.
He’s divorced, lives alone, and has a sixteen-year-old
humongous kid who’s a terrific basketball
player. Heskow’s hired us for some jobs
over the years. We go back to when we were
kids. The price was a million, but still me
and Franky were leery about taking it. Too
big a hit. We took it because he said we didn’t
have to worry about the FBI and we didn’t
have to worry about the police. That it was
a great big fix. He also told us that the
Don no longer had any juice connections. But
he was obviously wrong on that. You’re here.
It was just too big a payday to turn down.”
“That’s a lot of info to give a guy you
think is full of shit,” Astorre said.
“I want to convince you I’m telling the
truth,” Stace said. “I figured it out.
The story is over. I don’t want Franky to
know it.”
“Don’t worry,” Astorre said. “I believe
you.”
He left the room and went down to the kitchen
to give Monza his instructions. He wanted
their IDs, licenses, credit cards, et cetera.
He kept his word to Stace: Franky was to be
shot in the back of the head without any warning.
And Stace was also to be executed without
pain.
Astorre left to drive back to New York. The
snow had turned to rain, and it rinsed the
countryside of snow.
...
It was rare that Monza disregarded an order,
but as the executioner he felt he had the
right to protect himself and his men. There
would be no guns. He would use rope.
First he took four guards to help him strangle
Stace. The man didn’t even try to resist.
But with Franky it was different. For twenty
minutes he tried to twist away from the rope.
For a terrible twenty minutes Franky Sturzo
knew he was being murdered.
Then the two bodies were wrapped in blankets
and carried through the heavy glades as the
rain changed back into snow. They were deposited
in the forest behind the house. A hole in
a very dense thicket was the hiding place,
and they would not be discovered until spring,
if ever. By that time the bodies would be
so destroyed by nature that, Monza hoped,
the cause of death could not be determined.
But it was not only for this practical reason
that Monza had disobeyed his chief. For like
Don Aprile, he felt deeply that mercy could
only come from God. He despised the idea of
any kind of mercy for men who hired themselves
out as killers of other men. It was presumptuous
for one man to forgive another. That was the
duty of God. For men to pretend such mercy
was an idle pride and a lack of respect. He
did not desire any such mercy for himself.
CHAPTER 9
KURT CILKE BELIEVED in the law, those rules
man invented to live a peaceful life. He had
always tried to avoid those compromises that
undermine a fair society, and he fought without
mercy against the enemies of the state. After
twenty years of the struggle, he had lost
a great deal of his faith.
Only his wife lived up to his expectations.
The politicians were liars, the rich merciless
in their greed for power, the poor vicious.
And then there were the born con men, the
swindlers, the brutes and murderers. The enforcers
of the law were only slightly better, but
he had believed with all his heart that the
Bureau was the best of all.
Over the past year he’d had a recurring
dream. In it he was a boy of twelve, and he
had to take a crucial school exam that would
last all day. When he left the house his mother
was in tears, and in his dream he understood
why. If he did not pass the exam, he would
never see her again.
In the dream he understood murder had become
so rampant that laws had been set up with
the help of the psychiatric community to develop
a protocol of mental-health tests that could
predict which twelve-year-olds would grow
up to become murderers. Those who failed the
test simply vanished. For medical science
had proved that murderers killed for the pleasure
of killing. That political crimes, rebellion,
terrorism, jealousy, and stealing were simply
the surface excuses. So it was only necessary
to weed out these genetic murderers at an
early age.
The dream jumped to his return home after
the exam, and his mother hugged and kissed
him. His uncles and cousins had prepared a
huge celebration. Then he was alone in his
bedroom shaking with fear. For he knew there
had been a mistake. He should never have passed
the exam, and now he would grow up to be a
murderer.
The dream had occurred twice, and he did not
mention it to his wife because he knew what
the dream meant, or thought he did.
Cilke’s relationship with Timmona Portella
was now over six years old. It had begun when
Portella murdered an underling in a blind
rage. Cilke had immediately seen the possibilities.
He had made arrangements for Portella to be
an informant on the Mafia in return for nonprosecution
of the murder. The director had approved the
plan, and the rest was history. With Portella’s
help, Cilke had crushed the New York Mafia
but had had to turn a blind eye to Portella’s
operations, including his supervision of the
drug trade.
But Cilke, with approval from the director,
had plans to bring Portella down again. Portella
was determined to acquire the use of the Aprile
banks to launder the drug money. But Don Aprile
had proved obstinate. At one fateful meeting
Portella had asked Cilke, “Will the FBI
be surveilling Don Aprile when he attends
his grandson’s confirmation?” Cilke understood
immediately, but he hesitated before he answered.
Then he said slowly, “I guarantee that they
will not be. But what about the NYPD?”
“That’s taken care of,” Portella said.
And Cilke knew he would be an accomplice to
murder. But didn’t the Don deserve it? He
had been a ruthless criminal most of his life.
He had retired with enormous wealth, untouched
by the law. And look at the gain. Portella
would walk right into his trap by acquiring
the Aprile banks. And of course, there was
always Inzio in the background, with his dreams
of his own nuclear arsenal. Cilke knew that
with luck he could wrap it all up and the
government could get ten billion dollars’
worth of Aprile banks under RICO, for there
was no doubt that the Don’s heirs would
sell the banks, make a deal with Portella’s
secret emissaries. And ten or eleven billion
dollars would be a powerful weapon against
crime itself.
But Georgette would despise him, so she must
never know. After all, she lived in a different
world.
But now he had to meet with Portella again.
There was the matter of his butchered German
shepherds and who was behind it. He would
start with Portella.
Timmona Portella was that rarity in Italian
men of achievement: a bachelor in his fifties.
But he was by no means celibate. Every Friday
he spent most of the night with a beautiful
woman from one of the escort services controlled
by his underlings. The instructions were that
the girl be young, not too long in the game,
that she be beautiful and delicately featured.
That she be jolly and upbeat but not a wise-ass.
And that no kinkiness be proposed. Timmona
was a straight-from-the-shoulder sex guy.
He had his little quirks, but they were harmlessly
avuncular. One of them being that the girls
had to have a plain Anglo-Saxon name like
Jane or Susan; he could cope with something
like Tiffany or even Merle, but nothing with
any ethnicity. Rarely did he have the same
woman twice.
These assignations were always held in a relatively
small East Side hotel owned by one of his
companies, where he had the use of an entire
floor, consisting of two interlocking suites.
One had a fully stocked kitchen, for Portella
was a gifted amateur chef, oddly enough of
Northern Italian cuisine, though his parents
had been born in Sicily. And he loved to cook.
Tonight the girl was brought to his suite
by the owner of the escort service, who stayed
for a drink and then disappeared. Then Portella
whipped up supper for two while they chatted
and got acquainted. Her name was Janet. Portella
cooked with quick efficiency. Tonight he made
his specialty: veal Milanese, spaghetti in
a sauce with Gruyère cheese, tiny roasted
eggplants on the side, and a salad of greens
with tomatoes. Dessert was an assortment of
pastries from a famous French patisserie in
the neighborhood.
He served Janet with a courtliness that belied
his exterior; he was a large, hairy man with
a huge head and coarse skin, but he always
ate in shirt, tie, and jacket. Over dinner,
he asked Janet questions about her life with
concern unexpected in so brutal a man. He
delighted to hear her tales of misfortune,
how she had been betrayed by her father, brothers,
lovers, and the powerful men who led her into
a sinful life through economic pressures and
unwanted pregnancies so she could save her
poverty-stricken family. He was amazed at
the varieties of dishonorable behavior displayed
by his fellow men and marveled at his own
goodness with women. For he was extremely
generous with them, not only by giving them
huge sums of money.
After dinner he took the wine into the sitting
room and showed Janet six boxes of jewelry:
a gold watch, a ruby ring, diamond earrings,
a jade necklace, a jeweled armband, and a
perfect string of pearls. He told her she
could choose one as a gift. They were all
worth a few thousand dollars—the girls would
usually have them appraised.
Years ago one of his crews had hijacked a
jewelry truck, and he had warehoused the contents
rather than have them fenced. So, actually,
the gifts cost him nothing.
While Janet considered what she wanted, and
finally chose the watch, he drew her a bath,
carefully testing the temperature of the water
and providing her with his favorite perfumes
and powders. It was only then, after she had
relaxed, that they retired to bed and had
good normal sex, as any happily married couple
would do.
If he was particularly amorous, he might keep
a girl until four or five in the morning,
but he never went to sleep while she was in
his suite. This night he dismissed Janet early.
He did it all for his health. He knew that
he had a wild temper that could get him into
trouble. These weekly sex trysts calmed him
down. Women in general had a quieting effect
on him, and he proved the efficacy of his
strategy by going to his doctor every Saturday
and hearing with satisfaction that his blood
pressure had returned to normal. When he told
this to his doctor, the man had only murmured,
“Very interesting.” Portella was very
disappointed in him.
There was another advantage to this arrangement.
Portella’s bodyguards were isolated in front
of the suite. But the back door led to the
adjoining suite with its entrance into a separate
hallway, and it was there that Portella had
meetings he did not want his closest advisors
to know about. For it is a very dangerous
business for a Mafia chief to meet in private
with an FBI special agent. He would be suspected
as an informer, and Cilke might be suspected
by the Bureau of being a bribe taker.
It was Portella who supplied the phone numbers
to be tapped, named the weaklings who would
cave under pressure, pointed to clues to racket
murders, and explained how certain rackets
worked. And it was Portella who did some dirty
jobs that the FBI could not legally do.
Over the years they had developed a code for
arranging meetings. Cilke had a key to the
suite door in the opposite hallway so he could
enter without being detected by Portella’s
bodyguards and wait in the minor suite. Portella
would get rid of his girl, and their meeting
would begin. On this particular night, Portella
was waiting for Cilke.
Cilke was always a little nervous at these
meetings. He knew that not even Portella would
dare harm an FBI agent, but the man had a
temperament that verged on insanity. Cilke
was armed, but to hide the identity of his
informant he couldn’t bring bodyguards.
Portella had a wineglass in his hand, and
his first words of greeting were “What the
fuck’s wrong now?” But he was smiling
genially and gave Cilke a half hug. Portella’s
massive belly was hidden in an elegant Chinese
robe over white pajamas.
Cilke refused a drink, sat on the sofa, and
said calmly, “A few weeks ago, I went home
after work and found my two dogs with their
hearts cut out. I thought you might have a
clue.” He watched Portella closely.
Portella’s surprise seemed genuine. He had
been sitting in an armchair and seemed galvanized
out of his seat. His face filled with rage.
Cilke was not impressed; in his experience
the guilty could react with the purest innocence.
He said, “If you’re trying to warn me
off something, why not tell me directly?”
At this Portella said almost tearfully, “Kurt,
you come here armed; I felt your gun. I am
not armed. You could kill me and claim I resisted
arrest. I trust you. I’ve deposited over
a million dollars in your Cayman Island account.
We’re partners. Why would I pull such an
old Sicilian trick? Somebody is trying to
split us up. You have to see that.”
“Who?” Cilke said.
Portella was thoughtful. “It can only be
that Astorre kid. He has delusions of grandeur
because he got away from me once. Check him
out, and meanwhile I’ll put a contract on
him.”
Finally Cilke was convinced. “OK,” he
said, “but I think we have to be very careful.
Don’t underestimate this guy.”
“Don’t worry,” Portella said. “Hey,
did you eat? I have some veal and spaghetti,
a salad and some good wine.”
Cilke laughed. “I believe you. But I have
no time for dinner.”
The truth was he did not want to break bread
with a man he would soon be sending to prison.
Astorre now had enough information to draw
up a battle plan. He was convinced that the
FBI had a hand in the Don’s death. And that
Cilke was in charge of the operation. He now
knew who the broker was. He knew that Timmona
Portella had put out the contract. And yet
there remained some mysteries. The ambassador,
through Nicole, had offered to buy the banks
with foreign investors. Cilke had offered
him a deal to betray Portella into a criminal
situation. These were disturbing and dangerous
variations. He decided to consult with Craxxi
in Chicago and to bring Mr. Pryor with him.
Astorre had already requested that Mr. Pryor
come to America to run the Aprile banks. Mr.
Pryor had accepted the offer, and it was extraordinary
how quickly he changed from English gentleman
to American high-powered executive. He wore
a homburg instead of the bowler; he discarded
his furled umbrella and carried a folded newspaper,
and he arrived with his wife and two nephews.
His wife changed from English matron to a
sleeker style of dress, quite in fashion.
His two nephews were Sicilians who spoke perfect
English and had degrees in accounting. Both
were devoted hunters and kept their hunting
gear in the trunk of a limousine, which one
of the nephews drove. In fact, both of them
served as Mr. Pryor’s bodyguards.
The Pryors settled into an Upper West Side
town house protected by security patrols from
a private agency. Nicole, who had opposed
the appointment, was soon charmed by Mr. Pryor,
especially when he told her they were distant
cousins. There was no doubt that Mr. Pryor
had a certain fatherly charm with women; even
Rosie had adored him. And there was no doubt
he could run the banks—even Nicole was impressed
by his knowledge of international banking.
Just by trading currencies he had increased
the profit margins. And Astorre knew that
Mr. Pryor had been an intimate of Don Aprile.
Indeed, it had been Pryor who had persuaded
the Don to acquire the banks with an interlock
run by Mr. Pryor in England and Italy. Mr.
Pryor had described their relationship.
“I told your uncle,” Mr. Pryor said, “that
banks can acquire more wealth with less risk
than the business he was in. Those old-time
enterprises are passé; the government is
too strong and they are too focused on our
people. It was time to get out. Banks are
the gateway to make money if you have the
experience, personnel, and political contacts.
Without boasting, I can say I have the goodwill
of the politicians of Italy with money. Everybody
gets rich, and nobody gets hurt or winds up
in jail. I could be a university professor
teaching people how to get rich without breaking
the law and resorting to violence. You just
have to make certain the correct laws are
passed. After all, education is the key to
a higher civilization.”
Mr. Pryor was being playful, yet he was somewhat
in earnest. Astorre felt a deep rapport with
him and gave him his absolute trust. Don Craxxi
and Mr. Pryor were men he could rely on. Not
only from friendship: Both of them earned
a fortune from the ten banks the Don owned.
. . .
When Astorre and Mr. Pryor arrived at Don
Craxxi’s home in Chicago, Astorre was surprised
to see Pryor and Craxxi embrace each other
with great warmth. They obviously knew each
other.
Craxxi provided a meal of fruit and cheese
and chatted with Mr. Pryor while they ate.
Astorre listened with intense curiosity; he
loved to hear old men tell stories. Craxxi
and Mr. Pryor agreed that the old ways of
doing business had been fraught with peril.
“Everybody had high blood pressure, everybody
had heart problems,” Craxxi said. “It
was a terrible way to live. And the new element
have no sense of honor. It’s good to see
them being wiped out.”
“Ah,” Mr. Pryor said. “But we all had
to start somewhere. Look at us now.”
All this talk made Astorre hesitate to bring
up the business at hand. What the hell did
these two old guys think they were doing now?
Mr. Pryor chuckled at Astorre’s look. “Don’t
worry, we are not yet saints, we two. And
this situation challenges our own interests.
So tell us what you need. We are ready to
do business.”
“I need your advice, nothing operational,”
Astorre said. “That’s my job.”
Craxxi said, “If it is solely for vengeance,
I would advise you to go back to your singing.
But I recognize, as I hope you do, that it
is a matter of protecting your family from
danger.”
“Both,” said Astorre. “Either reason
would be sufficient. But my uncle had me trained
for just this situation. I can’t fail him.”
“Good,” Mr. Pryor said. “But recognize
this fact: What you are doing is in your nature.
Be careful about the risks you take. Don’t
be carried away.”
Don Craxxi asked mildly, “How can I help
you?”
“You were right about the Sturzo brothers,”
Astorre said. “They confessed to the hit,
and they told me the broker was John Heskow,
a man I’ve never heard of. So now I have
to go after him.”
“And the Sturzo brothers?” Craxxi asked.
“They are out of the picture.”
The two old men were silent. Then Craxxi said,
“Heskow I know. He has been a broker for
twenty years. There are wild rumors about
how he brokered some political assassinations,
but I don’t believe them. Now, whatever
tactics you used to make the Sturzo brothers
talk won’t work with Heskow. He is a great
negotiator, and he will recognize that he
has to bargain his way out of death. He will
know you must have information only he can
give you.”
“He has a son he adores,” Astorre said.
“A basketball player, and he is Heskow’s
life.”
“That is an old card and he will trump it,”
Mr. Pryor said, “by withholding information
that is crucial and giving you information
that is not crucial. You have to understand
Heskow. He has bargained with death all his
life. Find another approach.”
“There are a lot of things I want to know
before I can go any further,” Astorre said.
“Who was behind the killing, and most of
all, why? Now, here’s my thought. It must
be the banks. Somebody needs the banks.”
“Heskow might know some of that,” Craxxi
said.
“It bothers me,” Astorre said, “that
there was no police or FBI surveillance at
the cathedral for the confirmation. And the
Sturzo brothers told me that they had been
guaranteed there would be no surveillance.
Can I believe that the police and the FBI
had prior knowledge of the hit? Is that possible?”
“It is,” Don Craxxi said. “And in that
case you must be very careful. Especially
with Heskow.”
Mr. Pryor said coolly, “Astorre, your primary
goal is to save the banks and protect Don
Aprile’s children. Vengeance is a minor
goal that can be abandoned.”
“I don’t know,” Astorre said, noncommittal
now. “I’ll have to think about that.”
He gave both men a sincere smile. “But we’ll
see how it works out.”
The two old men did not believe him for a
moment. In their lifetimes they had known
and recognized young fellows like Astorre.
They saw him as a throwback to the great Mafia
leaders of the early days, men they had not
become themselves because of a certain lack
of charisma and will that only the great ones
had:the men of respect who had dominated provinces,
defied the rules of the state, and emerged
triumphant. They recognized in Astorre that
will, that charm, that single-mindedness that
he himself was not aware of. Even his foolishness,
his singing, his riding of horses were weaknesses
that did not harm his destiny. They were merely
youthful joys and showed his good heart.
Astorre told them about the consul general,
Marriano Rubio, and about Inzio Tulippa trying
to buy the banks. About Cilke trying to use
him to trap Portella. The two old men listened
carefully.
“Send them to me the next time,” Mr. Pryor
said. “From my information Rubio is the
financial manager of the world drug trade.”
“I won’t sell,” Astorre said. “The
Don instructed me.”
“Of course,” Craxxi said. “They are
the future and can be your protection.”
He paused and then went on. “Let me tell
you a little story. Before I retired I had
an associate, a very straight businessman,
a credit to society. He invited me to lunch
at his office building, in his private dining
room. Afterward he took me on a tour and showed
me these enormous rooms that held a thousand
computer cubicles manned by young men and
women.
“He said to me, ‘That room earns me a
billion dollars a year. There are nearly three
hundred million people in this country, and
we are devoted to making them buy our products.
We plan special lotteries, prizes, and bonuses,
we make extravagant promises, all legally
defined to make them spend their money for
all our companies. And you know what is crucial?
We must have banks who will supply these three
hundred million people credit to spend money
they don’t have.’ Banks are the name of
the game, you must have banks on your side.”
“That’s true,” Mr. Pryor said. “And
both sides profit. Though interest rates are
high, those debts spur people on, make them
achieve more.”
Astorre laughed. “I’m glad that keeping
the banks is smart. But it doesn’t matter.
The Don told me not to sell. That’s enough
for me. And that they killed him makes a difference.”
Craxxi said to Astorre very firmly, “You
cannot do harm to that man Cilke. The government
is now too strong to take such ultimate action
against. But I agree he is a danger of some
kind. You must be clever.”
“Your next step is Heskow,” Pryor said.
“He is crucial, but again you have to be
careful. Remember, you can call on Don Craxxi
for help, and I myself have resources. We
are not fully retired. And we have an interest
in the banks—not to mention our affection
for Don Aprile, rest in peace.”
“OK,” Astorre said. “After I see Heskow,
we can meet again.”
. . .
Astorre was acutely aware of his dangerous
position. He knew that his successes were
small, despite his punishment of the assassins.
They were only a thread pulled out of the
mystery of Don Aprile’s murder. But he relied
on the infallible paranoia drilled into him
during his years of training in Sicily’s
endless treacheries. He had to be especially
careful now. Heskow seemed like an easy target,
but he could also be booby-trapped.
One thing surprised him. He had thought himself
happy in his life as a small businessman and
amateur singer, but now he felt an elation
that he had never experienced before. A feeling
that he was back in a world in which he belonged.
And that he had a mission. To protect the
children of Don Aprile, to avenge the death
of a man he had loved. He simply had to crack
the will of the enemy. Aldo Monza had brought
back ten good men from his village in Sicily.
At Astorre’s instructions he had ensured
the livelihood of their families for life,
no matter what happened to them.
“Do not count on the gratitude of deeds
done for people in the past,” he remembered
the Don lecturing him. “You must make them
grateful for things you will do for them in
the future.” The banks were the future for
the Aprile family, Astorre, and his growing
army of men. It was a future worth fighting
for, no matter the cost.
Don Craxxi had supplied him with another six
men he absolutely vouched for. And Astorre
had turned his home into a fortress with these
men and the latest security detection devices.
He had also set up a safe house to disappear
to, if the authorities wanted to grab him
for whatever reason.
He did not use close bodyguards. Instead,
he relied on his own quickness and used his
guards as advance scouts on the routes he
would take.
He would let Heskow sit for a time. Astorre
wondered about Cilke’s reputation as an
honorable man, as even Don Aprile had so described
him.
“There are honorable men who spend all their
lives preparing for a supreme act of treachery,”
Pryor had said to him. But despite all this,
Astorre felt confident. All he would have
to do was to stay alive as the puzzle pieces
fit together.
The real test would come from men like Heskow,
Portella, Tulippa, and Cilke. He would personally
have to get his hands bloody once again.
It took a month for Astorre to figure out
exactly how to handle John Heskow. The man
would be formidable, tricky, easy to kill
but difficult to extract information from.
Using his son as leverage was too dangerous—it
would force Heskow to plot against him while
pretending to cooperate. He decided that he
would not let Heskow know that the Sturzo
brothers had told him Heskow was the driver
on the hit. That might scare him too much.
Meanwhile, he amassed the necessary information
on Heskow’s daily habits. It seemed he was
a temperate man whose primary love was growing
flowers and selling them wholesale to florists
and even personally from a roadside stand
in the Hamptons. His only indulgence was attending
the basketball games of his son’s team,
and he followed Villanova’s basketball schedule
religiously.
One Saturday night in January Heskow was going
to the Villanova-Temple game at Madison Square
Garden in New York. When he left his house
he buttoned it up with his sophisticated alarm
system. He was always careful in the everyday
details of life, always confident that he
had made provisions for every possible accident.
And it was that confidence Astorre wanted
to shatter at the very beginning of their
interview.
John Heskow drove into the city and had a
solitary dinner at a Chinese restaurant near
the Garden. He always ate Chinese when he
went out because it was the one thing he could
not cook better at home. He liked the silver
covers over each dish as if it contained some
delightful surprise. He liked Chinese people.
They minded their own business, didn’t make
small talk or show obsequious familiarity.
And never, ever, had he found a mistake in
his bill, which he always checked carefully
because he ordered numerous dishes.
Tonight he went all out. He was particularly
fond of Peking duck and crayfish in Cantonese
lobster sauce. There was a special white fried
rice and of course a few fried dumplings and
spicy spareribs. He finished off with green-tea
ice cream, an acquired taste, but one that
showed he was a gourmet of Eastern food.
