by Mario Puzo
Over the years they had developed a code for arranging meetings. Cilke had a key to the suite door in the opposite hallway so he could enter without being detected by Portella’s bodyguards and wait in the minor suite. Portella would get rid of his girl, and their meeting would begin. On this particular night, Portella was waiting for Cilke.
Cilke was always a little nervous at these meetings. He knew that not even Portella would dare harm an FBI agent, but the man had a temperament that verged on insanity. Cilke was armed, but to hide the identity of his informant he couldn’t bring bodyguards.
Portella had a wineglass in his hand, and his first words of greeting were “What the fuck’s wrong now?” But he was smiling genially and gave Cilke a half hug. Portella’s massive belly was hidden in an elegant Chinese robe over white pajamas.
Cilke refused a drink, sat on the sofa, and said calmly, “A few weeks ago, I went home after work and found my two dogs with their hearts cut out. I thought you might have a clue.” He watched Portella closely.
Portella’s surprise seemed genuine. He had been sitting in an armchair and seemed galvanized out of his seat. His face filled with rage. Cilke was not impressed; in his experience the guilty could react with the purest innocence. He said, “If you’re trying to warn me off something, why not tell me directly?”
At this Portella said almost tearfully, “Kurt, you come here armed; I felt your gun. I am not armed. You could kill me and claim I resisted arrest. I trust you. I’ve deposited over a million dollars in your Cayman Island account. We’re partners. Why would I pull such an old Sicilian trick? Somebody is trying to split us up. You have to see that.”
“Who?” Cilke said.
Portella was thoughtful. “It can only be that Astorre kid. He has delusions of grandeur because he got away from me once. Check him out, and meanwhile I’ll put a contract on him.”
Finally Cilke was convinced. “OK,” he said, “but I think we have to be very careful. Don’t underestimate this guy.”
“Don’t worry,” Portella said. “Hey, did you eat? I have some veal and spaghetti, a salad and some good wine.”
Cilke laughed. “I believe you. But I have no time for dinner.”
The truth was he did not want to break bread with a man he would soon be sending to prison.
Astorre now had enough information to draw up a battle plan. He was convinced that the FBI had a hand in the Don’s death. And that Cilke was in charge of the operation. He now knew who the broker was. He knew that Timmona Portella had put out the contract. And yet there remained some mysteries. The ambassador, through Nicole, had offered to buy the banks with foreign investors. Cilke had offered him a deal to betray Portella into a criminal situation. These were disturbing and dangerous variations. He decided to consult with Craxxi in Chicago and to bring Mr. Pryor with him.
Astorre had already requested that Mr. Pryor come to America to run the Aprile banks. Mr. Pryor had accepted the offer, and it was extraordinary how quickly he changed from English gentleman to American high-powered executive. He wore a homburg instead of the bowler; he discarded his furled umbrella and carried a folded newspaper, and he arrived with his wife and two nephews. His wife changed from English matron to a sleeker style of dress, quite in fashion. His two nephews were Sicilians who spoke perfect English and had degrees in accounting. Both were devoted hunters and kept their hunting gear in the trunk of a limousine, which one of the nephews drove. In fact, both of them served as Mr. Pryor’s bodyguards.
The Pryors settled into an Upper West Side town house protected by security patrols from a private agency. Nicole, who had opposed the appointment, was soon charmed by Mr. Pryor, especially when he told her they were distant cousins. There was no doubt that Mr. Pryor had a certain fatherly charm with women; even Rosie had adored him. And there was no doubt he could run the banks—even Nicole was impressed by his knowledge of international banking. Just by trading currencies he had increased the profit margins. And Astorre knew that Mr. Pryor had been an intimate of Don Aprile. Indeed, it had been Pryor who had persuaded the Don to acquire the banks with an interlock run by Mr. Pryor in England and Italy. Mr. Pryor had described their relationship.
