Omerta (24 page)

Tonight he went all out. He was particularly fond of Peking duck and crayfish in Cantonese lobster sauce. There was a special white fried rice and of course a few fried dumplings and spicy spareribs. He finished off with green-tea ice cream, an acquired taste, but one that showed he was a gourmet of Eastern food.

When he arrived at the Garden, the arena was only half full, though Temple had a high-ranked team. Heskow took his choice seat, provided by his son, near the floor and middle of the court. This made him proud of Jocko.

The game was not exciting. Temple crushed Villanova, but Jocko was the high scorer in the game. Afterward Heskow went back to the locker room.

His son greeted him with a hug. “Hey, Dad, I’m glad you came. You want to come out and eat with us?”

Heskow was enormously gratified. His son was a true gentleman. Of course these kids didn’t want an old geezer like him around on their night out in the city. They wanted to get drunk, have some laughs, and maybe get laid.

“Thanks,” Heskow said. “I already had dinner, and I have a long drive home. You played great tonight. I’m proud of you. Now go out and have a good time.” He gave his son a farewell kiss and wondered how he had gotten so lucky. Well, his son had a good mother, though she’d been a lousy wife.

It took Heskow only an hour to drive home to Brightwaters— the Long Island parkways were almost deserted at this hour. He was tired when he got there, but before going into the house he checked the flower sheds to make sure the temperature and moisture were OK.

In the moonlight reflected though the glass roof of the shed, the flowers had a wild, nightmarish beauty, the red almost black, the whites a ghostly vaporish halo. He loved looking at them, especially just before he went to sleep.

He walked the gravel driveway to his house and unlocked the door. Once inside he quickly pushed the numbers on the panel that would keep the alarm from going off, then went into the living room.

His heart took a giant leap. Two men stood waiting for him; he recognized Astorre. He knew enough about death to recognize it at a glance. These were the messengers.

But he reacted with the perfect defense mechanism. “How the fuck did you two guys get in here, and what the hell do you want?”

“Don’t panic,” Astorre said. He introduced himself, adding that he was the nephew of the deceased Don Aprile.

Heskow made himself get calm. He had been in tight spots before, and after the first rush of adrenaline, he had always been OK. He sat down on the sofa so that his hand was on the wooden armrest and reached for his hidden gun. “So what do you want?”

Astorre had an amused smiled on his face, which irritated Heskow, who had meant to wait for the right moment. Now he flipped open the armrest and reached for the gun. The hollow was empty.

At that moment three cars appeared in the driveway, headlights flashing into the room. Two more men entered the house.

Astorre said pleasantly, “I didn’t underestimate you, John. We searched the house. We found the gun in the coffeepot, another taped underneath your bed, another in that fake letter-box, and the one in the bathroom taped behind the bowl. Did we miss any?”

Heskow didn’t answer. His heart had started pounding again. He could feel it in his throat.

“What the hell are you growing in those flower sheds?” Astorre asked, laughing. “Diamonds, hemp, coke, what? I thought you’d never come in. By the way, that’s a lot of firepower for someone who grows azaleas.”

“Stop jerking me around,” Heskow said quietly.

Astorre sat down in the chair opposite Heskow and then tossed two wallets—Gucci, one gold, one brown—on the coffee table between them. “Take a look,” he said.

Heskow reached over and opened them. The first thing he saw was the Sturzo brothers’ driver’s licenses with their laminated photos. The bile in his throat was so sour he almost vomited.

“They gave you up,” Astorre said. “That you were the broker on Don Aprile’s hit. They also said you guaranteed there would be no NYPD or FBI surveillance at the church ceremony.”

Heskow processed everything that had happened. They hadn’t just killed him, though the Sturzo brothers were certainly dead. He felt one tiny pang of disappointment for that betrayal. But Astorre didn’t seem to know he had been the driver. There was a negotiation here, the most important of his life.

Heskow shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Aldo Monza had been listening alertly, keeping a close eye on Heskow. Now he went into the kitchen and came back with two cups of black coffee, handing one to Astorre and one to Heskow. He said, “Hey, you got Italian coffee—great.” Heskow gave him a contemptuous look.

