Omerta - Mario Puzo [68]
And there was the fact that Nello had never tried to visit him in the hospital. In fact, Nello had disappeared from Palermo. He played at the club no more. Still, Astorre hoped he might be wrong.
“Are you sure it was Nello?” Astorre said. “He was my dearest friend.”
“Who else could they use?” Bianco said. “Your most bitter enemy? Of course, your friend. In any case you will have to punish him yourself as a man of respect. So get well.”
On Bianco’s next visit Astorre said to him, “We have no proof against Nello. Let the matter rest, and make your peace with the Corleonesi. Let the word go out that I died of my wounds.”
At first Bianco argued furiously, but then he accepted the wisdom of Astorre’s advice and thought him a clever man. He could make peace with the Corleonesi, and the score would be even. As for Nello, he was just a pawn and not worth killing. Until another day.
It took a week for arrangements to be made. Astorre would return to the United States through London, to be briefed by Mr. Pryor. Bianco told Astorre that Aldo Monza would be sent to America directly to stay with Don Aprile and would be waiting for him in New York.
Astorre spent a year with Mr. Pryor in London. It was an enlightening experience.
In Mr. Pryor’s den, over a jug of wine with lemon, it was explained that there were extraordinary plans for him. That his stay in Sicily had been part of a specific plan by the Don to prepare him for a certain important role.
Astorre asked him about Rosie. He had never forgotten her—her grace, her pure joy in living, her generosity in all things, including lovemaking. He missed her.
Mr. Pryor raised his eyebrows. “That Mafioso girl,” he said. “I knew you would not forget her.”
“Do you know where she is?” Astorre asked.
“Certainly,” Pryor said. “In New York.”
Astorre said hesitantly, “I’ve been thinking about her. After all, I was gone a long time and she was young. What happened was very natural. I was hoping to see her again.”
“Of course,” Mr. Pryor said. “Why would you not? After dinner I will give you all the information you need.”
So late that night in Mr. Pryor’s den, Astorre got the full story on Rosie. Mr. Pryor played tapes of Rosie’s phone conversations that revealed her meetings with men in her flat. These tapes made clear that Rosie had sexual liaisons with them, that they gave her expensive gifts and money. It was a shock for Astorre to hear her voice, using tones that he had thought were meant only for him—the clear laugh, the witty, affectionate quips. She was extremely charming and never coarse or vulgar. She made herself sound like a high school girl going on a prom date. Her innocence was a work of genius.
Mr. Pryor was wearing his cap low over his eyes, but he was watching Astorre.
Astorre said, “She’s very good, isn’t she?”
“A natural,” Mr. Pryor said.
“Were these tapes made when I was going with her?” Astorre asked.
Mr. Pryor made a deprecating gesture. “It was my duty to protect you. Yes.”
“And you never said anything?” Astorre said.
“You were really madly in love,” Mr. Pryor said. “Why should I spoil your pleasure? She was not greedy, she treated you well. I was young myself once, and believe me, in love the truth is of no importance. And despite everything, she is a marvelous girl.”
“A high-class call girl,” Astorre said, almost bitterly.
“Not really,” Mr. Pryor said. “She had to live by her wits. She ran away from home when she was fourteen, but she was highly intelligent and wanted an education. She also wanted to live a happy life. All perfectly natural. She could make men happy, a rare talent. It was fair that they should pay a price.”
Astorre laughed. “You are an enlightened Sicilian. But what about spending twenty-four hours with the dead body of a lover?”
Mr. Pryor laughed with delight. “But that is the best part