“I told your uncle,” Mr. Pryor said, “that banks can acquire more wealth with less risk than the business he was in. Those old-time enterprises are passé; the government is too strong and they are too focused on our people. It was time to get out. Banks are the gateway to make money if you have the experience, personnel, and political contacts. Without boasting, I can say I have the goodwill of the politicians of Italy with money. Everybody gets rich, and nobody gets hurt or winds up in jail. I could be a university professor teaching people how to get rich without breaking the law and resorting to violence. You just have to make certain the correct laws are passed. After all, education is the key to a higher civilization.”
Mr. Pryor was being playful, yet he was somewhat in earnest. Astorre felt a deep rapport with him and gave him his absolute trust. Don Craxxi and Mr. Pryor were men he could rely on. Not only from friendship: Both of them earned a fortune from the ten banks the Don owned.
. . .
When Astorre and Mr. Pryor arrived at Don Craxxi’s home in Chicago, Astorre was surprised to see Pryor and Craxxi embrace each other with great warmth. They obviously knew each other.
Craxxi provided a meal of fruit and cheese and chatted with Mr. Pryor while they ate. Astorre listened with intense curiosity; he loved to hear old men tell stories. Craxxi and Mr. Pryor agreed that the old ways of doing business had been fraught with peril. “Everybody had high blood pressure, everybody had heart problems,” Craxxi said. “It was a terrible way to live. And the new element have no sense of honor. It’s good to see them being wiped out.”
“Ah,” Mr. Pryor said. “But we all had to start somewhere. Look at us now.”
All this talk made Astorre hesitate to bring up the business at hand. What the hell did these two old guys think they were doing now? Mr. Pryor chuckled at Astorre’s look. “Don’t worry, we are not yet saints, we two. And this situation challenges our own interests. So tell us what you need. We are ready to do business.”
“I need your advice, nothing operational,” Astorre said. “That’s my job.”
Craxxi said, “If it is solely for vengeance, I would advise you to go back to your singing. But I recognize, as I hope you do, that it is a matter of protecting your family from danger.”
“Both,” said Astorre. “Either reason would be sufficient. But my uncle had me trained for just this situation. I can’t fail him.”
“Good,” Mr. Pryor said. “But recognize this fact: What you are doing is in your nature. Be careful about the risks you take. Don’t be carried away.”
Don Craxxi asked mildly, “How can I help you?”
“You were right about the Sturzo brothers,” Astorre said. “They confessed to the hit, and they told me the broker was John Heskow, a man I’ve never heard of. So now I have to go after him.”
“And the Sturzo brothers?” Craxxi asked.
“They are out of the picture.”
The two old men were silent. Then Craxxi said, “Heskow I know. He has been a broker for twenty years. There are wild rumors about how he brokered some political assassinations, but I don’t believe them. Now, whatever tactics you used to make the Sturzo brothers talk won’t work with Heskow. He is a great negotiator, and he will recognize that he has to bargain his way out of death. He will know you must have information only he can give you.”
“He has a son he adores,” Astorre said. “A basketball player, and he is Heskow’s life.”
“That is an old card and he will trump it,” Mr. Pryor said, “by withholding information that is crucial and giving you information that is not crucial. You have to understand Heskow. He has bargained with death all his life. Find another approach.”
“There are a lot of things I want to know before I can go any further,” Astorre said. “Who was behind the killing, and mos
t of all, why? Now, here’s my thought. It must be the banks. Somebody needs the banks.”
“Heskow might know some of that,” Craxxi said.
“It bothers me,” Astorre said, “that there was no police or FBI surveillance at the cathedral for the confirmation. And the Sturzo brothers told me that they had been guaranteed there would be no surveillance. Can I believe that the police and the FBI had prior knowledge of the hit? Is that possible?”
“It is,” Don Craxxi said. “And in that case you must be very careful. Especially with Heskow.”
Mr. Pryor said coolly, “Astorre, your primary goal is to save the banks and protect Don Aprile’s children. Vengeance is a minor goal that can be abandoned.”
