Omerta - Mario Puzo [36]
Tonight he suffered a certain fatigue with the world he lived in. So he was almost delighted to find Astorre waiting for him in the lobby of his apartment building.
“Hey, great to see you,” Marcantonio said. “Where have you been?”
“Busy,” Astorre said. “Can I come up and have a drink?”
“Sure,” Marcantonio said. “But why the cloak and dagger? Why didn’t you call? You could have been hanging out in this lobby for hours; I was supposed to go to a party.”
“No problem,” Astorre said. He’d had his cousin under surveillance all evening.
In the apartment Marcantonio fixed them both drinks.
Astorre seemed a little embarrassed. “You can initiate projects at your network, right?”
“I do it all the time,” Marcantonio said.
“I have one for you,” Astorre said. “It has to do with your father being killed.”
“No,” Marcantonio said. It was his famous no in the industry that barred all further discussion. But it didn’t seem to intimidate Astorre.
“Don’t say no to me like that,” Astorre said. “I’m not selling you something. This concerns the safety of your brother and sister. And you.” Then he gave a huge grin. “And me.”
“Tell me,” Marcantonio said. He saw his cousin in an astonishing new light. Could that happy-go-lucky kid have something in him after all?
“I want you to do a documentary on the FBI,” Astorre said. “Specifically how Kurt Cilke managed to destroy most of the Mafia Families. There would be a huge audience for that, right?”
Marcantonio nodded. “What’s your purpose?”
“I just can’t get any data on Cilke,” Astorre told him. “It would be too dangerous to try. But if you’re doing a documentary, no government agency will dare to step on your toes. You can find out where he lives, his history, how he operates, and where he stands in the power structure of the Bureau. I need all that info.”
“The FBI and Cilke would never cooperate,” Marcantonio said. “That would make a show difficult.” He paused. “It’s not like the old days when Hoover was director. These new guys play their cards very close.”
“You can do it,” Astorre said. “I need you to do it. You have an army of producers and investigative reporters. I have to know all about him. Everything. Because I think he may be part of a conspiracy against your father and our family.”
“That’s a really crazy theory,” Marcantonio said.
“Sure,” Astorre said. “Maybe it’s not true. But I know it was no simple gangland killing. And that Cilke does a funny kind of inquiry. Almost like he’s smoothing over tracks, not uncovering them.”
“So I help you get the information. Then what can you do?”
Astorre spread his hands and smiled. “What can I do, Marc? I just want to know. Maybe I can make some kind of a deal. And I just have to look at the documentation. I won’t make a copy of it. You won’t be compromised.”
Marcantonio stared at him. His mind was making the adjustment to the pleasant, charming face of Astorre. He said thoughtfully, “Astorre, I’m curious about you. The old man left you in control. Why? You’re a macaroni importer. I always thought of you as a charming eccentric with your scarlet riding jacket and your little music group. But the old man would never trust the man you seem to be.”
“I don’t sing anymore,” Astorre said, smiling. “I don’t ride much either. The Don always had a good eye; he had faith in me. You should have the same.” He paused for a moment and then said with utmost sincerity, “He picked me so that his children wouldn’t have to take the heat. He chose me and taught me. He loved me but I