Omerta (21 page)

“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.”

A
storre 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.

N
ow, 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.

A
storre 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.”