Omerta - Mario Puzo [116]
Tulippa and Portella exchanged a confused look. They were wary. “OK, but let’s keep it short,” Tulippa said, wondering how such a clown had been able to survive this long.
Astorre led them to the floor. The four men who had accompanied them were standing nearby. Astorre greeted them warmly, shaking hands with each of them and complimenting them on their dress.
Astorre’s own men were watching him carefully, waiting for his command to strike. Monza had stationed three shooters on a mezzanine overlooking the floor, hidden from view. The others had fanned out to opposite sides of the warehouse.
Long minutes passed as Astorre showed his guests through the warehouse. Then Portella finally said, “It’s clear that this is really where your heart is. Why don’t you let us run the banks? We will make you one more offer and cut you in for a percentage.”
Astorre was about to give his men the signal to shoot. But suddenly he heard a rattle of gunshots and saw three of his men fall twenty feet from the mezzanine and land facedown on the concrete floor in front of him. He scanned the warehouse, looking for Monza, as he quickly slipped behind a huge packaging machine.
From there he saw a black woman with a green eye patch sprint toward them and grab Portella by the neck. She jabbed him in his protruding belly with her assault rifle, then she pulled out a revolver and threw the rifle to the ground.
“OK,” Aspinella Washington said. “Everybody drop your weapons. Now.”When no one moved, she did not hesitate. She turned Portella around and fired two bullets into his stomach. As he doubled over, she slammed her revolver down on his head and kicked him in the teeth.
Then she grabbed Tulippa and said, “You’re next unless everybody does what I say. This is an eye for an eye, you bastard.”
Portella knew that without help, he would only live for a few more minutes. His vision was already beginning to fade. He was sprawled across the floor, breathing heavily, his florid shirt soaked with blood. His mouth was numb. “Do what she says,” he groaned weakly.
Portella’s men obeyed.
He had always heard that being shot in the stomach was the most painful way to die. Now he knew why. Every time he took a deep breath, he felt like he had been stabbed in the heart. He lost control of his bladder, his urine making a dark stain on his new blue trousers. He tried to focus his eyes on the shooter, a muscular black woman he didn’t recognize. He tried to utter the words “Who are you?” but couldn’t find the breath. His final thought was an oddly sentimental one: He wondered who would tell his brother, Bruno, that he was dead.
It took Astorre only a moment to figure out what had happened. He had never before seen Detective Aspinella Washington, except in newspaper photos and on TV news shows. But he knew if she had discovered him, she must have gotten to Heskow first. And Heskow must certainly be dead. Astorre did not mourn for the slippery bagman. Heskow had the great flaw of being a man who would say or do anything to stay alive. It was good that he was now in the ground with his flowers.
Tulippa had no idea why this angry bitch was holding a gun to his neck. He had trusted Portella to handle the security and given his own loyal bodyguards the night off. A stupid mistake. America is such a strange country, he thought to himself. You never know where the next violence is coming from.
As Aspinella dug the nozzle of the gun deep into his skin, Tulippa made a promise to himself that if he escaped and could return to South America, he would speed up production of his nuclear arsenal. He would personally do everything he could to blow up as much of this America as possible, especially Washington, D.C., an arrogant capital of lazy bullies in armchairs, and New York City, where they seemed to breed crazy people like this one-eyed bitch.
“All right,” Aspinella said to Tulippa. “You offered us half a mil to take care of this guy.” She pointed to Astorre. “It would be my pleasure to accept the job, but