. . .
Inzio Tulippa arrived in the United States to meet with Timmona Portella and to pursue the acquisition of Don Aprile’s banks. At the same time, the head of the Corleonesi cosca of Sicily, Michael Grazziella, arrived in New York to work out with Tulippa and Portella the details on the distribution of illegal drugs all over the world. Their arrivals were very different.
Tulippa arrived in New York on his private jet, which also carried fifty of his followers and bodyguards. These men wore a certain uniform: white suits, blue shirts, and pink ties, with floppy yellow Panama hats on their heads. They could have been members of some South American rhumba band. Tulippa and his entourage all carried Costa Rican passports; Tulippa, of course, had Costa Rican diplomatic immunity.
Tulippa and his men moved into a small private hotel owned by the consul general in the name of the Peruvian consulate. And Tulippa did not slink around like some shady drug dealer. He was, after all, the Vaccinator, and the representatives of the large American corporations vied to make his stay a pleasant one. He attended the openings of Broadway shows, the ballet at Lincoln Center, the Metropolitan Opera, and concerts given by famous South American artists. He even appeared on talk shows in his role as president of the South American Confederation of Farm Workers and used the forums to defend the use of illegal drugs. One of these interviews—with Charlie Rose on PBS—became notorious.
Tulippa claimed it was a disgraceful form of colonialism that the United States fought against the use of cocaine, heroin, and marijuana all over the world. The South American workers depended on the drug crops to keep themselves alive. Who could blame a man whose poverty entered his dreams to purchase a few hours of relief by using drugs? It was an inhumane judgment. And what about tobacco and alcohol? They did much more damage.
At this, fifty followers in the studio, Panama hats in laps, applauded vigorously. When Charlie Rose asked about the damage drugs wreaked, Tulippa was especially sincere. His organization was pouring huge sums of money into research to modify drugs so that they would not be harmful; in short, they would be prescription drugs. The programs would be run by reputable doctors rather than pawns of the American Medical Association, who were so unreasonably antinarcotics and lived in dread of the United States Drug Enforcement Agency. No, narcotics could be the next great blessing for humanity. The fifty yellow Panama hats went flying into the air.
Meanwhile, the Corleonesi cosca chief, Michael Grazziella, made an altogether different entry into the United States. He slipped in unobtrusively, with only two bodyguards. He was a thin and scrawny man with a faunlike head and a knife scar across his mouth. He walked with a cane, for a bullet had shattered his leg when he was a young Palermo picciotto. He had a reputation for diabolical cunning—and it was said that he had planned the murder of the two greatest anti-Mafia magistrates in Sicily.
Grazziella stayed at Portella’s estate as his guest. He had no qualms about his own safety, for Portella’s entire drug-dealing business depended on him.
The conference had been arranged to plan a strategy to control the Aprile banks. This was of the utmost importance in order to launder the billions of dollars of black-market money from drugs and also to acquire power in the financial world of New York. And for Inzio Tulippa, it was crucial not only to launder his drug money but to finance his nuclear arsenal. It would also make his role as the Vaccinator safer.
They all met at the Peruvian consulate, which was security-proof in addition to supplying the cloak of diplomatic immunity. The consul general, Marriano Rubio, was a generous host. Since he received a cut of all their revenues and he would head their legitimate interests in the States, he was full of goodwill.
Gathered around the small oval table, they made an interesting scene.
Grazziella looked like an undertaker in his black shiny suit, white shirt, and thin black tie, for he was still in mourning for his mother, who had died six months before. He spoke in a low, doleful voice with a thick accent, but he was clearly understood. He seemed such a shy, polite man to have been responsible for the death of a hundred Sicilian law-enforcement officials.
Timmona Portella, the only one of the four whose native tongue was English, spoke in a loud bellow, as if all the others were deaf. His attire too seemed to shout: He wore a gray suit and lime green shirt with a shiny blue silk tie. The perfectly tailored jacket would have hidden his huge belly if it was not unbuttoned to show blue suspenders.
