Omerta - Mario Puzo [34]
“Who recruited her?” Astorre asked.
“My father,” Nicole said. “It worked out very well. It’s amazing how she can handle muggers and mashers.”
“I’ll bet,” Astorre said. “Did you manage to get the old man’s file from the FBI?”
“Yes,” Nicole said. “And it’s the most horrible list of allegations I’ve ever read. I simply don’t believe it, and they could never prove any of it.”
Astorre knew that the Don would want him to deny the truth. “Will you let me have the file for a couple of days?” he asked.
Nicole gave her blank-faced lawyer stare. “I don’t think you should see it right now. I want to write an analysis of it, underline what’s important, then give it to you. Actually, there’s nothing that will help you. Maybe you and my brothers shouldn’t see it.”
Astorre looked at her thoughtfully, then smiled. “That bad?”
“Let me study it,” Nicole said. “The FBI are such shits.”
“Whatever you say is OK with me. Just remember, this is a dangerous business. Look after yourself.”
“I will,” Nicole said. “I have Helene.”
“And I’m here if you need me.” Astorre placed his hand on Nicole’s arm to reassure her, and for a moment she looked at him with such longing he felt uncomfortable. “Just call.”
Nicole smiled. “I will. But I’m OK. I am.” In fact, she was really looking forward to her evening with an incredibly charming and attractive diplomat.
In his elaborate office suite lined with six TV screens, Marcantonio Aprile was having a meeting with the head of the most powerful advertising agency in New York. Richard Harrison was a tall, aristocratic-looking man, perfectly dressed, with the appearance of a former model but the intensity of a paratrooper.
On Harrison’s lap was a small case of videotapes. With absolute assurance, without asking permission, he went to a TV set and inserted one of the tapes.
“Watch this,” he said. “It’s not one of my clients, but I think it’s just astounding.”
The videotape played a commercial for American pizza, and the pitchman was Mikhail Gorbachev, the former president of the Soviet Union. Gorbachev sold with quiet dignity, never saying a word, just feeding his grandchildren pizza while the crowd voiced its admiration.
Marcantonio smiled at Harrison. “A victory for the free world,” he said. “So what?”
“The former leader of the Soviet Republic, and now he’s clowning around doing a commercial for an American pizza company. Isn’t that astonishing? And I hear they only paid him half a million.”
“OK,” Marcantonio said. “But why?”
“Why does anyone do anything so humiliating?” Harrison said. “He needs the money desperately.”
And suddenly Marcantonio thought of his father. The Don would feel such contempt for a man who had ruled a great country and did not provide financial security for his family. Don Aprile would think him the most foolish of men.
“A nice lesson in history and human psychology,” Marcantonio said. “But again, so what?”
Harrison tapped his box of videos. “I have more, and I anticipate some resistance. These are a little more touchy. You and I have done business for a long time. I want to make sure you let these commercials run on your network. The rest will necessarily follow.”
“I can’t imagine,” Marcantonio said.
Harrison inserted another tape and explained. “We have purchased the rights to use deceased celebrities in our commercials. It is such a waste that the famous dead cease to have a function in our society. We want to change that and restore them to their former glory.”
The tape began to play. There was a succession of shots of Mother Teresa ministering to the poor and sick of Calcutta, her nun’s habit draping over the dying. Another shot of her receiving the Nobel Peace Prize, her homely face shining, her saintly humility so moving. Then a shot of her ladling out soup from a huge pot to the poor in the streets.
Suddenly the picture blazes with color. A richly dressed man comes to a pot with an empty bowl. He says to a beautiful young woman, “Can I have some soup? I hear it’s wonderful.” The young woman