Omerta - Mario Puzo [32]
Craxxi, at seventy, lived with two bodyguards, a chauffeur, and a young Italian woman who served as cook and house-keeper and was rumored to be his sexual companion. He was in perfect health, for he had lived a life of moderation; he ate prudently and drank only occasionally. For breakfast a bowl of fruit and cheese; for lunch an omelet or vegetable soup, mostly beans and escarole; for dinner a simple cutlet of beef or lamb and a great salad of onions, tomatoes, and lettuce. He smoked only one cigar a day, directly after dinner with his coffee and anisette. He spent his money generously and wisely. He was also careful to whom he gave advice. For a man who gives the wrong counsel is as hated as any enemy.
But with Astorre, he was generous, for Craxxi was one of the many men who was greatly in the debt of Don Aprile. It was the Don who had protected Craxxi when he retired, always a dangerous move in the business.
It was a breakfast meeting. There were bowls of fruit—glossy yellow pears, russet apples, a bowl of strawberries almost as large as lemons, white grapes, and dark red cherries. A huge crag of cheese was laid out on a wooden board like a sliver of gold-crated rock. The housekeeper served them coffee and anisette and disappeared.
“So, my young man,” Craxxi said. “You are the guardian Don Aprile has chosen.”
“Yes,” Astorre said.
“I know he trained you for this task,” Craxxi said. “My old friend always looked ahead. We consulted on it. I know you are qualified. The question remains, do you have the will?”
Astorre’s smile was engaging, his countenance open. “The Don saved my life and gave me everything I have,” he said. “I am what he made me. And I vowed I would protect the family. If Nicole isn’t made a partner in the law firm, if Marcantonio’s TV network fails, if something happens to Valerius, they still have the banks. I’ve had a happy life. I regret the reason I have the task. But I gave the Don my word, and I must keep it. If not, what can I believe in the rest of my life?”
There were moments of his childhood that flashed through his mind, moments of great joy for which he felt gratitude. Scenes of himself as a boy in Sicily with his uncle, walking through the vast mountainous terrain, listening to the Don’s stories. He dreamed then of a different time, when justice was served, loyalty valued, and great deeds accomplished by kind and powerful men. And at that moment he missed both the Don and Sicily.
“Good,” Craxxi said, interrupting Astorre’s reverie and bringing him back to the present. “You were at the scene. Describe everything to me.”
Astorre did so.
“And you are certain that both shooters were left-handed?” Craxxi asked.
“At least one, and probably the other,” Astorre said.
Craxxi nodded slowly and seemed lost in thought. After what seemed long moments, he looked directly at Astorre and said, “I think I know who the shooters were. But not to be hasty. It is more important to know who hired them and why. You must be very careful. Now, I have thought very much of this matter. The most probable suspect is Timmona Portella. But for what reasons and to please who? Now, Timmona was always rash. But the killing of Don Aprile had to be a very risky enterprise. Even Timmona feared the Don, retirement or not.
“Now, here is my thought about the shooters. They are brothers who live in Los Angeles, and they are the most highly qualified men in the country. They never talk. Few people even know they are twins. And they are both left-handed. They have courage, and they are born fighters. The danger would appeal to them, and the reward must have been great. Also, they must have had some reassurances—that the authorities would not pursue the case with conviction. I find it strange