Omerta - Mario Puzo [76]
Portella had a wineglass in his hand, and his first words of greeting were “What the fuck’s wrong now?” But he was smiling genially and gave Cilke a half hug. Portella’s massive belly was hidden in an elegant Chinese robe over white pajamas.
Cilke refused a drink, sat on the sofa, and said calmly, “A few weeks ago, I went home after work and found my two dogs with their hearts cut out. I thought you might have a clue.” He watched Portella closely.
Portella’s surprise seemed genuine. He had been sitting in an armchair and seemed galvanized out of his seat. His face filled with rage. Cilke was not impressed; in his experience the guilty could react with the purest innocence. He said, “If you’re trying to warn me off something, why not tell me directly?”
At this Portella said almost tearfully, “Kurt, you come here armed; I felt your gun. I am not armed. You could kill me and claim I resisted arrest. I trust you. I’ve deposited over a million dollars in your Cayman Island account. We’re partners. Why would I pull such an old Sicilian trick? Somebody is trying to split us up. You have to see that.”
“Who?” Cilke said.
Portella was thoughtful. “It can only be that Astorre kid. He has delusions of grandeur because he got away from me once. Check him out, and meanwhile I’ll put a contract on him.”
Finally Cilke was convinced. “OK,” he said, “but I think we have to be very careful. Don’t underestimate this guy.”
“Don’t worry,” Portella said. “Hey, did you eat? I have some veal and spaghetti, a salad and some good wine.”
Cilke laughed. “I believe you. But I have no time for dinner.”
The truth was he did not want to break bread with a man he would soon be sending to prison.
Astorre now had enough information to draw up a battle plan. He was convinced that the FBI had a hand in the Don’s death. And that Cilke was in charge of the operation. He now knew who the broker was. He knew that Timmona Portella had put out the contract. And yet there remained some mysteries. The ambassador, through Nicole, had offered to buy the banks with foreign investors. Cilke had offered him a deal to betray Portella into a criminal situation. These were disturbing and dangerous variations. He decided to consult with Craxxi in Chicago and to bring Mr. Pryor with him.
Astorre had already requested that Mr. Pryor come to America to run the Aprile banks. Mr. Pryor had accepted the offer, and it was extraordinary how quickly he changed from English gentleman to American high-powered executive. He wore a homburg instead of the bowler; he discarded his furled umbrella and carried a folded newspaper, and he arrived with his wife and two nephews. His wife changed from English matron to a sleeker style of dress, quite in fashion. His two nephews were Sicilians who spoke perfect English and had degrees in accounting. Both were devoted hunters and kept their hunting gear in the trunk of a limousine, which one of the nephews drove. In fact, both of them served as Mr. Pryor’s bodyguards.
The Pryors settled into an Upper West Side town house protected by security patrols from a private agency. Nicole, who had opposed the appointment, was soon charmed by Mr. Pryor, especially when he told her they were distant cousins. There was no doubt that Mr. Pryor had a certain fatherly charm with women; even Rosie had adored him. And there was no doubt he could run the banks—even Nicole was impressed by his knowledge of international banking. Just by trading currencies he had increased the profit margins. And Astorre knew that Mr. Pryor had been an intimate of Don Aprile. Indeed, it had been Pryor who had persuaded the Don to acquire the banks with an interlock run by Mr. Pryor in England and Italy. Mr. Pryor had described their relationship.
“I told your uncle,” Mr. Pryor said, “that banks can acquire more wealth with less risk than the business he was in. Those old-time enterprises are passé; the government is too strong and they are too focused on our people. It was time to get