Omerta - Mario Puzo [87]
Then he thought of Rosie, his treacherous Rosie, so sweet, so beautiful, so sentimental, who always claimed she truly loved him while betraying him. Yet she could always make him feel happy when he was with her. He had wanted to break down his feeling for her by using her against the Sturzo brothers, and he had been surprised that she relished the role, an adjustment to her make-believe life.
And then flitting through his mind like some ghost came the vision of Cilke’s wife, Georgette. What stupidity. He had spent one evening watching her, listening to her talk nonsense he didn’t believe, about the pricelessness of every human soul. Yet he could not forget her. How the hell had she married a guy like Kurt Cilke?
On some nights Astorre drove to Rosie’s neighborhood and called her on his car phone. She was always free, which surprised him, but she explained that she was too busy studying to go out. Which suited him perfectly, since he was too cautious to eat in a restaurant or take her to a movie. Instead he stopped at Zabar’s on the West Side and brought in delicacies that made Rosie smile with delight. Meanwhile Monza waited in the car outside.
Rosie would lay out the food and open a bottle of wine. As they ate she put her legs in his lap in a comradely way, and her face glowed with happiness at being with him. She seemed to welcome his every word with a pleased smile. That was her gift, and Astorre knew that she was that way with all her men. But it didn’t matter.
And then when they went to bed she was passionate but also very sweet and clinging. She touched his face all over and kissed him and said, “We’re really soul mates.” And those words would send a chill through Astorre. He didn’t want her to be a soul mate with a man like himself. He yearned for classic virtue at these times, yet he couldn’t stop himself from seeing her.
He’d stay for five or six hours. At three in the morning he would leave. Sometimes when she was asleep he would gaze down at her and see in the relaxation of her facial muscles a sad vulnerability and struggle, as if the demons she held in her innermost soul were fighting to get free.
One night he left early from a visit with Rosie. When he got into the waiting car, Monza told him there was an urgent message to call a Mr. Juice. This was a code name that he and Heskow used, so he immediately picked up the car phone.
Heskow’s voice was urgent. “I can’t talk on the wire. We have to meet right away.”
“Where?” Astorre said.
“I’ll be standing right outside Madison Square Garden,” Heskow said. “Pick me up on the fly. In one hour.”
When Astorre drove by the Garden, he saw Heskow standing on the sidewalk. Monza had his gun in his lap when he stopped the car in front of Heskow. Astorre pulled open the door, and Heskow hopped into the front seat with them. The cold left watery streaks on his cheeks. He said to Astorre, “You have big trouble.”
Astorre now felt a cold chill. “The kids?” he asked.
Heskow nodded. “Portella snatched your cousin Marcantonio and has him stashed someplace. I don’t know where. Tomorrow he invites you to a meeting. He wants to trade something for his hostage. But if you’re careless, he has a four-man hit team to focus on you. He’s using his own men. He tried to give me the job, but I turned him down.”
They were in a dark street. “Thanks,” Astorre said. “Where can I let you off?”
“Right here. My car is just a block away.”
Astorre understood. Heskow was anxious about being seen with him.
“One other thing,” Heskow said. “You know about Portella’s suite at his private hotel? His brother, Bruno, is using it tonight with some broad. And no bodyguards.”
“Thanks again,” Astorre said. He opened the door of the car, and Heskow disappeared into the darkness.
. . .
Marcantonio