Astorre drank his coffee and then said to Heskow, slowly, deliberately, “I hear you’re a very intelligent man, that that’s the only reason you’re not dead. So listen to me and really think. I’m Don Aprile’s cleanup man. I have all the resources he had before he retired. You knew him, you know what that means. You would never have dared to be the broker if he wasn’t retired. Right?”

Heskow didn’t say anything. Just kept watching Astorre, trying to judge him.

“The Sturzos are dead,” Astorre continued. “You can join them. But I have a proposition, and you have to be very alert here. In the next thirty minutes you will have to convince me you’re on my side, that you will act as my agent. If you don’t, you will be buried beneath your flowers in the shed. Now let me tell you better news. I will never involve your son in this affair. I don’t do that, and besides, such action would make you my enemy and ready to betray me. But you must realize that I am the one who keeps your son alive. My enemies want me dead. If they succeed, my friends will not spare your son. His fate rests on mine.”

“So what do you want?” Heskow asked.

“I need information,” Astorre said. “So you talk. If I’m satisfied, we have a deal. If I’m not, you’re dead. So your immediate problem is staying alive tonight. Begin.”

Heskow did not speak for at least five minutes. First he evaluated Astorre—such a nice-looking guy, not brutal or terrorizing. But the Sturzo brothers were dead. Then the breaking through the security of his house and the finding of the guns. Most ominous was Astorre waiting for him to reach for the nonexistent gun. So this was not a bluff, and certainly not a bluff he could call. Finally Heskow drank his coffee and made his decision, with reservations.

“I have to go with you,” he said to Astorre. “I have to trust you to do the right thing. The man who hired me to broker the deal and gave me the money is Timmona Portella. The NYPD nonsurveillance I bought. I was Timmona’s bagman and gave the NYPD chief of detectives, Di Benedetto, fifty grand and his deputy, Aspinella Washington, twenty-five. As for the FBI guarantee, Portella gave it to me. I insisted on credentials, and he told me he had this guy, Cilke, New York Bureau chief, in his pocket. It was Cilke who gave the OK for the hit on the Don.”

“You worked for Portella before?”

“Oh, yeah,” Heskow said. “He runs the drugs in New York, so he has a lot of hits for me. None in the league of the Don. I never did get the connection. That’s it.”

“Good,” Astorre said. His face was sincere. “Now I want you to be careful. For your own good. Is there anything more you can tell me?”

And suddenly Heskow knew he was seconds from death. That he had not done the job of convincing Astorre. He trusted his instincts. He gave Astorre a weak smile. “One more thing,” he added, very slowly. “I have a contract with Portella right now. On you. I’m going to pay the two detectives a half million to knock you off. They come to arrest you, you resist arrest, and they shoot you.”

Astorre seemed a little bemused. “Why so complicated and expensive?” he said. “Why not hire a straight hit man?”

Heskow shook his head. “They put you higher than that. And after the Don, a straight hit would draw too much attention. You being his nephew. The media would go wild. This way there’s cover.”

“Have you paid them yet?” Astorre asked.

“No,” Heskow said. “We have to meet.”

“OK,” Astorre said. “Set up the meeting out of traffic. Let me know the details beforehand. One thing. After the meeting, don’t leave with them.”

“Oh, shit,” Heskow said. “Is that how it is? There will be enormous heat.”

Astorre leaned back in his chair. “That’s how it is,” he said. He got up out of the chair and gave Heskow a half hug of friendship. “Remember,” he said, “we have to keep each other alive.”

“Can I hold out some of the money?” Heskow asked.

Astorre laughed. “No. That’s the beauty of it. How do the cops explain the half million they have on them?”

“Just twenty,” Heskow said.

“OK,” Astorre said good-naturedly. “But no more. Just a little sweetener.”

N
ow it was imperative for Astorre to have another meeting with Don Craxxi and Mr. Pryor for their advice on the wide operational plan he had to execute.

