by Mario Puzo
“There can be no vendetta mentality in the Bureau,” the director said. “Otherwise we’re no better than they are. Now, what do you have about those scientists who’ve emigrated?”
At that moment Cilke realized he could no longer trust the director. “Nothing new,” he lied. He had decided from now on he would not be part of the agency’s political compromises. He would play a lone hand.
“Well, now you have a lot of manpower, so work on it,” the director said. “And after you nail Timmona Portella, I’d like to bring you up here as one of my deputies.”
“Thank you,” Cilke said. “But I’ve decided after I clear up Portella, I’m taking my retirement.”
The director gave a deep sigh. “Reconsider it. I know how all this deal making must distress you. But remember this: The Bureau is not only responsible for protecting society against lawbreakers, but we must also take only the actions that, in the long run, benefit our society as a whole.”
“I remember that from school,” Cilke said. “The end justifies the means.”
The director shrugged. “Sometimes. Anyway, reconsider your retirement. I’m putting a letter of recommendation in your file. Whether you stay or go, you will receive a medal from the president of the United States.”
“Thank you, sir,” Cilke said. The director shook his hand and escorted him to the door. But he had one final question. “What happened to that Aprile case? It’s been months and it seems nothing has been done.”
“It’s NYPD, not ours,” Cilke said. “Of course, I looked into it. So far no motive. No clues. I would think there’s no chance of it being solved.”
That night Cilke had dinner with Bill Boxton.
“Good news,” Cilke told him. “The tobacco and the China machine cases are closed. The attorney general is going after financial sanctions, not criminal. That frees a lot of manpower.”
“No shit,” Boxton said. “I always thought the director was straight. A square shooter. Will he resign?”
“There are square shooters and there are square shooters with little nicks on the edges,” Cilke said.
“Anything else?” Boxton asked.
“When I bring Portella down, I get to be the director’s deputy. Guaranteed. But by then I’ll be retired.”
“Yeah,” Boxton said. “Put in a word for me for that job.”
“No chance. The director knows you use four-letter words.” He laughed.
“Shit,” Boxton said, in mock disappointment. “Or is it fuck?”
The next night Cilke walked home from the railroad station. Georgette and Vanessa were in Florida visiting Georgette’s parents for a week, and he hated taking a taxi. He was surprised not to hear the dogs barking when he walked up the driveway. He called out for them but nothing happened. They must have wandered off into the neighborhood or the nearby woods.
He missed his family, especially at mealtimes. He had eaten dinner alone or with other agents in too many cities all over America, always alert to any kind of danger. He prepared a simple meal for himself as his wife had taught him to do—a vegetable, a green salad, and a small steak. No coffee, but a brandy in a small thimble of a glass. Then he went upstairs to shower and call his wife before reading himself to sleep. He loved books, and he was always made unhappy when the FBI was portrayed as heavy villains in detective novels. What the hell did they know?
When he opened the bedroom door he could smell the blood instantly and his whole brain fell into a chaotic jumble; all the hidden fears of his life came rushing in on him.
The two German shepherds lay on his bed. Their brown and white fur was mottled red, their legs tied together, their muzzles wrapped in gauze. Their hearts had been cut out and rested on their bellies.
With great effort, his mind came together. Instinctively, he called his wife to make sure she was OK. He told her nothing. Then he called the FBI duty officer for a special forensic team and a cleanup squad. They would have to get rid of all the bedclothes, the mattress, the rug. He did not notify the local authorities.
Six hours later the FBI teams had left and he wrote a report to the director. He poured himself a regular-sized glass of brandy and tried to analyze the situation.
For a moment he considered lying to Georgette, concocting a story about the dogs running away. But there were the missing rug and bedsheets to be explained. And besides, it wouldn’t be fair to her. She had a choice to make. More than anything, she would never forgive him if he lied. He would have to tell her the truth.
The next day Cilke flew first to Washington to confer with the director and then down to Florida, where his wife and daughter were vacationing with his in-laws.
There, after having lunch with them, he took Georgette for a walk along the beach. As they watched the glimmering blue water he told her about the dogs being killed, that it was an old Sicilian Mafia warning used to intimidate.
“According to the papers you got rid of the Mafia in this country,” Georgette said musingly.
“More or less,” Cilke said. “We have a few of the drug organizations left, and I’m pretty sure who did this.”
“Our poor dogs,” Georgette said. “How can people be so cruel? Have you talked to the director?”
Cilke felt a surge of irritation that she was so concerned about the dogs. “The director gave me three options,” he said. “That I resign from the Bureau and relocate. I refused that option. The second was that I relocate my family under Bureau protection until this case is over. The third is that you remain in the house as if nothing has happened. We would have a twenty-four-hour security team guarding us. A woman agent would live in the house with you, and you and Vanessa will be accompanied by two bodyguards wherever you go. There will be security posts set up around the house with the latest alarm equipment. What do you think? In six months this will all be over.”
“You think it’s a bluff,” Georgette said.
“Yes. They don’t dare harm a federal agent or his family. It would be suicide for them.”
