Omerta (17 page)

“You do that,” Franky said.

B
ack 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.

T
he 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.”

T
hey 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.

O
n 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.

N
ow 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.

O
N 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.