But circumstances had changed. Mr. Pryor insisted on bringing his two nephews to Chicago to act as bodyguards. And when they arrived in the Chicago suburb they found that Don Craxxi’s modest estate had been turned into a fortress. The driveway leading to the house was blocked by little green huts manned by very tough-looking young men. A communications van was parked in the orchard. And there were three young men who answered doorbells and phones and checked visitors’ IDs.

Mr. Pryor’s nephews, Erice and Roberto, were lean and athletic, expert in firearms, and they clearly adored their uncle. They also seemed to know Astorre’s history in Sicily and treated him with enormous respect, performing the smallest personal services for him. They carried his luggage. They poured his wine at dinner, brushing him off with their napkins; they paid his tips and opened doors, making it plain they regarded him as a great man. Astorre good-humoredly tried to put them at ease, but they would never descend to familiarity.

The men guarding Don Craxxi were not so polite. They were courteous but rigid, steady men in their fifties, completely focused on their job. And they were all armed.

That evening when Don Craxxi, Mr. Pryor, and Astorre had finished dinner and were eating fruit for their dessert, Astorre said to the Don, “Why all the security?”

“Just a precaution,” his host answered calmly. “I’ve heard some disturbing news. An old enemy of mine, Inzio Tulippa, has arrived in America. He is a very intemperate man and very greedy, so it is always best to be prepared. He comes to meet with our Timmona Portella. They whack up their drug profits and whack out their enemies. It is best to be ready. But now, what is on your mind, my dear Astorre?”

Astorre told them both the information he had learned and how he had turned Heskow. He told them about Portella and Cilke and the two detectives.

“Now I have to go operational,” he said. “I need an explosives guy and at least ten more good men. I know you two can supply them, that you can call on the Don’s old friends.” He carefully skinned the greenish yellow pear he was eating. “You understand how dangerous this will be and do not want to be too closely involved.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Pryor said impatiently. “We owe our destiny to Don Aprile. Of course we will help. But remember, this is not vengeance. It is self-defense. So you cannot harm Cilke. The federal government will make our lives too hard.”

“But that man must be neutralized,” Don Craxxi said. “He will always be a danger. However, consider this. Sell the banks and everybody will be happy.”

“Everybody except me and my cousins,” Astorre said.

“It is something to consider,” Mr. Pryor said. “I’m willing to sacrifice my share in the banks with Don Craxxi, though I know it will grow to be an enormous fortune. But certainly there is something to be said for a peaceful life.”

“I’m not selling the banks,” Astorre said. “They killed my uncle and they have to pay the price, not achieve their purpose. And I can’t live in a world where my place is granted by their mercy. The Don taught me that.”

Astorre was surprised that Don Craxxi and Mr. Pryor looked relieved by his decision. They tried to hide little smiles. He realized that these two old men, powerful as they were, held him in respect, saw in him what they themselves could never acquire.

Craxxi said, “We know our duty to Don Aprile, may he rest in peace. And we know our duty to you. But one note of prudence: If you are too rash, and something happens to you, we will be forced to sell the banks.”

“Yes,” Mr. Pryor said. “Be prudent.”

Astorre laughed. “Don’t worry. If I go down, there will be nobody left.”

They ate their pears and peaches. Don Craxxi seemed to be lost in thought. Then he said, “Tulippa is the top drug man in the world. Portella is his American partner. They must want the banks to launder the drug money.”

“Then how does Cilke fit in?” Astorre asked.

“I don’t know,” Craxxi said. “But still, you cannot attack Cilke.”

“That would be a disaster,” Mr. Pryor said.

“I’ll remember that,” Astorre said.

But if Cilke was guilty, what could he do?

D
etective Aspinella Washington made sure her eight-year-old daughter ate a good supper, did her homework, and said her prayers before putting her to bed. She adored the girl and had banished her father from her life a long time ago. The baby-sitter, the teenage daughter of a uniformed cop, arrived at 8:00
P.M.
Aspinella instructed her on the child’s medications and said she would be back before midnight.

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?”