“I don’t know,” Astorre said, noncommittal now. “I’ll have to think about that.” He gave both men a sincere smile. “But we’ll see how it works out.”
The two old men did not believe him for a moment. In their lifetimes they had known and recognized young fellows like Astorre. They saw him as a throwback to the great Mafia leaders of the early days, men they had not become themselves because of a certain lack of charisma and will that only the great ones had:the men of respect who had dominated provinces, defied the rules of the state, and emerged triumphant. They recognized in Astorre that will, that charm, that single-mindedness that he himself was not aware of. Even his foolishness, his singing, his riding of horses were weaknesses that did not harm his destiny. They were merely youthful joys and showed his good heart.
Astorre told them about the consul general, Marriano Rubio, and about Inzio Tulippa trying to buy the banks. About Cilke trying to use him to trap Portella. The two old men listened carefully.
“Send them to me the next time,” Mr. Pryor said. “From my information Rubio is the financial manager of the world drug trade.”
“I won’t sell,” Astorre said. “The Don instructed me.”
“Of course,” Craxxi said. “They are the future and can be your protection.” He paused and then went on. “Let me tell you a little story. Before I retired I had an associate, a very straight businessman, a credit to society. He invited me to lunch at his office building, in his private dining room. Afterward he took me on a tour and showed me these enormous rooms that held a thousand computer cubicles manned by young men and women.
“He said to me, ‘That room earns me a billion dollars a year. There are nearly three hundred million people in this country, and we are devoted to making them buy our products. We plan special lotteries, prizes, and bonuses, we make extravagant promises, all legally defined to make them spend their money for all our companies. And you know what is crucial? We must have banks who will supply these three hundred million people credit to spend money they don’t have.’ Banks are the name of the game, you must have banks on your side.”
“That’s true,” Mr. Pryor said. “And both sides profit. Though interest rates are high, those debts spur people on, make them achieve more.”
Astorre laughed. “I’m glad that keeping the banks is smart. But it doesn’t matter. The Don told me not to sell. That’s enough for me. And that they killed him makes a difference.”
Craxxi said to Astorre very firmly, “You cannot do harm to that man Cilke. The government is now too strong to take such ultimate action against. But I agree he is a danger of some kind. You must be clever.”
“Your next step is Heskow,” Pryor said. “He is crucial, but again you have to be careful. Remember, you can call on Don Craxxi for help, and I myself have resources. We are not fully retired. And we have an interest in the banks—not to mention our affection for Don Aprile, rest in peace.”
“OK,” Astorre said. “After I see Heskow, we can meet again.”
. . .
Astorre was acutely aware of his dangerous position. He knew that his successes were small, despite his punishment of the assassins. They were only a thread pulled out of the mystery of Don Aprile’s murder. But he relied on the infallible paranoia drilled into him during his years of training in Sicily’s endless treacheries. He had to be especially careful now. Heskow seemed like an easy target, but he could also be booby-trapped.
One thing surprised him. He had thought himself happy in his life as a small businessman and amateur singer, but now he felt an elation that he had never experienced before. A feeling that he was back in a world in which he belonged. And that he had a mission. To protect the children of Don Aprile, to avenge the death of a man he had loved. He simply had to crack the will of the enemy. Aldo Monza had brought back ten good men from his village in Sicily. At Astorre’s instructions he had ensured the livelihood of their families for life, no matter what happened to them.
“Do not count on the gratitude of deeds done for people in the past,” he remembered the Don lecturing him. “You must make them grateful for things you will do for them in the future.” The banks were the future for the Aprile family, Astorre, and his growing army of men. It was a future worth fighting for, no matter the cost.
Don Craxxi had supplied him with another six men he absolutely vouched for. And Astorre had turned his home into a fortress with these men and the latest security detection devices. He had also set up a safe house to disappear to, if the authorities wanted to grab him for whatever reason.
He did not use close bodyguards. Instead, he relied on his own quickness and used his guards as advance scouts on the routes he would take.
