by Mario Puzo
Heskow made himself get calm. He had been in tight spots before, and after the first rush of adrenaline, he had always been OK. He sat down on the sofa so that his hand was on the wooden armrest and reached for his hidden gun. “So what do you want?”
Astorre had an amused smiled on his face, which irritated Heskow, who had meant to wait for the right moment. Now he flipped open the armrest and reached for the gun. The hollow was empty.
At that moment three cars appeared in the driveway, headlights flashing into the room. Two more men entered the house.
Astorre said pleasantly, “I didn’t underestimate you, John. We searched the house. We found the gun in the coffeepot, another taped underneath your bed, another in that fake letter-box, and the one in the bathroom taped behind the bowl. Did we miss any?”
Heskow didn’t answer. His heart had started pounding again. He could feel it in his throat.
“What the hell are you growing in those flower sheds?” Astorre asked, laughing. “Diamonds, hemp, coke, what? I thought you’d never come in. By the way, that’s a lot of firepower for someone who grows azaleas.”
“Stop jerking me around,” Heskow said quietly.
Astorre sat down in the chair opposite Heskow and then tossed two wallets—Gucci, one gold, one brown—on the coffee table between them. “Take a look,” he said.
Heskow reached over and opened them. The first thing he saw was the Sturzo brothers’ driver’s licenses with their laminated photos. The bile in his throat was so sour he almost vomited.
“They gave you up,” Astorre said. “That you were the broker on Don Aprile’s hit. They also said you guaranteed there would be no NYPD or FBI surveillance at the church ceremony.”
Heskow processed everything that had happened. They hadn’t just killed him, though the Sturzo brothers were certainly dead. He felt one tiny pang of disappointment for that betrayal. But Astorre didn’t seem to know he had been the driver. There was a negotiation here, the most important of his life.
Heskow shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Aldo Monza had been listening alertly, keeping a close eye on Heskow. Now he went into the kitchen and came back with two cups of black coffee, handing one to Astorre and one to Heskow. He said, “Hey, you got Italian coffee—great.” Heskow gave him a contemptuous look.
Astorre drank his coffee and then said to Heskow, slowly, deliberately, “I hear you’re a very intelligent man, that that’s the only reason you’re not dead. So listen to me and really think. I’m Don Aprile’s cleanup man. I have all the resources he had before he retired. You knew him, you know what that means. You would never have dared to be the broker if he wasn’t retired. Right?”
Heskow didn’t say anything. Just kept watching Astorre, trying to judge him.
“The Sturzos are dead,” Astorre continued. “You can join them. But I have a proposition, and you have to be very alert here. In the next thirty minutes you will have to convince me you’re on my side, that you will act as my agent. If you don’t, you will be buried beneath your flowers in the shed. Now let me tell you better news. I will never involve your son in this affair. I don’t do that, and besides, such action would make you my enemy and ready to betray me. But you must realize that I am the one who keeps your son alive. My enemies want me dead. If they succeed, my friends will not spare your son. His fate rests on mine.”
“So what do you want?” Heskow asked.
“I need information,” Astorre said. “So you talk. If I’m satisfied, we have a deal. If I’m not, you’re dead. So your immediate problem is staying alive tonight. Begin.”
Heskow did not speak for at least five minutes. First he evaluated Astorre—such a nice-looking guy, not brutal or terrorizing. But the Sturzo brothers were dead. Then the breaking through the security of his house and the finding of the guns. Most ominous was Astorre waiting for him to reach for the nonexistent gun. So this was not a bluff, and certainly not a bluff he could call. Finally Heskow drank his coffee and made his decision, with reservations.
“I have to go with you,” he said to Astorre. “I have to trust you to do the right thing. The man who hired me to broker the deal and gave me the money is Timmona Portella. The NYPD nonsurveillance I bought. I was Timmona’s bagman and gave the NYPD chief of detectives, Di Benedetto, fifty grand and his deputy, Aspinella Washington, twenty-five. As for the FBI guarantee, Portella gave it to me. I insisted on credentials, and he told me he had this guy, Cilke, New York Bureau chief, in his pocket. It was Cilke who gave the OK for the hit on the Don.”