Georgette gazed out at the calm blue water of the bay. Her hand clasped his more tightly.
“I’ll stay,” she said. “I’d miss you too much, and I know you won’t leave this case. How can you be certain you’ll finish in six months?”
“I’m certain,” Cilke said.
Georgette shook her head. “I don’t like you being so certain. Please don’t do anything awful. And I want one promise. When this case is over, you’ll retire from the Bureau. Start your own law practice or teach. I can’t live this way the rest of my life.” She was in deadly earnest.
The phrase that stuck in Cilke’s head was that she would miss him too much. And as he so often did, he wondered how a woman like her could possibly love a man like him. But he had always known that someday she would make this demand. He sighed and said, “I promise.”
They continued their walk along the beach and then sat in a little green park that protected them against the sun. A cool breeze from the bay ruffled his wife’s hair, making her look very young and happy. Cilke knew he could never break his promise to her. And he was even proud of her cunning in extracting his promise at the exact proper moment, when she risked her life to stay on his side. After all, who would want to be loved by an unintelligent woman? At the same time Agent Cilke knew his wife would be horrified, humiliated by what he was thinking. Her cunning was probably innocent. Who was he to judge it? She had never judged him, never suspected his own not-so-innocent cunning.
CHAPTER 6
FRANKY AND STACE STURZO owned a huge sporting-goods store in L.A. and a house in Santa Monica that was only five minutes from the Malibu beach. Both of them had been married once, but their marriages didn’t take, so now they lived together.
They never told any of their friends they were twins, although they had the same easygoing confidence and extraordinary athletic suppleness. Franky was the more charming and temperamental. Stace was the more levelheaded, just a little stolid, but they were both noted for their amiab
ility.
They belonged to one of the large classy gyms that dotted L.A., a gym filled with digital body-building machines and wide-screen wall TV’s to watch while working out. It had a basketball court, a swimming pool, and even a boxing ring. Its staff of trainers were good-looking, sculptured men and pretty, well-toned women. The brothers used the gym to work out and also to meet women who trained there. It was a great hunting ground for men like them, surrounded by hopeful actresses trying to keep their bodies beautiful and bored, neglected wives of high-powered movie people.
But mostly Franky and Stace enjoyed pickup basketball games. Good players came to the gym—sometimes even a reserve on the L.A. Lakers. Franky and Stace had played against him and felt they had held their own. It brought back fond memories of when they had been high school all-stars. But they had no illusions that in a real game they would have been so fortunate. They had played all out, and the Laker guy had just been having a good time.
In the gym’s health-food restaurant, they struck up friendships with the female trainers and gym members and even sometimes a celebrity. They always had a good time, but it was a small part of their lives. Franky coached the local grade-school basketball team, a job he took very seriously. He always hoped to discover a superstar in the making, and he radiated a stern amiability that made the kids love him. He had a favorite coaching tactic. “OK,” he would say, “you’re twenty points down, it’s the last quarter. You come out and score the first ten points. Now you got them where you want them—you can win. It’s just nerve and confidence. You can always win. You’re ten points down, then five, then you’re even. And you’ve got them!”
Of course, it never worked. The kids were not developed enough physically or tough enough mentally. They were just kids. But Franky knew the really talented ones would never forget the lesson and that it would help them later on.
Stace concentrated on running the store, and he made the final decision on which hit jobs they would take. There had to be minimum risk and maximum price. Stace believed in percentages all the way and also had a gloomy temperament. What the brothers had going for them was that they rarely disagreed on anything. They had the same tastes and they were almost always evenly matched in physical skills. They sometimes sparred against each other in the boxing ring or played each other one-on-one on the basketball court. This cemented their relationship. They trusted each other absolutely.
They were now forty-three years old and their lives suited them, but they often talked about getting married again and having families. Franky kept a mistress in San Francisco, and Stace had a girlfriend in Vegas, a showgirl. Both women had shown no inclination for marriage, and the brothers felt they were just treading water, hoping for someone to show up.
Since they were so genial, they made friends easily and had a busy social life. Still, they spent the year after killing the Don with some apprehension. A man like the Don could not be killed without some danger.
Around November, Stace made the necessary call to Heskow about picking up the second five hundred grand of the payment. The phone call was brief and seemingly ambiguous.
“Hi,” Stace said. “We’re coming in about a month from now. Everything OK?”
Heskow seemed glad to hear from him. “Everything’s perfect,” he said. “Everything’s ready. Could you be more specific on time? I don’t want you coming when I’m out of town somewhere.”
Stace laughed and said casually, “We’ll find you. OK? Figure a month.” Then he hung up.
The money pickup in a deal like this always had an element of danger. Sometimes people hated to pay up for something already done. That happened in every business. Then sometimes people had delusions of grandeur. They thought they were as good as the professionals. The danger was minimal with Heskow—he had always been a reliable broker. But the Don’s case was special, as was the money. So they didn’t want Heskow to have a fix on their plans.
