Omerta (32 page)

The killer seemed unafraid. “Fuck you,” he said.

Nicole saw Astorre’s face go cold just before he fired a bullet into the man’s chest. He strode closer and grabbed the man by the hair as he fell, then fired another bullet into his head. At that moment she saw what her father must have been. She vomited over Helene’s body. Astorre turned to her with a regretful smile on his lips. Nicole could not look at him.

Astorre brought her up into her apartment. He instructed her on what to tell the police, that she had fainted as soon as Helene was shot and had seen nothing. When he left, she called the police.

.  .  .

T
he next day, after arranging an around-the-clock bodyguard for Nicole, Astorre flew to Sicily to meet with Grazziella and Bianco in Palermo. He followed his usual route, flying first down to Mexico and there boarding a private jet to Palermo, so there would be no record of his journey.

In Palermo he was met by Octavius Bianco, now so well groomed and elegant in the Palermo style that it was hard to remember him as a bearded and ferocious bandit. Bianco was delighted to see Astorre and embraced him with affection. They were driven out to Bianco’s villa at the seashore.

“So you’re in trouble in America,” Bianco said in the villa’s courtyard, which was decorated with statues of the old Roman Empire. “But I have some good news for you.” Then he digressed to ask, “Your wound. Does it give you trouble?”

Astorre touched the gold chain. “No,” he said. “It just ruined my singing voice. Now I’m a croaker instead of a tenor.”

“Better a baritone than a soprano,” Bianco said, laughing. “Italy has many tenors anyway. One less won’t hurt. You are a true Mafioso, and that’s what we need.”

Astorre smiled and began to think of that day so long ago when he went swimming. Now, instead of the sharp sting of betrayal, he only remembered how he felt when he woke up. He touched the amulet at his throat and said, “What’s the good news?”

“I have made peace with the Corleonesi and Grazziella,” Bianco said. “He was never involved in the killing of Don Aprile. He came into the syndicate afterward. But now he feels dissatisfied with Portella and Tulippa. He thinks they are too rash and bunglers besides. He disapproved of the attempt on the federal agent. And he also has enormous respect for you. He knows you from your service with me. He sees you as a remarkably hard man to kill. Now he wants to drop any previous vendettas with you and help you.”

Astorre felt relief. His task would be easier if he did not have to worry about Grazziella.

“Tomorrow, meet us here at the villa,” Bianco said.

“He trusts you that much?” Astorre asked.

“He must,” Bianco said. “Because without me here in Palermo, he cannot rule Sicily. And we are more civilized today than when you were here last.”

T
he next afternoon Michael Grazziella arrived at the villa, and Astorre noted he was dressed in the ultrarespectable mode of a Roman politician—dark suit, white shirt, and dark tie. He was accompanied by two bodyguards dressed in a similar fashion. Grazziella was a small man, courteous, with a very soft voice—you would not have guessed he was responsible for the murders of high-ranking anti-Mafia magistrates. He gripped Astorre’s hand and said, “I have come here to help you as a token of my deep esteem for our friend Bianco. Please forget the past. We must begin again.”

“Thank you,” Astorre said. “It is my honor.”

Grazziella motioned to the guards, and they walked out onto the beach.

“So Michael,” Bianco said. “How can you help?”

Grazziella looked at Astorre and said, “Portella and Tulippa are too reckless for my taste. And Marriano Rubio is too dishonest. Whereas I find you a clever man and qualified man. Also, Nello is my nephew, and I learned you spared him, no small thing. So there are my motives.”

Astorre nodded. Beyond Grazziella, he saw the black-green waves of the Sicilian sea and, glinting off them, the dull deadly rays of the Sicilian sun. He had a sudden feeling of nostalgia, and a pang because he knew he had to leave. All this was familiar to him as America could never be. He longed for the streets of Palermo, the sound of Italian voices, his own tongue in a language more natural to him than English. He returned his attention to Grazziella. “So what can you tell me?”

“The syndicate wants me to meet with them in America,” Grazziella said. “I can inform you as to the whereabouts and the security. If you take drastic action, I can then give you refuge in Sicily, and if they try to extradite you, I have friends in Rome who can stop the process.”

“You have that kind of power?” Astorre asked.

“Certainly,” Grazziella said with a little shrug. “How could we exist otherwise? But you must not be too rash.”

