Omerta - Mario Puzo [71]
Astorre reached the safe house in a landscape ghostly white, snow in huge drifts.
Inside, the Sturzo twins were handcuffed, their feet shackled, and special restraining jackets fitted onto their bodies. They were lying on the floor of one bedroom, guarded by two armed men.
Astorre regarded them with sympathy. “It’s a compliment,” he told them. “We appreciate how dangerous you are.”
The two brothers were completely different in their attitudes. Stace seemed calm, resigned, but Franky glared at them with hatred that transfigured his face from its usual amiable look into a gargoyle.
Astorre sat on the bed. “I guess you guys have figured it out,” he said.
Stace said quietly, “Rosie was bait. She was very good, right, Franky?”
“Exceptional,” Franky said. He was trying to keep his voice from ranging hysterically high.
“That’s because she really liked you guys,” Astorre said. “She was crazy about you, especially Franky. It was tough for her. Very tough.”
Franky said contemptuously, “Then why did she do it?”
“Because I gave her a lot of money,” Astorre said. “Really a lot of money. You know how that is, Franky.”
“No, I don’t,” Franky said.
“I figure it took a big price for two smart guys like you to take the contract on the Don,” Astorre said. “A million? Two million?”
Stace said, “You have it all wrong. We had no part in that. We’re not that stupid.”
Astorre said, “I know you’re the shooters. You have a rep for having big balls. And I checked you out. Now, what I want from you is the name of the broker.”
“You’re wrong,” Stace said. “There is no way you can put that on us. And who the hell are you, anyway?”
“I’m the Don’s nephew,” Astorre said. “His sweeper-upper. And I’ve been checking you two guys out for nearly six months. At the time of the shooting, you weren’t in L.A. You didn’t show for over a week. Franky, you missed two games coaching the kids. Stace, you never dropped in to see how the store went. You never even called. So just tell me where you were.”
“I was in Vegas gambling,” Franky said. “And we could talk better if you took off some of these restraints. We’re not fucking Houdinis.”
Astorre gave him a sympathetic smile. “In a bit,” he said. “Stace, how about you?”
“I was up with my girlfriend in Tahoe,” Stace said. “But who the hell can remember?”
Astorre said, “Maybe I’ll have better luck talking to you separately.”
He left them and went down to the kitchen, where Monza had coffee waiting for him. He told Monza to put the brothers into different bedrooms and keep two guards with each man at all times. Aldo was working with a six-man team.
“Are you sure you have the right fellows?” Monza said.
“I think so,” Astorre said. “If not them, it’s just their bad luck. I hate to ask you, Aldo, but you may have to help them talk.”
“Well, they don’t always talk,” Monza said. “It’s hard to believe, but people are willful. And these two look very hard to me.”
“I just hate to go that low,” Astorre said.
He waited an hour before going up to the room where Franky was. Night had fallen, but reflected in the lamplight outside he could see snowflakes swirling slowly down. He found Franky on the floor in full restraints.
“It’s very simple,” Astorre said to him. “Give us the name of the broker, and you may get out of here alive.”
Franky looked at him with hatred. “I’ll never fucking tell you anything, you asshole. You got the wrong guys. And I’ll remember your face and I’ll remember Rosie.”
“That’s absolutely the wrong thing to say,” Astorre told him.
“Were you fucking her too?” Franky said. “You’re a pimp?”
Astorre understood. Franky would never forgive the betrayal by Rosie. What a frivolous response to a serious situation.
“I think you’re being stupid,” Astorre said. “And you guys have a rep for being smart.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what you think,” Franky said. “You can’t do anything if you have no proof.”
“Really? So I’m wasting my time with you,” Astorre said. “I’ll go talk with Stace.”
Astorre