When he arrived at the Garden, the arena was
only half full, though Temple had a high-ranked
team. Heskow took his choice seat, provided
by his son, near the floor and middle of the
court. This made him proud of Jocko.
The game was not exciting. Temple crushed
Villanova, but Jocko was the high scorer in
the game. Afterward Heskow went back to the
locker room.
His son greeted him with a hug. “Hey, Dad,
I’m glad you came. You want to come out
and eat with us?”
Heskow was enormously gratified. His son was
a true gentleman. Of course these kids didn’t
want an old geezer like him around on their
night out in the city. They wanted to get
drunk, have some laughs, and maybe get laid.
“Thanks,” Heskow said. “I already had
dinner, and I have a long drive home. You
played great tonight. I’m proud of you.
Now go out and have a good time.” He gave
his son a farewell kiss and wondered how he
had gotten so lucky. Well, his son had a good
mother, though she’d been a lousy wife.
It took Heskow only an hour to drive home
to Brightwaters— the Long Island parkways
were almost deserted at this hour. He was
tired when he got there, but before going
into the house he checked the flower sheds
to make sure the temperature and moisture
were OK.
In the moonlight reflected though the glass
roof of the shed, the flowers had a wild,
nightmarish beauty, the red almost black,
the whites a ghostly vaporish halo. He loved
looking at them, especially just before he
went to sleep.
He walked the gravel driveway to his house
and unlocked the door. Once inside he quickly
pushed the numbers on the panel that would
keep the alarm from going off, then went into
the living room.
His heart took a giant leap. Two men stood
waiting for him; he recognized Astorre. He
knew enough about death to recognize it at
a glance. These were the messengers.
But he reacted with the perfect defense mechanism.
“How the fuck did you two guys get in here,
and what the hell do you want?”
“Don’t panic,” Astorre said. He introduced
himself, adding that he was the nephew of
the deceased Don Aprile.
Heskow made himself get calm. He had been
in tight spots before, and after the first
rush of adrenaline, he had always been OK.
He sat down on the sofa so that his hand was
on the wooden armrest and reached for his
hidden gun. “So what do you want?”
Astorre had an amused smiled on his face,
which irritated Heskow, who had meant to wait
for the right moment. Now he flipped open
the armrest and reached for the gun. The hollow
was empty.
At that moment three cars appeared in the
driveway, headlights flashing into the room.
Two more men entered the house.
Astorre said pleasantly, “I didn’t underestimate
you, John. We searched the house. We found
the gun in the coffeepot, another taped underneath
your bed, another in that fake letter-box,
and the one in the bathroom taped behind the
bowl. Did we miss any?”
Heskow didn’t answer. His heart had started
pounding again. He could feel it in his throat.
“What the hell are you growing in those
flower sheds?” Astorre asked, laughing.
“Diamonds, hemp, coke, what? I thought you’d
never come in. By the way, that’s a lot
of firepower for someone who grows azaleas.”
“Stop jerking me around,” Heskow said
quietly.
Astorre sat down in the chair opposite Heskow
and then tossed two wallets—Gucci, one gold,
one brown—on the coffee table between them.
“Take a look,” he said.
Heskow reached over and opened them. The first
thing he saw was the Sturzo brothers’ driver’s
licenses with their laminated photos. The
bile in his throat was so sour he almost vomited.
“They gave you up,” Astorre said. “That
you were the broker on Don Aprile’s hit.
They also said you guaranteed there would
be no NYPD or FBI surveillance at the church
ceremony.”
Heskow processed everything that had happened.
They hadn’t just killed him, though the
Sturzo brothers were certainly dead. He felt
one tiny pang of disappointment for that betrayal.
But Astorre didn’t seem to know he had been
the driver. There was a negotiation here,
the most important of his life.
Heskow shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re
talking about.”
Aldo Monza had been listening alertly, keeping
a close eye on Heskow. Now he went into the
kitchen and came back with two cups of black
coffee, handing one to Astorre and one to
Heskow. He said, “Hey, you got Italian coffee—great.”
Heskow gave him a contemptuous look.
Astorre drank his coffee and then said to
Heskow, slowly, deliberately, “I hear you’re
a very intelligent man, that that’s the
only reason you’re not dead. So listen to
me and really think. I’m Don Aprile’s
cleanup man. I have all the resources he had
before he retired. You knew him, you know
what that means. You would never have dared
to be the broker if he wasn’t retired. Right?”
Heskow didn’t say anything. Just kept watching
Astorre, trying to judge him.
“The Sturzos are dead,” Astorre continued.
“You can join them. But I have a proposition,
and you have to be very alert here. In the
next thirty minutes you will have to convince
me you’re on my side, that you will act
as my agent. If you don’t, you will be buried
beneath your flowers in the shed. Now let
me tell you better news. I will never involve
your son in this affair. I don’t do that,
and besides, such action would make you my
enemy and ready to betray me. But you must
realize that I am the one who keeps your son
alive. My enemies want me dead. If they succeed,
my friends will not spare your son. His fate
rests on mine.”
“So what do you want?” Heskow asked.
“I need information,” Astorre said. “So
you talk. If I’m satisfied, we have a deal.
If I’m not, you’re dead. So your immediate
problem is staying alive tonight. Begin.”
Heskow did not speak for at least five minutes.
First he evaluated Astorre—such a nice-looking
guy, not brutal or terrorizing. But the Sturzo
brothers were dead. Then the breaking through
the security of his house and the finding
of the guns. Most ominous was Astorre waiting
for him to reach for the nonexistent gun.
So this was not a bluff, and certainly not
a bluff he could call. Finally Heskow drank
his coffee and made his decision, with reservations.
“I have to go with you,” he said to Astorre.
“I have to trust you to do the right thing.
The man who hired me to broker the deal and
gave me the money is Timmona Portella. The
NYPD nonsurveillance I bought. I was Timmona’s
bagman and gave the NYPD chief of detectives,
Di Benedetto, fifty grand and his deputy,
Aspinella Washington, twenty-five. As for
the FBI guarantee, Portella gave it to me.
I insisted on credentials, and he told me
he had this guy, Cilke, New York Bureau chief,
in his pocket. It was Cilke who gave the OK
for the hit on the Don.”
“You worked for Portella before?”
“Oh, yeah,” Heskow said. “He runs the
drugs in New York, so he has a lot of hits
for me. None in the league of the Don. I never
did get the connection. That’s it.”
“Good,” Astorre said. His face was sincere.
“Now I want you to be careful. For your
own good. Is there anything more you can tell
me?”
And suddenly Heskow knew he was seconds from
death. That he had not done the job of convincing
Astorre. He trusted his instincts. He gave
Astorre a weak smile. “One more thing,”
he added, very slowly. “I have a contract
with Portella right now. On you. I’m going
to pay the two detectives a half million to
knock you off. They come to arrest you, you
resist arrest, and they shoot you.”
Astorre seemed a little bemused. “Why so
complicated and expensive?” he said. “Why
not hire a straight hit man?”
Heskow shook his head. “They put you higher
than that. And after the Don, a straight hit
would draw too much attention. You being his
nephew. The media would go wild. This way
there’s cover.”
“Have you paid them yet?” Astorre asked.
“No,” Heskow said. “We have to meet.”
“OK,” Astorre said. “Set up the meeting
out of traffic. Let me know the details beforehand.
One thing. After the meeting, don’t leave
with them.”
“Oh, shit,” Heskow said. “Is that how
it is? There will be enormous heat.”
Astorre leaned back in his chair. “That’s
how it is,” he said. He got up out of the
chair and gave Heskow a half hug of friendship.
“Remember,” he said, “we have to keep
each other alive.”
“Can I hold out some of the money?” Heskow
asked.
Astorre laughed. “No. That’s the beauty
of it. How do the cops explain the half million
they have on them?”
“Just twenty,” Heskow said.
“OK,” Astorre said good-naturedly. “But
no more. Just a little sweetener.”
Now it was imperative for Astorre to have
another meeting with Don Craxxi and Mr. Pryor
for their advice on the wide operational plan
he had to execute.
But circumstances had changed. Mr. Pryor insisted
on bringing his two nephews to Chicago to
act as bodyguards. And when they arrived in
the Chicago suburb they found that Don Craxxi’s
modest estate had been turned into a fortress.
The driveway leading to the house was blocked
by little green huts manned by very tough-looking
young men. A communications van was parked
in the orchard. And there were three young
men who answered doorbells and phones and
checked visitors’ IDs.
Mr. Pryor’s nephews, Erice and Roberto,
were lean and athletic, expert in firearms,
and they clearly adored their uncle. They
also seemed to know Astorre’s history in
Sicily and treated him with enormous respect,
performing the smallest personal services
for him. They carried his luggage. They poured
his wine at dinner, brushing him off with
their napkins; they paid his tips and opened
doors, making it plain they regarded him as
a great man. Astorre good-humoredly tried
to put them at ease, but they would never
descend to familiarity.
The men guarding Don Craxxi were not so polite.
They were courteous but rigid, steady men
in their fifties, completely focused on their
job. And they were all armed.
That evening when Don Craxxi, Mr. Pryor, and
Astorre had finished dinner and were eating
fruit for their dessert, Astorre said to the
Don, “Why all the security?”
“Just a precaution,” his host answered
calmly. “I’ve heard some disturbing news.
An old enemy of mine, Inzio Tulippa, has arrived
in America. He is a very intemperate man and
very greedy, so it is always best to be prepared.
He comes to meet with our Timmona Portella.
They whack up their drug profits and whack
out their enemies. It is best to be ready.
But now, what is on your mind, my dear Astorre?”
Astorre told them both the information he
had learned and how he had turned Heskow.
He told them about Portella and Cilke and
the two detectives.
“Now I have to go operational,” he said.
“I need an explosives guy and at least ten
more good men. I know you two can supply them,
that you can call on the Don’s old friends.”
He carefully skinned the greenish yellow pear
he was eating. “You understand how dangerous
this will be and do not want to be too closely
involved.”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Pryor said impatiently.
“We owe our destiny to Don Aprile. Of course
we will help. But remember, this is not vengeance.
It is self-defense. So you cannot harm Cilke.
The federal government will make our lives
too hard.”
“But that man must be neutralized,” Don
Craxxi said. “He will always be a danger.
However, consider this. Sell the banks and
everybody will be happy.”
“Everybody except me and my cousins,”
Astorre said.
“It is something to consider,” Mr. Pryor
said. “I’m willing to sacrifice my share
in the banks with Don Craxxi, though I know
it will grow to be an enormous fortune. But
certainly there is something to be said for
a peaceful life.”
“I’m not selling the banks,” Astorre
said. “They killed my uncle and they have
to pay the price, not achieve their purpose.
And I can’t live in a world where my place
is granted by their mercy. The Don taught
me that.”
Astorre was surprised that Don Craxxi and
Mr. Pryor looked relieved by his decision.
They tried to hide little smiles. He realized
that these two old men, powerful as they were,
held him in respect, saw in him what they
themselves could never acquire.
Craxxi said, “We know our duty to Don Aprile,
may he rest in peace. And we know our duty
to you. But one note of prudence: If you are
too rash, and something happens to you, we
will be forced to sell the banks.”
“Yes,” Mr. Pryor said. “Be prudent.”
Astorre laughed. “Don’t worry. If I go
down, there will be nobody left.”
They ate their pears and peaches. Don Craxxi
seemed to be lost in thought. Then he said,
“Tulippa is the top drug man in the world.
Portella is his American partner. They must
want the banks to launder the drug money.”
“Then how does Cilke fit in?” Astorre
asked.
“I don’t know,” Craxxi said. “But
still, you cannot attack Cilke.”
“That would be a disaster,” Mr. Pryor
said.
“I’ll remember that,” Astorre said.
But if Cilke was guilty, what could he do?
Detective Aspinella Washington made sure her
eight-year-old daughter ate a good supper,
did her homework, and said her prayers before
putting her to bed. She adored the girl and
had banished her father from her life a long
time ago. The baby-sitter, the teenage daughter
of a uniformed cop, arrived at 8:00 P.M. Aspinella
instructed her on the child’s medications
and said she would be back before midnight.
Soon the lobby buzzer rang and Aspinella ran
down the stairs and out into the street. She
never used the elevator. Paul Di Benedetto
was waiting in his unmarked tan Chevrolet.
She hopped in and strapped on her seat belt.
He was a lousy night driver.
Di Benedetto was smoking a long cigar, so
Aspinella opened her window. “It’s about
an hour’s ride,” he said. “We have to
think it over.” He knew it was a big step
for both of them. It was one thing to take
bribes and drug money; it was another to perform
a hit.
“What’s to think over?” Aspinella asked.
“We get a half mil to knock off a guy who
should be on death row. You know what I can
do with a quarter mil?”
“No,”Di Benedetto said. “But I know
what I can do. Buy a super condo in Miami
when I retire. Remember, we’re going to
have to live with this.”
“Taking drug payoffs is already over the
line,” Aspinella said. “Fuck ’em all.”
“Yeah,” Di Benedetto said. “Let’s
just make sure that this guy Heskow has the
money tonight, that he’s not just jerking
us off.”
“He’s always been reliable,” Aspinella
said. “He’s my Santa Claus. And if he
doesn’t have a big sack to give us, he’ll
be a dead Santa.”
Di Benedetto laughed. “That’s my girl.
You been keeping track of this Astorre guy
so we can get rid of him right away?”
“Yeah. I’ve had him under surveillance.
I know just the spot to pick him up—his
macaroni warehouse. Most nights he works late.”
“You got the throwaway to plant on him?”
Di Benedetto asked.
“Of course,” Aspinella said. “I wouldn’t
give shit to a shield if I didn’t carry
a throwaway.”
They drove in silence for ten minutes. Then
Di Benedetto said in a deliberately calm,
emotionless voice, “Who’s going to be
the shooter?”
Aspinella gave him an amused look. “Paul,”
she said, “you’ve been behind the desk
for the last ten years. You’ve seen more
tomato sauce than blood. I’ll shoot.”
She could see that he looked relieved. Men—they
were fucking useless.
They fell silent again as both were lost in
thought about what had brought them to this
point in their lives. Di Benedetto had joined
the force as a young man, over thirty years
ago. His corruption had been gradual but inevitable.
He had started out with delusions of grandeur—he
would be respected and admired for risking
his life to protect others. But the years
wore this away. At first it was the little
bribes from the street vendors and small shops.
Then testifying falsely to help a guy beat
a felony rap. It seemed a small step to accepting
money from high-ranking drug dealers. Then
finally from Heskow, who, it was clear, acted
for Timmona Portella, the biggest Mafia chief
left in New York.
Of course, there was always a good excuse.
The mind can sell itself anything. He saw
the higher-ranking officers getting rich on
drug-bribe money, and the lower ranks were
even more corrupt. And after all, he had three
kids to send to college. But most of all it
was the ingratitude of the people he protected.
Civil-liberties groups protesting police brutality
if you slapped a black mugger around. The
news media shitting on the police department
every chance they got. Citizens suing cops.
Cops getting fired after years of service,
deprived of their pensions, even going to
jail. He himself had once been brought up
for discipline on the charge that he singled
out black criminals, and he knew he wasn’t
racially prejudiced. Was it his fault that
most criminals in New York were black? What
were you supposed to do—give them a license
to steal, as affirmative action? He had promoted
black cops. He had been Aspinella’s mentor
in the department, giving her the promotion
she’d earned by terrorizing the same black
criminals. And you couldn’t accuse her of
racism. In a nutshell, society crapped on
the cops who protected them. Unless of course
they got killed in the line of duty. Then
came the tide of bullshit. The final truth?
It didn’t pay to be an honest cop. And yet—and
yet, he had never thought it would come to
murder. But after all, he was invulnerable;
there was no risk; there was a hell of a lot
of money; and the victim was a killer. Still
. . .
Aspinella too was wondering how her life had
come to such a pass. God knows she had fought
the criminal underworld with a passion and
relentlessness that had made her a New York
legend. Certainly, she had taken bribes, suborned
felony. She had only started late in the game
when Di Benedetto had persuaded her to take
drug money. He had been her mentor for years
and for a few months her lover—not bad,
just a clumsy bear who used sex as part of
a hibernational impulse.
But her corruption had really started her
first day on the job after being promoted
to detective. In the station-house rec room
an overbearing white cop named Gangee had
jollied her in a good-natured way. “Hey,
Aspinella,” he said, “with your pussy
and my muscle, we’ll wipe out crime in the
civilized world.” The cops, including some
blacks, laughed.
Aspinella looked at him coldly and said, “You’ll
never be my partner. A man who insults a woman
is a small-dick coward.”
Gangee tried to keep it on a friendly basis.
“My small dick can stop up your pussy anytime
you want to try. I want to change my luck
anyhow.”
Aspinella turned her cold face to him. “Black
is better than yellow,” she said. “Go
whack off, you dumb piece of shit.”
The room seemed frozen with surprise. Now
she had Gangee blushing red. Such virulent
contempt was not permitted without a fight.
He started toward her, his huge body clearing
space.
Aspinella was dressed for duty. She drew her
gun, not pointing it. “Try and I’ll blow
your balls off,” she said, and in that room
there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that
she would pull the trigger. Gangee halted
and shook his head with disgust.
The incident, of course, was reported. It
was a serious offense on Aspinella’s part.
But Di Benedetto was shrewd enough to know
that a departmental trial would be a political
disaster for the NYPD. He quashed the whole
thing and was so impressed by Aspinella that
he put her on his personal staff and became
her mentor.
What had affected Aspinella more than anything
else was that there had been at least four
black cops in the room and not one of them
had defended her. Indeed, they had laughed
at the white cop’s jokes. Gender loyalty
was stronger than racial loyalty.
Her career, after that, established her as
the best cop in the division. She was ruthless
with drug dealers, muggers, armed robbers.
She showed them no mercy, black or white.
She shot them, she beat them, she humiliated
them. Charges were made against her but could
never be substantiated, and her record for
valor spoke for her. But the charges aroused
her rage against society itself. How did they
dare question her when she protected them
from the worst scum in the city? Di Benedetto
backed her all the way.
There had been one tricky situation when she
shot dead two teenage muggers as they tried
to rob her on a brightly lit Harlem street
right outside her apartment. One boy punched
her in the face, and the other grabbed her
purse. Aspinella drew her gun and the boys
froze. Quite deliberately, she shot them both.
Not only for the punch in the face, but to
send a message not to try mugging in her neighborhood.
Civil-liberties groups organized a protest,
but the department ruled that she had used
justifiable force. She knew she had been guilty
on that one.
It was Di Benedetto who talked her into taking
her first bribe on a very important drug deal.
He spoke like a loving uncle. “Aspinella,”
he said, “a cop today doesn’t worry much
about bullets. That’s part of the deal.
He has to worry about the civilliberties groups,
the citizens and the criminals who sue for
damages. The political bosses in the department,
who will put you in jail to get votes. Especially
somebody like you. You’re a natural victim,
so are you going to wind up like those other
poor dopes in the street who get raped, robbed,
murdered? Or are you going to protect yourself?
Get in on this. You’ll get more protection
from the wheels in the department who are
already bought. In five or six years you can
retire with a bundle. And you won’t have
to worry about going to jail for messing up
some mugger’s hair.”
So she had given way. And little by little
she enjoyed socking the bribe money into disguised
bank accounts. Not that she let up on the
criminals.
But this stuff was different. This was a conspiracy
to commit murder, and yes, this Astorre was
a Mafia big shot who would be a pleasure to
take out. In a funny way, she would be doing
her job. But the final argument was that it
had so little risk and such a big payoff.
A quarter mil.
Di Benedetto drove off the Southern State
Parkway and a few minutes later rolled into
the parking lot of a small two-story mall.
All of the dozen or so shops were closed,
even the pizza joint, which displayed a bright
red neon sign in its window. They got out
of the car. “That’s the first time I’ve
seen a pizza joint closed so early,” Di
Benedetto said. It was only 10:00 P.M.
He led Aspinella to a side door of the pizza
joint. It was unlocked. They climbed up a
dozen stairs to a landing. There was a suite
of two rooms to the left and a room to the
right. He made a motion, and Aspinella checked
the suite on the left while he stood guard.
Then they went to the room on the right. Heskow
was waiting for them.
He was sitting at the end of a long wooden
table with four rickety wooden chairs around
it. On the table was a duffel bag the size
of a punching bag, and it seemed to be stuffed
full. Heskow shook Di Benedetto’s hand and
nodded to Aspinella. She thought she had never
seen a white man looking so white. His face
and even his neck were drained of color.
The room had only a dim bulb and no windows.
They sat around the table, Di Benedetto reached
out and patted the bag. “It’s all there?”
he asked.
“Sure is,” Heskow said shakily. Well,
a man carrying $500,000 in a duffel bag had
a right to be nervous, Aspinella thought.
But still, she scanned the room to see if
it was wired.
“Let’s have a peek,” Di Benedetto said.
Heskow untied the cord around the neck of
the duffel bag and half dumped it out. About
twenty packets of bills bound by rubber bands
tumbled onto the table. Most of the packages
were hundreds, no fifties, and two packets
were twenties.
Di Benedetto sighed. “Fucking twenties,”
he said. “OK, put them back.”
Heskow stuffed the packets back into the bag
and retied the cord. “My client requests
that it be as quick as possible,” he said.
“Inside two weeks,” Di Benedetto said.
“Good,” Heskow said.
Aspinella lifted the duffel bag onto her shoulder.
It wasn’t that heavy, she thought. A half
mil wasn’t that heavy.
She saw Di Benedetto shake hands with Heskow
and felt a wary impatience. She wanted to
get the hell out of there. She started down
the stairs, the bag balanced on her shoulder,
held with one hand, her other hand free to
draw her gun. She heard Di Benedetto following
her.
Then they were out in the cool night. They
were both dripping with sweat.
“Put the bag in the trunk,” Di Benedetto
said. He got into the driver’s seat and
lit up a cigar. Aspinella came around and
got in.
“Where do we go to split it up?” Di Benedetto
asked.
“Not my place. I have a baby-sitter.”
“Not mine,” Di Benedetto said. “I have
a wife at home. How about we rent a motel
room?”
Aspinella grimaced, and Di Benedetto said
smilingly, “My office. We’ll lock the
door.” They both laughed. “Check the trunk
just one more time. Make sure it’s locked
tight.”
Aspinella didn’t argue. She got out, opened
the trunk, and pulled out the duffel bag.
At that moment Paul turned on the ignition.
The explosion sent a shower of glass over
the mall. It was raining glass. The car itself
seemed to float in the air and came down in
a hail of metal that destroyed Paul Di Benedetto’s
body. Aspinella Washington was blown almost
ten feet away, an arm and leg broken, but
it was the pain from her torn-out eye that
rendered her unconscious.
Heskow, exiting in the rear of the pizza shop,
felt the air press his body against the building.
Then he jumped into his car and twenty minutes
later was in his home in Brightwaters. He
made himself a quick drink and checked the
two packets of hundred-dollar bills he had
taken out of the duffel bag. Forty grand—a
nice little bonus. He’d give his kid a couple
of grand for spending money. No, a grand.
And sock the rest away.
He watched the late TV news that reported
the explosion as a breaking story. One detective
killed, the other badly hurt. And at the scene,
a duffel bag with a huge amount of money.
The TV anchor didn’t say how much.
When Aspinella Washington regained consciousness
in the hospital two days later, she was not
surprised to be closely questioned about the
money and why it was just forty grand shy
of a half million. She denied she had any
knowledge of the money. They questioned her
about what a chief of detectives and an assistant
chief were doing out together. She refused
to answer on the grounds that it was a personal
matter. But she was angry that they questioned
her so relentlessly when she was obviously
in such grave condition. The department didn’t
give a shit about her. They did not honor
her record of achievement. But it ended OK.
