Omerta (26 page)

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?

O
n 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.

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M
arcantonio 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.

J
ust 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.”