by Mario Puzo
So it was with a good-humored sarcasm that the Don proposed his toast. “But tell me,” he said to Nicole. “Did you ever believe the man innocent by reason of his insanity? After all, he did exercise his free will.”
Valerius looked at Nicole with cool, measuring eyes. He was a tall man, forty years of age with a bristly short mustache and hair already turning to steel gray. As an intelligence officer, he had himself made decisions that overlooked human morality. He was interested in her reasoning.
Marcantonio understood his sister, that she aspired to a normal life partly out of shame for their father’s life. He was more worried that she would say something rash, something that her father could never forgive her for.
As for Astorre, he was dazzled by Nicole—her flashing eyes, the incredible energy with which she responded to her father’s goading. He remembered their lovemaking as teenagers and felt her still obvious affection for him. But now he was transformed, no longer what he was when they were lovers. That was understood. He wondered if her brothers knew about that long-ago affair. And he too worried that a quarrel would break the bonds of family, a family that he loved, that was his only refuge. He hoped Nicole would not go too far. But he had no sympathy for her views. His years in Sicily had taught him differently. But it amazed him that the two people he cared most about in the world could be so different. And it occurred to him that even if she were right, he could never side with Nicole against her father.
Nicole looked boldly into her father’s eyes. “I don’t believe he had free will,” she said.“He was forced by the circumstances of his life—by his own distorted perceptions, his genetic heritage, his biochemistry, the ignorance of medicine—he was insane. So of course I believe it.”
The Don pondered this for a moment. “Tell me,” he said. “If he admitted to you all his excuses were false, would you still have tried to save his life?”
“Yes,” Nicole said. “Each individual life is sacred. The state has no right to take it.”
The Don smiled at her mockingly. “That’s your Italian blood. Do you know that modern Italy has never had the death penalty? All those human lives saved.” His sons and Astorre flinched at his sarcasm, but Nicole was unabashed.
She said to him sternly, “It is barbaric for the state under the mantle of justice to commit premeditated murder. I would think that you of all people would agree with that.” It was a challenge, a reference to his reputation. Nicole laughed, then said more soberly, “We have an alternative. The criminal is locked away in an institution or a prison for life without hope of release or parole. Then he is no longer a danger to society.”
The Don looked at her coolly. “One thing at a time,” he said. “I do approve of the state taking a human life. And as for your lifetime without parole or release, that’s a joke. Twenty years pass and supposedly new evidence is found, or rehabilitation is assumed and the criminal has made a new person of himself, so now spills the milk of human kindness. The man goes free. But no one cares for the dead. That’s not really important . . .”
Nicole frowned. “Dad, I didn’t imply that the victim isn’t important. But taking a life will not get the victim’s life back. And the longer we condone killing, under any circumstances, the longer it will go on.”
Here the Don paused and drank his wine as he looked around the table at his two sons and Astorre. “Let me tell you the reality,” he said, and turned to his daughter. He spoke with an intensity rare for him. “You say human life is sacred? From what evidence? Where in history? The wars that have killed millions are endorsed by all governments and religions. The massacres of thousands of enemies in a political dispute, over economic interests, are recorded through time. How many times has the earning of money been placed above the sanctity of human life? And you yourself condone the taking of a human life when you get your client off.”
Nicole’s dark eyes flashed. “I have not condoned it,” she said. “I have not excused it. I think it’s barbaric. I have just refused to lay the ground for more of it!”
Now the Don spoke more quietly but more sincerely. “Above all this,” he said, “the victim, your loved one, lies beneath the earth. He is forever banished from this world. We will never see his face, we will never hear his voice, we will never touch his flesh. He is in darkness, lost to us and our world.”
They all listened silently as the Don took another sip of wine. “Now, my Nicole. Hear me. Your client, your murderer, is sentenced to life imprisonment. He will be behind bars or in an institution for the rest of his life. So you say. But each morning he will see the rising sun, he will taste hot food, he will hear music, the blood will run in his veins and interest him in the world. His loved ones can still embrace him. I understand he can even study books, learn carpentry to build a table and chairs. In short, he lives. And that is unjust.”
Nicole was resolute. She did not flinch. “Dad, to domesticate animals, you don’t let them eat raw meat. You don’t let them get a taste of it or they want more. The more we kill, the easier it gets to kill. Can’t you see that?” When he didn’t answer her, she asked, “And how can you decide what’s just or unjust? Where do you draw the line?” It had been meant as a defiance but was more of a plea to understand all her years of doubt in him.
They all expected an outburst of fury by the Don at her insolence, but suddenly he was in a good humor. “I have had my moments of weakness,” he said, “but I never let a child judge his or her parents. Children are useless and live by our sufferance. And I consider myself beyond reproach as a father. I have raised three children who are pillars in society, talented, accomplished, and successful. And not completely powerless against fate. Can any of you reproach me?”
At this point Nicole lost her anger. “No,” she said. “As a parent no one can reproach you. But you left something out. The oppressed are the ones who hang. The rich wind up escaping the final punishment.”