Inzio Tulippa looked classically South American, with a white, loose-draped silk shirt and scarlet handkerchief around his neck. He carried his yellow Panama hat in his hand reverently. He spoke a lilting accented English, and his voice had the charm of a nightingale. But today he had a forbidding frown on his sharp Indian face; he was a man not pleased with the world.
Marriano Rubio was the only man who seemed pleased. His affability charmed them all. His voice was well bred in the English style, and he was dressed in a style he called en pantoufle: pajamas of green silk and a bathrobe of a darker forest green. He wore soft brown slippers lined with white wool fur. After all, it was his building and he could relax.
Tulippa opened the discussion, speaking directly to Portella with a deadly politeness. “Timmona, my friend,” he said, “I paid handsomely to get the Don out of the way, and we still do not own the banks. This after waiting almost a year.”
The consul general spoke in his lubricating, calming way. “My dear Inzio,” he said, “I tried to buy the banks. Portella tried to buy the banks. But we have an obstacle we did not foresee. This Astorre Viola, the Don’s nephew. He has been left in control, and he refuses to sell.”
“So?” Inzio said. “Why is he still alive?”
Portella laughed, a huge bellow. “Because he is not so easy to kill,” he said. “I put a four-man surveillance team on his house, and they disappeared. Now I don’t know where the hell he is, and he has a cloud of bodyguards whenever he moves.”
“Nobody is that hard to kill,” Tulippa said, the charming lilt of his voice delivering the words like a lyric to a popular song.
Grazziella spoke for the first time. “We knew Astorre back in Sicily, years ago. He is a very lucky man, but then, he is also extremely Qualified. We shot him in Sicily and thought him dead. If we strike again, we must be sure. He is a dangerous man.”
Tulippa said to Portella, “You claim you have an FBI man on the payroll? Use him, for the sake of God.”
“He’s not that bent,” Portella said. “The FBI is classier than the NYPD. They would never do a straight-out hit job.”
“OK,” Tulippa said. “So we snatch one of the Don’s kids and use them to bargain with Astorre. Marriano, you know his daughter.” He winked. “You can set her up.”
Rubio did not warm to this proposal. He puffed on his thin after-breakfast cigar and then said stormily, without courtesy, “No.” He paused. “I’m fond of the girl. I won’t put her through anything like that. I veto any of you doing so.”
At this the other men raised their eyebrows. The consul general was inferior to them in actual power. He saw their reaction and smiled at them, again becoming his affable self.
“I know I have this weakness. I fall in love. But indulge me. I’m on strong and correct political ground. Inzio, I know kidnapping is your métier, but it doesn’t really work in America. Especially a woman. Now, if you take one of the brothers and make a quick deal with Astorre, you have a chance.”
“Not Valerius,” Portella said. “He is army intelligence and has CIA friends. We don’t want to bring down that load of shit.”
“Then it will have to be Marcantonio,” the consul general said. “I can do a deal with Astorre.”
“Make a bigger offer for the banks,” Grazziella said softly. “Avoid violence. Believe me, I’ve been through this kind of thing. I’ve used guns instead of money, and it’s always cost me more.”
They looked at him with astonishment. Grazziella had a fearsome reputation for violence.
“
Michael,” the consul general said, “you’re talking about billions of dollars. And Astorre still won’t sell.”
Grazziella shrugged. “If we must take action, so be it. But be very careful. If you can get him out in the open during negotiations, then we can get rid of him.”
Tulippa gave them all a huge grin. “That’s what I like to hear. And Marriano,” he said, “don’t keep falling in love. That is a very dangerous vice.”
Marriano Rubio finally persuaded Nicole and her brothers to sit down with his syndicate and discuss the sale of the banks. Of course, Astorre Viola also had to be present, though Nicole could not guarantee this.
Before the meeting Astorre briefed Nicole and her brothers on what to say and exactly how to behave. They understood his strategy: that the syndicate was to think he alone was their opponent.
