Omerta - Mario Puzo [83]
Soon the lobby buzzer rang and Aspinella ran down the stairs and out into the street. She never used the elevator. Paul Di Benedetto was waiting in his unmarked tan Chevrolet. She hopped in and strapped on her seat belt. He was a lousy night driver.
Di Benedetto was smoking a long cigar, so Aspinella opened her window. “It’s about an hour’s ride,” he said. “We have to think it over.” He knew it was a big step for both of them. It was one thing to take bribes and drug money; it was another to perform a hit.
“What’s to think over?” Aspinella asked. “We get a half mil to knock off a guy who should be on death row. You know what I can do with a quarter mil?”
“No,”Di Benedetto said. “But I know what I can do. Buy a super condo in Miami when I retire. Remember, we’re going to have to live with this.”
“Taking drug payoffs is already over the line,” Aspinella said. “Fuck ’em all.”
“Yeah,” Di Benedetto said. “Let’s just make sure that this guy Heskow has the money tonight, that he’s not just jerking us off.”
“He’s always been reliable,” Aspinella said. “He’s my Santa Claus. And if he doesn’t have a big sack to give us, he’ll be a dead Santa.”
Di Benedetto laughed. “That’s my girl. You been keeping track of this Astorre guy so we can get rid of him right away?”
“Yeah. I’ve had him under surveillance. I know just the spot to pick him up—his macaroni warehouse. Most nights he works late.”
“You got the throwaway to plant on him?” Di Benedetto asked.
“Of course,” Aspinella said. “I wouldn’t give shit to a shield if I didn’t carry a throwaway.”
They drove in silence for ten minutes. Then Di Benedetto said in a deliberately calm, emotionless voice, “Who’s going to be the shooter?”
Aspinella gave him an amused look. “Paul,” she said, “you’ve been behind the desk for the last ten years. You’ve seen more tomato sauce than blood. I’ll shoot.” She could see that he looked relieved. Men—they were fucking useless.
They fell silent again as both were lost in thought about what had brought them to this point in their lives. Di Benedetto had joined the force as a young man, over thirty years ago. His corruption had been gradual but inevitable. He had started out with delusions of grandeur—he would be respected and admired for risking his life to protect others. But the years wore this away. At first it was the little bribes from the street vendors and small shops. Then testifying falsely to help a guy beat a felony rap. It seemed a small step to accepting money from high-ranking drug dealers. Then finally from Heskow, who, it was clear, acted for Timmona Portella, the biggest Mafia chief left in New York.
Of course, there was always a good excuse. The mind can sell itself anything. He saw the higher-ranking officers getting rich on drug-bribe money, and the lower ranks were even more corrupt. And after all, he had three kids to send to college. But most of all it was the ingratitude of the people he protected. Civil-liberties groups protesting police brutality if you slapped a black mugger around. The news media shitting on the police department every chance they got. Citizens suing cops. Cops getting fired after years of service, deprived of their pensions, even going to jail. He himself had once been brought up for discipline on the charge that he singled out black criminals, and he knew he wasn’t racially prejudiced. Was it his fault that most criminals in New York were black? What were you supposed to do—give them a license to steal, as affirmative action? He had promoted black cops. He had been Aspinella’s mentor in the department, giving her the promotion she’d earned by terrorizing the same black criminals. And you couldn’t accuse her of racism. In a nutshell, society