The Don looked at Nicole with great seriousness. “Why, then, do you not fight to change the laws so that the rich hang with the poor? That is more intelligent.”
Astorre murmured, smiling cheerfully. “There would be very few of us left.” And that remark cut the tension.
“The greatest virtue of humanity is mercy,” Nicole said. “An enlightened society does not execute a human being, and it refrains from punishment as much as common sense and justice allows.”
It was only then that the Don lost his customary good humor. “Where did you get such ideas?” he asked. “They are self-indulgent and cowardly—more, they are blasphemous. Who is more merciless than God? He does not forgive, He does not ban punishment. There is a Heaven and there is a Hell by His decree. He does not banish grief and sorrow in His world. It is His Almighty duty to show no more than the necessary mercy. So who are you to dispense such marvelous grace? It’s an arrogance. Do you think that if you are so saintly, you can create a better world? Remember, saints can only whisper prayers to God’s ear and only when they have earned the right to do so by their own martyrdom. No. It is our duty to pursue our fellowman. Or what great sins he could be capable of committing. We would deliver our world to the devil.”
This left Nicole speechless with anger and Valerius and Marcantonio smiling. Astorre bowed his head as if in prayer.
Finally Nicole said, “Daddy, you are just too outrageous as a moralist. And you certainly are no example to follow.”
There was a long silence at the table as each one sat with memories of their strange relationship with the Don. Nicole never quite believing the stories she’d heard about her father and yet fearing they were true. Marcantonio remembering one of his colleagues at the network asking slyly, “How does your father treat you and the other kids?”
And Marcantonio, considering the question carefully, knowing the man was referring to his father’s reputation, had said quite seriously, “My father is very cordial to us.”
Valerius was thinking how much his father was like some generals he had served under. Men who got th
e job done without any moral scruples, without any doubts as to their duty. Arrows that sped to their mark with deadly swiftness and accuracy.
For Astorre it was different. The Don had always shown him affection and trust. But he was also the only one at the table who knew that the reputation of the Don was true. He was remembering three years before when he had returned from his years of exile. The Don had given him certain instructions.
The Don had told him, “A man my age can die from stubbing his toe on a door, or from a black mole on his back, or from a break in the beating of his heart. It is strange that a man does not realize his mortality every second of his life. No matter. He need not have enemies. But still one must plan. I have made you a majority heir to my banks; you will control them and share the income with my children. And for this reason: Certain interests want to buy my banks, one headed by the consul general of Peru. The federal government continues to investigate me under the RICO laws so they can seize my banks. What a nice piece of business for them. They will find nothing. Now, my instructions to you are never sell the banks. They will be more profitable and powerful as time goes on. In time the past will be forgotten.
“If something unexpected happens, call Mr. Pryor, to assist you as controller. You know him well. He is extremely qualified, and he too profits from the banks. He owes me his loyalty. Also, I will introduce you to Benito Craxxi in Chicago. He is a man of infinite resources and also profits from the banks. He too is trustworthy. Meanwhile, I will give you a macaroni business simply to run and give you a good living. For all this I charge you with the safety and prosperity of my children. It is a harsh world, and I have brought them up as innocents.”
Three years later, Astorre was pondering these words. Time had passed, and it seemed now that his services would not be needed. The Don’s world could not be shattered.
But Nicole was not quite finished with her arguments. “What about the quality of mercy?” she said to her father. “You know, what Christians preach?”
The Don replied without hesitation. “Mercy is a vice, a pretension to powers we do not have. Those who give mercy commit an unpardonable offense to the victim. And that is not our duty here on earth.”
“So you would not want mercy?” Nicole asked.
“Never,” the Don said. “I do not seek it or desire it. If I must, I will accept the punishment for all my sins.”
It was at this dinner that Colonel Valerius Aprile invited his family to attend the confirmation of his twelve-year-old son, in New York City, two months hence. His wife had insisted on a big celebration at her family’s old church. It was in the Don’s newly transformed character to accept this invitation.
And so on a cold December Sunday noon, bright with a lemon-colored light, the Aprile family went to Saint Patrick’s on Fifth Avenue, where the brilliant sunshine etched the image of that great cathedral into the streets around it. Don Raymonde Aprile, Valerius and his wife, Marcantonio, anxious for a quick getaway, and Nicole, beautiful in black, watched the cardinal himself, red-hatted and sipping wine, give Communion and administer Heaven’s admonitory ceremonial slap on the cheek.
It was a sweet and mysterious pleasure to see the boys on the brink of puberty, girls ripening into nubility in their white gowns with the red silk scarves draped around, marching down the aisles of the cathedral, stone angels and saints watching over them. Confirming that they would serve God for the rest of their lives. Nicole had tears in her eyes, though she didn’t believe a word the cardinal was saying. She laughed to herself.
Out on the steps of the cathedral, the children shed their robes and showed off their hidden finery. The girls in frail cobwebby white lace dresses, the boys in their dark suits, glaring white shirts, and traditional red neckties knitted at their throats to ward off the Devil.
