Omerta - Mario Puzo [115]
Rudolfo smiled politely. “But what does that have to do with sex?”
Aspinella wanted him to get back to work. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s just a theory.”
Rudolfo began to massage her again—slowly, steadily, rhythmically. He never seemed to tire. And each time he brought her to great heights of pleasure, she imagined the terrible depths of pain to which she would bring Astorre Viola and his gang of thugs the following night.
The Viola Macaroni Company was located in a large brick warehouse on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. More than one hundred people worked there, unloading giant burlap bags of imported Italian macaroni onto a conveyor belt, which then automatically sorted and boxed it.
A year before, inspired by a magazine article he’d read about how small businesses were improving their operations, Astorre had hired a consultant straight out of Harvard Business School to recommend changes. The young man told Astorre to double his prices, change the brand name of his macaroni to Uncle Vito’s Homemade Pasta, and fire half of his employees, who could be replaced by temporary help at half the price. At that suggestion Astorre fired the consultant.
Astorre’s office was on the main floor, which was roughly the size of a football field, lined with shiny stainless-steel machines on both sides. The back of the warehouse opened to a loading dock. Video cameras had been placed outside the entrances and inside the factory, so he could keep track of visitors and monitor production from his office. Normally, the warehouse closed down at 6:00 P.M., but on this night Astorre had retained five of his most qualified employees and Aldo Monza. He was waiting.
The night before, when Astorre had told Nicole his plan at her apartment, she was adamantly opposed to it. She shook her head violently. “First of all, it won’t work. And second, I don’t want to be an accessory to murder.”
“They killed your assistant and they tried to kidnap you,” Astorre said quietly. “We’re all in danger, unless I take action.” Nicole thought of Helene, and then she remembered her many dinner-table arguments with her father, who would certainly have sought vengeance. Her father would have said that she owed this to the memory of her friend, and he would have reminded her that it was reasonable and necessary to take precautions to protect the family.
“Why don’t we go to the authorities?” she asked.
Astorre’s response was curt: “It’s too late for that.”
Now Astorre sat in his office, live bait. Thanks to Grazziella, he knew that Portella and Tulippa were in the city for a meeting of the syndicate. He couldn’t be sure that Nicole’s leak to Rubio would force them to pay a visit, but he hoped they might try one last attempt at persuading him to turn over the banks before resorting to violence. He assumed they would check him for weapons, so he didn’t arm himself, except for a stiletto, which he stored in a special pocket sewn into his shirtsleeve.
Astorre was carefully watching his video monitor when he saw a half dozen men enter the back of the building from the loading dock. He had given his own men instructions to hide and not to attack until he gave them the signal.
He studied the screen and recognized Portella and Tulippa among the six. Then, as they faded off the monitor, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching his office. If they had already decided to kill him, Monza and his crew were at the ready and would be able to save him.
But then Portella called out to him.
He didn’t answer.
Within seconds Portella and Tulippa paused at the door.
“Come in,” Astorre said with a warm smile. He stood to shake their hands. “What a surprise. I hardly ever get visitors at this hour. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Yeah,” Portella cracked. “We’re having a big dinner and we ran out of macaroni.”
Astorre waved his hands magnanimously and said, “My macaroni, your macaroni.”
“How about your banks?” Tulippa asked ominously.
Astorre was ready for this. “It’s time we talked seriously. It’s time we did business. But first I