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
1967
I
N 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.”
T
he 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.
1995
W
HEN 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.”
W
hen 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.