This meeting was held in a conference room of the Peruvian consulate. There were no caterers, but a buffet had been prepared and Rubio himself poured their wine. Due to scheduling differences, the meeting took place at ten in the evening.
Rubio made the introductions and led the meeting. He handed Nicole a folder. “This is the proposition in detail. But to put it very briefly, we offer fifty percent over the market price. Though we will have complete control, the Aprile interest will receive ten percent of our profits over the next twenty years. You can all be rich and enjoy your leisure without the terrible strains that such a business life entails.”
They waited while Nicole glanced briefly through the papers. Finally she looked up and said, “This is impressive, but tell me why such a generous offer?”
Rubio smiled at her fondly. “Synergy,” he said. “All business now is synergy; as with computers and aviation, books and publishing, music and drugs, sports and TV. All synergy. With the Aprile banks, we will have a synergy in international finance, we will control the building of cities, the election of governments. This syndicate is global and we need your banks, so our offer is generous.”
Nicole spoke to the other members of the syndicate. “And you gentlemen are all equal partners?”
Tulippa was quite taken with Nicole’s dark good looks and stern speech, so he was at his most charming when he answered. “We are legally equal in this purchase, but let me assure you I consider it an honor to be in association with the Aprile name. No one admired your father more.”
Valerius, stone-faced, spoke out coolly, directly to Tulippa. “Don’t misunderstand me, I want to sell. But I prefer an outright sale without the percentage. On a personal level, I want to be completely out of this thing.”
“But you are willing to sell?” Tulippa asked.
“Certainly,” Valerius said. “I want to wash my hands of it.”
Portella started to speak, but Rubio cut him off.
“Marcantonio,” he said, “how do you feel about our offer? Does it appeal to you?”
Marcantonio said in a resigned voice, “I’m with Val. Let’s make the deal without the percentages. Then we can all say good-bye and good luck.”
“Fine, we can make the deal that way,” Rubio said.
Nicole said coolly, “But then of course you have to increase the premium. Can you handle that?”
Tulippa said, “No problem,” and gave her a dazzling smile.
Grazziella, his face concerned, his voice polite, asked, “And what about our dear friend Astorre Viola? Does he agree?”
Astorre gave an embarrassed laugh. “You know I’ve come to like the banking business. And Don Aprile made me promise I would never sell. I hate to go against my whole family here, but I have to say no. And I control a majority of voting stock.”
“But the Don’s children have an interest,” the consul general said. “They could sue in a court of law.”
Astorre laughed aloud.
Nicole said tightly, “We would never do that.”
Valerius smiled sourly, and Marcantonio seemed to find the idea hilarious.
Portella muttered, “The hell with this,” and started to rise to leave.
Astorre said in a voice of conciliation, “Be patient. I may get bored with being a banker. In a few months we can meet again.”
“Certainly,” Rubio said. “But we may not be able to hold the financial package together for that long. You may get a lower price.”
There was no shaking of hands when they parted.
After the Apriles left with Astorre, Michael Grazziella said to his colleagues, “He is just buying time. He will never sell.”
Tulippa sighed, “Such a simpatico man. We could become good friends. Maybe I should invite him to my plantation in Costa Rica. I could show him the best time of his life.”
The others laughed. Portella said coarsely, “He’s not going on a honeymoon with you, Inzio. I have to take care of him up here.”
“With better success than before, I hope,” Tulippa said.
“I underestimated him,” Portella said. “How could I tell? A guy who sings at weddings? I did the job on the Don right. No complaints there.”
The consul general, his handsome face beaming in appreciation, said, “A magnificent job, Timmona. We have every confidence in you. But this new job should be done as soon as possible.”
When they left the meeting, the Aprile family and Astorre went for a late supper to the Partinico restaurant, which had private dining rooms and was owned by an old friend of the Don’s.
“I think you all did very well,” Astorre told them. “You convinced them you were against me.”
“We are against you,” Val said.
“Why do we have to play this game?” Nicole said. “I really don’t like it.”
“These guys may be involved in your father’s death,” Astorre said. “I don’t want them to think they can get anyplace by hurting any of you.”