“You worked for Portella before?”
“Oh, yeah,” Heskow said. “He runs the drugs in New York, so he has a lot of hits for me. None in the league of the Don. I never did get the connection. That’s it.”
“Good,” Astorre said. His face was sincere. “Now I want you to be careful. For your own good. Is there anything more you can tell me?”
And suddenly Heskow knew he was seconds from death. That he had not done the job of convincing Astorre. He trusted his instincts. He gave Astorre a weak smile. “One more thing,” he added, very slowly. “I have a contract with Portella right now. On you. I’m going to pay the two detectives a half million to knock you off. They come to arrest you, you resist arrest, and they shoot you.”
Astorre seemed a little bemused. “Why so complicated and expensive?” he said. “Why not hire a straight hit man?”
Heskow shook his head. “They put you higher than that. And after the Don, a straight hit would draw too much attention. You being his nephew. The media would go wild. This way there’s cover.”
“Have you paid them yet?” Astorre asked.
“No,” Heskow said. “We have to meet.”
“OK,” Astorre said. “Set up the meeting out of traffic. Let me know the details beforehand. One thing. After the meeting, don’t leave with them.”
“Oh, shit,” Heskow said. “Is that how it is? There will be enormous heat.”
Astorre leaned back in his chair. “That’s how it is,” he said. He got up out of the chair and gave Heskow a half hug of friendship. “Remember,” he said, “we have to keep each other alive.”
“Can I hold out some of the money?” Heskow asked.
Astorre laughed. “No. That’s the beauty of it. How do the cops explain the half million they have on them?”
“Just twenty,” Heskow said.
“OK,” Astorre said good-naturedly. “But no more. Just a little sweetener.”
Now it was imperative for Astorre to have another meeting with Don Craxxi and Mr. Pryor for their advice on the wide operational plan he had to execute.
But circumstances had changed. Mr. Pryor insisted on bringing his two nephews to Chicago to act as bodyguards. And when they arrived in the Chicago suburb they found that Don Craxxi’s modest estate had been turned into a fortress. The driveway leading to the house was blocked by little green huts manned by very tough-looking young men. A communications van was parked in the orchard. And there were three young men who answered doorbells and phones and checked visitors’ IDs.
Mr. Pryor’s nephews, Erice and Roberto, were lean and athletic, expert in firearms, and they clearly adored their uncle. They also seemed to know Astorre’s history in Sicily and treated him with enormous respect, performing the smallest personal services for him. They carried his luggage. They poured his wine at dinner, brushing him off with their napkins; they paid his tips and opened doors, making it plain they regarded him as a great man. Astorre good-humoredly tried to put them at ease, but they would never descend to familiarity.
The men guarding Don Craxxi were not so polite. They were courteous but rigid, steady men in their fifties, completely focused on their job. And they were all armed.
That evening when Don Craxxi, Mr. Pryor, and Astorre had finished dinner and were eating fruit for their dessert, Astorre said to the Don, “Why all the security?”
“Just a precaution,” his host answered calmly. “I’ve
heard some disturbing news. An old enemy of mine, Inzio Tulippa, has arrived in America. He is a very intemperate man and very greedy, so it is always best to be prepared. He comes to meet with our Timmona Portella. They whack up their drug profits and whack out their enemies. It is best to be ready. But now, what is on your mind, my dear Astorre?”
Astorre told them both the information he had learned and how he had turned Heskow. He told them about Portella and Cilke and the two detectives.
“Now I have to go operational,” he said. “I need an explosives guy and at least ten more good men. I know you two can supply them, that you can call on the Don’s old friends.” He carefully skinned the greenish yellow pear he was eating. “You understand how dangerous this will be and do not want to be too closely involved.”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Pryor said impatiently. “We owe our destiny to Don Aprile. Of course we will help. But remember, this is not vengeance. It is self-defense. So you cannot harm Cilke. The federal government will make our lives too hard.”
“But that man must be neutralized,” Don Craxxi said. “He will always be a danger. However, consider this. Sell the banks and everybody will be happy.”
