Omerta - Mario Puzo [26]
“Because we’re not hypocrites,”Nicole said. “My father was no saint. He played the game and paid the price.” She paused. “And you’re wrong about my not being interested. In fact I’m going to petition for my father’s FBI file under the Freedom of Information Act. And I hope you don’t cause any delay because then we will be enemies.”
“That’s your privilege,” Cilke said. “But maybe you can help me by telling me the provisions of your father’s will.”
“I didn’t draw up the will,” Nicole said.
“But you are the executor, I hear. You must know the provisions by now.”
“We’re filing for probate tomorrow. It will be public record.”
“Is there anything you can tell me now that may help?” Cilke asked.
“Just that I won’t be taking early retirement.”
“So why won’t you tell me anything today?”
“Because I don’t have to,” Nicole said coolly.
“I knew your father pretty well,”Cilke said. “He would have been reasonable.”
For the first time Nicole looked at him with respect that he knew her father so well.“That’s true,” she said. “OK. My father gave away a lot of money before he died. All he left us was his banks. My brothers and I get forty-nine percent, and the other fifty-one percent goes to our cousin, Astorre Viola.”
“Can you tell me anything about him?” Cilke asked.
“Astorre is younger than me. He was never in my father’s business, and we all love him because he’s such a charming nut. Of course, I don’t love him as much now.”
Cilke searched his memory. He could not recall a file on Astorre Viola. Yet there would have to be.
“Could you give me his address and phone number?” Cilke asked.
“Sure,” Nicole said. “But you’re wasting your time. Believe me.”
“I have to clean up the details,”Cilke said apologetically.
“And what gives the FBI an interest?” Nicole asked. “This is a local homicide.”
Cilke said coolly, “The ten banks your father owned were international banks. There could be currency complications.”
“Oh, really,” Nicole said. “Then I better ask for his file right away. After all, I own part of those banks now.” She gave him a suspicious glance. He knew he would have to keep an eye on her.
The next day Cilke and Boxton drove out to Westchester County to meet with Astorre Viola. The wooded estate included a huge house and three barns. There were six horses in the meadow, which was enclosed by a waist-high split-rail fence and wrought-iron gates. Four cars and a van were parked in the lot in front of the house. Cilke memorized two of the licenseplate numbers.
A woman of about seventy let them in and led them to a plush living room jammed with recording equipment. Four young men were reading sheet music on stands, and one was seated at the piano—a professional combo on sax, bass, guitar, and drums.
Astorre stood at the microphone opposite them singing in a hoarse voice. Even Cilke could tell that this was the kind of music that would find no audience.
Astorre stopped vocalizing and said to the visitors, “Can you wait just five minutes until we finish recording? Then my friends can pack up and you can have all the time you want.”
“Sure,” Cilke said.
“Bring them coffee,” Astorre told the maid. Cilke was pleased. Astorre didn’t just make a polite offer; he commanded it for them.
But Cilke and Boxton had to wait longer than five minutes. Astorre was recording an Italian folk song—while strumming a banjo—and he sang in a coarse dialect Cilke did not understand. It was enjoyable to listen to him, like hearing your own voice in the shower.
Finally they were alone and Astorre was wiping his face. “That wasn’t so bad,” he said, laughing. “Was it?”
Cilke found himself immediately liking the man. About thirty, he had a boyish vitality and did not seem to take himself seriously. He was tall and well built, with a boxer’s grace. He had a dark-skinned beauty and the kind of irregular but sharp features you might see in fifteenth-century