Astorre knew he was referring to Cilke. He smiled at Grazziella. “I would never do anything rash.”

Grazziella smiled politely and said, “Your enemies are my enemies, and I pledge myself to your cause.”

“I assume you will not be at the meeting,” Astorre said.

Grazziella smiled at him again. “At the last moment I will be detained: I will not be present.”

“And when will this be?” Astorre asked.

“Within a month,” Grazziella said.

A
fter Grazziella left, Astorre said to Bianco, “Really, tell me, why is he doing this?”

Bianco smiled at him in appreciation. “How easily you understand Sicily. All the reasons that he gave were valid. But there is a primary motive he did not mention.” He hesitated. “Tulippa and Portella have been cheating him out of his correct share of the drug money, and he would soon have to go to war over that in any case. He could never tolerate that. He thinks highly of you, and it would be perfect if you wiped out his enemies and became his ally. He’s a very clever man, Grazziella.”

That evening Astorre walked along the beach and thought about what he should do. Finally the end was coming.

M
r. Pryor had no worries about controlling the Aprile banks and defending them against the authorities. But when the FBI flooded New York following the assassination attempt on Cilke, he became a little concerned about what they would dig up. Especially after Cilke’s visit.

In his early youth Mr. Pryor had been one of the prized assassins of the Palermo Mafia. But he had seen the light and gone into banking, where his natural charm, intelligence, and criminal connections ensured his success. In essence, he became a Mafia banker to the world. He was soon an expert in currency-rate storms and the stashing of black money. He also had a talent for buying legitimate businesses at good prices. Eventually he had emigrated to England because the fairness of the English system could better protect his wealth than the bribery in Italy.

However, his long arm still stretched out to Palermo and the United States. And he was the prime banker for Bianco’s
cosca
in their control of construction in Sicily. He also was the link between the Aprile banks and Europe.

Now, with all the police activity, he was reminded of a possible danger point: Rosie. She could link Astorre to the Sturzo brothers. Also, Mr. Pryor knew Astorre had a weak spot and still took some comfort in Rosie’s charms. This did not make him respect Astorre any less; this weakness in men had existed since the beginning of recorded time. And Rosie was such a Mafioso girl. Who could resist her? But as much as he admired the girl, he did not think it wise to have her around.

So he decided to take a part in this affair as he had once done in London. He knew he would not win Astorre’s approval for such an act—he knew Astorre’s character and did not underestimate his dangerousness. But Astorre was always a reasonable man. Pryor would persuade him after the fact, and Astorre would recognize the sagacity behind the deed.

But it had to be done. So Mr. Pryor called Rosie one evening. She was delighted to hear from him, especially when he assured her he had good news. When he hung up the phone he let out a sigh of regret.

He took his two nephews with him as drivers and bodyguards. He left one in the car outside the building and took the other up with him to Rosie’s apartment.

Rosie greeted them by running into Mr. Pryor’s arms, startling his nephew, who made a motion inside his jacket.

She had made coffee and served a dish of pastries that she said were specially imported from Naples. They tasted nothing like it to Mr. Pryor, who considered himself to be an expert in such matters.

“Ah, you’re such a sweet girl,” Mr. Pryor said. To his nephew he said, “Here, try one.” But the nephew had retreated into a corner of the room and sat in a chair to watch this little comedy his uncle was playing.

Rosie thumped Mr. Pryor’s homburg lying beside him and said mischievously, “I like your English bowler better. You didn’t look so stuck-up then.”

“Ah,” Mr. Pryor said with great good humor, “when one changes one’s country, one must always change one’s hat. And, my dear Rosie, I’m here to ask you a great favor.”

He caught her slight hesitation before she clapped her hands in glee. “Oh, you know I will,” she said. “I owe you so much.” Mr. Pryor was softened by her sweetness, but what had to be done had to be done.

“Rosie,” he said, “I want you to arrange your affairs so that tomorrow you can leave for Sicily, but just for a short time. Astorre is waiting for you there, and you must deliver some papers to him from me, in the strictest confidence. He misses you and wants to show you Sicily.”

Rosie blushed. “He really wants to see me?”

“Of course,” Mr. Pryor said.