“Everybody except me and my cousins,” Astorre said.
“It is something to consider,” Mr. Pryor said. “I’m willing to sacrifice my share in the banks with Don Craxxi, though I know it will grow to be an enormous fortune. But certainly there is something to be said for a peaceful life.”
“I’m not selling the banks,” Astorre said. “They killed my uncle and they have to pay the price, not achieve their purpose. And I can’t live in a world where my place is granted by their mercy. The Don taught me that.”
Astorre was surprised that Don Craxxi and Mr. Pryor looked relieved by his decision. They tried to hide little smiles. He realized that these two old men, powerful as they were, held him in respect, saw in him what they themselves could never acquire.
Craxxi said, “We know our duty to Don Aprile, may he rest in peace. And we know our duty to you. But one note of prudence: If you are too rash, and something happens to you, we will be forced to sell the banks.”
“Yes,” Mr. Pryor said. “Be prudent.”
Astorre laughed. “Don’t worry. If I go down, there will be nobody left.”
They ate their pears and peaches. Don Craxxi seemed to be lost in thought. Then he said, “Tulippa is the top drug man in the world. Portella is his American partner. They must want the banks to launder the drug money.”
“Then how does Cilke fit in?” Astorre asked.
“I don’t know,” Craxxi said. “But still, you cannot attack Cilke.”
“That would be a disaster,” Mr. Pryor said.
“I’ll remember that,” Astorre said.
But if Cilke was guilty, what could he do?
Detective Aspinella Washington made sure her eight-year-old daughter ate a good supper, did her homework, and said her prayers before putting her to bed. She adored the girl and had banished her father from her life a long time ago. The baby-sitter, the teenage daughter of a uniformed cop, arrived at 8:00 P.M. Aspinella instructed her on the child’s medications and said she would be back before midnight.
Soon the lobby buzzer rang and Aspinella ran down the stairs and out into the street. She never used the elevator. Paul Di Benedetto was waiting in his unmarked tan Chevrolet. She hopped in and strapped on her seat belt. He was a lousy night driver.
Di Benedetto was smoking a long cigar, so Aspinella opened her window. “It’s about an hour’s ride,” he said. “We have to think it over.” He knew it was a big step for both of them. It was one thing to take bribes and drug money; it was another to perform a hit.
“What’s to think over?” Aspinella asked. “We get a half mil to knock off a guy who should be on death row. You know what I can do with a quarter mil?”
“No,”Di Benedetto said. “But I know what I can do. Buy a super condo in Miami when I retire. Remember, we’re going to have to live with this.”
“Taking drug payoffs is already over the line,” Aspinella said. “Fuck ’em all.”
“Yeah,” Di Benedetto said. “Let’s just make sure that this guy Heskow has the money tonight, that he’s not just jerking us off.”
“He’s always been reliable,” Aspinella said. “He’s my Santa Claus. And if he doesn’t have a big sack to give us, he’ll be a dead Santa.”
Di Benedetto laughed. “That’s my girl. You been keeping track of this Astorre guy so we can get rid of him right away?”
“Yeah. I’ve had him under surveillance. I know just the spot to pick him up—his macaroni warehouse. Most nights he works late.”
“You got the throwaway to plant on him?” Di Benedetto asked.
“Of course,” Aspinella said. “I wouldn’t give shit to a shield if I didn’t carry a throwaway.”
They drove in silence for ten minutes. Then Di Benedetto said in a deliberately calm, emotionless voice, “Who’s going to be the shooter?”
Aspinella gave him an amused look. “Paul,” she said, “you’ve been behind the desk for the last ten years. You’ve seen more tomato sauce than blood. I’ll shoot.” She could see that he looked relieved. Men—they were fucking useless.
They fell silent again as both were lost in thought about what had brought them to this point in their lives. Di Benedetto had joined the force as a young man, over thirty years ago. His corruption had been gradual but inevitable. He had started out with delusions of grandeur—he would be respected and admired for risking his life to protect others. But the years wore this away. At first it was the little bribes from the street vendors and small shops. Then testifying falsely to help a guy beat a felony rap. It seemed a small step to accepting money from high-ranking drug dealers. Then finally from Heskow, who, it was clear, acted for Timmona Portella, the biggest Mafia chief left in New York.
