Omerta - Mario Puzo [28]
“Of course,” Portella said. “The FBI always plays fair. I know my help will be appreciated.”
He gave Cilke and Boxton a warm smile, which showed square, almost perfect teeth.
On the way back to the office, Boxton said to Cilke, “I read that guy’s file. He’s big into porn and drugs, and he’s a murderer. How come we could never get him?”
“He’s not as bad as most of the others,” Cilke said. “And we’ll get him someday.”
Kurt Cilke ordered an electronic surveillance on the homes of Nicole Aprile and Astorre Viola. A domesticated federal judge issued the necessary order. Not that Cilke was really suspicious—he just wanted to be certain. Nicole was born a troublemaker, and Astorre looked too good to be true. It was out of the question to bug Valerius, since his home was on the West Point grounds.
Cilke had learned that the horses in Astorre’s meadow were his passion. That he brushed and groomed one stallion each morning before he took it out. Which was not so bad, except that he rode dressed in full English regalia, red coat and all, including a black suede hunting cap.
He found it hard to believe that Astorre was so helpless a target that three muggers in Central Park had taken a pass at him. He had escaped, it seemed—but the police report was foggy about what had happened to the muggers.
Two weeks later Cilke and Boxton were able to listen to the tapes he had planted in the house of Astorre Viola. The voices were those of Nicole, Marcantonio, Valerius, and Astorre. On tape they became human to Cilke; they had taken off their masks.
“Why did they have to kill him?” Nicole asked, her voice breaking with grief. There was none of the coldness she had shown to Cilke.
“There has to be a reason,” Valerius said quietly. His voice was much gentler when talking to his family. “I never had any connection to the old man’s business, so I’m not worried about myself. But what about you?”
Marcantonio spoke scornfully; obviously he did not like his brother. “Val, the old man got you an appointment to West Point because you were a wimp. He wanted to toughen you up. Then he helped in your intelligence work overseas. So you’re in this. He loved the idea you could be a commander. General Aprile—he loved the sound of it. Who knows what strings he pulled.” His voice sounded far more energetic, more passionate on tape than in person.
There was a long pause, and then Marcantonio said, “And of course he got me started. He bankrolled my production company. The big talent agencies gave me a break on their stars. Listen, we were not in his life, but he was always in ours. Nicole, the old man saved you ten years of dues paying by getting you that job at the law firm. And Astorre, who do you think got your macaroni shelf space in the supermarkets?”
Suddenly Nicole was furious. “Dad may have helped me get through the door, but the only one responsible for my success in my career is me. I had to fight those sharks at the firm for everything I got. I’m the one who put in eighty-hour weeks reading the fine print.” She paused, her voice cold now. She must have turned to Astorre then. “And what I want to know is why Dad put you in charge of the banks. What the hell do you have to do with anything?”
Astorre’s voice sounded helpless with apology. “Nicole, I have no idea. I didn’t ask for this. I have a business, and I love my singing and riding. Besides, there’s a bright side for you. I have to do all the work, and the profits are divided equally among the four of us.”
“But you have control and you’re only a cousin,” Nicole said. She added sarcastically, “He sure must have loved your singing.”
Valerius said, “Are you going to try to run the banks yourself?”
Astorre’s voice was filled with mock horror. “Oh, no, no, Nicole will give me a list of names, a CEO to do that.”
Nicole sounded tearful with frustration. “I still don’t understand. Why didn’t Dad appoint me? Why?”
“Because he didn’t want any one of his children to have leverage over the others,”Marcantonio said.
Astorre said quietly, “Maybe