The truth was that Astorre was on his way home from Sicily and would be in New York the following night. Rosie and Astorre would cross paths over the Atlantic Ocean in their separate planes.

Rosie now became businesslike as a form of coyness. “I can’t get away so quickly,” she said. “I’d need to get reservations, go to the bank, and a lot of other little things.”

“Don’t think me presumptuous,” Mr. Pryor said. “But I’ve arranged everything.”

He took a long white envelope from inside his jacket. “This is your plane ticket,” he said. “First-class. And also ten thousand American dollars to do some last-minute shopping and for travel expenses. My nephew, sitting there dazzled in the corner, will pick you up in his limousine tomorrow morning. In Palermo you will be met by Astorre or one of his friends.”

“I have to be back after a week,” Rosie said. “I have to take some tests for my doctorate.”

“Don’t concern yourself,” Mr. Pryor said. “You will not have to worry about missing your tests. I promise. Have I ever failed you?” His voice was sweetly avuncular. But he was thinking, what a pity that Rosie would never see America again.

They drank coffee and ate the pastries. The nephew again refused refreshments though Rosie begged him prettily. Their chat was interrupted when the phone rang. Rosie picked it up. “Oh, Astorre,” she said. “Are you calling from Sicily? Mr. Pryor told me. He’s sitting right here having coffee.”

Mr. Pryor continued to sip his coffee calmly, but his nephew rose from his chair and then sat down again when Mr. Pryor gave him a commanding look.

Rosie was silent and looked questioningly at Mr. Pryor, who nodded at her reassuringly.

“Yes, he was arranging for me to meet you in Sicily for a week,” Rosie said. She paused to listen. “Yes, of course I’m disappointed. I’m sorry you had to come back unexpectedly. So you want to talk to him? No? OK, I’ll tell him.” She hung up the phone.

“What a shame,” she said to Mr. Pryor. “He had to come back early. But he wants you to wait here for him. He said about half an hour.”

Mr. Pryor reached for another pastry. “Certainly,” he said.

“He’ll explain everything when he gets here,” Rosie said. “More coffee?”

Mr. Pryor nodded, then sighed. “You would have had such a wonderful time in Sicily. Too bad.” He imagined her burial in a Sicilian cemetery, how sad that would have been.

“Go down and wait in the car,” he told his nephew.

The young man rose reluctantly, and Mr. Pryor made a shooing motion. Rosie let him out of the apartment. Then he gave Rosie his most concerned smile and asked, “Have you been happy these last years?”

.  .  .

A
storre had arrived a day early and been picked up by Aldo Monza at the small airport in New Jersey. He had, of course, traveled by private jet under a false passport. It was only on impulse that he had called Rosie, out of a desire to see her and spend a relaxing night with her. When Rosie told him that Mr. Pryor was in her apartment, his senses raced with the signals of danger. As for her trip to Sicily, he understood Mr. Pryor’s plans immediately. He tried to control his anger. Mr. Pryor had wanted to do the right thing according to his experience. But it was too big a price to pay for safety.

When Rosie opened the door, she flew into his arms. Mr. Pryor rose from his chair, and Astorre went to him and embraced him. Mr. Pryor concealed his surprise—Astorre was not usually so affectionate.

Then, to Mr. Pryor’s astonishment, Astorre said to Rosie, “Go to Sicily tomorrow as we planned and I’ll join you there in a few days. We’ll have a great time.”

“Great,” Rosie said. “I’ve never been to Sicily.”

Astorre said to Mr. Pryor, “Thanks for arranging everything.”

Then he turned to Rosie again. “I can’t stay,” he said. “I’ll see you in Sicily. Tonight I have some important business to do with Mr. Pryor. So start getting ready for your trip. And don’t bring too many clothes; we can go shopping in Palermo.”

“OK,” Rosie said. She kissed Mr. Pryor on the cheek and gave Astorre a long embrace and a lingering kiss. Then she opened the door to let them out.

When the two men were out in the street, Astorre told Mr. Pryor, “Come with me to my car. Tell your nephews to go home—you won’t need them tonight.”

It was only then that Mr. Pryor felt a little nervous. “I was doing it for your own good,” he said to Astorre.

In the backseat of Astorre’s car, Monza driving, Astorre turned to Mr. Pryor. “Nobody appreciates you more than I do,” he said. “But am I the chief or am I not?”