Omerta - Mario Puzo [96]
“And it would be an infamita,” Caterina said. Her head drooped slightly, and then she turned her eyes to the black Sicilian sky and began to weep.
Astorre was bewildered. It made no sense to him as a child. “Really, but why? Why?” he said.
Don Aprile sighed. He puffed on his cigar and took a sip of anisette. “You must understand,” the Don said. “Father Sigusmundo was my brother.”
Astorre remembered now that their explanation hadn’t convinced him. With the willfulness of a romantic child he had believed that two people who loved each other were permitted any license in the world. Only now he understood the terrible decision his uncle and aunt had made. That if he married Caterina, all the Don’s blood relatives would become his enemies. Not that they did not know that Father Sigusmundo was a villain. But he was a brother and that excused all his sins. And a man like the Don could not marry his brother’s murderer. Caterina could not ask such a sacrifice. And then what if Caterina believed that the Don had somehow been implicated in her husband’s murder? What a leap of faith for both of them, and perhaps, what a betrayal of everything they believed in.
But this was America, not Sicily. During the long night Astorre had made up his mind. In the morning he had called Nicole.
“I’m going to pick you up for breakfast,” he had said. “Then you and I are going to visit Cilke at FBI headquarters.”
Nicole had said, “This has to be serious, right?”
“Yeah. I’ll tell you over breakfast.”
“Do you have an appointment with him?” Nicole had asked.
“No, that’s your job.”
An hour later the cousins were having breakfast together at a posh hotel with widely separated tables for privacy because it was an early-hour meeting place for the power brokers of the city.
Nicole believed in a hearty breakfast to fuel her twelve-hour working day. Astorre settled for orange juice and coffee, which with a basket of breakfast rolls would cost him twenty dollars. “What crooks,” he said to Nicole with a grin.
Nicole was impatient with this. “You’re paying for the atmosphere,” she said. “The imported linen, the crockery. What the hell is wrong now?”
“I’m going to do my civic duty,” Astorre said. “I have information from an unimpeachable source that Kurt Cilke and his family will be killed tomorrow night. I want to warn him. I want to get credit for warning him. He’ll want to know my source, and I can’t tell him.”
Nicole pushed away her plate and leaned back. “Who the hell is that stupid?” she said to Astorre. “Christ, I hope you’re not involved.”
“Why do you think that?” Astorre asked.
“I don’t know,” Nicole said. “The thought just came. Why not let him know anonymously?”
“I want to get credit for my good deeds. I get the feeling nobody loves me these days.” He smiled.
“I love you,” Nicole said, leaning toward him. “OK, here’s our story. As we came into the hotel a strange man stopped us and whispered the information in your ear. He was wearing a gray striped suit, a white shirt, and a black tie. He was average height, dark-skinned, could be Italian or Hispanic. After that we can vary. I’ll be witness to your story, and he knows he can’t screw around with me.”
Astorre laughed. His laughter was always disarming; it had the unfettered glee of a child. “So he’s more afraid of you than he is of me” he said.
Nicole smiled. “And I know the director of the FBI. He’s a political animal, he has to be. I’ll call Cilke and tell him to expect us.” She took her phone out of her purse and made the call.
“Mr. Cilke,” she said into the phone, “this is Nicole Aprile. I’m with my cousin Astorre Viola, and he has important information he wants to give you.”
After a pause she said, “That’s too late. We’ll be