The department didn’t pursue her and set
it up so that the investigation of the money
came to nothing.
It took another week of convalescence for
Aspinella to figure things out. They had been
set up. And the only guy who could have set
them up was Heskow. And the fact that there
was forty grand missing from the payoff meant
the greedy pig couldn’t resist grafting
his own people. Well, she would get better,
she thought, and then she would meet with
Heskow once again.
CHAPTER 10
ASTORRE was now very careful of his movements.
Not only to avoid a hit but also not to allow
himself to be arrested for any reason. He
kept close to his heavily guarded home with
its five-man round-the-clock security teams.
He had sensors planted in the woods and grounds
around the house and infrared lights for night
surveillance. When he ventured out, it was
with six bodyguards in three two-man teams.
He sometimes traveled alone, counting on stealth
and surprise and a confidence in his own powers
if he should meet only one of two assassins.
The blowing up of the two detectives had been
necessary, but it generated a lot of heat.
And when Aspinella Washington recovered she
would figure out it was Heskow who had betrayed
her. And if Heskow spilled, she would come
after Astorre himself.
But by now he knew the enormity of his problem.
He knew all the men guilty of the Don’s
death and the serious problems before him.
There was Kurt Cilke, essentially untouchable;
Timmona Portella, who ordered the murder;
as well as Inzio Tulippa and Michael Grazziella.
The only ones he had succeeded in punishing
were the Sturzo brothers, and they had been
mere pawns.
All the information had come from John Heskow,
Mr. Pryor, Don Craxxi, and Octavius Bianco
in Sicily. If possible, he had to get all
his enemies in one place at the same time.
To pick them off singly would surely be impossible.
And Mr. Pryor and Craxxi had already warned
him he could not touch Cilke.
And then there was the consul general of Peru,
Marriano Rubio, Nicole’s companion. What
was the extent of her loyalty to him? What
had she blotted out in the Don’s FBI file
that she did not want Astorre to see? What
was she hiding from him?
In his spare moments, Astorre dreamed of the
women he had loved. First there had been Nicole,
so young and so willful, her small, delicate
body so passionate that she had forced him
into loving her. And now how changed she was,
her passion absorbed by politics and her career.
He remembered Buji in Sicily, not exactly
a call girl, but very close, and with an impulsive
goodness that could easily turn into rage.
He remembered her gorgeous bed, in the soft
Sicilian nights, when they swam and ate olives
out of oil-filled barrels. Most fondly of
all he remembered that she never lied; she
was completely frank about her life, her other
men. And her loyalty when he had been shot,
how she had dragged him out of the sea, the
blood from his throat staining her body. Then
her gift of the golden collar with its pendant
to hide the ugly wound.
Then he thought of Rosie, his treacherous
Rosie, so sweet, so beautiful, so sentimental,
who always claimed she truly loved him while
betraying him. Yet she could always make him
feel happy when he was with her. He had wanted
to break down his feeling for her by using
her against the Sturzo brothers, and he had
been surprised that she relished the role,
an adjustment to her make-believe life.
And then flitting through his mind like some
ghost came the vision of Cilke’s wife, Georgette.
What stupidity. He had spent one evening watching
her, listening to her talk nonsense he didn’t
believe, about the pricelessness of every
human soul. Yet he could not forget her. How
the hell had she married a guy like Kurt Cilke?
On some nights Astorre drove to Rosie’s
neighborhood and called her on his car phone.
She was always free, which surprised him,
but she explained that she was too busy studying
to go out. Which suited him perfectly, since
he was too cautious to eat in a restaurant
or take her to a movie. Instead he stopped
at Zabar’s on the West Side and brought
in delicacies that made Rosie smile with delight.
Meanwhile Monza waited in the car outside.
Rosie would lay out the food and open a bottle
of wine. As they ate she put her legs in his
lap in a comradely way, and her face glowed
with happiness at being with him. She seemed
to welcome his every word with a pleased smile.
That was her gift, and Astorre knew that she
was that way with all her men. But it didn’t
matter.
And then when they went to bed she was passionate
but also very sweet and clinging. She touched
his face all over and kissed him and said,
“We’re really soul mates.” And those
words would send a chill through Astorre.
He didn’t want her to be a soul mate with
a man like himself. He yearned for classic
virtue at these times, yet he couldn’t stop
himself from seeing her.
He’d stay for five or six hours. At three
in the morning he would leave. Sometimes when
she was asleep he would gaze down at her and
see in the relaxation of her facial muscles
a sad vulnerability and struggle, as if the
demons she held in her innermost soul were
fighting to get free.
One night he left early from a visit with
Rosie. When he got into the waiting car, Monza
told him there was an urgent message to call
a Mr. Juice. This was a code name that he
and Heskow used, so he immediately picked
up the car phone.
Heskow’s voice was urgent. “I can’t
talk on the wire. We have to meet right away.”
“Where?” Astorre said.
“I’ll be standing right outside Madison
Square Garden,” Heskow said. “Pick me
up on the fly. In one hour.”
When Astorre drove by the Garden, he saw Heskow
standing on the sidewalk. Monza had his gun
in his lap when he stopped the car in front
of Heskow. Astorre pulled open the door, and
Heskow hopped into the front seat with them.
The cold left watery streaks on his cheeks.
He said to Astorre, “You have big trouble.”
Astorre now felt a cold chill. “The kids?”
he asked.
Heskow nodded. “Portella snatched your cousin
Marcantonio and has him stashed someplace.
I don’t know where. Tomorrow he invites
you to a meeting. He wants to trade something
for his hostage. But if you’re careless,
he has a four-man hit team to focus on you.
He’s using his own men. He tried to give
me the job, but I turned him down.”
They were in a dark street. “Thanks,”
Astorre said. “Where can I let you off?”
“Right here. My car is just a block away.”
Astorre understood. Heskow was anxious about
being seen with him.
“One other thing,” Heskow said. “You
know about Portella’s suite at his private
hotel? His brother, Bruno, is using it tonight
with some broad. And no bodyguards.”
“Thanks again,” Astorre said. He opened
the door of the car, and Heskow disappeared
into the darkness.
...
Marcantonio Aprile was having his last meeting
of the day, and he wanted to keep it short.
It was now seven in the evening, and he had
a dinner engagement at nine.
The meeting was with his favorite producer
and best friend in the movie business, a man
named Steve Brody, who never went over budget,
had great instincts for dramatic stories,
and often introduced Marcantonio to up-and-coming
young actresses who needed a little help in
their careers.
But this evening they were on opposite sides
of the fence. Brody had come with one of the
most powerful agents in the business, a man
named Matt Glazier, who had a vehement loyalty
to his clients. He was there pleading the
case of a novelist whose latest book he had
turned into an epic, eight-hour TV serial
drama. Now Glazier wanted to sell the novelist’s
three previous books.
“Marcantonio,” Glazier said, “the other
three books are great but didn’t sell. You
know how publishers are—they couldn’t
sell a jar of caviar for a nickel. Brody here
is ready to produce them. Now, you’ve made
a shitload of money on his last book, so be
generous and let’s make a deal.”
“I don’t see it,” Marcantonio said.
“These are old books we’re talking about.
They were never best-sellers. And now they’re
out of print.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Glazier said
with the eager confidence of all agents. “As
soon as we make the deal, the publishers will
reprint them.”
Marcantonio had heard this argument many times
before. True, the publishers would reprint,
but actually this was not much help to the
TV presentation. The TV broadcast would help
the publishers of the book more. It was essentially
a bullshit argument.
“All that aside,” Marcantonio said, “I’ve
read the books. They have nothing for us.
They’re too literary. It’s the language
that makes them work, not incident. I enjoyed
them. I’m not saying they can’t work,
I’m just saying it’s not worth the risk
and the extraordinary effort.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” Glazier said. “You
read a reader’s report. You’re the head
of programming—you don’t have time to
read.”
Marcantonio laughed. “You’re wrong. I
love to read and I love those books. But they
are not good TV.” His voice was warm and
friendly. “I’m sorry, but for us it’s
a pass. But keep us in mind. We’d love to
work with you.”
After the two had gone, Marcantonio showered
in his executive-suite bathroom and changed
his clothes for his dinner date. He said good
night to his secretary, who always stayed
until he left, and took the elevator to the
lobby of the building.
His date was at the Four Seasons, just a few
blocks away, and he would walk. Unlike most
top executives, he did not keep a car and
driver exclusively for himself but just called
one when necessary. He prided himself on his
economy and knew he had learned it from his
father, who had a strong prejudice against
wasting money on foolishness.
When he stepped out onto the street, he felt
a cold wind and shivered. A black limo pulled
up, and the chauffeur got out of the car and
opened the door for him to enter. Had his
secretary ordered the car for him? The driver
was tall, a sturdy man whose cap stood oddly
on his head, a size too small. He bowed and
said, “Mr. Aprile?”
“Yes,” Marcantonio said. “I won’t
need you tonight.”
“Yes, you do,” the chauffeur said with
a cheerful smile. “Get into the car or get
shot.”
Suddenly Marcantonio was aware of three men
at his back. He hesitated. The chauffeur said,
“Don’t worry, a friend just wants to have
a little chat with you.”
Marcantonio got into the backseat of the limo,
and the three men crowded in beside him.
They drove a block or two, and then one of
the men gave Marcantonio a pair of dark glasses
and told him to put them on. Marcantonio did
so—and seemed to go blind. The glasses were
so dark they screened out all light. He thought
that clever and made a mental note to use
this in a story. It was a hopeful sign. If
they did not want him to see where he was
going, that meant they were not planning to
kill him. And yet it all seemed as unreal
as one of his TV dramas. Until he suddenly
thought about his father. That he was finally
in his father’s world, which he had never
completely believed in.
After about an hour, the car came to a stop
and he was helped out by two of the guards.
He could feel a brick path under his feet,
and then he was led up four steps and into
a house. Up more stairs to a room, the door
closing behind him. Only then were the glasses
removed. He was in a small bed-chamber whose
windows were heavily curtained. One of the
guards sat in a chair beside the bed.
“Lie down and take a little snooze,” the
guard said to him. “You have a tough day
ahead.” Marcantonio looked at his watch.
It was almost midnight.
Just after four in the morning, with the skyscrapers
ghosts in darkness, Astorre and Aldo Monza
were let off in front of the Lyceum Hotel;
the driver waiting in front. Monza jangled
his ring of keys as they ran up the three
flights of stairs and then to the door of
Portella’s suite.
Monza used his keys to open the door to the
suite, and they entered the living room. They
saw the table littered with cartons of Chinese
takeout food, empty glasses, and bottles of
wine and whiskey. There was a huge whipped-cream
cake, half-eaten, with a crushed-out cigarette
adorning the top like a birthday candle. They
went to the bedroom, and Astorre flicked on
the light from the wall switch. There, lying
on the bed, clad only in shorts, was Bruno
Portella.
The air was filled with a heavy perfume, but
Bruno was alone in the bed. He was not a pretty
sight. His face, heavy and slack, glistened
with night sweat, and the stale smell of seafood
came from his mouth. His huge chest made him
appear bearish, and indeed he wore a look
of teddy bear sweetness, Astorre thought.
At the foot of the bed was an open bottle
of red wine, which created its own island
of raw fragrance. It seemed a shame to wake
him, and Astorre did it gently by tapping
on his forehead.
Bruno opened one eye, then the other. He didn’t
seem frightened or even astonished. “What
the hell are you doing here?” His voice
was husky with sleep.
“Bruno, there’s nothing to worry about,”
Astorre said gently. “Where’s the girl?”
Bruno sat up. He laughed. “She had to go
home early to get her kid off to school. I
already fucked her three times, so I let her
go.” He said this proudly, because of both
his virility and his understanding of a working
girl’s problems. He casually reached out
a hand to the bedside table. Astorre gently
grabbed it, and Monza opened the drawer and
took out a gun.
“Listen, Bruno,” Astorre said soothingly.
“Nothing bad is going to happen. I know
your brother doesn’t confide in you, but
he snatched my cousin Marc last night. So
now I have to trade you to get him back. Your
brother loves you, Bruno; he’ll make the
trade. You believe that, don’t you?”
“Sure,” Bruno said. He looked relieved.
“Just don’t do anything foolish. Now,
get dressed.”
When Bruno finished dressing, he seemed to
have trouble tying his shoelaces. “What’s
the matter?” Astorre asked.
“This is the first time I wore these shoes,”
Bruno said. “Usually I wear slip-ons.”
“You don’t know how to tie shoelaces?”
Astorre asked.
“These are the first shoes I’ve had with
laces.”
Astorre laughed. “Jesus Christ. OK, I’ll
tie them.” And he let Bruno put his foot
in his lap.
When he was finished, Astorre handed Bruno
the bedside phone. “Call your brother,”
he said.
“At five in the morning?” Bruno said.
“Timmona will kill me.”
Astorre realized that it wasn’t sleep that
dulled Bruno’s brain; he was genuinely dim-witted.
“Just tell him I’ve got you,” Astorre
said. “Then I’ll talk to him.”
Bruno took the phone and said in a plaintive
voice, “Timmona, you got me in a lot of
trouble, that’s why I’m calling you this
early.”
Astorre could hear a roar over the phone,
and then Bruno said hurriedly, “Astorre
Viola has me and he wants to talk to you.”
He quickly passed the phone to Astorre.
Astorre said, “Timmona, sorry to wake you
up. But I had to snatch Bruno because you
have my cousin.”
Portella’s voice came over the phone in
another angry roar. “I don’t know anything
about that. Now, what the hell do you want?”
Bruno could hear and he shouted, “You got
me into this, you prick! Now get me out.”
Astorre said calmly, “Timmona, make this
swap and we can talk about the deal you want.
I know you think I’ve been bull-headed,
but when we meet I’ll tell you the reason
and you’ll know I’ve been doing you a
favor.”
Portella’s voice was quiet now. “OK,”
he said. “How do we set up this meeting?”
“I’ll meet you at the Paladin restaurant
at noon,” Astorre said. “I have a private
room there. I’ll bring Bruno with me, and
you bring Marc. You can bring bodyguards if
you’re leery, but we don’t want a bloodbath
in a public place. We talk things over and
make the exchange.”
There was a long pause, and then Portella
said, “I’ll be there, but don’t try
anything funny.”
“Don’t worry,” Astorre said cheerfully.
“After this meeting we’ll be buddies.”
Astorre and Monza put Bruno between them,
Astorre linking arms with Bruno in a friendly
way. They took him down the stairs to the
street. There were an additional two cars
with Astorre’s men waiting. “Take Bruno
with you in one of the cars,” Astorre told
Monza. “Have him at the Paladin at noon.
I’ll meet you there.”
“What the hell do I do with him until then?”
Monza asked. “That’s hours from now.”
“Take him for breakfast,” Astorre said.
“He likes to eat. That should take up a
couple of hours. Then take him for a walk
in Central Park. Go to the zoo. I’ll take
one of the cars and a driver. If he tries
to run away, don’t kill him. Just catch
him.”
“You’ll be on your own,” Monza said.
“Is that smart?”
“I’ll be OK.” In the car Astorre used
his cell phone to call Nicole’s private
number. It was now nearly six in the morning,
and light transfixed the city into long thin
lines of stone.
Nicole’s voice was sleepy when she answered.
Astorre remembered it had been like that when
she was a young girl and his lover. “Nicole,
wake up,” he said. “You know who this
is?”
The question obviously irritated her. “Of
course I know who it is. Who else would call
at this hour?”
“Listen carefully,” Astorre said. “No
questions. That document you’re holding
for me, the one I signed for Cilke, remember
you told me not to sign?”
“Yes,” Nicole said curtly, “of course
I remember.”
“Do you have it at home or in your office
safe?” Astorre asked.
“In my office, of course,” Nicole said.
“OK,” Astorre said. “I’ll be at your
house in thirty minutes. I’ll ring your
bell. Be ready and come down. Bring all your
keys. We’re going to your office.”
When Astorre rang Nicole’s bell, she came
down immediately dressed in a blue leather
coat and carrying a large purse. She kissed
him on the cheek but didn’t dare say a word
until they were in the car and she had to
give instructions to the driver. Then she
continued her silence until they were in her
office suite.
“Now, tell me why you want that document,”
she said.
“You don’t have to know,” Astorre said.
He saw she was angry with the answer, but
she went to the office safe that was part
of the desk and produced a file folder.
“Don’t close the safe,” Astorre said.
“I want the tape you made of our meeting
with Cilke.”
Nicole handed him the folder. “You have
a right to these documents,” she said. “But
you have no right to any tape, even if it
existed.”
“Long ago you told me you taped every meeting
in your office, Nicole,” Astorre said. “And
I watched you at the meeting. You were a little
too satisfied with yourself.”
Nicole laughed with scornful affection. “You’ve
changed,” she said. “You were never one
of those assholes who thought they could read
other people’s minds.”
Astorre gave her a rueful grin and said apologetically,
“I thought you still liked me. That’s
why I never asked what you deleted in your
father’s file before you showed it to me.”
“I deleted nothing,” Nicole said coolly.
“And I don’t give the tape until you tell
me what this is all about.”
Astorre was silent, then he said, “OK, you’re
a big girl now.” He laughed when he saw
how angry she was, her eyes flashing, her
lips curled with contempt. It reminded him
of how she looked when she confronted him
and her father long ago.
“Well, you always wanted to play with the
big boys,” Astorre said. “And you certainly
do that. As a lawyer, you’ve scared almost
as many people as your father.”
“He wasn’t as bad as the press and the
FBI painted him,” Nicole said angrily.
“OK,” Astorre said soothingly. “Marc
was kidnapped last night by Timmona Portella.
Not to worry though. I went out and got his
brother, Bruno. Now we can bargain.”
“You committed a kidnapping?” Nicole said
incredulously.
“So did they,” Astorre said. “They really
want us to sell them the banks.”
Nicole almost shrieked, “Then give them
the fucking banks!”
“You don’t understand,” Astorre said.
“We give them nothing. We have Bruno. They
hurt Marc, I hurt Bruno.”
Nicole was looking at him with horror in her
eyes. Astorre stared at her calmly, and one
hand went up to finger the gold collar around
his neck. “Yeah,” he said, “I’d have
to kill him.”
Nicole’s firm face broke up into creases
of sorrow. “Not you, Astorre, not you too.”
“So now you know,” Astorre said. “I’m
not the man to sell the banks after they killed
your father and my uncle. But I need the tape
and the document to make the deal go through
and get Marc back without bloodshed.”
“Just sell them the banks,” Nicole whispered
to him. “We’ll be rich. What does it matter?”
“It matters to me,” Astorre said. “It
mattered to the Don.”
Silently Nicole reached into the safe and
took out a small packet, which she placed
on top of the folder.
“Play it for me now,” Astorre said.
Nicole reached into her desk for a small cassette
player. She inserted the tape, and they listened
to Cilke reveal his plan to entrap Portella.
Then Astorre pocketed everything and said,
“I’ll have it all back to you later today,
and Marc too. Don’t worry. Nothing will
happen. And if it does, it will be worse for
them than for us.”
A little after noon Astorre, Aldo Monza, and
Bruno Portella were seated in a private dining
room at the Paladin restaurant in the East
Sixties.
Bruno seemed not at all worried about being
a hostage. He chatted cheerfully with Astorre.
“You know, I lived all my life in New York
and I never knew Central Park had a zoo. More
people should know that and go see it.”
“So you had a good time,” Astorre said
in a good-humored voice, thinking that if
things went badly, Bruno would at least have
a pleasant memory before death. The door of
the dining room swung open, and the owner
of the restaurant appeared with Timmona Portella
and Marcantonio. Portella’s broad figure
with its well-cut suit almost masked Marcantonio
behind him. Bruno rushed into Timmona’s
arms and kissed him on both cheeks, and Astorre
was astonished to see the look of love and
satisfaction on Timmona’s face.
“What a brother,” Bruno exclaimed loudly.
“What a brother.”
In contrast, Astorre and Marcantonio shook
hands, then Astorre gave a half hug and said,
“Everything is OK, Marc.”
Marcantonio turned away from him and sat down.
His legs had gone weak partly with relief
at his safety and partly because of Astorre’s
appearance. The young boy who loved to sing,
the intense yet joyous youth so carefree and
loving, now appeared in his true form as the
Angel of Death. The power of his presence
dominated Portella in his fear and bluster.
Astorre sat down next to Marcantonio and patted
his knee. He was smiling his affable smile
as though this were just a friendly lunch.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
Marcantonio looked directly into Astorre’s
eyes. He had never before noticed how clear
and merciless they were. He looked at Bruno,
the man who would have paid for his life.
The man was babbling to his brother, something
about the Central Park zoo.
Astorre said to Portella, “We have things
to discuss.”
“OK,” Portella said. “Bruno, get the
fuck out of here. There’s a car waiting
outside. I’ll talk to you when I get home.”
Monza came into the dining room. “Take Marcantonio
to his house,” Astorre said to him. “Marc,
wait for me there.”
Portella and Astorre now sat alone across
from each other at the table. Portella opened
a bottle of wine and filled his glass. He
didn’t offer a glass to Astorre.
Astorre reached into his pocket, pulled out
a brown envelope, and emptied its contents
onto the table. There was the confidential
document he had signed for Cilke, the one
in which he was asked to betray Portella.
Then there was the small cassette player with
the tape in it.
Portella looked at the document with the FBI
logo and read it. He tossed it aside. “That
could be a forgery,” he said. “And why
would you be so dumb to sign it?”
In answer Astorre flipped the switch on the
cassette player, and Cilke’s voice could
be heard asking Astorre to cooperate to trap
Portella. Portella listened and tried to control
the surprise and rage he felt, but his face
had flushed a deep red and his lips moved
in unspoken curses. Astorre clicked off the
tape.
“I know you worked with Cilke over the last
six years,” Astorre said. “You helped
him wipe out the New York Families. And I
know you got immunity from Cilke for that.
But now he’s after you. Those guys who wear
badges are never satisfied. They want it all.
You thought he was your friend. You broke
omerta for him. You made him famous, and now
he wants to send you to jail. He doesn’t
need you anymore. He’s going to come after
you as soon as you buy the banks. That’s
why I couldn’t make the deal. I would never
break omerta.”
Portella was very quiet and then seemed to
come to a decision. “If I solve the Cilke
problem, what deal would you make for the
banks?”
Astorre put everything back into his attaché
case. “Outright sale,” he said. “Except
for me—I keep a five percent piece.”
Portella seemed to have recovered from his
shock. “OK,” he said. “We can work it
out after the problem is solved.”
They shook hands on it, and Portella left
first. Astorre realized he was very hungry
and ordered a thick red steak for lunch. One
problem solved, he thought.
...
At midnight Portella met with Marriano Rubio,
Inzio Tulippa, and Michael Grazziella at the
Peruvian consulate.
Rubio had been a superb host to Tulippa and
Grazziella. He had accompanied them to the
theater, the opera, and the ballet, and he
had supplied discreet beautiful young women
who had achieved some fame in the arts and
music. Tulippa and Grazziella were having
a wonderful visit and were reluctant to return
to their natural environments, which were
much less stimulating. They were subordinate
kings being wooed by an overruling emperor
who did everything to please them.
This night the consul general exceeded himself
in his hospitality. The conference table was
laden with exotic dishes, fruits, cheeses,
and huge bonbons of chocolate; beside every
chair stood a bottle of champagne in an ice
bucket. Small elegant pastries rested on delicate
ladders of spun sugar. A huge coffee urn steamed,
and boxes of Havana cigars, maduros, light
brown, and green were strewn carelessly over
the table.
He opened the proceedings by saying to Portella,
“Now, what is so important that we had to
cancel our engagements for this meeting?”
