Omerta (11 page)

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
.”

M
arcantonio 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.”

T
he 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.”

M
ARRIANO 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.