Omerta - Mario Puzo [2]
Heskow brought sodas to them on the court, and the teenagers clustered around Franky, who had charisma and had shown pro skills on the court. Franky hugged the boy he had knocked down. Then, he flashed them a man-of-the-world grin, which set pleasantly on his angular face.
“Let me give you guys some advice from an old guy,” he said. “Never dribble when you can pass. Never quit when you’re twenty points down in the last quarter. And never go out with a woman who owns more than one cat.”
The boys all laughed.
Franky and Stace shook hands with the kids and thanked them for the game, then followed Heskow inside the pretty green-trimmed house. Jocko called after them, “Hey, you guys are good!”
Inside the house, John Heskow led the two brothers upstairs to their room. It had a very heavy door with a good lock, the brothers noticed as Heskow let them in and locked the door behind them.
The room was big, a suite really, with an attached bathroom. It had two single beds—Heskow knew the brothers liked to sleep in the same room. In a corner was a huge trunk banded with steel straps and a heavy metal padlock. Heskow used a key to unlock the trunk and then flung the lid open. Exposed to view were several handguns, automatic weapons, and munitions boxes, in an array of black geometric shapes.
“Will that do?” Heskow asked.
Franky said, “No silencers.”
“You won’t need silencers for this job.”
“Good,” Stace said. “I hate silencers. I can never hit anything with a silencer.”
“OK,” Heskow said. “You guys take a shower and settle in, and I’ll get rid of the kids and cook supper. What did you think of my kid?”
“A very nice boy,” Franky said.
“And how do you like the way he plays basketball?” Heskow said with a flush of pride that made him look even more like a ripened pear.
“Exceptional,” Franky said.
“Stace, what do you think?” Heskow asked.
“Very exceptional,” said Stace.
“He has a scholarship to Villanova,” Heskow said. “NBA all the way.”
When the twins came down to the living room a little while later, Heskow was waiting. He had prepared sautéed veal with mushrooms and a huge green salad. There was red wine on the table.
The three of them sat down. They were old friends and knew each other’s history. Heskow had been divorced for thirteen years. His ex-wife and Jocko lived a couple of miles west in Babylon. But Jocko spent a lot of time here, and Heskow had been a constant and doting father.
“You were supposed to arrive tomorrow morning,” Heskow said. “I would have put the kid off if I knew you were coming today. By the time you phoned, I couldn’t throw him and his friends out.”
“That’s OK,” Franky said. “What the hell.”
“You guys were good out there with the kids,” Heskow said. “You ever wonder if you could have made it in the pros?”
“Nah,” Stace said. “We’re too short, only six feet. The eggplants were too big for us.”
“Don’t say things like that in front of the kid,” Heskow said, horror-stricken. “He has to play with them.”
“Oh, no,” Stace said. “I would never do that.”
Heskow relaxed and sipped his wine. He always liked working with the Sturzo brothers. They were both so genial—they never got nasty like most of the scum he had to deal with. They had an ease in the world that reflected the ease between them. They were secure, and it gave them a pleasant glow.
The three of them ate slowly, casually. Heskow refilled their plates direct from the frying pan.
“I always meant to ask,” Franky said to Heskow. “Why did you change your name?”
“That was a long time ago,” Heskow said. “I wasn’t ashamed of being Italian. But you know, I look so fucking German. With blond hair and blue eyes and this nose. It looked really fishy, my having an Italian name.”
The twins both laughed, an easy, understanding laugh. They knew he was full of shit, but they didn’t mind.
When they finished their salad, Heskow served double espresso and a plate of Italian pastries. He offered cigars but they refused.