Despite his exquisite courtesy there was a
slight condescension in his voice that infuriated
Portella. And he knew that he would be lessened
in their eyes when they learned of Cilke’s
duplicity. He told them the whole story.
Tulippa was eating a bonbon when he said,
“You mean you had his cousin Marcantonio
Aprile, and you made a deal to get your brother
released without consulting us.” His voice
was full of contempt.
“I could not let my brother die,” Portella
said. “And besides, if I hadn’t made the
deal, we would have fallen into Cilke’s
trap.”
“True,” Tulippa said. “But it was not
your decision to make.”
“Yeah,” Portella said. “Then who—”
“All of us!” Tulippa barked. “We are
your partners.”
Portella looked at him and wondered what kept
him from killing the greasy son of a bitch.
But then remembered the fifty Panama hats
flying in the air.
The consul general seemed to have read his
mind. He said soothingly, “We all come from
different cultures and have different values.
We must accommodate ourselves to each other.
Timmona is an American, a sentimentalist.”
“His brother is a dumb piece of shit,”
Tulippa said.
Rubio shook his finger at Tulippa. “Inzio,
stop making trouble for the fun of it. We
all have a right to decide our personal affairs.”
Grazziella smiled a thin amused smile. “This
is true. You, Inzio, have never confided to
us your secret laboratories. Your desire to
own your own personal weapons. And such a
foolish notion. Do you think the government
will put up with such a threat? They will
change all the laws that now protect us and
permit us to thrive.”
Tulippa laughed. He was enjoying this meeting.
“I am a patriot,” he said. “I want South
America to be in a position to defend itself
from countries like Israel and India and Iraq.”
Rubio smiled at him benignly. “I never knew
you were a nationalist.”
Portella was unamused. “I have a big problem
here. I thought Cilke was my friend. I invested
a lot of money in him. And now he is coming
after me and all of you.”
Grazziella spoke directly and strongly. “We
must abandon the whole project. We must live
with less.” He was no longer the amiable
man they had known. “We must find another
solution. Forget Kurt Cilke and Astorre Viola.
They are too dangerous as enemies. We must
not pursue a course that could destroy us
all.”
“That won’t solve my problem,” Portella
said. “Cilke will keep coming after me.”
Tulippa also dropped his mask of affability.
He said to Grazziella, “That you should
advocate such a peaceful solution is against
everything we know about you. You killed police
and magistrates in Sicily. You assassinated
the governor and his wife. You and your Corleonesi
cosca killed the army general who was sent
out to destroy your organization. Yet now
you say abandon a project that will earn us
billions of dollars. And desert our friend
Portella.”
“I’m going to get rid of Cilke,” Portella
said. “No matter what you say.”
“That is a very dangerous course of action,”
the consul general said. “The FBI will declare
a vendetta. They will use all their resources
to track down his killer.”
“I agree with Timmona,” Tulippa said.
“The FBI operates under legal constraints
and can be handled. I will supply an assault
team, and hours after the operation they will
be on the airplane to South America.”
Portella said, “I know it’s dangerous,
but it’s the only thing to do.”
“I agree,” Tulippa said. “For billions
of dollars one must take risks. Or what are
we in business for?”
Rubio said to Inzio, “You and I are at minimal
risk because we have diplomatic status. Michael,
you return to Sicily for the time being. Timmona,
you will be the one who must bear the brunt
of what follows.”
“If worse comes to worst,” Tulippa said,
“I can hide you in South America.”
Portella spread his hands in the air in a
helpless gesture. “I have a choice,” he
said. “But I want your support. Michael,
do you agree?”
Grazziella’s face was impassive. “Yes,
I agree,” he said. “But I would worry
more about Astorre Viola than Kurt Cilke.”
CHAPTER 11
WHEN ASTORRE RECEIVED the coded message that
Heskow wanted a meeting, he took his precautions.
There was always the danger that Heskow might
turn against him. So instead of answering
the message, he suddenly appeared at Heskow’s
home in Brightwaters at midnight. He took
Aldo Monza with him and an extra car with
four more men. He also wore a bulletproof
vest. He called Heskow when he was in the
driveway so that he would open the door.
Heskow did not seem surprised. He prepared
coffee and served Astorre and himself. Then
he smiled at Astorre and said, “I have good
news and bad news. Which one first?”
“Just tell it,” Astorre said.
“The bad news is that I have to leave the
country for good, and that’s because of
the good news. And I want to ask you to keep
your promise. That nothing will happen to
my boy even if I can’t work for you anymore.”
“You have that promise,” Astorre said.
“Now, why do you have to leave the country?”
Heskow shook his head in a comical act of
sorrow. He said, “Because that dumb prick
Portella is going over the top. He is going
to knock off Cilke, the FBI guy. And he wants
me to be operational chief of the crew.”
“So just refuse,” Astorre said.
“I can’t,” Heskow said. “The hit is
ordered by his whole syndicate, and if I refuse,
I go down the drain and maybe my son does
too. So I’ll organize the hit, but I won’t
be in the hit party. I’ll be gone. And then
when Cilke goes down the FBI will pour a hundred
men into the city to solve it. I told them
that, but they don’t give a shit. Cilke
doubled-crossed them or something. They think
they can smear him enough so that it won’t
be such a big deal.”
Astorre tried not to show his satisfaction.
It had worked out. Cilke would be dead with
no danger to himself. And with a little luck
the FBI would get rid of Portella.
He said to Heskow, “You want to leave me
an address?”
Heskow smiled at him almost scornfully with
distrust. “I don’t think so,” he said.
“Not that I don’t trust you. But I can
always get in touch with you.”
“Well, thanks for letting me know,” Astorre
said, “but who really made this decision?”
“Timmona Portella,” Heskow said. “But
Inzio Tulippa and the consul general signed
off on it. That Corleonesi guy, Grazziella,
washed his hands of it. He’s distancing
himself from the operation. I think he’s
leaving for Sicily. Which is funny because
he’s killed practically everybody there.
“They don’t really understand how America
works, and Portella is just dumb. He says
he thought he and Cilke were really friends.”
“And you are going to lead the hit team,”
Astorre said. “That’s not so smart either.”
“No, I told you when they hit the house
I’ll be long gone.”
“The house?” Astorre said, and at that
moment he felt dread over what he was about
to hear.
“Yeah,” Heskow said. “A massive assault
team flies back to South America and disappears.”
“Very professional,” Astorre said. “When
does this all happen?”
“Night after tomorrow. All you have to do
is stand aside and they solve all your problems.
That’s the good news.”
“So it is,” Astorre said. He kept his
face expressionless, but in his mind was the
vision of Georgette Cilke, her beauty and
goodness.
“I thought you should know about it so that
you’ll have a good alibi,” Heskow said.
“So you owe me one, and take care of my
kid.”
“Damn right,” Astorre said. “Don’t
worry about him.”
He shook hands with Heskow before he left.
“I think you’re being very smart leaving
the country. All hell will break loose.”
“Yeah,” Heskow said.
For a moment Astorre wondered what he would
do about Heskow. The man, after all, had driven
the hit car in the killing of the Don. He
had to pay for that despite all his help.
But Astorre had suffered a certain loss of
energy when he learned that Cilke’s wife
and child were to be killed with him. Let
him go, he thought. He might be useful later.
Then it would be time to kill him. And he
looked at Heskow’s smiling face and smiled
back.
“You’re a very clever man,” he said
to Heskow.
Heskow’s face turned pink with pleasure.
“I know,” he said. “That’s how I stay
alive.”
The next day, at 11:00 A.M., Astorre arrived
at FBI headquarters accompanied by Nicole
Aprile, who had arranged an appointment.
He had spent a long night pondering his course
of action. He had planned all this to have
Portella kill Cilke. But he knew that he could
not let Georgette or her daughter be killed.
He also knew that Don Aprile would never have
interfered with fate in this matter. But then
he remembered a story about the Don that gave
him pause.
One night, when Astorre was twelve years old
and in Sicily with the Don on his annual visit,
they were served dinner by Caterina in the
garden pavilion. Astorre, with his peculiar
innocence, said to them abruptly, “How did
you two get to know each other? Did you grow
up together as children?” The Don and Caterina
exchanged a glance and then laughed at the
serious intensity of his interest.
The Don had placed his fingers on his lips
and whispered mockingly, “Omerta. It’s
a secret.”
Caterina rapped Astorre’s hand with the
wooden mixing spoon. “That’s none of your
business, you little devil,” she said. “And
besides, it’s nothing I’m proud of.”
Don Aprile gazed upon Astorre with fondness.
“Why should he not know? He’s a Sicilian
to the bone. Tell him.”
“No,” Caterina said. “But you can tell
him if you like.”
After dinner Don Aprile lit his cigar, filled
his glass with anisette, and told Astorre
the story.
“Ten years ago the most important man in
the town was a certain Father Sigusmundo,
a very dangerous man and yet good-humored.
When I visited Sicily he often came to my
house and played cards with my friends. At
that time I had a different housekeeper.”
But Father Sigusmundo was not irreligious.
He was a devout and hardworking priest. He
scolded people into going to mass and even
at one time engaged in fisticuffs with an
exasperating atheist. He was most famous for
giving last rites to victims of the Mafia
as they lay dying; he shrived their souls
and cleansed them for their voyage to Heaven.
He was revered for this, but it happened too
often and some people began to whisper, saying
the reason he was always so handy was because
he was one of the executioners—that he was
betraying the secrets of the confessional
box for his own ends.
Caterina’s husband at that time was a strong
anti-Mafia policeman. He had even pursued
a case of murder after he had been warned
off by the provincial Mafia chief, an unheard-of
act of defiance at that time. A week after
that threat, Caterina’s husband was ambushed
and lay dying in a back alley of Palermo.
And it so happened that Father Sigusmundo
appeared to give him last rites. The crime
was never solved.
Caterina, the grief-stricken widow, spent
a year in mourning and devotion to the church.
Then one Saturday she went to confession with
Father Sigusmundo. When the priest came out
of the confessional, in full sight of everyone,
she stabbed him through the heart with her
husband’s dagger.
The police threw her in jail, but that was
the least of it. The Mafia chief pronounced
a death sentence upon her.
Astorre stared wide-eyed at Caterina. “Did
you really do that, Aunt Caterina?”
Caterina looked at him with amusement. He
was filled with curiosity and not a bit of
fear. “But you must understand why. Not
because he killed my husband. Men are always
killing each other here in Sicily. But Father
Sigusmundo was a false priest, an unshriven
murderer. He could not give last rites with
legitimacy. Why would God listen? So my husband
was not only murdered but denied his entrance
to Heaven and descended into Hell. Well, men
don’t know where to stop. There are things
you can’t do. That’s why I killed the
priest.”
“Then how come you’re here?” Astorre
asked.
“Because Don Aprile took an interest in
the whole affair,” Caterina said. “So
naturally everything was settled.”
The Don said gravely to Astorre, “I had
a certain standing in the town, a respect.
The authorities were easily satisfied, and
the church did not want the public attention
of a corrupt priest. The Mafia chief was not
so sensitive and refused to cancel his death
sentence. He was found in the cemetery where
Caterina’s husband was buried, with his
throat cut, and his cosca was destroyed and
made powerless. By that time I had grown fond
of Caterina, and I made her chief of this
household. And for the last nine years my
summer months in Sicily have been the sweetest
of my life.”
To Astorre this was all magic. He ate a handful
of olives and spit out the pits. “Caterina’s
your girlfriend?” he asked.
“Of course,” Caterina said. “You’re
a twelve-year-old boy, you can understand.
I live under his protection as if I were his
wife, and I perform all my wifely duties.”
Don Aprile seemed a little embarrassed, the
only time Astorre had seen him so. Astorre
said, “But why don’t you marry?”
Caterina said, “I could never leave Sicily.
I live like a queen here, and your uncle is
generous. Here I have my friends, my family,
my sisters and brothers and cousins. And your
uncle could not live in Sicily. So we do the
best we can.”
Astorre said to Don Aprile, “Uncle, you
can marry Caterina and live here. I’ll live
with you. I never want to leave Sicily.”
At this they both laughed.
“Listen to me,” the Don said. “It took
a great deal of work to put a stop to the
vendetta against her. If we married, plots
and mischief would be born. They can accept
the fact that she is my mistress but not my
wife. So with this arrangement we are both
happy and both free. Also, I do not want a
wife who refuses to accept my decisions, and
when she refuses to leave Sicily I am not
a husband.”
“And it would be an infamita,” Caterina
said. Her head drooped slightly, and then
she turned her eyes to the black Sicilian
sky and began to weep.
Astorre was bewildered. It made no sense to
him as a child. “Really, but why? Why?”
he said.
Don Aprile sighed. He puffed on his cigar
and took a sip of anisette. “You must understand,”
the Don said. “Father Sigusmundo was my
brother.”
Astorre remembered now that their explanation
hadn’t convinced him. With the willfulness
of a romantic child he had believed that two
people who loved each other were permitted
any license in the world. Only now he understood
the terrible decision his uncle and aunt had
made. That if he married Caterina, all the
Don’s blood relatives would become his enemies.
Not that they did not know that Father Sigusmundo
was a villain. But he was a brother and that
excused all his sins. And a man like the Don
could not marry his brother’s murderer.
Caterina could not ask such a sacrifice. And
then what if Caterina believed that the Don
had somehow been implicated in her husband’s
murder? What a leap of faith for both of them,
and perhaps, what a betrayal of everything
they believed in.
But this was America, not Sicily. During the
long night Astorre had made up his mind. In
the morning he had called Nicole.
“I’m going to pick you up for breakfast,”
he had said. “Then you and I are going to
visit Cilke at FBI headquarters.”
Nicole had said, “This has to be serious,
right?”
“Yeah. I’ll tell you over breakfast.”
“Do you have an appointment with him?”
Nicole had asked.
“No, that’s your job.”
An hour later the cousins were having breakfast
together at a posh hotel with widely separated
tables for privacy because it was an early-hour
meeting place for the power brokers of the
city.
Nicole believed in a hearty breakfast to fuel
her twelve-hour working day. Astorre settled
for orange juice and coffee, which with a
basket of breakfast rolls would cost him twenty
dollars. “What crooks,” he said to Nicole
with a grin.
Nicole was impatient with this. “You’re
paying for the atmosphere,” she said. “The
imported linen, the crockery. What the hell
is wrong now?”
“I’m going to do my civic duty,” Astorre
said. “I have information from an unimpeachable
source that Kurt Cilke and his family will
be killed tomorrow night. I want to warn him.
I want to get credit for warning him. He’ll
want to know my source, and I can’t tell
him.”
Nicole pushed away her plate and leaned back.
“Who the hell is that stupid?” she said
to Astorre. “Christ, I hope you’re not
involved.”
“Why do you think that?” Astorre asked.
“I don’t know,” Nicole said. “The
thought just came. Why not let him know anonymously?”
“I want to get credit for my good deeds.
I get the feeling nobody loves me these days.”
He smiled.
“I love you,” Nicole said, leaning toward
him. “OK, here’s our story. As we came
into the hotel a strange man stopped us and
whispered the information in your ear. He
was wearing a gray striped suit, a white shirt,
and a black tie. He was average height, dark-skinned,
could be Italian or Hispanic. After that we
can vary. I’ll be witness to your story,
and he knows he can’t screw around with
me.”
Astorre laughed. His laughter was always disarming;
it had the unfettered glee of a child. “So
he’s more afraid of you than he is of me”
he said.
Nicole smiled. “And I know the director
of the FBI. He’s a political animal, he
has to be. I’ll call Cilke and tell him
to expect us.” She took her phone out of
her purse and made the call.
“Mr. Cilke,” she said into the phone,
“this is Nicole Aprile. I’m with my cousin
Astorre Viola, and he has important information
he wants to give you.”
After a pause she said, “That’s too late.
We’ll be there within the hour.” She hung
up before Cilke could say anything.
An hour later Astorre and Nicole were ushered
into Cilke’s office. It was a large corner
office with Polaroid bulletproof windows that
could not be seen out of, so there was no
view.
Cilke, standing behind a huge desk, was waiting
for them. There were three black leather chairs
facing his desk. Behind it, oddly enough,
was a schoolroom blackboard. In one of the
chairs sat Bill Boxton, who did not offer
to shake hands.
“Are you going to tape this?” Nicole asked.
“Of course,” Cilke said.
Boxton said reassuringly, “Hell, we tape
everything, even our coffee-and-doughnut orders.
We also tape anybody we think we may have
to put in jail.”
“You’re a pretty fucking funny guy,”
Nicole said, deadpan. “On the best day of
your life you couldn’t put me in jail. Think
another way. My client Astorre Viola is meeting
you voluntarily to give you an important piece
of information. I’m here to protect him
from any abuse after he does so.”
Kurt Cilke was not quite so charming as he
had been in their previous meetings. He waved
them into chairs and took his seat behind
the desk. “OK,” he said. “Let’s have
it.”
Astorre felt the man’s hostility, as if
being on his own turf didn’t require his
usual businesslike friendliness. How would
he react? He looked directly into Cilke’s
eyes and said, “I received information that
there will be a heavily armed assault on your
home tomorrow night. Late. The purpose is
to kill you for some reason.”
Cilke did not respond. He was frozen in his
chair, but Boxton sprang up and stood behind
Astorre. To Cilke he said, “Kurt, keep calm.”
Cilke rose. His entire body seemed to blow
up with rage. “This is an old Mafia trick,”
he said. “He sets up the operation and then
sabotages it. And he thinks I’ll be grateful.
Now, how the hell did you get such information?”
Astorre told him the story he and Nicole had
prepared. Cilke turned to Nicole and asked,
“You witnessed this incident?”
“Yes,” Nicole said, “but I didn’t
hear what the man said.”
Cilke said to Astorre, “You are under arrest
now.”
“For what?” Nicole said.
“For threatening a federal officer,” Cilke
said.
“I think you better call your director,”
Nicole said.
“It’s my decision to make,” Cilke told
her.
Nicole looked at her watch.
Cilke said softly, “Under executive order
of the president, I’m authorized to hold
you and your client for forty-eight hours
without legal counsel, as a threat to national
security.”
Astorre was startled. In his wide-eyed, childish
way, he said, “Is that really true? You
can do that?” He was really impressed by
such power. He turned back to Nicole and said
cheerfully, “Hey, this is getting more and
more like Sicily.”
“If you take that step, the FBI will be
in court for the next ten years and you’ll
be history,” Nicole said to Cilke. “You
have time to get your family out and ambush
the attackers. They won’t know they’ve
been informed on. If you capture any, you
can question them. We won’t talk. Or warn
them.”
Cilke seemed to consider this. He said to
Astorre with contempt, “At least I respected
your uncle. He would never have talked.”
Astorre gave an embarrassed smile. “Those
were the old days and that was the old country,
and besides, you’re not so different, with
your secret executive orders.” He wondered
what Cilke would say if he told him the real
reason. That he had saved the man simply because
he had spent an evening in the presence of
his wife and had romantically and uselessly
fallen in love with his idea of her.
“I don’t believe your bullshit story,
but we’ll go into that if there is really
an assault tomorrow night. If anything happens,
then I lock you up, and maybe you, too, counselor.
But why did you tell me?”
Astorre smiled. “Because I like you,”
he said.
“Get the hell out of here,” Cilke said.
He turned to Boxton. “Get the commander
of the special tactical force in here, and
tell my secretary to set up a call to the
director.”
They were kept another two hours to be interrogated
by Cilke’s staff. Meanwhile, Cilke in his
office talked to the director in Washington
over the scramble phone.
“Do not arrest them under any circumstances,”
the director told him. “Everything would
come out in the media, and we’d be a joke.
And don’t fool with Nicole Aprile unless
you have the goods on her. Keep everything
top secret, and we’ll see what happens tomorrow
night. Guards at your house have been alerted,
and your family is already being moved out
as we speak. Now put Bill on the phone. He’ll
run the ambush operation.”
“Sir, that should be my job,” Cilke protested.
“You’ll help with the planning,” the
director said, “but under no circumstance
will you take part in the tactical operation.
The Bureau operates under very strict rules
of engagement to avoid unnecessary violence.
You would be suspect if things go bad. You
understand me?”
“Yes, sir.” Cilke understood perfectly.
CHAPTER 12
AFTER A MONTH in the hospital Aspinella Washington
was released but still had to heal sufficiently
for the insertion of an artificial eye. A
splendid physical specimen, her body seemed
to assemble itself around her injuries. True,
her left foot dragged a little, and her eye
socket looked hideous. But she wore a square
green eye patch instead of black, and the
dark green accentuated the beauty of her mocha
skin. She reported back to work wearing a
costume of black trousers, a green pullover
shirt, and a green leather coat. When she
looked at herself in the mirror she thought
herself a striking figure.
Though she was on medical leave she would
sometimes go in to the Detective Bureau headquarters
and help in interrogations. Her injury gave
her a sense of liberation—she felt like
she could do anything, and she stretched her
power.
On her first interrogation there were two
suspects, an unusual pair in that one was
white and one was black. The white suspect,
about thirty, was immediately frightened of
her. But the black partner was delighted by
the tall beautiful woman with the green eye
patch and the cold level stare. This was one
cool sister.
“Holy shit,” he cried out, his face happy.
It was his first bust, he had no criminal
record, and he really didn’t know he was
in serious trouble. He and his partner had
broken into a home, tied up the husband and
wife, and then looted the house. They had
been laid low by an informant. The black kid
was still wearing the house owner’s Rolex
watch. He said cheerily to Aspinella, without
malice, indeed in a voice of admiration, “Hey,
Captain Kidd, you gonna make us walk the plank?”
The other detectives in the room smirked at
this foolishness. But Aspinella didn’t respond.
The kid was in handcuffs and couldn’t ward
off her blow. Snakelike, her truncheon crashed
against his face, breaking his nose and splitting
his cheekbone. He didn’t go down; his knees
sagged, and he gave her a reproachful look.
His face was a mess of blood. Then his legs
folded and he toppled to the ground. For the
next ten minutes Aspinella beat him unmercifully.
As if from a fresh spring, blood started to
flow from the boy’s ears.
“Jesus,” one of the detectives said, “how
the hell do we question him now?”
“I didn’t want to talk to him,” Aspinella
said. “I want to talk to this guy.” She
pointed her truncheon to the white suspect.
“Zeke, right? I want to talk to you, Zeke.”
She took him roughly by the shoulder and threw
him into a chair facing her desk. He stared
at her, terrified. She realized her eye patch
had slipped to one side and that Zeke was
staring into that empty orb. She reached up
and adjusted the patch to cover her milky
socket.
“Zeke,” she said, “I want you to listen
very carefully. I want to save time here.
I want to know how you got this kid into this.
How you got into this. Understand? Are you
going to cooperate?”
Zeke had turned very pale. He didn’t hesitate.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll tell
you everything.”
“OK,” Aspinella said to another detective.
“Get that kid into the medical ward and
send down the video people to take Zeke’s
confession of his own free will.”
As they were setting up the monitors, Aspinella
said to Zeke, “Who fenced your goods? Who
gave you information about your target? Give
me the exact details of the robbery. Your
partner is obviously a nice kid. He has no
record and he’s not that smart. That’s
why I took it easy on him. Now, you, Zeke,
have a very distinguished record, so I figure
you’re the Fagin that got him into this.
So start rehearsing for the video.”
When Aspinella left the station house she
drove her car over the Southern State Parkway
to Brightwaters, Long Island.
Oddly enough, she found driving with one eye
was more pleasurable than not. The landscape
was more interesting because it was focused,
like some futuristic painting that dissolved
into dreams around the edges. It was as if
half the world, the globe itself, had been
bisected and the half she could see claimed
more attention.
Finally she was driving through Brightwaters
and passing John Heskow’s house. She could
see his car in the driveway and a man carrying
a huge azalea plant from the flower shed to
the house. Then another man came out of the
shed carrying a box filled with yellow flowers.