“And you’re confident you can handle anything they throw at you,” Marcantonio said.
“No, no,” Astorre protested. “But I can go into hiding without ruining my life. Hell, I’ll go to the Dakotas and they’ll never find me.” His smile was so broad and convincing that he would have fooled anyone but the children of Don Aprile. “Now,” he said. “Let me know if they contact any of you directly.”
“I’ve gotten a lot of calls from Detective Di Benedetto,” Valerius said.
Astorre was surprised. “What the hell is he calling you for?”
Valerius smiled at him. “When I was in field intelligence, we got what was labeled ‘What do you know’ calls. Somebody wanted to give you information or help in some deal. What they really wanted was information on how your investigation was doing. So Di Benedetto calls me as a courtesy to keep me up to date on his case. Then he pumps me for info on you, Astorre. He has a great interest in you.”
“That’s very flattering,” Astorre said with a grin. “He must have heard me sing someplace.”
“No chance,” Marcantonio said dryly. “Di Benedetto has been calling me too. He says he has an idea for a cop series. There’s always room for another cop show on TV, so I’ve been encouraging him. But the stuff he’s sent me is just bullshit. He’s not serious. He just wants to keep track of us.”
“Good,” Astorre said.
“Astorre, you want them to target you instead of us?” Nicole said. “Isn’t that too dangerous? That Grazziella guy gives me the creeps.”
“Oh, I know about him,” Astorre said. “He’s a very reasonable man. And your consul general is a true diplomat; he can control Tulippa. The only one I have to worry about right now is Portella. The guy is just dumb enough to start real trouble.” He said all this as though it were just an everyday business dispute.
“But how long does this go on?” Nicole asked.
“Give me another few months,” Astorre told her. “I promise that we will all be in agreement by then.”
Valerius gave him a disdainful look. “Astorre, you were always an optimist. If you were an intelligence officer under my command, I’d transfer you to the infantry just to wake you up.”
It was not a happy dinner. Nicole kept studying Astorre as if she were trying to learn some secret. Valerius obviously had no confidence in Astorre, and Marcantonio was reserved. Finally Astorre raised a glass of wine and said cheerfully, “You are a gloomy crew, but I don’t care. This is going to be a lot of fun. Here’s to your father.”
“The great Don Aprile,” Nicole said sourly.
Astorre smiled at her and said, “Yes, to the great Don.”
Astorre always rode in the late afternoon. It relaxed him, gave him a good appetite for dinner. If he was courting a woman, he always made her ride with him. If the woman couldn’t ride, he gave her lessons. And if she didn’t like horses, he would cease to pursue her.
He had built a special riding trail on his estate that led through the forest. He enjoyed the chattering of the birds, the rustle of small animals, the occasional siting of a deer. But most of all he enjoyed dressing up for riding. The bright red jacket, the brown riding boots, the whip in his hand that he never used. The black suede hunting cap. He smiled at himself in the mirror, fancying himself an English lord of the manor.
He went down to the stables, where he kept six horses, and was pleased to see that the trainer, Aldo Monza, had already fitted out one of his stallions. He mounted and slowly cantered onto the forest trail. Picking up speed, he rode through a tattered canopy of red and gold leaves that made a lace curtain against the sinking sun. Only slender sheaves of gold lit the trail. The horse’s hooves kicked up the smell of decaying leaves. He saw the fragrant pile of wheaty manure and spurred his horse past it, then rode onto a split in the trail, which gave him a different route to circle home. The gold on the trail disappeared.
He reined in the horse. At that moment two men appeared before him. They were dressed in the floppy clothes of farm laborers. But they wore masks, and metal gleamed silver in their hands. Astorre spurred his horse and put his head down along its flank. The forest filled with light and the sound of exploding bullets. The men were very close, and Astorre felt the bullets hit him in the side and back. The horse panicked into a wild gallop as Astorre concentrated on keeping his seat. He galloped on down the trail, and then two other men appeared. They were not masked or armed. He lost consciousness and slid off the horse and into their arms.