Omerta - Mario Puzo [94]
“So just refuse,” Astorre said.
“I can’t,” Heskow said. “The hit is ordered by his whole syndicate, and if I refuse, I go down the drain and maybe my son does too. So I’ll organize the hit, but I won’t be in the hit party. I’ll be gone. And then when Cilke goes down the FBI will pour a hundred men into the city to solve it. I told them that, but they don’t give a shit. Cilke doubled-crossed them or something. They think they can smear him enough so that it won’t be such a big deal.”
Astorre tried not to show his satisfaction. It had worked out. Cilke would be dead with no danger to himself. And with a little luck the FBI would get rid of Portella.
He said to Heskow, “You want to leave me an address?”
Heskow smiled at him almost scornfully with distrust. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Not that I don’t trust you. But I can always get in touch with you.”
“Well, thanks for letting me know,” Astorre said, “but who really made this decision?”
“Timmona Portella,” Heskow said. “But Inzio Tulippa and the consul general signed off on it. That Corleonesi guy, Grazziella, washed his hands of it. He’s distancing himself from the operation. I think he’s leaving for Sicily. Which is funny because he’s killed practically everybody there.
“They don’t really understand how America works, and Portella is just dumb. He says he thought he and Cilke were really friends.”
“And you are going to lead the hit team,” Astorre said. “That’s not so smart either.”
“No, I told you when they hit the house I’ll be long gone.”
“The house?” Astorre said, and at that moment he felt dread over what he was about to hear.
“Yeah,” Heskow said. “A massive assault team flies back to South America and disappears.”
“Very professional,” Astorre said. “When does this all happen?”
“Night after tomorrow. All you have to do is stand aside and they solve all your problems. That’s the good news.”
“So it is,” Astorre said. He kept his face expressionless, but in his mind was the vision of Georgette Cilke, her beauty and goodness.
“I thought you should know about it so that you’ll have a good alibi,” Heskow said. “So you owe me one, and take care of my kid.”
“Damn right,” Astorre said. “Don’t worry about him.”
He shook hands with Heskow before he left. “I think you’re being very smart leaving the country. All hell will break loose.”
“Yeah,” Heskow said.
For a moment Astorre wondered what he would do about Heskow. The man, after all, had driven the hit car in the killing of the Don. He had to pay for that despite all his help. But Astorre had suffered a certain loss of energy when he learned that Cilke’s wife and child were to be killed with him. Let him go, he thought. He might be useful later. Then it would be time to kill him. And he looked at Heskow’s smiling face and smiled back.
“You’re a very clever man,” he said to Heskow.
Heskow’s face turned pink with pleasure. “I know,” he said. “That’s how I stay alive.”
The next day, at 11:00 A.M., Astorre arrived at FBI headquarters accompanied by Nicole Aprile, who had arranged an appointment.
He had spent a long night pondering his course of action. He had planned all this to have Portella kill Cilke. But he knew that he could not let Georgette or her daughter be killed. He also knew that Don Aprile would never have interfered with fate in this matter. But then he remembered a story about the Don that gave him pause.
One night, when Astorre was twelve years old and in Sicily with the Don on his annual visit, they were served dinner by Caterina in the garden pavilion. Astorre, with his peculiar innocence, said to them abruptly, “How did you two get to know each other? Did you grow up together as children?” The Don and Caterina exchanged a glance and then laughed at the serious intensity of his interest.
The Don had placed his fingers on his lips and whispered mockingly, “Omerta. It’s a secret.”
Caterina rapped Astorre’s hand with the wooden mixing spoon. “That’s none of your business, you little devil,” she said. “And besides, it’s nothing I’m proud of.”
Don Aprile gazed upon Astorre