He would let Heskow sit for a time. Astorre wondered about Cilke’s reputation as an honorable man, as even Don Aprile had so described him.
“There are honorable men who spend all their lives preparing for a supreme act of treachery,” Pryor had said to him. But despite all this, Astorre felt confident. All he would have to do was to stay alive as the puzzle pieces fit together.
The real test would come from men like Heskow, Portella, Tulippa, and Cilke. He would personally have to get his hands bloody once again.
It took a month for Astorre to figure out exactly how to handle John Heskow. The man would be formidable, tricky, easy to kill but difficult to extract information from. Using his son as leverage was too dangerous—it would force Heskow to plot against him while pretending to cooperate. He decided that he would not let Heskow know that the Sturzo brothers had told him Heskow was the driver on the hit. That might scare him too much.
Meanwhile, he amassed the necessary information on Heskow’s daily habits. It seemed he was a temperate man whose primary love was growing flowers and selling them wholesale to florists and even personally from a roadside stand in the Hamptons. His only indulgence was attending the basketball games of his son’s team, and he followed Villanova’s basketball schedule religiously.
One Saturday night in January Heskow was going to the Villanova-Temple game at Madison Square Garden in New York. When he left his house he buttoned it up with his sophisticated alarm system. He was always careful in the everyday details of life, always confident that he had made provisions for every possible accident. And it was that confidence Astorre wanted to shatter at the very beginning of their interview.
John Heskow drove into the city and had a solitary dinner at a Chinese restaurant near the Garden. He always ate Chinese when he went out because it was the one thing he could not cook better at home. He liked the silver covers over each dish as if it contained some delightful surprise. He liked Chinese people. They minded their own business, didn’t make small talk or show obsequious familiarity. And never, ever, had he found a mistake in his bill, which he always checked carefully because he ordered numerous dishes.
Tonight he went all out. He was particularly fond of Peking duck and crayfish in Cantonese lobster sauce. There was a special white fried rice and of course a few fried dumplings and spicy spareribs. He finished off with green-tea ice cream, an acquired taste, but one that showed he was a gourmet of Eastern food.
When he arrived at the Garden, the arena was only half full, though Temple had a high-ranked team. Heskow took his choice seat, provided by his son
, near the floor and middle of the court. This made him proud of Jocko.
The game was not exciting. Temple crushed Villanova, but Jocko was the high scorer in the game. Afterward Heskow went back to the locker room.
His son greeted him with a hug. “Hey, Dad, I’m glad you came. You want to come out and eat with us?”
Heskow was enormously gratified. His son was a true gentleman. Of course these kids didn’t want an old geezer like him around on their night out in the city. They wanted to get drunk, have some laughs, and maybe get laid.
“Thanks,” Heskow said. “I already had dinner, and I have a long drive home. You played great tonight. I’m proud of you. Now go out and have a good time.” He gave his son a farewell kiss and wondered how he had gotten so lucky. Well, his son had a good mother, though she’d been a lousy wife.
It took Heskow only an hour to drive home to Brightwaters— the Long Island parkways were almost deserted at this hour. He was tired when he got there, but before going into the house he checked the flower sheds to make sure the temperature and moisture were OK.
In the moonlight reflected though the glass roof of the shed, the flowers had a wild, nightmarish beauty, the red almost black, the whites a ghostly vaporish halo. He loved looking at them, especially just before he went to sleep.
He walked the gravel driveway to his house and unlocked the door. Once inside he quickly pushed the numbers on the panel that would keep the alarm from going off, then went into the living room.
His heart took a giant leap. Two men stood waiting for him; he recognized Astorre. He knew enough about death to recognize it at a glance. These were the messengers.
But he reacted with the perfect defense mechanism. “How the fuck did you two guys get in here, and what the hell do you want?”
“Don’t panic,” Astorre said. He introduced himself, adding that he was the nephew of the deceased Don Aprile.