Omerta - Mario Puzo [70]
“I was busy,” Astorre said. “And it took me a long time to find you.”
Rosie gave him an affectionate, tender look. “Do you still sing? Do you still ride in that ridiculous red outfit?” She kissed him again, and Astorre felt a warmth in his brain, a hopeless response.
“No,” he said. “Rosie, we can’t go back.”
Rosie pulled him to his feet. “It was the happiest time of my life,” she said. Then they were in the bedroom, and in seconds they were naked.
Rosie took a bottle of perfume from her night table and sprayed first herself, then him. “No time for a bath,” she said, laughing. And then they were in bed together and he saw the pink blotches grow slowly over her breasts.
For Astorre it was a disembodied experience. He enjoyed the sex but he could not enjoy Rosie. A vision arose in his mind of her keeping vigilance over the dead professor’s body for a night and a day. Had he been alive, could he have been helped to live? What had Rosie done alone with death and the professor?
Lying on her back, Rosie reached out to touch his check. She ducked her head down and murmured softly, “That old black magic doesn’t work anymore.” She had been toying with the gold medallion on his neck, saw the ugly purple wound, and kissed it.
Astorre said, “It was fine.”
Rosie sat up, her naked torso and breasts hanging over him. “You can’t forgive me for the professor, that I let him die and stayed with him. Isn’t that right?”
Astorre didn’t answer. He would never tell her what he knew about her now. That she had never changed.
Rosie got out of bed and started to dress. He did the same.
“You’re a much more terrible person,” Rosie said. “The adopted nephew of Don Aprile.” And your friend in London who helped clean up my mess. He did a very professional job for an English banker, but not when you know he immigrated from Italy. It wasn’t hard to figure out.”
They were in the living room, and she made them another drink. She looked earnestly into his eyes. “I know what you are. And I don’t mind, I really don’t. We’re really soul mates. Isn’t that perfect?”
Astorre laughed. “The last thing I want to find is a soul mate,” he said. “But I did come to see you on business.”
Rosie was impassive now. All the charm was gone from her face. She began to slip her rings back onto her fingers. “My price for a quickie is five hundred dollars,” she said. “I can take a check.” She smiled at him mischievously—it was a joke. He knew she only took gifts on holidays and birthdays, and those were far more substantial. In fact, the apartment they were in had been a birthday gift from an admirer.
“No, seriously,” said Astorre. And then he told her about the Sturzo brothers and what he wanted her to do. And he put the closer on it. “I’ll give you twenty thousand now for expenses,” he said, “and another hundred thousand when you’re done.”
Rosie looked at him very thoughtfully. “And what happens afterward?” she asked.
“You don’t have to worry,” Astorre said.
“I see,” Rosie said. “And what if I say no?”
Astorre shrugged. He didn’t want to think about that. “Nothing,” he said.
“You won’t turn me in to the English authorities?” she said.
“I could never do that to you,” Astorre said, and she could not doubt the sincerity in his voice.
Rosie sighed. “OK.” And then he saw her eyes sparkle. She grinned at him. “Another adventure,” she said.
Now, riding out through Westchester, Astorre was awakened from his memories by Aldo Monza pressing his leg. “A half hour to go,” Monza said. “You have to prepare yourself for the Sturzo brothers.”
Astorre stared out the car window at the fresh snowflakes falling. They were in a countryside barren but for large, bare trees,whose sparkling branches stuck out like magician’s wands. The blanket of luminescent snow made the covered stones seem like bright stars. At that moment Astorre felt a cold desolation in his heart.