Of course, there was always a good excuse. The mind can sell itself anything. He saw the higher-ranking officers getting rich on drug-bribe money, and the lower ranks were even more corrupt. And after all, he had three kids to send to college. But most of all it was the ingratitude of the people he protected. Civil-liberties groups protesting police brutality if you slapped a black mugger around. The news media shitting on the police department every chance they got. Citizens suing cops. Cops getting fired after years of service, deprived of their pensions, even going to jail. He himself had once been brought up for discipline on the charge that he singled out black criminals, and he knew he wasn’t racially prejudiced. Was it his fault that most criminals in New York were black? What were you supposed to do—give them a license to steal, as affirmative action? He had promoted black cops. He had been Aspinella’s mentor in the department, giving her the promotion she’d earned by terrorizing the same black criminals. And you couldn’t accuse her of racism. In a nutshell, society crapped on the cops who protected them. Unless of course they got killed in the line of duty. Then came the tide of bullshit. The final truth? It didn’t pay to be an honest cop. And yet—and yet, he had never thought it would come to murder. But after all, he was invulnerable; there was no risk; there was a hell of a lot of money; and the victim was a killer. Still . . .
Aspinella too was wondering how her life had come to such a pass. God knows she had fought the criminal underworld with a passion and relentlessness that had made her a New York legend. Certainly, she had taken bribes, suborned felony. She had only started late in the game when Di Benedetto had persuaded her to take drug money. He had been her mentor for years and for a few months her lover—not bad, just a clumsy bear who used sex as part of a hibernational impulse.
But her corruption had really started her first day on the job after being promoted to detective. In the station-house rec room an overbearing white cop named Gangee had jollied her in a good-natured way. “Hey, Aspinella,” he said, “with your pussy and my muscle, we’ll wipe out crime in the civilized world.” The cops, including some blacks, laughed.
&nbs
p; Aspinella looked at him coldly and said, “You’ll never be my partner. A man who insults a woman is a small-dick coward.”
Gangee tried to keep it on a friendly basis. “My small dick can stop up your pussy anytime you want to try. I want to change my luck anyhow.”
Aspinella turned her cold face to him. “Black is better than yellow,” she said. “Go whack off, you dumb piece of shit.”
The room seemed frozen with surprise. Now she had Gangee blushing red. Such virulent contempt was not permitted without a fight. He started toward her, his huge body clearing space.
Aspinella was dressed for duty. She drew her gun, not pointing it. “Try and I’ll blow your balls off,” she said, and in that room there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that she would pull the trigger. Gangee halted and shook his head with disgust.
The incident, of course, was reported. It was a serious offense on Aspinella’s part. But Di Benedetto was shrewd enough to know that a departmental trial would be a political disaster for the NYPD. He quashed the whole thing and was so impressed by Aspinella that he put her on his personal staff and became her mentor.
What had affected Aspinella more than anything else was that there had been at least four black cops in the room and not one of them had defended her. Indeed, they had laughed at the white cop’s jokes. Gender loyalty was stronger than racial loyalty.
Her career, after that, established her as the best cop in the division. She was ruthless with drug dealers, muggers, armed robbers. She showed them no mercy, black or white. She shot them, she beat them, she humiliated them. Charges were made against her but could never be substantiated, and her record for valor spoke for her. But the charges aroused her rage against society itself. How did they dare question her when she protected them from the worst scum in the city? Di Benedetto backed her all the way.
There had been one tricky situation when she shot dead two teenage muggers as they tried to rob her on a brightly lit Harlem street right outside her apartment. One boy punched her in the face, and the other grabbed her purse. Aspinella drew her gun and the boys froze. Quite deliberately, she shot them both. Not only for the punch in the face, but to send a message not to try mugging in her neighborhood. Civil-liberties groups organized a protest, but the department ruled that she had used justifiable force. She knew she had been guilty on that one.