This was interesting, she thought. They were
emptying the flower shed.
While in the hospital she had done research
on John Heskow. She had gone through the New
York State car-registration records and found
his address. Then she checked all the criminal
databases and found that John Heskow was really
Louis Ricci; the bastard was Italian, though
he looked like a German pudding. But his criminal
record was clear. He had been arrested several
times for extortion and assault but never
convicted. The flower shed could not generate
the amount of money to support his style of
living.
She had done all this because she had figured
out that the only one who could have put the
finger on her and Di Benedetto was Heskow.
The only thing that puzzled her was that he
had given them the money. That money had put
the Internal Affairs Bureau on her ass, but
she had soon gotten rid of their unenthusiastic
inquiries, since they were happy to have the
money for themselves. Now she was preparing
to get rid of Heskow.
Twenty-four hours before the scheduled assault
on Cilke, Heskow drove to Kennedy airport
for his flight to Mexico City, where he would
disappear from the civilized world with fake
passports he had prepared years ago.
Details had been settled. The flower sheds
had been emptied; his ex-wife would take care
of selling the house and put the proceeds
in the bank for their son’s college expenses.
Heskow had told her he would be away for two
years. He told his son the same story, over
dinner at Shun Lee’s.
It was early evening when he got to the airport.
He checked two suitcases, all he needed, except
for the one hundred thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar
bills taped around his body in small pouches.
He was wallpapered with money for immediate
expenses, and he had a secret account in the
Caymans, holding nearly five million dollars.
Thank God, because he certainly could not
apply for Social Security. He was proud that
he had lived a prudent life and had not squandered
his bankroll on gambling, women, or other
foolishness.
Heskow checked in for his flight and boarding
pass. Now he only carried a briefcase with
his false ID and passports. He had left his
car at permanent parking; his ex-wife would
pick it up and hold it for him.
He was at least an hour early for his flight.
He felt a little uneasy being unarmed, but
he had to pass the detectors to get on the
flight, and he would be able to get plenty
of weaponry from his contacts in Mexico City.
To pass the time he bought some magazines
in the bookshop and then went to the terminal
cafeteria. He loaded up a tray with dessert
and coffee and sat down at one of the small
tables. He looked through the magazines and
ate his dessert, a false strawberry tart covered
with fake whipped cream. Suddenly he was aware
that someone was sitting down at his table.
He looked up and saw Detective Aspinella Washington.
Like everyone, he was entranced by the square,
dark green eye patch. It gave him a flutter
of panic. She looked much more beautiful than
he remembered.
“Hi, John,” she said. “You never did
come to visit me in the hospital.”
He was so flustered he took her seriously.
“You know I couldn’t do that, Detective.
But I was sorry to hear about your misfortune.”
Aspinella gave him a huge smile. “I was
kidding, John. But I did want to have a little
chat with you before your flight.”
“Sure,” Heskow said. He expected he would
have to pay off, and he had ten grand in the
briefcase ready for just such surprises. “I’m
glad to see you looking so well. I was worried
about you.”
“No shit,” Aspinella said, her one eye
glittering like a hawk’s. “Too bad about
Paul. We were good friends, you know, besides
his being my boss.”
“That was a shame,” Heskow said. He even
gave a little cluck, which made Aspinella
smile.
“I don’t have to show you my badge,”
Aspinella said. “Right?” She paused. “I
want you to come with me to a little interrogation
room we have here in the terminal. Give me
some good interesting answers, and you can
catch your flight.”
“OK,” Heskow said. He rose to his feet
clutching his briefcase.
“And no funny business or I’ll shoot you
dead. Funny thing, I’m a better shot with
just one eye.” She rose and took his arm
and led him to a stairway up to the mezzanine,
which held the administrative offices of the
airlines. She led him down a long hallway
and unlocked an office door. Heskow was surprised
not only by the largeness of the room but
by the banks of TV monitors on the walls,
at least twenty screens, monitored by two
men who sat in soft armchairs and studied
them as they ate sandwiches and drank coffee.
One of the men stood up and said, “Hey,
Aspinella, what’s up?”
“I’m going to have a private chat with
this guy in the interrogation room. Lock us
in.”
“Sure,” the man said. “You want one
of us in there with you?”
“Nah. It’s just a friendly chat.”
“Oh, one of your famous friendly chats,”
the man said, and laughed. He looked at Heskow
closely. “I saw you on the screens down
in the terminal. Strawberry tart, right?”
He led them to a door in the back of the room
and unlocked it. After Heskow and Aspinella
entered the interrogation room he locked the
door behind them.
Heskow was reassured now that there were other
people involved. The interrogation chamber
was disarming, with a couch, a desk, and three
comfortable-looking chairs. In one corner
was a watercooler with paper cups. The pink
walls were decorated with photographs and
paintings of flying machines.
Aspinella made Heskow sit in a chair facing
the desk, on which she sat and looked down
at him.
“Can we get on with it?” Heskow asked.
“I cannot afford to miss that flight.”
Aspinella didn’t answer. She reached out
and took Heskow’s briefcase from his lap.
Heskow twitched. She opened it and leafed
through the contents, including the stacks
of one-hundred-dollar bills. She studied one
of the false passports, then put everything
back in the briefcase and returned it to him.
“You’re a very clever man,” she said.
“You knew it was time to run. Who told you
I was after you?”
“Why would you be after me?” Heskow asked.
He was more confident now that she had given
him back his briefcase.
Aspinella lifted her eye patch so that he
could see the wretched crater. But Heskow
did not flinch; he had seen much worse in
his day.
“You cost me that eye,” she said. “Only
you could have informed and set Paul and me
up.”
Heskow spoke with the utmost sincerity, which
had been one of his best weapons in his profession.
“You’re wrong, absolutely wrong. If I
did that, I would have kept the money—you
can see that. Look, I really have to catch
that flight.” He unbuttoned his shirt and
tore a piece of tape. Two packets of money
appeared on the table. “That’s yours,
and the money in the briefcase. That’s thirty
grand.”
“Gee,” Aspinella said. “Thirty grand.
That’s a lot of money for just one eye.
OK. But you have to tell me the name of the
guy who paid you to set us up.”
Heskow made up his mind. His one chance was
to get on that flight. He knew she wasn’t
bluffing. He had dealt with too many homicidal
maniacs in his line of work to misjudge her.
“Listen, believe me,” he said. “I never
dreamed this guy would knock off two high-ranking
cops. I just made a deal with Astorre Viola
so he could hide out. I never dreamed he would
do such a thing.”
“Good,” Aspinella said. “Now, who paid
you for the hit on him?”
“Paul knew,” Heskow said. “Didn’t
he tell you? Timmona Portella.”
At that Aspinella felt a surge of rage. Her
fat partner had not only been a lousy fuck
but a lying bastard as well.
“Stand up,” she said to Heskow. Suddenly
a gun appeared in her hand.
Heskow was terrified. He had seen that look
before, only he had not been the victim. For
one moment he thought of his hidden five million
dollars that would die with him, unclaimed,
and the five million dollars seemed a living
creature. What a tragedy. “No,” he cried
out, and huddled his body further into the
chair. Aspinella grabbed his hair with her
free hand and pulled him to his feet. She
held the gun away from his neck and fired.
Heskow seemed to fly out of her grasp and
crashed to the floor. She knelt by his body.
Half his throat had been blown away. Then
she took her throwaway gun from its ankle
holster, placed it in Heskow’s hand, and
stood up. She could hear the door being unlocked,
and then the two screen men rushed in with
guns drawn.
“I had to shoot him,” she said. “He
tried to bribe me and then he pulled a gun.
Call the terminal medical van and I’ll call
homicide myself. Don’t touch anything, and
don’t let me out of your sight.”
. . .
The next night Portella launched his attack.
Cilke’s wife and daughter had already been
spirited away to a restricted heavily guarded
FBI station in California. Cilke, at the director’s
orders, was at FBI headquarters in New York
with his full staff on duty. Bill Boxton had
been given the overall command of the special
task force and would spring the trap at Cilke’s
house. The rules of engagement were strict,
however. The Bureau didn’t want a bloodbath
that would cause complaint from liberal groups.
The FBI team would not fire unless it was
fired upon. Every effort would be made to
give the attackers a chance to surrender.
As an assistant planning officer, Kurt Cilke
met with Boxton and the special task force’s
commander, a comparatively young man of thirty-five
whose face was set in the rigid lines of command.
But his skin was gray and he had a regrettable
dimple in his chin. His name was Sestak and
his accent was pure Harvard. They met in Cilke’s
office.
“I expect you to be in constant communication
with me during the operation,” Cilke said.
“The rules of engagement will be strictly
observed.”
“Don’t worry,” Boxton said. “We have
a hundred men with firepower that exceeds
theirs. They will surrender.”
Sestak said in a soft voice, “I have another
hundred men to establish a perimeter. We let
them in but we don’t let them out.”
“Good,” Cilke said. “When you capture
them you will ship them to our New York interrogation
center. I’m not permitted to take part in
the interrogation, but I want information
as soon as possible.”
“What if something goes wrong and they wind
up dead?” Sestak asked.
“Then there will be an internal investigation
and the director will be very unhappy. Now,
here’s the reality: They will be arrested
for conspiracy to commit murder, and they
will get out on bail. Then they will vanish
into South America. So we have only a few
days to interrogate them.”
Boxton looked at Cilke with a little smile.
Sestak said to Cilke in his cultured tone,
“I think that would make you terribly unhappy.”
“Sure, it bothers me,” Cilke said. “But
the director has to worry about political
complications. Conspiracy charges are always
tricky.”
“I see,” Sestak said. “So your hands
are tied.”
“That’s right,” Cilke said.
Boxton said quietly, “It’s a damn shame,
they can attempt the murder of a federal officer
and get off.”
Sestak was looking at them both with an amused
smile. His gray skin took on a reddish tinge.
“You’re preaching to the choir,” he
said. “Anyway, these operations always go
wrong. Guys with guns always think they can’t
be shot. Very funny thing about human nature.”
That night Boxton accompanied Sestak to the
operational area around Cilke’s home in
New Jersey. Lights had been left on in the
house to make it look like someone was home.
Also there were three cars parked in the driveway
to give the impression that the house guards
were inside. The cars were booby-trapped so
that if they were started, they would blow
up. Otherwise Boxton could see nothing.
“Where the hell are your hundred men?”
Boxton asked Sestak.
Sestak gave him a huge grin. “Pretty good,
huh? They’re all around here, and even you
can’t see them. They already have lines
of fire. When the attackers come in, the road
will be sealed behind them. We’ll have a
basket full of rats.”
Boxton remained at Sestak’s side at a command
post fifty yards from the house. With them
was a communications team of four men who
wore camouflage to match the patch of woods
they used as cover. Sestak and his team were
armed with rifles, but Boxton only had his
handgun.
“I don’t want you in the fighting,”
Sestak told Boxton. “Besides, that weapon
you carry is useless here.”
“Why not?” Boxton said. “I’ve been
waiting my whole career to shoot the bad guys.”
Sestak laughed. “Not today. My team is protected
by executive order from any legal inquiries
or prosecution. You’re not.”
“But I’m in command,” Boxton said.
“Not when we become operational,” Sestak
told him coolly. “Then I’m in sole command.
I make all the decisions. Even the director
can’t supersede me.”
They waited together in the darkness. Boxton
looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to
midnight. One of the communications team whispered
to Sestak, “Five cars filled with men are
on approach to the house. The road behind
them has been sealed. Estimated time of arrival
is five minutes.
Sestak was wearing infrared goggles that gave
him night vision. “OK,” he said. “Send
the word. Don’t fire unless fired upon or
at my order.”
They waited. Suddenly five cars raced to the
driveway and men spilled out. One of them
immediately threw a firebomb into Cilke’s
house, breaking a pane of glass and sending
a thin blaze of red fire inside the room.
Then suddenly the whole area was flooded with
bright searchlights that froze the group of
twenty attackers. At the same time a helicopter
whirred overhead with glaring lights. Loudspeakers
roared a message into the night. “This is
the FBI. Throw away your weapons and lie on
the ground.”
Dazzled by the light and the helicopters,
the trapped men froze. Boxton saw with relief
that they had lost all will to resist.
So he was surprised when Sestak brought up
his rifle and fired into the group of attackers.
Immediately the attack group started firing
back. And then Boxton was deafened by the
roar of gunfire that swept the driveway and
mowed down the attackers. One of the booby-trapped
cars exploded. It was as if a hurricane of
lead had completely devastated the driveway.
Glass shattered and poured down a silver rain.
The other cars sank to the ground so riddled
with bullets that their outsides had no color.
The driveway seemed to spout a spring of blood
that flowed and eddied around the cars. The
twenty attackers were blood-soaked bundles
of rags looking like sacks of laundry to be
picked up.
Boxton was in shock. “You fired before they
could surrender,” he said to Sestak accusingly.
“That will be my report.”
“I differ,” Sestak grinned at him. “Once
they firebombed the house, that was attempted
murder. I couldn’t risk my men. That will
be my report. Also that they fired first.”
“Well, it won’t be mine,” Boxton said.
“No kidding,” Sestak said. “You think
the director wants your report? You’ll be
on his shit list. Forever.”
“He’ll want your ass because you disobeyed
orders,” Boxton said. “We’ll go down
in flames together.”
“Good,” Sestak said. “But I’m the
tactical commander. I can’t be overruled.
Once I’m called in, that’s it. I don’t
want criminals to think they can attack a
federal officer. That’s the reality, and
you and the director can go fuck yourselves.”
“Twenty dead men,” Boxton said.
“And good riddance to them,” Sestak said.
“You and Cilke wanted me to blast them,
but you didn’t have the balls to come right
out with it.”
Boxton suddenly knew this was true.
Kurt Cilke prepared for another meeting with
the director in Washington. He had his notes
with an outline of what he would say and a
report on all the circumstances of the attack
on his home.
As always, Bill Boxton would accompany him,
but this time it was at the express wish of
the director.
Cilke and Boxton were in the director’s
office with its row of TV monitors showing
reports of activities of the local FBI office.
The director, always courteous, shook hands
with both men and invited them to sit down,
though he gave Boxton a cold, fishy look.
Two of his deputies were in attendance.
“Gentlemen,” he said, addressing the whole
group. “We have to clean up this mess. We
cannot allow such an outrageous act to go
without answering it with all our resources.
Cilke, do you want to stay on the job or take
retirement?”
“I stay,” Cilke said.
The director turned to Boxton, and his lean
aristocratic face was stern. “You were in
charge. How is it that all the attackers were
killed and we have no one to interrogate?
Who gave the order to fire? You? And on what
grounds?”
Boxton sat up in his chair stiffly. “Sir,”
he said, “the attackers threw a bomb in
the house and opened fire. There was no choice.”
The director sighed. One of his deputies gave
a grunt of scorn.
“Captain Sestak is one of our beauties,”
the director said. “Did he try, at least,
for one prisoner?”
“Sir, it was over in two minutes,” Boxton
said. “Sestak is a very efficient tactician
in the field.”
“Well, there hasn’t been any fuss by the
media or the public,” the director said.
“But I must say I consider it a bloodbath.”
“Yes, it was,” volunteered one of the
deputies.
“Well, it can’t be helped,” the director
said. “Cilke, have you come up with an operational
plan?”
Cilke had felt a surge of anger at their criticism,
but he answered calmly. “I want a hundred
men assigned to my office. I want you to request
a full audit of the Aprile banks. I am going
into deep background on everyone involved
in this business.”
The director said, “You don’t feel any
debt to this Astorre Viola for saving you
and your family?”
“No,” Cilke said. “You have to know
these people. First they get you into trouble,
then they help you out.”
The director said, “Remember, one of our
primary interests is to appropriate the Aprile
banks. Not only because we benefit but because
those banks are destined to be a center for
laundering drug money. And through them we
get Portella and Tulippa. We have to look
at this as global. Astorre Viola refuses to
sell the banks, and the syndicate is trying
to eliminate him. So far they’ve failed.
We have learned that the two hired killers
who shot the Don have disappeared. Two detectives
in the NYPD were blown up.”
“Astorre is cunning and elusive, and he
isn’t involved in any rackets,” Cilke
told them, “so we can’t really put something
on him. Now, the syndicate may succeed in
getting rid of him, and the children will
sell the banks to them. Then I’m sure in
a couple of years they will step over the
line.”
It was not unusual for government law enforcement
to play a long game, especially with the drug
people. But to do so they had to permit crimes
to be committed.
“We’ve played it long before,” the director
said. “But that doesn’t mean you give
Portella carte blanche.”
“Of course,” Cilke said. He knew that
everyone was speaking for the record.
“I’ll give fifty men,” the director
said. “And I’ll request a full audit of
the banks just to shake things up.”
One of the deputies said, “We have audited
them before and never found anything.”
“There’s always a chance,” Cilke said.
“Astorre is no banker, and he could have
made mistakes.”
“Yes,” the director said. “One little
slip is all the attorney general needs.”
Back in New York Cilke met with Boxton and
Sestak to plan his campaign. “We’re getting
fifty more men to investigate the attack on
my home,” he told them. “We have to be
very careful. I want everything you can get
on Astorre Viola. I want to go into the blowing
up of the detectives. I want all the dope
on the disappearance of the Sturzo brothers
and all the information we can get on the
syndicate. Zero in on Astorre and also Detective
Washington. She has a reputation for bribe
taking and brutality, and the story she gives
of getting blown up and all that money at
the scene is very fishy.”
“What about this guy Tulippa?” Boxton
asked. “He can leave the country anytime.”
“Tulippa is touring the country giving speeches
for drug legalization and also collecting
his blackmail payment from big companies.”
“Can’t we nail him on that?” Sestak
asked.
“No, Sestak,” Cilke said. “He has an
insurance company and sells them insurance.
We might be able to make a case, but the businesspeople
oppose it. They’ve solved the safety problem
of their personnel in South America. And Portella
has no place to go.”
Sestak grinned at him coldly. “What are
the rules of engagement here?”
Cilke said smoothly, “The director ordered
no more massacres, but protect yourself. Especially
against Astorre.”
“In other words, we can leave Astorre for
dead,” Sestak said.
Cilke seemed lost in thought for a moment.
“If necessary,” he replied.
It was only a week later that the federal
auditors swarmed over the Aprile bank records
and Cilke came personally to see Mr. Pryor
in his office.
Cilke shook his hand and then said genially,
“I always like to meet personally with people
I may have to send to prison. Now, can you
help us in any way and get off the train before
it’s too late?”
Mr. Pryor looked at the young man with a benevolent
concern. “Really?” he said. “You are
completely on the wrong track, I assure you.
I run these banks impeccably according to
national and international law.”
“Well, I just wanted you to know that I’m
tracking down your background and everyone
else’s,” Cilke said. “And I hope you
are all clean. Especially the Sturzo brothers.”
Mr. Pryor smiled at him. “We are immaculate.”
After Cilke left, Mr. Pryor leaned back in
his chair. The situation was becoming alarming.
What if they tracked down Rosie? He sighed.
What a shame. He would have to do something
about her.
When Cilke notified Nicole that he wanted
her and Astorre in his office the next day,
he still did not have a true understanding
of Astorre’s character, nor did he wish
to. He just felt the contempt he had for anyone
who broke the law. He did not understand the
resolve of a true Mafioso.
Astorre believed in the old tradition. His
followers loved him not only because of his
charisma but because he valued honor above
all.
A true Mafioso was strong enough in his will
to avenge any insult to his person or his
cosca. He could never submit to the will of
another person or government agency. And in
this lay his power. His own will was paramount;
justice was what he decreed justice must be.
His saving of Cilke and his family was a flaw
in his character. Still, he went with Nicole
to Cilke’s office vaguely expecting some
thanks, a relaxation of Cilke’s hostility.
It was evident that careful arrangements had
been made to receive them. Two security men
searched Astorre and Nicole before they entered
Cilke’s office. Cilke himself stood behind
his desk and glared at them. Without any sign
of friendliness he gestured them to sit down.
One of the guards locked them all in and waited
outside the door.
“Is this being recorded?” Nicole asked.
“Yes,” Cilke said. “Audio and video.
I don’t want any misunderstanding about
this meeting.” He paused for a moment. “I
want you to understand that nothing has changed.
I consider you a piece of scum I won’t allow
to live in this country. I don’t buy this
Don bullshit. I don’t buy your story about
the informant. I think you engineered this
with him and then betrayed your conspirator
to gain more lenient treatment from me. I
despise such trickery.”
Astorre was astonished that Cilke had penetrated
so near to the truth. He looked at him with
new respect. And yet his feelings were hurt.
The man had no gratitude, no respect for a
man who had saved him and his family. He smiled
at the contradictions within himself.
“You think it’s funny, one of your Mafia
jokes,” Cilke said. “I’ll wipe that
smile off your face in two seconds.”
He turned to Nicole. “First, the Bureau
demands that you tell us the true circumstances
of how you got this information. Not that
phony story your cousin gave. I’m surprised
at you, counselor. I’m thinking of charging
you as coconspirator.”
Nicole said coolly, “You can try, but I
suggest you take it to your director first.”
“Who told you about the attack on my house?”
Cilke asked. “We want the true informant.”
Astorre shrugged. “Take it or leave it,”
he said.
“Neither,” Cilke said coldly. “Let’s
get this straight. You are just another dirtbag.
Another murderer. I know you blew up Di Benedetto
and Washington. We’re looking into the disappearance
of the two Sturzo brothers in L.A. You killed
three of Portella’s hoods, and you took
part in a kidnapping. We’re going to get
you in the long run. And then you’ll be
just another piece of shit.”
For the first time Astorre seemed to lose
some of his composure, and his mask of affability
slipped. He caught Nicole watching him with
a sort of terrified pity. And so he permitted
some of his anger to escape.
“I don’t expect favors from you,” he
said to Cilke. “You don’t even know what
honor means. I saved the lives of your wife
and daughter. They could be lying underground
if it wasn’t for me. Now you invite me here
to abuse me. Your wife and daughter are alive
because of me. Show me respect for that at
least.”
Cilke stared at him. “I’ll show you nothing,”
he said, and he felt a terrible anger at being
in Astorre’s debt.
Astorre rose from his seat to walk out of
the room, but the security guard pushed him
down.
“I’m going to make your life miserable,”
Cilke said.
Astorre shrugged. “Do what you like. But
let me tell you this. I know you helped put
Don Aprile on the spot. Just because you and
the Bureau want to get hold of the banks.”
At this the security man moved toward him,
but Cilke waved him off. “I know you can
stop the attacks on my family,” he said.
“I’m telling you now that I make it your
responsibility.”
From the other side of the room, Bill Boxton
looked at Astorre and drawled, “Are you
threatening a federal officer?”
Nicole broke in. “Of course not, he is just
asking for his help.”
Cilke now seemed more cool. “All this for
your beloved Don. Well, obviously you haven’t
read the file I gave to Nicole. Your beloved
Don was the man who killed your father when
you were only two years old.”
Astorre flinched and glanced at Nicole. “Is
that the part you tried to erase?”
Nicole nodded. “I didn’t think that part
was true, and if it was, I didn’t think
you should know. It could only hurt you.”
Astorre felt the room begin to spin, but he
kept his composure. “It doesn’t make any
difference,” he said.
Nicole said to Cilke, “Now that everything
is clear, can we go?”
Cilke had an overpowering build, and as he
came out from behind the desk he gave Astorre
a playful slap on the head. Which surprised
Cilke as much as Astorre, for he had never
done such a thing before. It was a blow to
show his contempt, which masked true hatred.
He realized that he could never forget Astorre
saving his family. As for Astorre, he looked
steadily into Cilke’s face. He understood
exactly how Cilke felt.