The brothers had taken up tennis the past year, but it was the one sport that defeated them. They were so athletically gifted that they could not accept this defeat, though it was explained to them that tennis was a sport where you had to acquire the strokes early in life by instruction, that it really depended on certain mechanics, like learning a language. So they had made arrangements to stay for three weeks at a tennis ranch in Scottsdale, Arizona, for an introductory course. From there they would travel to New York to meet Heskow. Of course, during these weeks at the tennis ranch they could pass some of their evenings in Vegas, which was less than an hour from Scottsdale by plane.
The tennis ranch was superluxurious. Franky and Stace were given a two-bedroom adobe cottage with air-conditioning, an Indian-motif dining room, a balconied living room, and a small kitchen. They had a superb view of the mountains. There was a built-in bar, a big refrigerator, and a huge TV.
But the three weeks started off on a sour note. One of the instructors gave Franky a hard time. Franky was easily the best in the group of beginners, and he was especially proud of his serve, which was completely unorthodox and wild. But the instructor, a man named Leslie, seemed particularly irritated by it.
One morning Franky hit the ball to his opponent, who couldn’t come near it, and he said proudly to Leslie, “That’s an ace, right?”
“No,” Leslie said coldly. “That’s a foot fault. Your toe went over the serving line. Try again, with a proper serve. The one you have will more often be out than in.”
Franky hit another serve, fast and accurate. “Ace, right?” he said.
“That is a foot fault,” Leslie said slowly. “And that serve is a bullshit serve. Just get the ball in. You’re a very decent player for a hacker. Play the point.”
Franky was annoyed but controlled himself. “Match me up with somebody who’s not a hacker,” he said. “Let’s see how I do.” He paused. “How about you?”
Leslie looked at him with disgust. “I don’t play matches with hackers,” he said. He pointed to a young woman in her late twenties or early thirties. “Rosie?” he said. “Give Mr. Sturzo a one-set match.”
The girl had just come to the court. She had beautiful tanned legs coming out of white shorts, and she wore a pink shirt with the tennis-ranch logo. She had a mischievous pretty face, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail.
“You have to give me a handicap,” Frank said disarmingly. “You look too good. Are you an instructor?”
“No,” Rosie said. “I’m just here to get some serving lessons. Leslie is a champ trainer for that.”
“Give him a handicap,” Leslie said. “He’s way below you in the levels.”
Franky said quickly, “How about two games in each four-game set?”He would bargain down to less.
Rosie gave him a quick, infectious smile. “No,” she said, “that won’t do you any good. What you should ask for is two points in each game. Then you would have a chance. And if we get to deuce, I have to win by four instead of two.”
Franky shook her hand. “Let’s go,” he said. They were standing close together, and he could smell the sweetness of her body. She whispered, “Do you want me to throw the match?”
Franky was thrilled. “No,” he said. “You can’t beat me with that handicap.”
They played with Leslie watching, and he didn’t call the foot faults. Franky won the first two games, but after that Rosie rolled over him. Her ground strokes were perfect, and she had no trouble at all with his serve. She was always standing where Franky had to hit the ball, and though several times he got to deuce, she put him away 6–2.
“Hey, you’re very good for a hacker,” Rosie said. “But you didn’t start playing until you were over twenty, right?”
“Right.” Franky was beginning to hate the word hacker.
“You have to learn the strokes and serve when you’re a kid,” she said.
“Is that right?” Franky teased. “But I’ll beat you before we leave here.”
Rosie grinned. She had a wide, generous mouth for such a small face. “
Sure,” she said. “If you have the best day of your life and I have my worst.” Franky laughed.
Stace came up and introduced himself. Then he said, “Why don’t you have dinner with us tonight? Franky won’t invite you because you beat him, but he’ll come.”
“Ah, that’s not true,” Rosie said. “He was just about to ask me. Is eight o’clock OK?”
“Great,” Stace said. He slapped Franky with his racquet.
“I’ll be there,” Franky said.
They had dinner at the ranch restaurant, a huge vaulting room with glass walls that let in the desert and mountains. Rosie proved to be a find, as Franky told Stace later. She flirted with both of them, she talked all the sports and knew her stuff, past and present—the great championship games, the great players, the great individual moments. And she was a good listener; she drew them out. Franky even told her about coaching the kids and how his store provided them with the best equipment, and Rosie said warmly, “Hey, that’s great, that’s just great.” Then they told her they had been high school basketball all-stars in their youth.
Rosie also had a good appetite, which they approved of in a woman. She ate slowly and daintily, and she had a trick of lowering her head and tilting it to the side with an almost mock shyness when she talked about herself. She was studying for a Ph.D. in psychology at New York University. She came from a moderately wealthy family, and she had already toured Europe. She had been a tennis star in high school. But she said all this with a self-deprecating air that charmed them, and she kept touching their hands to maintain contact with them as she spoke.
“I still don’t know what to do when I graduate,” she said. “With all my book knowledge, I can never figure people out in real life. Like you two guys. You tell me your history, you are two charming bastards, but I have no idea what makes you tick.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Stace said. “What you see is what you get.”