Don Aprile emerged from the church, Astorre on one side, Marcantonio on the other. The children milled around in a circle, Valerius and his wife proudly holding their son’s gown as a photographer snapped their picture. Don Aprile began to descend the steps alone. He breathed in the air. It was a glorious day; he felt so alive and alert. And when his newly confirmed grandson came over to hug him, he patted his head affectionately and put a huge gold coin in the boy’s palm—the traditional gift on a child’s confirmation day. Then with a generous hand he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a handful of smaller gold coins to give to the other boys and girls. He was gratified by their shouts of joy and indeed by being in the city itself, its tall gray stone buildings as sweet as the trees. He was quite alone, only Astorre a few paces behind. He looked down at the stone steps in front of him, then paused a moment as a huge black car pulled up as if to receive him.
In Brightwaters that Sunday morning Heskow got up early and went to get baked goods and the newspapers. He stored the stolen car in the garage, a huge black sedan packed with the guns and masks and boxes of ammunition. He checked the tires, the gas and oil, and the braking lights. Perfect. He went back into the house to wake up Franky and Stace, but of course they were already up and Stace had the coffee ready.
They ate breakfast in silence and read the Sunday papers. Franky checked the college basketball scores.
At ten o’clock Stace said to Heskow, “The car ready?” and Heskow said, “All set.”
They got into the car and left, Franky sitting up front with Heskow, Stace in the back. The trip to the city would take an hour, so they would have an extra hour to kill. The important thing was to be on time.
In the car Franky checked the guns. Stace tried on one of the masks, little white shells attached to side strings, so that they could hang them around their necks until they had to put them on at the last moment.
They drove into the city listening to opera on the radio. Heskow was an excellent driver, conservative, steady-paced, no disturbing acceleration or deceleration. He always left a good space in front and back. Stace gave a little grunt of approval, which lifted part of the strain; they were tense but not jittery. They knew they had to be perfect. They couldn’t miss the shot.
Heskow weaved slowly through the city; he seemed to catch every red light. Then he turned onto Fifth Avenue and waited half a block from the cathedral’s great doors. The church bells began to ring, the sound clanging against the surrounding steel skyscrapers. Heskow started up the motor again. All three men watched the children swirling out into the streets. It worried them.
Stace murmured, “Franky, the head shot.” Then they saw the Don come out, walk ahead of the men on either side of him, and begin to descend the steps. He seemed to look directly at them.
“Masks,” Heskow said. He accelerated slightly, and Franky put his hand on the door handle. His left hand cradled the Uzi, ready to come out onto the sidewalk.
The car speeded up and stopped as the Don reached the last step. Stace jumped out of the backseat onto the street, the car between him and his target. In one quick move he rested his gun on the roof. He shot two-handed. He only fired twice.
The first bullet hit the Don square in the forehead. The second bullet tore out his throat. His blood spurted all over the sidewalk, showering yellow sunlight with pink drops.
At the same time Franky, on the sidewalk, fired a long burst of his Uzi over the heads of the crowd.
Then both men were back in the car and Heskow screeched down the avenue. Minutes later they were driving through the tunnel and then onto the little airport, where a private jet took them aboard.
At the sound of the first shot Valerius hurled his son and wife to the ground and covered them with his body. He actually saw nothing that happened. Neither did Nicole, who stared at her father with astonishment. Marcantonio looked down in disbelief. The reality was so different from the staged fiction of his TV dramas. The shot to the Don’s forehead had split it apart like a melon so that you could see a slosh of brains and blood inside. The shot in the throat had hacked away the flesh in a jagged chunk so that he looked as if he had been hit with a meat cleaver. And there was an e
normous amount of blood on the pavement around him. More blood than you could imagine in a human body. Marcantonio saw the two men with eggshell masks over their faces; he also saw the guns in their hands, but they seemed unreal. He could not have given any details about their clothing, their hair. He was paralyzed with shock. He could not even have said if they were black or white, naked or clothed. They could have been ten feet tall or two.
But Astorre had been alert as soon as the black sedan stopped. He saw Stace fire his gun and thought the left hand pulled the trigger. He saw Franky fire the Uzi, and that was definitely left-handed. He caught a fleeting glance at the driver, a round-headed man, obviously heavy. The two shooters moved with the grace of well-conditioned athletes. As Astorre dropped to the sidewalk, he reached out to pull the Don down with him, but he was a fraction of a second too late. And now he was covered with the Don’s blood.
Then he saw the children move like a whirlwind of terror, a huge red dot at the center of it. They were screaming. He saw the Don splayed over the steps as if death had disjointed his skeleton itself. And he felt an enormous dread of what all this would do to his life and the lives of those dearest to him.
Nicole came to stand over the Don’s body. Her knees folded against her will, and she kneeled next to him. Silently, she reached out to touch her father’s bloody throat. And then she wept as if she would weep forever.
CHAPTER 3
THE ASSASSINATION of Don Raymonde Aprile was an astounding event to the members of his former world. Who would dare to risk killing such a man, and to what purpose? He had given away his empire; there was no realm to steal. Dead, he could no longer lavish his beneficent gifts or use his influence to help someone unfortunate with the law or fate.