Nicole and Astorre went back to Nicole’s
apartment, and Nicole tried to show her sympathy
for Astorre in his humiliation, but this angered
him even more. Nicole prepared a light lunch
and then persuaded him to lie down on her
bed for a nap. In the middle of his nap, he
was conscious that Nicole was on the bed beside
him, hugging him. He pushed her away.
“You heard what Cilke said about me,”
he said. “You want to get mixed up in my
life?”
“I don’t believe him or his reports,”
Nicole said. “Astorre, I really do think
I still love you.”
“We can’t go back to when we were kids,”
Astorre said gently. “I’m not the same
person, and neither are you. You’re just
wishing we were kids again.”
They lay in each other’s arms. Then Astorre
said sleepily, “Do you think it’s true
what they say about the Don killing my father?”
The next day Astorre flew out to Chicago with
Mr. Pryor and consulted with Benito Craxxi.
He brought them up to date and then asked,
“Is it true that Don Aprile killed my father?”
Craxxi ignored the question and asked Astorre,
“Did you have anything to do with inspiring
the attack on Cilke’s family?”
“No,” Astorre lied. He lied to them because
he did not want anyone to know the depth of
his cunning. And he knew that they would have
disapproved.
“And yet you saved them,” Don Craxxi said.
“Why?”
Again Astorre had to lie. He could not let
his allies know he was capable of such sentimentality,
that he could not bear to see Cilke’s wife
and daughter killed.
“You did well,” Craxxi said.
Astorre said, “You haven’t answered my
question.”
“Because it is complicated,” Craxxi said.
“You were the newborn son of a great Mafia
chief in Sicily, eighty years old, and head
of a very powerful cosca. Your mother was
very young when she died in childbirth. The
old Don was in extremis, and he summoned myself,
Don Aprile, and Bianco to his bedside. The
whole of his cosca would tumble at his death,
and he was worried about your future. He made
us promise to look after you and chose Don
Aprile to take you to America. There, because
his wife was dying and he wanted to save you
any more suffering, he placed you with the
Viola family, which was a mistake, because
your foster father turned out to be a traitor
and had to be executed. Don Aprile took you
into his home as soon as his trouble had passed.
The Don had a macabre sense of humor, and
so he arranged to have the death labeled suicide
in the trunk of a car. Then, as you grew older,
you showed all the traits of your real father,
the great Don Zeno. And so Don Aprile made
the decision that you would be the defender
of his family. So he sent you to Sicily to
be trained.”
Astorre was not really surprised. Somewhere
in his memory was a picture of a very old
man and a ride on a funeral hearse.
“Yes,” Astorre said slowly, “and I am
trained. I know how to take the offensive.
Still, Portella and Tulippa are well protected.
And I have to worry about Grazziella. The
only one I could kill is the consul general,
Marriano Rubio. Meanwhile, I have Cilke hounding
me. I don’t even know where to start.”
“You must never never strike at Cilke,”
Don Craxxi said.
“Yes,” Mr. Pryor said. “That would be
disastrous.”
Astorre smiled at them reassuringly. “Agreed,”
he said.
“There is some good news,” Craxxi told
him. “Grazziella, in Corleone, has requested
Bianco in Palermo to arrange a meeting with
you. Bianco will send you word to come within
a month. He may be your key.”
Tulippa, Portella, and Rubio met in the conference
room of the Peruvian consulate. In Sicily,
Michael Grazziella expressed his profoundest
regret that he was unable to attend.
Inzio opened the meeting without his usual
South American charm. He was impatient. “We
must solve the question: Do we get the banks
or not? I’ve invested millions of dollars,
and I am very disappointed in the results.”
“Astorre is like a ghost,” Portella said.
“We can’t get at him. He won’t take
more money. We have to kill him. Then the
others will sell.”
Inzio turned to Rubio. “You’re sure your
little love will agree?”
“I will persuade her,” Rubio said.
“And the two brothers?” Inzio asked.
“They have no interest in vendetta,” Rubio
said. “Nicole has assured me.”
“There is only one way,” Portella said.
“Kidnap Nicole and then lure Astorre out
to rescue her.”
Rubio protested, “Why not one of the brothers?”
“Because now Marcantonio is heavily guarded,”
Portella said. “And we can’t fuck around
with Valerius because army intelligence will
come down on us, and they are a vicious bunch.”
Tulippa turned to Rubio. “I will not hear
any more of that bullshit from you. Why should
we risk billions of dollars to go easy on
your girlfriend?”
“It’s just that we tried that trick before,”
Rubio said. “And remember, she has her bodyguard.”
He was being very careful. It would be disastrous
for Tulippa to be angry with him.
“The bodyguard is no problem,” Portella
said.
“Well, I’ll go along with you as long
as Nicole doesn’t get hurt,” Rubio said.
Marriano Rubio set things up by inviting Nicole
to the annual Peruvian ball at the consulate.
On the afternoon of the ball, Astorre came
to visit her to tell her he was going to Sicily
for a brief visit. As Nicole bathed and dressed
Astorre picked up a guitar that Nicole kept
for him and crooned Italian love songs with
his hoarse but pleasant voice.
When Nicole came out of the bathroom, she
was completely naked except for the white
bathrobe over her arm. Astorre was nearly
overwhelmed by her beauty, which was hidden
in her everyday dress. When she reached him,
he took the bathrobe and draped it around
her.
She moved into his arms and sighed. “You
don’t love me anymore.”
“You don’t know who I really am,” Astorre
said, laughing. “We’re not kids anymore.”
“But I know you’re good,” Nicole said.
“You saved Cilke and his family. Who is
your informant?”
Astorre laughed again. “None of your business.”
Then he went into the living room to avoid
any more questions.
That night Nicole attended the ball accompanied
by her bodyguard Helene, who had a better
time than she did. She understood that Rubio,
as host, could not pay her special attention.
But he had arranged for a limo for the night.
After the ball, the limo took her to the front
of her apartment. Helene got out first. But
before they could enter her building, four
men surrounded them. Helene bent down to her
ankle holster, but she was too late. One of
the men fired a bullet into her head, forcing
her crown of flowers to bloom into blood.
At that moment another group of men came out
of the shadows. Three of the attackers fled,
and Astorre, who had discreetly followed Nicole
to the ball, had her behind his back. The
shooter of Helene had been disarmed.
“Get her out of here,” Astorre said to
one of the men. He held the gun on the killer
and demanded, “OK, who sent you?”
The killer seemed unafraid. “Fuck you,”
he said.
Nicole saw Astorre’s face go cold just before
he fired a bullet into the man’s chest.
He strode closer and grabbed the man by the
hair as he fell, then fired another bullet
into his head. At that moment she saw what
her father must have been. She vomited over
Helene’s body. Astorre turned to her with
a regretful smile on his lips. Nicole could
not look at him.
Astorre brought her up into her apartment.
He instructed her on what to tell the police,
that she had fainted as soon as Helene was
shot and had seen nothing. When he left, she
called the police.
. . .
The next day, after arranging an around-the-clock
bodyguard for Nicole, Astorre flew to Sicily
to meet with Grazziella and Bianco in Palermo.
He followed his usual route, flying first
down to Mexico and there boarding a private
jet to Palermo, so there would be no record
of his journey.
In Palermo he was met by Octavius Bianco,
now so well groomed and elegant in the Palermo
style that it was hard to remember him as
a bearded and ferocious bandit. Bianco was
delighted to see Astorre and embraced him
with affection. They were driven out to Bianco’s
villa at the seashore.
“So you’re in trouble in America,” Bianco
said in the villa’s courtyard, which was
decorated with statues of the old Roman Empire.
“But I have some good news for you.” Then
he digressed to ask, “Your wound. Does it
give you trouble?”
Astorre touched the gold chain. “No,”
he said. “It just ruined my singing voice.
Now I’m a croaker instead of a tenor.”
“Better a baritone than a soprano,” Bianco
said, laughing. “Italy has many tenors anyway.
One less won’t hurt. You are a true Mafioso,
and that’s what we need.”
Astorre smiled and began to think of that
day so long ago when he went swimming. Now,
instead of the sharp sting of betrayal, he
only remembered how he felt when he woke up.
He touched the amulet at his throat and said,
“What’s the good news?”
“I have made peace with the Corleonesi and
Grazziella,” Bianco said. “He was never
involved in the killing of Don Aprile. He
came into the syndicate afterward. But now
he feels dissatisfied with Portella and Tulippa.
He thinks they are too rash and bunglers besides.
He disapproved of the attempt on the federal
agent. And he also has enormous respect for
you. He knows you from your service with me.
He sees you as a remarkably hard man to kill.
Now he wants to drop any previous vendettas
with you and help you.”
Astorre felt relief. His task would be easier
if he did not have to worry about Grazziella.
“Tomorrow, meet us here at the villa,”
Bianco said.
“He trusts you that much?” Astorre asked.
“He must,” Bianco said. “Because without
me here in Palermo, he cannot rule Sicily.
And we are more civilized today than when
you were here last.”
The next afternoon Michael Grazziella arrived
at the villa, and Astorre noted he was dressed
in the ultrarespectable mode of a Roman politician—dark
suit, white shirt, and dark tie. He was accompanied
by two bodyguards dressed in a similar fashion.
Grazziella was a small man, courteous, with
a very soft voice—you would not have guessed
he was responsible for the murders of high-ranking
anti-Mafia magistrates. He gripped Astorre’s
hand and said, “I have come here to help
you as a token of my deep esteem for our friend
Bianco. Please forget the past. We must begin
again.”
“Thank you,” Astorre said. “It is my
honor.”
Grazziella motioned to the guards, and they
walked out onto the beach.
“So Michael,” Bianco said. “How can
you help?”
Grazziella looked at Astorre and said, “Portella
and Tulippa are too reckless for my taste.
And Marriano Rubio is too dishonest. Whereas
I find you a clever man and qualified man.
Also, Nello is my nephew, and I learned you
spared him, no small thing. So there are my
motives.”
Astorre nodded. Beyond Grazziella, he saw
the black-green waves of the Sicilian sea
and, glinting off them, the dull deadly rays
of the Sicilian sun. He had a sudden feeling
of nostalgia, and a pang because he knew he
had to leave. All this was familiar to him
as America could never be. He longed for the
streets of Palermo, the sound of Italian voices,
his own tongue in a language more natural
to him than English. He returned his attention
to Grazziella. “So what can you tell me?”
“The syndicate wants me to meet with them
in America,” Grazziella said. “I can inform
you as to the whereabouts and the security.
If you take drastic action, I can then give
you refuge in Sicily, and if they try to extradite
you, I have friends in Rome who can stop the
process.”
“You have that kind of power?” Astorre
asked.
“Certainly,” Grazziella said with a little
shrug. “How could we exist otherwise? But
you must not be too rash.”
Astorre knew he was referring to Cilke. He
smiled at Grazziella. “I would never do
anything rash.”
Grazziella smiled politely and said, “Your
enemies are my enemies, and I pledge myself
to your cause.”
“I assume you will not be at the meeting,”
Astorre said.
Grazziella smiled at him again. “At the
last moment I will be detained: I will not
be present.”
“And when will this be?” Astorre asked.
“Within a month,” Grazziella said.
After Grazziella left, Astorre said to Bianco,
“Really, tell me, why is he doing this?”
Bianco smiled at him in appreciation. “How
easily you understand Sicily. All the reasons
that he gave were valid. But there is a primary
motive he did not mention.” He hesitated.
“Tulippa and Portella have been cheating
him out of his correct share of the drug money,
and he would soon have to go to war over that
in any case. He could never tolerate that.
He thinks highly of you, and it would be perfect
if you wiped out his enemies and became his
ally. He’s a very clever man, Grazziella.”
That evening Astorre walked along the beach
and thought about what he should do. Finally
the end was coming.
Mr. Pryor had no worries about controlling
the Aprile banks and defending them against
the authorities. But when the FBI flooded
New York following the assassination attempt
on Cilke, he became a little concerned about
what they would dig up. Especially after Cilke’s
visit.
In his early youth Mr. Pryor had been one
of the prized assassins of the Palermo Mafia.
But he had seen the light and gone into banking,
where his natural charm, intelligence, and
criminal connections ensured his success.
In essence, he became a Mafia banker to the
world. He was soon an expert in currency-rate
storms and the stashing of black money. He
also had a talent for buying legitimate businesses
at good prices. Eventually he had emigrated
to England because the fairness of the English
system could better protect his wealth than
the bribery in Italy.
However, his long arm still stretched out
to Palermo and the United States. And he was
the prime banker for Bianco’s cosca in their
control of construction in Sicily. He also
was the link between the Aprile banks and
Europe.
Now, with all the police activity, he was
reminded of a possible danger point: Rosie.
She could link Astorre to the Sturzo brothers.
Also, Mr. Pryor knew Astorre had a weak spot
and still took some comfort in Rosie’s charms.
This did not make him respect Astorre any
less; this weakness in men had existed since
the beginning of recorded time. And Rosie
was such a Mafioso girl. Who could resist
her? But as much as he admired the girl, he
did not think it wise to have her around.
So he decided to take a part in this affair
as he had once done in London. He knew he
would not win Astorre’s approval for such
an act—he knew Astorre’s character and
did not underestimate his dangerousness. But
Astorre was always a reasonable man. Pryor
would persuade him after the fact, and Astorre
would recognize the sagacity behind the deed.
But it had to be done. So Mr. Pryor called
Rosie one evening. She was delighted to hear
from him, especially when he assured her he
had good news. When he hung up the phone he
let out a sigh of regret.
He took his two nephews with him as drivers
and bodyguards. He left one in the car outside
the building and took the other up with him
to Rosie’s apartment.
Rosie greeted them by running into Mr. Pryor’s
arms, startling his nephew, who made a motion
inside his jacket.
She had made coffee and served a dish of pastries
that she said were specially imported from
Naples. They tasted nothing like it to Mr.
Pryor, who considered himself to be an expert
in such matters.
“Ah, you’re such a sweet girl,” Mr.
Pryor said. To his nephew he said, “Here,
try one.” But the nephew had retreated into
a corner of the room and sat in a chair to
watch this little comedy his uncle was playing.
Rosie thumped Mr. Pryor’s homburg lying
beside him and said mischievously, “I like
your English bowler better. You didn’t look
so stuck-up then.”
“Ah,” Mr. Pryor said with great good humor,
“when one changes one’s country, one must
always change one’s hat. And, my dear Rosie,
I’m here to ask you a great favor.”
He caught her slight hesitation before she
clapped her hands in glee. “Oh, you know
I will,” she said. “I owe you so much.”
Mr. Pryor was softened by her sweetness, but
what had to be done had to be done.
“Rosie,” he said, “I want you to arrange
your affairs so that tomorrow you can leave
for Sicily, but just for a short time. Astorre
is waiting for you there, and you must deliver
some papers to him from me, in the strictest
confidence. He misses you and wants to show
you Sicily.”
Rosie blushed. “He really wants to see me?”
“Of course,” Mr. Pryor said.
The truth was that Astorre was on his way
home from Sicily and would be in New York
the following night. Rosie and Astorre would
cross paths over the Atlantic Ocean in their
separate planes.
Rosie now became businesslike as a form of
coyness. “I can’t get away so quickly,”
she said. “I’d need to get reservations,
go to the bank, and a lot of other little
things.”
“Don’t think me presumptuous,” Mr. Pryor
said. “But I’ve arranged everything.”
He took a long white envelope from inside
his jacket. “This is your plane ticket,”
he said. “First-class. And also ten thousand
American dollars to do some last-minute shopping
and for travel expenses. My nephew, sitting
there dazzled in the corner, will pick you
up in his limousine tomorrow morning. In Palermo
you will be met by Astorre or one of his friends.”
“I have to be back after a week,” Rosie
said. “I have to take some tests for my
doctorate.”
“Don’t concern yourself,” Mr. Pryor
said. “You will not have to worry about
missing your tests. I promise. Have I ever
failed you?” His voice was sweetly avuncular.
But he was thinking, what a pity that Rosie
would never see America again.
They drank coffee and ate the pastries. The
nephew again refused refreshments though Rosie
begged him prettily. Their chat was interrupted
when the phone rang. Rosie picked it up. “Oh,
Astorre,” she said. “Are you calling from
Sicily? Mr. Pryor told me. He’s sitting
right here having coffee.”
Mr. Pryor continued to sip his coffee calmly,
but his nephew rose from his chair and then
sat down again when Mr. Pryor gave him a commanding
look.
Rosie was silent and looked questioningly
at Mr. Pryor, who nodded at her reassuringly.
“Yes, he was arranging for me to meet you
in Sicily for a week,” Rosie said. She paused
to listen. “Yes, of course I’m disappointed.
I’m sorry you had to come back unexpectedly.
So you want to talk to him? No? OK, I’ll
tell him.” She hung up the phone.
“What a shame,” she said to Mr. Pryor.
“He had to come back early. But he wants
you to wait here for him. He said about half
an hour.”
Mr. Pryor reached for another pastry. “Certainly,”
he said.
“He’ll explain everything when he gets
here,” Rosie said. “More coffee?”
Mr. Pryor nodded, then sighed. “You would
have had such a wonderful time in Sicily.
Too bad.” He imagined her burial in a Sicilian
cemetery, how sad that would have been.
“Go down and wait in the car,” he told
his nephew.
The young man rose reluctantly, and Mr. Pryor
made a shooing motion. Rosie let him out of
the apartment. Then he gave Rosie his most
concerned smile and asked, “Have you been
happy these last years?”
. . .
Astorre had arrived a day early and been picked
up by Aldo Monza at the small airport in New
Jersey. He had, of course, traveled by private
jet under a false passport. It was only on
impulse that he had called Rosie, out of a
desire to see her and spend a relaxing night
with her. When Rosie told him that Mr. Pryor
was in her apartment, his senses raced with
the signals of danger. As for her trip to
Sicily, he understood Mr. Pryor’s plans
immediately. He tried to control his anger.
Mr. Pryor had wanted to do the right thing
according to his experience. But it was too
big a price to pay for safety.
When Rosie opened the door, she flew into
his arms. Mr. Pryor rose from his chair, and
Astorre went to him and embraced him. Mr.
Pryor concealed his surprise—Astorre was
not usually so affectionate.
Then, to Mr. Pryor’s astonishment, Astorre
said to Rosie, “Go to Sicily tomorrow as
we planned and I’ll join you there in a
few days. We’ll have a great time.”
“Great,” Rosie said. “I’ve never been
to Sicily.”
Astorre said to Mr. Pryor, “Thanks for arranging
everything.”
Then he turned to Rosie again. “I can’t
stay,” he said. “I’ll see you in Sicily.
Tonight I have some important business to
do with Mr. Pryor. So start getting ready
for your trip. And don’t bring too many
clothes; we can go shopping in Palermo.”
“OK,” Rosie said. She kissed Mr. Pryor
on the cheek and gave Astorre a long embrace
and a lingering kiss. Then she opened the
door to let them out.
When the two men were out in the street, Astorre
told Mr. Pryor, “Come with me to my car.
Tell your nephews to go home—you won’t
need them tonight.”
It was only then that Mr. Pryor felt a little
nervous. “I was doing it for your own good,”
he said to Astorre.
In the backseat of Astorre’s car, Monza
driving, Astorre turned to Mr. Pryor. “Nobody
appreciates you more than I do,” he said.
“But am I the chief or am I not?”
“Without question,” Mr. Pryor said.
“It was a problem I have been meaning to
address,” Astorre said. “I recognize the
danger and I’m glad you made me act. But
I need her. We can take some risks. So here
are my instructions. In Sicily, supply her
with a luxurious house with servants. She
can enroll at Palermo University. She will
have a very generous allowance, and Bianco
will introduce her to the best of Sicilian
society. We will make her happy there, and
Bianco can control any problem that may arise.
I know you don’t approve of my affection
for her, but that’s something I can’t
help. I count on her faults to help her be
happy in Palermo. She has a weakness for money
and pleasure, but who doesn’t? So now I
hold you responsible for her safety. No accidents.”
“I’m very fond of the girl myself, as
you know,” Mr. Pryor said. “A truly Mafioso
girl. Are you going back to Sicily?”
“No,” Astorre said. “We have more important
business.”
CHAPTER 13
ONCE NICOLE gave the waiter her order, she
focused intently on Marriano Rubio. She must
deliver two important messages on this day,
and she wanted to be certain she got both
of them right.
Rubio had chosen the restaurant, a classy
French bistro where waiters hovered nervously
with tall varnished pepper mills and long
straw baskets of crusty fresh bread. Rubio
disliked the food, but he knew the maître
d’, so he was assured a good table in a
quiet corner. He brought his women there often.
“You’re quieter than usual tonight,”
he said, reaching across the table for her
hand. Nicole felt a shiver run through her
body. She realized that she hated him for
having that power over her, and she pulled
her hand away. “Are you all right?” he
asked.
“It’s been a difficult day,” she said.
“Ah,” he said with a sigh, “the price
of working with snakes.” Rubio had no regard
for Nicole’s law firm. “Why do you put
up with them? Why don’t you let me take
care of you instead?”
Nicole wondered how many other women had fallen
for his line and then thrown away their careers
to be with him.
“Don’t tempt me,” she said flirtatiously.
This surprised Rubio, who knew Nicole was
devoted to her career. But this was what he
had hoped. “Let me take care of you,”he
repeated. “Besides, how many more corporations
can you sue?”
One of the waiters opened a cold bottle of
white wine, offered Rubio the cork, poured
a small amount into an elegant crystal wineglass.
Rubio tasted it and nodded. Then he turned
his attention back to Nicole.
“I’d quit right now,” she said, “but
there are some pro bono cases I want to see
through.” She sipped her wine. “Lately,
I’ve been thinking a lot about banking.”
Rubio’s eyes narrowed. “Well,” he said,
“lucky for you that banks run in the family.”
“Yes,” Nicole agreed, “but unfortunately
my father didn’t believe women were capable
of running a business. So I have to stand
by and watch my crazy cousin screw things
up.” She raised her head to look at him
when she added, “By the way, Astorre thinks
you’re out to get him.”
Rubio tried to look amused. “Really? And
how would I accomplish this?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Nicole said, annoyed.
“Remember, this is a guy who sells macaroni
for a living. He’s got flour on the brain.
He says you want to use the bank for money
laundering and who knows what else. He even
tried to convince me that you were trying
to kidnap me.” Nicole knew she had to be
careful here. “But I can’t believe that.
I think Astorre is behind everything that’s
been happening. He knows that my brothers
and I want to control the banks, so he’s
trying to make us paranoid. But we’re tired
of listening to him.”
Rubio studied Nicole’s face. He was proud
of his ability to separate truth from fiction.
In his years as a diplomat, he had been lied
to by some of the most respected statesmen
in the world. And now, as he looked deeply
into Nicole’s eyes, he determined she was
telling him the absolute truth.
“Just how tired are you?” he asked.
“We’re all exhausted,” Nicole said.
Several waiters appeared and fussed over them
for long minutes in order to deliver their
main course. When the waiters had finally
retreated, Nicole leaned toward Rubio and
whispered, “Most nights my cousin works
late at his warehouse.”
“What are you suggesting?” Rubio asked.
Nicole lifted her knife and began to slice
her main course, dark medallions of duck swimming
in a light shimmery orange sauce. “I’m
not suggesting anything,” she said. “But
what is the controlling shareholder of an
international bank doing spending all his
time at a macaroni warehouse? If I had control,
I’d be at the banks constantly, and I’d
make sure my partners were getting a better
return on their investment.” With that,
Nicole tasted her duck. She smiled at Rubio.
“Delicious,” she said.
Along with all her other qualities, Georgette
Cilke was a very organized woman. Each Tuesday
afternoon she volunteered exactly two hours
of her time at the national headquarters of
the Campaign Against the Death Penalty, where
she helped answer the phone and reviewed pleas
from lawyers of prisoners on death row. So
Nicole knew exactly where to deliver her second
important message of the day.
When Georgette saw Nicole walk into the office,
her face brightened. She rose to embrace her
friend. “Thank goodness,” she said. “Today
has been dreadful. I’m glad you’re here.
I can use the moral support.”
“I don’t know how much help I’m going
to be,” Nicole said. “I’ve got something
troubling that I have to discuss with you.”
In the years they had worked together, Nicole
had never confided in Georgette before, though
they maintained a warm professional relationship.
Georgette never discussed her husband’s
work with anyone. And Nicole never saw the
point in talking about her lovers with married
women, who always thought they had to offer
advice on how to get a man to the altar, which
was not what she wanted. Nicole preferred
talking about the raw sex, but she noticed
that this made most married women uncomfortable.
Maybe, Nicole thought, they didn’t like
hearing about what they were missing.
Georgette asked Nicole whether she wanted
to talk in private, and when Nicole nodded,
they found a small empty office down the hall.
“I’ve never discussed this with anyone,”
Nicole began. “But you must know that my
father was Raymond Aprile—the one known
as Don Aprile. Have you heard of him?”
Georgette stood up and said, “I don’t
think I should be having this conversation
with you—”
“Please sit down,” Nicole interrupted.
“You need to hear this.”
Georgette looked uncomfortable but did as
Nicole asked. In truth, she had always been
curious about Nicole’s family but knew she
couldn’t bring it up. Like many others,
Georgette assumed Nicole, through her pro
bono work, was trying to make up for the sins
of her father. How frightening childhood must
have been for Nicole, growing up in the shadow
of criminals. And how embarrassing. Georgette
thought of their own daughter, who was embarrassed
to be seen with either of her parents in public.
She wondered how Nicole had survived those
years.
Nicole knew Georgette would never betray her
husband in any way, but she also knew Georgette
was a compassionate woman with an open mind.
Someone who spent her free time as an advocate
for convicted murderers. Now Nicole looked
at her with a steady gaze and said, “My
father was killed by men who have a close
relationship with your husband. And my brothers
and I have proof that your husband accepted
bribes from these men.”
Georgette’s first reaction was shock, then
disbelief. She said nothing. But it was only
seconds before she felt the first clear flush
of anger. “How dare you,” she whispered.
She looked Nicole squarely in eyes. “My
husband would rather die than break the law.”
Nicole was surprised by the intensity of Georgette’s
response. She could see now that Georgette
truly believed in her husband. Nicole continued:
“Your husband is not the man he seems to
be. And I know how you feel. I just read my
father’s FBI file, but as much as I love
him, I know he kept secrets from me. Just
as Kurt is keeping secrets from you.”
Then Nicole told Georgette about the million
dollars Portella had wired into Cilke’s
bank account and about Portella’s dealings
with drug kingpins and hit men, who could
only do their work with the tacit blessing
of her husband. “I don’t expect you to
believe me,” Nicole said. “All I hope
is that you’ll ask your husband whether
I’m telling you the truth. If he’s the
man you say he is, he won’t lie.”
Georgette betrayed no hint of the turmoil
she was feeling. “Why are you telling me
this?”
“Because,” Nicole said, “your husband
has a vendetta against my family. He’s going
to allow his associates to murder my cousin
Astorre and take over control of our family’s
banking business. It’s going to happen tomorrow
night at my cousin’s macaroni warehouse.”
At the mention of macaroni, Georgette laughed
and said, “I don’t believe you.” Then
she got up to leave. “I’m sorry, Nicole,”
she said. “I know you’re upset, but we
have nothing more to say to each other.”
That night, in the sparsely decorated bedroom
of the furnished ranch house where his family
had been moved, Cilke faced his nightmare.
He and his wife had finished dinner and were
sitting across from each other, both of them
reading. Suddenly, Georgette put down her
book and said, “I need to talk to you about
Nicole Aprile.”
In all their years together, Georgette had
never asked her husband to discuss his work.
She didn’t want the responsibility of keeping
federal secrets. And she knew this was a part
of his life Cilke needed to keep to himself.
Sometimes, lying in bed next to him at night,
she would wonder how he did his job—the
tactics he used to get information, the pressure
he must have to put on suspects. But in her
mind she always pictured him as the ultimate
federal agent, in his neatly pressed suit,
with his thumbed-over copy of the Constitution
tucked into his back pocket. In her heart
she was smart enough to know this was a fantasy.
Her husband was a determined man. He would
go far to defeat his enemies. But this was
a reality she never chose to examine.
Cilke had been reading a mystery novel—the
third book in a series about a serial killer
who raises his son to become a priest. When
Georgette asked her question, he immediately
closed the book. “I’m listening,” he
said.
“Nicole said some things today—about you
and the investigation you’re conducting,”
Georgette said. “I know you don’t like
to talk about your work, but she made some
strong accusations.”
Cilke felt the rage rising within him, until
he was in a blind fury. First they had killed
his dogs. Then they had destroyed his home.
And now they had tarnished his purest relationship.
Finally, when his heart stopped racing, he
asked Georgette in the calmest voice he could
manage to tell him exactly what had happened.
Georgette repeated her entire conversation
with Nicole and watched her husband’s expression
carefully as he absorbed the information.
His face betrayed no hint of surprise or outrage.
When she was finished, Cilke said, “Thank
you, sweetheart. I’m sure it was very difficult
for you to tell me. And I’m sorry you had
to do it.” Then he rose from his chair and
walked toward the front door.
“Where are you going?” Georgette asked.
“I need some air,” Cilke said. “I need
to think.”
“Kurt, honey?” Georgette’s voice was
questioning; she needed reassurance.
Cilke had sworn he would never lie to his
wife. If she insisted on the truth, he would
have to tell her and suffer the consequences.
He was hoping she would understand and decide
it was better to pretend these secrets did
not exist.
“Is there anything you can tell me?” she
asked.
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I
would do anything for you. You know that,
don’t you?”
“Yes. But I need to know. For us and for
our daughter.”
Cilke saw there was no escape. He realized
she would never look at him the same way again
if he told her the truth. At that moment,
he wanted to crush Astorre Viola’s skull.
He thought of what he could possibly say to
his wife: I only accepted the bribes the FBI
wanted me to? We overlooked the small crimes
in order to focus on the big ones? We broke
some laws to enforce more important ones?
He knew these answers would only infuriate
her, and he loved and respected her too much
to do such a thing.
Cilke left the house without saying a word.
When he returned, his wife pretended to be
asleep. He made up his mind then. The following
night he would confront Astorre Viola and
reclaim his own vision of justice.
Aspinella Washington did not hate all men,
but she was repeatedly surprised by just how
many of them turned her off. They were all
so . . . useless.
After she had taken care of Heskow, she was
briefly interrogated by two officers in airport
security, who were either too dumb or too
intimidated to challenge her version of events.
When the cops found $100,000 taped to Heskow’s
body, they figured his motive was obvious.
They decided it was appropriate to reward
themselves with a service fee for cleaning
up the mess she’d made before the ambulance
arrived. They also gave Aspinella a clump
of blood-stained bills, which she added to
the $30,000 Heskow had already given her.
She had only two uses for the money. She locked
all but $3,000 in her safe-deposit box. She
had left instructions with her mother that
if anything ever happened to her, all of the
money in the box—over $300,000 in payoffs—should
be put in a trust for her daughter. With the
remaining $3,000, she took a cab to Fifth
Avenue and Fifty-third Street, where she entered
the fanciest leather-goods store in the city
and took an elevator to a private suite on
the third floor.
A woman wearing designer glasses and a navy
pin-striped suit took her payment and escorted
her down the hall, where she bathed in a tub
filled with fragrant oils imported from China.
She soaked herself for about twenty minutes
and listened to a CD of Gregorian chants while
she waited for Rudolfo, a licensed sexual-massage
therapist.
Rudolfo received $3,000 for a two-hour session,
which, he was delighted to point out to his
very satisfied customers, was more than even
the most famous lawyers received per hour.
“The difference,” he said with a Bavarian
accent and a sly grin, “is that they just
fuck you over. I fuck you over the moon.”
Aspinella had heard about Rudolfo during an
undercover vice investigation she conducted
in the city’s elite hotels. One concierge
was worried that he might be asked to testify,
so in exchange for not being summoned, he
gave her the tip about Rudolfo. Aspinella
thought about making the bust, but once she
met Rudolfo and experienced one of his massages,
she felt it would be an even bigger crime
to deny women the pleasure of his extraordinary
talents.
After several minutes he knocked on the door
and asked, “May I come in?”
“I’m counting on it, baby,” she said.
He walked in and looked her over. “Great
eye patch,” he said.
During her first session, Aspinella had been
surprised when Rudolfo entered the room naked,
but he had said, “Why bother getting dressed
just to get undressed?” He was an extraordinary
specimen, tall and taut, with a tattoo of
a tiger on his right biceps and a silken mat
of blond on his chest. She particularly liked
the chest hair, which separated Rudolfo from
those magazine models who’d been plucked,
shaved, and greased so carefully you couldn’t
tell whether they were male or female.
“How have you been?” he asked.
“You don’t wanna hear about it,” Aspinella
said. “All you need to know is that I need
some sexual healing.”
Rudolfo began with her back, pressing deep,
honing in on all her knots. Then he gently
kneaded her neck before turning her over and
lightly massaging her breasts and stomach.
By the time he began to caress between her
legs, she was already moist and breathing
hard.
“Why can’t other men do this to me?”
Aspinella said with a sigh of ecstasy.
Rudolfo was about to begin the premium part
of the service, his tongue massage, which
he did expertly and with remarkable stamina.
But he was struck by her question, which he
had heard many times. It always amazed him.
It seemed to him that the city was exploding
with sexually undernourished women.
“It’s a mystery to me, why other men can’t
do it,” he said. “What do you think?”
She hated to interrupt her sexual reverie,
but she could tell Rudolfo needed pillow talk
before the grand finale. “Men are weak,”
she said. “We’re the ones who make all
the important decisions. When to get married.
When to have kids. We rein them in and hold
them accountable for the things they do.”
Rudolfo smiled politely. “But what does
that have to do with sex?”
Aspinella wanted him to get back to work.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s
just a theory.”
Rudolfo began to massage her again—slowly,
steadily, rhythmically. He never seemed to
tire. And each time he brought her to great
heights of pleasure, she imagined the terrible
depths of pain to which she would bring Astorre
Viola and his gang of thugs the following
night.
The Viola Macaroni Company was located in
a large brick warehouse on the Lower East
Side of Manhattan. More than one hundred people
worked there, unloading giant burlap bags
of imported Italian macaroni onto a conveyor
belt, which then automatically sorted and
boxed it.
A year before, inspired by a magazine article
he’d read about how small businesses were
improving their operations, Astorre had hired
a consultant straight out of Harvard Business
School to recommend changes. The young man
told Astorre to double his prices, change
the brand name of his macaroni to Uncle Vito’s
Homemade Pasta, and fire half of his employees,
who could be replaced by temporary help at
half the price. At that suggestion Astorre
fired the consultant.
Astorre’s office was on the main floor,
which was roughly the size of a football field,
lined with shiny stainless-steel machines
on both sides. The back of the warehouse opened
to a loading dock. Video cameras had been
placed outside the entrances and inside the
factory, so he could keep track of visitors
and monitor production from his office. Normally,
the warehouse closed down at 6:00 P.M., but
on this night Astorre had retained five of
his most qualified employees and Aldo Monza.
He was waiting.
The night before, when Astorre had told Nicole
his plan at her apartment, she was adamantly
opposed to it. She shook her head violently.
“First of all, it won’t work. And second,
I don’t want to be an accessory to murder.”
“They killed your assistant and they tried
to kidnap you,” Astorre said quietly. “We’re
all in danger, unless I take action.” Nicole
thought of Helene, and then she remembered
her many dinner-table arguments with her father,
who would certainly have sought vengeance.
Her father would have said that she owed this
to the memory of her friend, and he would
have reminded her that it was reasonable and
necessary to take precautions to protect the
family.
“Why don’t we go to the authorities?”
she asked.
Astorre’s response was curt: “It’s too
late for that.”
Now Astorre sat in his office, live bait.
Thanks to Grazziella, he knew that Portella
and Tulippa were in the city for a meeting
of the syndicate. He couldn’t be sure that
Nicole’s leak to Rubio would force them
to pay a visit, but he hoped they might try
one last attempt at persuading him to turn
over the banks before resorting to violence.
He assumed they would check him for weapons,
so he didn’t arm himself, except for a stiletto,
which he stored in a special pocket sewn into
his shirtsleeve.
Astorre was carefully watching his video monitor
when he saw a half dozen men enter the back
of the building from the loading dock. He
had given his own men instructions to hide
and not to attack until he gave them the signal.
He studied the screen and recognized Portella
and Tulippa among the six. Then, as they faded
off the monitor, he heard the sound of footsteps
approaching his office. If they had already
decided to kill him, Monza and his crew were
at the ready and would be able to save him.
But then Portella called out to him.
He didn’t answer.
Within seconds Portella and Tulippa paused
at the door.
“Come in,” Astorre said with a warm smile.
He stood to shake their hands. “What a surprise.
I hardly ever get visitors at this hour. Is
there something I can do for you?”
“Yeah,” Portella cracked. “We’re having
a big dinner and we ran out of macaroni.”
Astorre waved his hands magnanimously and
said, “My macaroni, your macaroni.”
“How about your banks?” Tulippa asked
ominously.
Astorre was ready for this. “It’s time
we talked seriously. It’s time we did business.
But first I’d like to give you a tour of
the plant. I’m very proud of it.”
Tulippa and Portella exchanged a confused
look. They were wary. “OK, but let’s keep
it short,” Tulippa said, wondering how such
a clown had been able to survive this long.
Astorre led them to the floor. The four men
who had accompanied them were standing nearby.
Astorre greeted them warmly, shaking hands
with each of them and complimenting them on
their dress.
Astorre’s own men were watching him carefully,
waiting for his command to strike. Monza had
stationed three shooters on a mezzanine overlooking
the floor, hidden from view. The others had
fanned out to opposite sides of the warehouse.
Long minutes passed as Astorre showed his
guests through the warehouse. Then Portella
finally said, “It’s clear that this is
really where your heart is. Why don’t you
let us run the banks? We will make you one
more offer and cut you in for a percentage.”
Astorre was about to give his men the signal
to shoot. But suddenly he heard a rattle of
gunshots and saw three of his men fall twenty
feet from the mezzanine and land facedown
on the concrete floor in front of him. He
scanned the warehouse, looking for Monza,
as he quickly slipped behind a huge packaging
machine.
From there he saw a black woman with a green
eye patch sprint toward them and grab Portella
by the neck. She jabbed him in his protruding
belly with her assault rifle, then she pulled
out a revolver and threw the rifle to the
ground.
“OK,” Aspinella Washington said. “Everybody
drop your weapons. Now.”When no one moved,
she did not hesitate. She turned Portella
around and fired two bullets into his stomach.
As he doubled over, she slammed her revolver
down on his head and kicked him in the teeth.
Then she grabbed Tulippa and said, “You’re
next unless everybody does what I say. This
is an eye for an eye, you bastard.”
Portella knew that without help, he would
only live for a few more minutes. His vision
was already beginning to fade. He was sprawled
across the floor, breathing heavily, his florid
shirt soaked with blood. His mouth was numb.
“Do what she says,” he groaned weakly.
Portella’s men obeyed.
He had always heard that being shot in the
stomach was the most painful way to die. Now
he knew why. Every time he took a deep breath,
he felt like he had been stabbed in the heart.
He lost control of his bladder, his urine
making a dark stain on his new blue trousers.
He tried to focus his eyes on the shooter,
a muscular black woman he didn’t recognize.
He tried to utter the words “Who are you?”
but couldn’t find the breath. His final
thought was an oddly sentimental one: He wondered
who would tell his brother, Bruno, that he
was dead.
It took Astorre only a moment to figure out
what had happened. He had never before seen
Detective Aspinella Washington, except in
newspaper photos and on TV news shows. But
he knew if she had discovered him, she must
have gotten to Heskow first. And Heskow must
certainly be dead. Astorre did not mourn for
the slippery bagman. Heskow had the great
flaw of being a man who would say or do anything
to stay alive. It was good that he was now
in the ground with his flowers.
Tulippa had no idea why this angry bitch was
holding a gun to his neck. He had trusted
Portella to handle the security and given
his own loyal bodyguards the night off. A
stupid mistake. America is such a strange
country, he thought to himself. You never
know where the next violence is coming from.
As Aspinella dug the nozzle of the gun deep
into his skin, Tulippa made a promise to himself
that if he escaped and could return to South
America, he would speed up production of his
nuclear arsenal. He would personally do everything
he could to blow up as much of this America
as possible, especially Washington, D.C.,
an arrogant capital of lazy bullies in armchairs,
and New York City, where they seemed to breed
crazy people like this one-eyed bitch.
“All right,” Aspinella said to Tulippa.
“You offered us half a mil to take care
of this guy.” She pointed to Astorre. “It
would be my pleasure to accept the job, but
since my accident I’ve had to double my
fee. With only one eye, I have to concentrate
twice as hard.”
Kurt Cilke had been staking out the warehouse
throughout the day. Sitting in his blue Chevy
with nothing but a pack of gum and a copy
of Newsweek, he waited for Astorre to make
his move.
He had come alone, not wanting to involve
any other federal agents in what he believed
might be the end of his career. When he saw
Portella and Tulippa enter the building, he
felt the bile rising in his stomach. And he
realized what a clever foe Astorre was. If,
as Cilke suspected, Portella and Tulippa attacked
Astorre, Cilke would have a legal duty to
protect him. Astorre would be free and would
clear his name without breaking his silence.
And Cilke would blow years of hard work.
But when Cilke saw Aspinella Washington storm
into the building toting an assault rifle,
he felt something different—cold fear. He
had heard about Aspinella’s role in the
airport shooting. It sounded suspicious to
him. Just didn’t add up.
He checked the ammunition in his revolver
and felt a distant hope that he would be able
to count on her for help. Before leaving the
car, Cilke decided it was time to inform the
Bureau. On his cell phone, he dialed Boxton.
“I’m outside Astorre Viola’s warehouse,”
Cilke told him. Then he heard the sound of
rapid gunfire. “I’m going in now, and
if things go wrong, I want you to tell the
director I was acting on my own. Are you recording
this call?”
Boxton paused, not sure whether Cilke would
appreciate being taped. But ever since Cilke
had become a target, all of his calls were
being monitored. “Yes,”he said.
“Good,” Cilke responded. “For the record,
neither you nor anyone else within the FBI
is responsible for what I’m going to do
now. I am entering a hostile situation involving
three reputed organized-crime figures and
one renegade New York City cop who is heavily
armed.”
Boxton interrupted Cilke. “Kurt, wait for
backup.”
“There isn’t time,”Cilke said. “And
besides, this is my mess. I’ll clean it
up.” He thought of leaving a message for
Georgette, but he decided that would be too
morbid and self-indulgent. Better to let his
actions speak for themselves. He hung up the
phone without saying anything more. As he
left the car, he noticed he was illegally
parked.
The first thing Cilke saw when he entered
the warehouse was Aspinella’s gun digging
into Tulippa’s neck. Everyone in the room
was silent. No one moved.
“I am a federal officer,” Cilke announced,
waving his gun upward. “Lay all your weapons
down.”
Aspinella turned to Cilke and spoke with derision:
“I know who the fuck you are. This is my
bust. Go collar some accountants or stockbrokers
or whatever the hell it is you suits spend
your pansy-ass time on. This is an NYPD matter.”
“Detective,” Cilke said calmly, “drop
your weapon now. If you don’t, I will use
force if necessary. I have reason to believe
you are part of a racketeering conspiracy.”
Aspinella had not counted on this. From the
look in Cilke’s eyes and the steadiness
of his voice, she knew he would not back down.
But she was not about to give in, not as long
as she had a gun in her hand. Cilke probably
hadn’t fired on anyone in years, she thought.
“You think I’m part of a conspiracy?”she
yelled. “Well, I think you’re part of
a conspiracy. I think you’ve been taking
bribes from this piece of shit for years.”
She jabbed Tulippa again with the gun. “Isn’t
that right, señor?”
At first Tulippa didn’t say anything, but
when Aspinella kneed him in the groin, he
folded and nodded.
“How much?” Aspinella asked him.
“Over a million dollars,” Tulippa gasped.
Cilke controlled his fury and said, “Each
dollar they wired into my account was monitored
by the FBI. This is a federal investigation,
Detective Washington.” He took a deep breath,
counting down, before he told her, “This
is my final warning. Put down your weapon
or I’ll fire.”
Astorre coolly watched them. Aldo Monza was
standing unnoticed behind another of the machines.
Astorre saw a twitch in Aspinella’s face.
Then, as if it were happening in slow motion,
he saw her slip behind Tulippa and fire at
Cilke. But as soon as she fired, Tulippa broke
free and dove to the ground, pushing her off
balance.
Cilke had been hit in the chest. But he fired
once at Aspinella and saw her stagger backward,
blood spurting from below her right shoulder.
Neither had been shooting to kill. They were
following their training to the very end,
aiming for the widest part of the body. But
as Aspinella felt the searing pain of the
bullet and saw its damage, she knew it was
time to forget procedure. She took aim between
Cilke’s eyes. She fired four times. Each
bullet hit its mark until Cilke’s nose was
a flattened pulp of cartilage and she could
see chunks of his brain splattered on what
was left of his forehead.
Tulippa saw that Aspinella was wounded and
reeling. He tackled her and elbowed her in
the face, knocking her out cold. But before
he had a chance to grab her gun, Astorre came
out from behind the machine and kicked it
across the room. Then he stood over Tulippa
and gallantly offered his hand.
Tulippa accepted it and Astorre pulled him
up. Meanwhile, Monza and the surviving members
of his team rounded up the rest of Portella’s
men and tied them to steel support beams of
the warehouse. No one touched Cilke and Portella.
“So,” Astorre said, “I believe we have
some business to finish.”
Tulippa was puzzled. Astorre was a mass of
contradictions—a friendly adversary, a singing
assassin. Could such a wild card ever be trusted?
Astorre walked to the center of the warehouse
and signaled Tulippa to follow. When he reached
an open space, he stopped and faced the South
American. “You killed my uncle and you tried
to steal our banks. I should not even waste
my breath on you.” Then Astorre pulled out
the stiletto, its silver blade flashing, and
showed it to Tulippa. “I should just slice
your throat and be done with it. But you are
weak, and there is no honor in butchering
a defenseless old man. So I’ll give you
a fighting chance.”
With those words and an almost imperceptible
nod toward Monza, Astorre raised both of his
hands, as if in surrender, dropped his knife,
and took several steps back. Tulippa was older
and bulkier than Astorre, but he had carved
rivers of blood in his lifetime. He was an
extremely qualified man with a knife. Still,
he was no match for Astorre.
Tulippa picked up the stiletto and began to
move toward Astorre. “You are a stupid and
reckless man,” he said. “I was ready to
accept you as a partner.” He lunged at Astorre
several times, but Astorre was quicker and
evaded him. When Tulippa stopped momentarily
to catch his breath, Astorre removed the gold
medallion from his neck and threw it to the
ground, exposing the purple scar in his throat.
“I want this to be the last thing you see
before you die.”
Tulippa was transfixed by the wound, a shade
of purple he had never seen. And before he
knew it, Astorre kicked the stiletto out of
his hand and with rapid precision kneed Tulippa
in the back, put him in a headlock, and snapped
his neck. Everyone heard the crack.
Without pausing to look at his victim, Astorre
picked up his medallion, placed it back on
his throat, and left the building.
Five minutes later a squadron of FBI cars
arrived at the Viola Macaroni Company. Aspinella
Washington, still alive, was taken to the
intensive care unit of the hospital.
When the FBI officers had completed their
study of the silent videotape recorded by
the cameras Monza had run, they determined
that Astorre, who had raised his hands and
dropped his knife, had acted in self-defense.
EPILOGUE
NICOLE SLAMMED down the phone and yelled to
her secretary, “I am sick of hearing about
how weak the damn Eurodollar is. See if you
can track down Mr. Pryor. He’s probably
on the ninth hole of some golf course.”
Two years had passed, and Nicole had taken
over as head of the Aprile banks. When Mr.
Pryor was ready to retire, he had insisted
she was the best person for the job. She was
a skilled corporate fighter who wouldn’t
fold under pressure from bank regulators and
demanding customers.
Today Nicole was frantically trying to clear
her desk. Later that night she and her brothers
would fly to Sicily for a family celebration
with Astorre. But before she could go, she
had to deal with Aspinella Washington, who
was waiting to hear whether Nicole would represent
her in an appeal to avoid the death penalty.
The thought of it filled her with dread, and
not just because she had a full-time job.
At first, when Nicole had offered to run the
banks, Astorre had hesitated, remembering
the Don’s final wishes. But Mr. Pryor convinced
him that Nicole was her father’s daughter.
Whenever a big loan was due, the bank could
count on her to deploy a potent combination
of sweet talk and veiled intimidation. She
knew how to get results.
Nicole’s intercom buzzed, and Mr. Pryor
greeted her in his courtly manner: “What
can I do for you, my dear?”
“We’re getting killed on these exchange
rates,” she said. “What do you think of
moving more heavily into deutsche marks?”
“I think that’s an excellent idea,”
Mr. Pryor said.
“You know,” Nicole said, “all of this
currency trading is about as logical as going
to Vegas and playing baccarat all day.”
Mr. Pryor laughed. “That may be true, but
baccarat losses aren’t guaranteed by the
Federal Reserve.”
When Nicole hung up, she sat for a moment
and reflected on the bank’s progress. Since
taking over, she had acquired six more banks
in booming countries and doubled corporate
profits. But she was even more pleased that
the bank was providing larger loans to new
businesses in developing parts of the world.
She smiled to herself as she remembered her
first day.
As soon as her new stationery had arrived,
Nicole had drafted a letter to Peru’s finance
minister demanding repayment of all of the
government’s overdue loans. As she expected,
this produced an economic crisis in the country,
resulting in political turmoil and a change
of government. The new party demanded the
resignation of Peru’s consul general to
the United Nations, Marriano Rubio.
In the months that followed, Nicole was delighted
to read that Rubio had declared personal bankruptcy.
He was also involved in fighting a series
of complicated lawsuits with Peruvian investors
who had bankrolled one of his many ventures—a
failed theme park. Rubio had vowed it would
become “the Latino Disneyland,” but all
he had been able to attract was a Ferris wheel
and a Taco Bell.
...
The case, which the tabloids dubbed the Macaroni
Massacre, had become an international incident.
As soon as Aspinella Washington recovered
from the wound inflicted by Cilke’s gunshot—a
punctured lung—she had made a series of
pronouncements to the media. While awaiting
her trial, she portrayed herself as a martyr
on the scale of Joan of Arc. She sued the
FBI for attempted murder, slander, and violation
of her civil rights. She also sued the New
York Police Department for back pay she was
owed while under suspension.
Despite her protestations, it had taken the
jury only three hours of deliberation to convict
her. When the guilty verdict was announced,
Aspinella fired her attorneys and petitioned
the Campaign Against the Death Penalty for
representation. Demonstrating further flair
for publicity, she demanded that Nicole Aprile
take her case. From her cell on death row,
Aspinella told the press, “Her cousin got
me into this, so now she can get me out.”
At first Nicole refused to meet with Aspinella,
saying that any good lawyer would recuse herself
from such an obvious conflict of interest.
But then Aspinella accused Nicole of racism,
and Nicole—not wanting bad blood with minority
lenders—agreed to see her.
The day of their meeting, Nicole had to wait
twenty minutes while Aspinella greeted a small
congress of foreign dignitaries. They hailed
Aspinella as a brave warrior against America’s
barbaric penal code. Finally Aspinella gave
Nicole the signal to approach the glass window.
She had taken to wearing a yellow eye patch
stitched with the word FREEDOM.
Nicole launched into all of her reasons for
wanting to turn down the case and concluded
by pointing out that she had represented Astorre
in his testimony against her.
Aspinella listened carefully, twirling her
new dreadlocks. “I hear you, she said, “but
there’s a lot you don’t know. Astorre
was right: I am guilty of the crimes I’ve
been convicted of, and I will spend the rest
of my life atoning for them. But please, help
me live long enough to begin to make whatever
amends I can.”
At first Nicole figured this was just another
one of Aspinella’s ploys to gain sympathy,
but there was something in her voice that
moved Nicole. She still believed that no human
being had the right to condemn another to
death. She still believed in redemption. She
felt Aspinella deserved a defense, just as
every death row inmate did. She just wished
she didn’t have to handle this one.
Before Nicole could make a final decision,
she knew there was one person she had to face.
After the funeral, at which Cilke had received
a hero’s burial, Georgette had requested
a meeting with the director. An FBI escort
picked her up from the airport and took her
to Bureau headquarters.
When she entered the director’s office,
he wrapped her in a hug and promised that
the Bureau would do everything necessary to
help her and her daughter cope with their
loss.
“Thank you,” Georgette said. “But that’s
not why I came. I need to know why my husband
was killed.”
The director paused quite a while before speaking.
He knew she had heard rumors. And those rumors
could pose a threat to the Bureau’s image.
He needed to reassure her. Finally, he said,
“I’m embarrassed to admit that we even
needed to mount an investigation. Your husband
was a paragon of what an FBI man should be.
He was devoted to his work, and he followed
every law to the letter. I know he never would
have done anything to compromise the Bureau
or his family.”
“Then why did he go to that warehouse alone?”
Georgette asked. “And what was his relationship
with Portella?”
The director followed the talking points he
had practiced with his staff prior to the
meeting. “Your husband was a great investigator.
He had earned the freedom and respect to follow
his own leads. We don’t believe he ever
took a bribe or crossed the line with Portella
or anyone else. His results speak volumes.
He’s the man who broke up the Mafia.”
As she left his office, Georgette realized
that she didn’t believe him. She knew that
in order to find any peace, she would have
to believe the truth she felt in her heart:
that her husband, despite his zeal, was as
good a man as she would ever know.
After the murder of her husband, Georgette
Cilke continued to volunteer at the New York
headquarters of the Campaign Against the Death
Penalty, but Nicole had not seen her since
their fateful conversation. Because of her
responsibilities at the bank, Nicole had said
she was too busy for the Campaign. The truth
was, she could not bear to face Georgette.
Even so, when Nicole walked through the door,
Georgette greeted her with a warm embrace.
“I’ve missed you,” she said.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch,”
Nicole responded. “I tried to write you
a condolence letter, but I couldn’t find
the words.”
Georgette nodded and said, “I understand.”
“No,” Nicole said, her throat tightening,
“you don’t understand. I deserve some
of the blame for what happened to your husband.
If I hadn’t spoken to you that afternoon—”
“It still would have happened,” Georgette
cut in. “If it hadn’t been your cousin,
it would have been someone else. Something
like this was bound to happen sooner or later.
Kurt knew it and so did I.” Georgette hesitated
only a moment before she added, “The important
thing now is that we remember his goodness.
So let’s not talk any more about the past.
I’m sure we all have regrets.”
Nicole wished it were that easy. She took
a deep breath. “There’s more. Aspinella
Washington wants me to represent her.”
Though Georgette tried to hide it, Nicole
saw her flinch at the mention of Aspinella’s
name. Georgette was not a religious woman,
but at this moment she was certain God was
testing her powers of conviction. “OK,”
she said, biting her lip.
“OK?” Nicole asked, surprised. She had
hoped Georgette would object, forbid it, and
that Nicole would be able to refuse Aspinella
out of loyalty to her friend. Nicole could
hear her father telling her, “There would
be honor in such loyalty.”
“Yes,” Georgette said, closing her eyes.
“You should defend her.”
Nicole was amazed. “I don’t have to do
this. Everyone will understand.”
“That would be hypocritical,” Georgette
said. “A life is sacred or it isn’t. We
can’t adjust what we believe just because
it causes us pain.”
Georgette became silent and extended her hand
to Nicole to say good-bye. There was no hug
this time.
After replaying that conversation in her mind
all day, Nicole finally phoned Aspinella and,
with reluctance, accepted the case. In one
hour Nicole would be leaving for Sicily.
The following week Georgette sent a note to
the coordinator of the Campaign Against the
Death Penalty. She wrote that she and her
daughter were moving to another city to start
a new life and that she wished everyone well.
She did not leave a forwarding address.
Astorre had kept his vow to Don Aprile, to
save the banks and ensure the well-being of
his family. He had avenged the death of his
uncle and brought honor to Don Zeno’s name.
In his own mind he was now free of any obligations.
The week after he had been cleared of all
wrongdoing in the warehouse murders, he met
with Don Craxxi and Octavius Bianco in his
warehouse office and told them about his desire
to return to Sicily. He explained that he
felt a longing for the land itself, that it
had insinuated itself into his dreams for
many years. He had many happy memories of
his childhood at Villa Grazia, the country
retreat of Don Aprile, and he had always hoped
to return. It was a simpler life but a richer
one in many ways.
It was then that Bianco told him, “You do
not have to return to Villa Grazia. There
is a vast property that belongs to you in
Sicily. The entire village of Castellammare
del Golfo.”
Astorre was puzzled. “How can that be?”
Benito Craxxi told him of the day the great
Mafia chief, Don Zeno, had called his three
friends to his bedside as he lay dying. “You
are the young boy of his heart and soul,”
he said. “And now you are his only surviving
heir. The village has been bequeathed to you
by your natural father. It is your birthright.”
“When Don Aprile took you to America, Don
Zeno left provisions for all those in his
village, until the day you would come to claim
it. We provided protection for the village
after your father’s death, according to
his wishes. When the farmers suffered a bad
season, we offered the means to purchase fruits
and grains to plant—a helping hand,” Bianco
said.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Astorre
asked.
“Don Aprile swore us to secrecy,” Bianco
said. “Your father wanted your safety and
Don Aprile wanted you as part of his family.
He also needed you to protect his children.
In truth, you had two fathers. You are blessed.”
Astorre landed in Sicily on a beautiful sun-filled
day. Two of Michael Grazziella’s bodyguards
met him at the airport and escorted him to
a dark blue Mercedes.
As they drove through Palermo, Astorre marveled
at the beauty of the city: Marble columns
and ornate carvings of mythic figures made
some buildings Greek temples, others Spanish
cathedrals with saints and angels carved deep
into the gray stone. The trip from Palermo
into Castellammare del Golfo took over two
hours on a rocky, single-lane road. To Astorre
as always, the most striking thing about Sicily
was the beauty of the countryside, with its
breathtaking view of the Mediterranean Sea.
The village, in a deep valley surrounded by
mountains, was a labyrinth of cobblestone,
lined with small, two-story stucco houses.
Astorre noticed several people peeking through
the cracks of the painted white shutters pulled
shut against the scorching midday sun.
He was greeted by the mayor of the village,
a short man in gray baggy pants held up by
black suspenders who introduced himself as
Leo DiMarco and bowed with respect. “Il
Padrone,” he said. “Welcome.”
Astorre, uncomfortable, smiled and asked in
Sicilian, “Would you please take me through
the village?”
They passed a few old men playing cards on
wooden benches. On the far side of the piazza
was a stately Catholic church. And it was
into this church, Saint Sebastian’s, that
the mayor first took Astorre, who had not
said a formal prayer since the murder of Don
Aprile. The mahogany pews were ornately carved,
and dark blue votives held holy candles. Astorre
knelt, head bowed, to be blessed by Father
Del Vecchio, the village priest.
Afterward, Mayor DiMarco led Astorre to the
small house in which he would stay. Along
the way, Astorre noticed several carabinieri,
or Italian National Police, leaning against
the houses, with rifles at the ready. “Once
night falls, it is safer to stay in the village,”
the mayor explained. “But during the days,
it is a joy to be in the fields.”
For the next few days Astorre took long walks
through the countryside, fresh with the scent
of the orange and lemon orchards. His primary
purpose was to meet the villagers and explore
the ancient stone-carved houses built like
Roman villas. He wanted to find one he could
make his home.
By the third day he knew he would be happy
there. The usual wary and solemn villagers
greeted him in the street, and as he sat in
the café in the piazza, the old men and children
teased him playfully.
There were only two more things he must do.
The following morning Astorre asked the mayor
to show him the way to the village cemetery.
“For what purpose?” DiMarco asked.
“To pay my respects to my father and my
mother,” Astorre replied.
DiMarco nodded and quickly grabbed a large
wrought-iron key from the office wall.
“How well did you know my father?” Astorre
asked him.
DiMarco quickly made the sign of the cross
on his chest. “Who did not know Don Zeno?
It is to him we owe our lives. He saved our
children with expensive medicines from Palermo.
He protected our village from looters and
bandits.”
“But what was he like as a man?” Astorre
asked.
DiMarco shrugged. “There are few people
left who knew him in that way, and even fewer
who will speak to you about him. He has become
a legend. So who would wish to know the real
man?”
I would, Astorre thought.
They walked through the countryside and then
climbed a steep hill, with DiMarco stopping
occasionally to catch his breath. Finally,
Astorre saw the cemetery. But instead of grave-stones,
there were rows of small stone buildings.
Mausoleums, all surrounded by a high, cast-iron
fence, which was locked at a gate. The sign
above read: WITHIN THESE GATES, ALL ARE INNOCENT.
The mayor unlocked the gate and led Astorre
to his father’s gray marble mausoleum, marked
by the epitaph VINCENZOZENO: A GOOD AND GENEROUS
MAN. Astorre entered the building and on the
altar studied the picture of his father. It
was the first time he’d seen a picture of
him, and he was struck by how familiar his
face looked.
DiMarco then took Astorre to another small
building, several rows away. This stone was
white marble, the only hint of color a light
blue raiment of the Virgin Mary carved into
the arch of the entrance. Astorre walked in
and examined the picture. The girl was not
more than twenty-two years old, but her wide
green eyes and radiant smile warmed him.
Outside, he said to DiMarco, “When I was
a boy, I used to dream of a woman like her,
but I thought she was an angel.”
DiMarco nodded. “She was a beautiful girl.
I remember her from church. And you’re right.
She sang like an angel.”
...
Astorre rode bareback across the countryside,
only stopping long enough to eat the fresh
goat-milk cheese and crusty bread that one
of the village women had packed.
Finally, he reached Corleone. He could no
longer put off seeing Michael Grazziella.
He owed the man at least that courtesy.
He was tan from all his time in the fields,
and Grazziella greeted him with open arms
and a crushing bear hug. “The Sicilian sun
has been good to you,” he said.
Astorre struck the proper note of gratitude:
“Thank you for everything. Especially your
support.”
Grazziella walked with him toward his villa.
“And what brings you to Corleone?”
“I think you know why I’m here,” Astorre
replied.
Grazziella smiled. “A strong young man like
yourself? Of course! And I will take you to
her right away. She is a joy to behold, this
Rose of yours. And she has brought pleasure
to everyone she has met.”
Knowing of Rosie’s sexual appetite, Astorre
wondered for just a moment if Grazziella was
trying to tell him something. But he quickly
caught himself. Grazziella was far too proper
to say such a thing, and too Sicilian to allow
such impropriety to occur under his watchful
eye.
Her villa was only minutes away. When they
reached it, Grazziella called out, “Rose,
my dear, you have a visitor.”
She was wearing a simple blue sundress with
her blond hair tied back at the neck. Without
her makeup, she looked younger and more innocent
than he remembered.
She stopped when she saw him, surprised. But
then she cried out, “Astorre!” She ran
to him, kissed him, and began talking excitedly.
“I’ve already learned to speak the Sicilian
dialect fluently. And I’ve learned some
famous recipes, too. Do you like spinach gnocchi?”
He took her to Castellammare del Golfo and
spent the next week showing her around his
village and the countryside. Each day they
swam, talked for hours, and made love to each
other with the comfort that only comes with
time.
Astorre watched Rosie carefully to see if
she was getting bored with him or restless
with the simple life. But she seemed truly
at peace. He wondered if, after all they’d
been through together, he could ever really
trust her. And then he wondered whether it
was smart to love any woman so much that you
would trust her completely. He and Rosie both
had secrets to protect—things he did not
wish to remember or share. But Rosie knew
him and still loved him. She would keep his
secrets, and he would keep hers.
There was only one thing that still troubled
him. Rosie had a weakness for money and fancy
gifts. Astorre wondered if she would ever
be satisfied with what any one man could offer
her. He needed to know.
On their last day together in Corleone, Astorre
and Rosie rode their horses through the hills,
flying over the countryside until dusk. Then
they stopped in a vineyard, where they picked
grapes and fed each other.
“I can’t believe I’ve stayed so long,”
Rosie said as they rested together in the
grass.
Astorre’s green eyes glistened intensely.
“Do you think you could stay a little longer?”
Rosie looked surprised. “What did you have
in mind?”
Astorre got down on one knee and extended
his hand. “Maybe fifty or sixty years,”
he said with a sincere smile. In his palm
was a simple bronze ring.
“Will you marry me?” he asked.
Astorre looked for some sign of hesitation
in Rosie’s eyes, some mild disappointment
with the quality of the ring, but her response
was immediate. She threw her arms around his
neck and showered him with kisses. Then they
fell to the ground and rolled together in
the hills.
One month later, Astorre and Rosie were married
in one of his citrus groves. Father Del Vecchio
performed the ceremony. Everyone from both
villages attended. The hill was carpeted with
purple wisteria, and the smell of lemons and
oranges perfumed the air. Astorre was dressed
in a white peasant suit, and Rosie wore a
pink gown of silk.
There was a pig on a spit roasting over red
coals and warm ripe tomatoes from the fields.
There were hot loaves of bread and freshly
made cheese. Homemade wine ran like a river.
When the ceremony was over and they had exchanged
vows, Astorre serenaded his bride with his
favorite ballads. There was so much drinking
and dancing that the festivities lasted until
sunrise.
The following morning, when Rosie awakened,
she saw Astorre readying their horses. “Ride
with me?” he asked.
They journeyed all day until Astorre found
what he was looking for—Villa Grazia. “My
uncle’s secret paradise. I spent my happiest
times here as a child.”
He walked behind the house to the garden,
with Rosie following. And finally they came
upon his olive tree, the one that had grown
from the pits he planted as a young boy. The
tree was as tall as he was now, and the trunk
was quite thick. He took a sharp blade from
his pocket and grabbed one of the branches.
Then he cut it from the tree.
“We will plant this in our garden. So when
we have a child, he will have happy memories
too.”
One year later, Astorre and Rosie celebrated
the birth of their son, Raymonde Zeno. And
when it came time to baptize him, they invited
Astorre’s family to join them at the Church
of Saint Sebastian.
After Father Del Vecchio had finished, Valerius,
as the eldest of the Aprile children, lifted
a glass of wine and made a toast. “May you
all thrive and live joyfully. And may your
son grow up with the passion of Sicily and
the romance of America beating in his heart.”
Marcantonio lifted his glass and added, “And
if he ever wants to be on a sitcom, you know
who to call.”
Now that the Aprile banks were so profitable,
Marcantonio had established a twenty-million-dollar
line of credit to develop his own dramatic
properties. He and Valerius were working together
on a project based on their father’s FBI
files. Nicole thought it was a terrible idea,
but they all agreed that the Don would have
appreciated the idea of receiving large sums
of money for dramatizing the legend of his
crimes.
“Alleged crimes,” Nicole added.
Astorre wondered why anyone still cared. The
old Mafia was dead. The great Dons had accomplished
their goals and blended gracefully into society,
as the best criminals always do. The few pretenders
who remained were a disappointing assortment
of dim, second-class felons and impotent thugs.
Why would anyone want to bother with the rackets
when it was much easier to steal millions
by starting your own company and selling shares
to the public?
“Hey Astorre, do you think you could be
our special consultant on the movie?” Marcantonio
asked. “We want to make sure it’s as authentic
as possible.”
“Sure,” Astorre said, smiling. “I’ll
have my agent get back to you.”
Later that night, in bed, Rosie turned to
Astorre. “Do you think you’ll ever want
to go back?”
“Where?” Astorre asked. “To New York?
To America?”
“You know,” Rosie said hesitantly. “To
your old life.”
“This is where I belong, with you, here.”
“Good,” Rosie said. “But what about
the baby? Shouldn’t he have the chance to
experience everything America has to offer?”
Astorre pictured Raymonde, running through
the hills of the country, eating olives from
barrels, hearing tales of the great dons and
the Sicily of old. He looked forward to telling
his son those stories. And yet he knew that
those myths would not be enough.
One day his son would go to America, a land
of vengeance, mercy, and magnificent possibility.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Very special thanks to Carol Gino; my literary
agents, Candida Donadio and Neil Olson; my
attorneys, Bert Fields and Arthur Altman;
my brother, Anthony Cleri; my editor at Random
House, Jonathan Karp; and my children and
grandchildren.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MARIO PUZO was born in New York and, following
military service in World War II, attended
New York’s New School for Social Research
and Columbia University. His bestselling novel
The Godfather was preceded by two critically
acclaimed novels, The Dark Arena (1955) and
TheFortunate Pilgrim (1965). In 1978, he published
FoolsDie, followed by The Sicilian (1984),
The Fourth K (1991), and the second installment
in his Mafia trilogy, The LastDon (1996),
which became an international bestseller and
the highest-rated TV miniseries of 1997. Mario
Puzo also wrote many screenplays, including
Earthquake, Superman, and all three Godfather
movies, for which he received two Academy
Awards. He died in July 1999 at his home on
Long Island, New York, at the age of seventy-eight.
ABOUT THE TYPE
This book was set in Times Roman, designed
by Stanley Morison specifically for The Times
of London. The typeface was introduced in
the newspaper in 1932. Times Roman had its
greatest success in the United States as a
book and commercial typeface, rather than
one used in newspapers.
MARIO
PUZO
OMERTA
RANDOM HOUSE
NEW YORK
Copyright © 2000 by Mario Puzo
All rights reserved under International and
Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published
in the United States by Random House, Inc.,
New York, and simultaneously in Canada by
Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
RANDOM HOUSE and colophon are registered trademarks
of Random House, Inc.
Puzo, Mario, 1920–1999.
Omerta / Mario Puzo.
p. cm.
eISBN 0-375-50568-7
1. Mafia—Fiction. 2. Criminals—Fiction. 3.
Organized crime—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3566.U9 046 2000b
813'.54—dc21 00-028082
Random House website address: www.atrandom.com
FIRST EDITION
This book is also available in print as ISBN
0-375-50254-8.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TYPE
ALSO BY MARIO PUZO
F I C T I O N
The Dark Arena
The Fortunate Pilgrim
The Godfather
Fools Die
The Sicilian
The Fourth K
The Last Don
N O N F I C T I O N
The Godfather Papers
Inside Las Vegas
C H I L D R E N ’ S BOOKS
The Runaway Summer of Davie Shaw
OMERTA
To
Evelyn Murphy
Omerta:
a Sicilian code of honor which forbids
informing about crimes thought to be the affairs
of the persons involved
World Book Dictionary
