But Astorre motioned for them. “We’ll stay in sight,” he told them. “Enjoy your drinks.”
The four of them strolled down the beach just out of reach of the surf, Astorre and Nello in front and the two women behind them. When the women had gone fifty yards, they began to strip off their bathing suits. Buji took down her shoulder straps to show her breasts and cupped them to hold the sun.
They all jumped into the surf, which was mild and rippling. Nello was a first-class swimmer, and he dove underwater and came up between Stella’s legs so that when he stood she was on his shoulders. He shouted to Astorre, “Come on out!!” and Astorre waded to where he could swim, Buji holding on to him from behind. He pushed her underwater, sinking with her below the surface, but instead of being frightened, Buji tugged at his shorts to uncover his behind.
Submerged, he felt a throbbing in his ears. At the same time he saw Buji’s exposed white breasts suspended in the green water below the sea and her laughing face close to his. Then the throbbing in his ears came to a roar, and he surfaced, Buji clinging to his bare hips.
The first thing he saw was a speedboat roaring toward him, its motor a thunderstorm churning up air and water. Nello and Stella were on the beach. How did they get there so fast? Far off, he could see his bodyguards, trousers rolled, starting to run toward the sea from the villa. He pushed Buji underwater and away from him and tried to wade to the beach. But he was too late. The speedboat was very close, and he saw a man with a rifle aiming carefully. The noise of the shots was muffled by the roar of the motor.
The first bullet spun Astorre around so that he was a broad target to the gunman. His body seemed to jump out of the water, then collapsed below the surface. He could hear the boat receding, and then he felt Buji tugging at him, dragging him, and trying to lift him onto the beach.
When the bodyguards arrived they found Astorre facedown in the surf, a bullet in his throat, Buji weeping at his side.
It took Astorre four months to recover from his wounds. Bianco had him hidden in a small private hospital in Palermo where he could be guarded and given the best treatment. Bianco visited him every day, and Buji came on her days off from the club.
It was near the end of his stay that Buji brought him a two-inch-wide gold neckband from the center of which hung a gold disk etched with an image of the Virgin Mary. She put it around his neck like a collar and positioned the medallion over his wound. It had been treated with adhesive that made it stick to the skin. The disk was no bigger than a silver dollar, but it covered the wound and looked like an adornment. Still, there was nothing effeminate about it.
“That does the job,” Buji said affectionately. “I couldn’t bear looking at it.” She kissed him gently.
“You just wash off the adhesive once a day,” Bianco said.
“I’ll get my throat slit by somebody who wants gold,” Astorre said wryly. “Is this really necessary?”
“Yes,” Bianco said. “A man of respect cannot flaunt an injury inflicted by an enemy. Also, Buji is right. Nobody can bear the sight of it.”
The only thing that registered with Astorre was that Bianco had called him a man of respect. Octavius Bianco, that ultimate Mafioso, had done him the honor. He was surprised and flattered.
After Buji left—for a weekend with the wealthiest wine merchant in Palermo—Bianco held a mirror up for Astorre. The band of gold was handsomely made. The Madonna, Astorre thought; she was all over Sicily, in roadside shrines, in cars and houses, on children’s toys.
He said to Bianco, “Why is it the Madonna Sicilians worship, instead of the Christ?”
Bianco shrugged. “Jesus was, after all, a man, and so cannot be fully trusted. Anyway, forget all that. It’s done. Before you go back to America, you will spend a year with Mr. Pryor in London to learn about the banking business. Your uncle’s orders. There is another thing. Nello must be killed.”
Astorre had gone over the whole affair many times in his mind and knew Nello was guilty. But what was the reason? They had been good friends for such a long time, and it had been a genuine friendship. But then there had come the killing of the Corleonesi. Nello must be related in some way to the Corleonesi cosca and he had no choice.
And there was the fact that Nello had never tried to visit him in the hospital. In fact, Nello had disappeared from Palermo. He played at the club no more. Still, Astorre hoped he might be wrong.
“Are you sure it was Nello?” Astorre said. “He was my dearest friend.”
“Who else could they use?” Bianco said. “Your most bitter enemy? Of course, your friend. In any case you will have to punish him yourself as a man of respect. So get well.”
On Bianco’s next visit Astorre said to him, “We have no proof against Nello. Let the matter rest, and make your peace with the Corleonesi. Let the word go out that I died of my wounds.”
At first Bianco argued furiously, but then he accepted the wisdom of Astorre’s advice and thought him a clever man. He could make peace with the Corleonesi, and the score would be even. As for Nello, he was just a pawn and not worth killing. Until another day.
It took a week for arrangements to be made. Astorre would return to the United States through London, to be briefed by Mr. Pryor. Bianco told Astorre that Aldo Monza would be sent to America directly to stay with Don Aprile and would be waiting for him in New York.
Astorre spent a year with Mr. Pryor in London. It was an enlightening experience.
In Mr. Pryor’s den, over a jug of wine with lemon, it was explained that there were extraordinary plans for him. That his stay in Sicily had been part of a specific plan by the Don to prepare him for a certain important role.
Astorre asked him about Rosie. He had never forgotten her—her grace, her pure joy in living, her generosity in all things, including lovemaking. He missed her.
Mr. Pryor raised his eyebrows. “That Mafioso girl,” he said. “I knew you would not forget her.”
“Do you know where she is?” Astorre asked.
“Certainly,” Pryor said. “In New York.”
Astorre said hesitantly, “I’ve been thinking about her. After all, I was gone a long time and she was young. What happened was very natural. I was hoping to see her again.”
“Of course,” Mr. Pryor said. “Why would you not? After dinner I will give you all the information you need.”
So late that night in Mr. Pryor’s den, Astorre got the full story on Rosie. Mr. Pryor played tapes of Rosie’s phone conversations that revealed her meetings with men in her flat. These tapes made clear that Rosie had sexual liaisons with them, that they gave her expensive gifts and money. It was a shock for Astorre to hear her voice, using tones that he had thought were meant only for him—the clear laugh, the witty, affectionate quips. She was extremely charming and never coarse or vulgar. She made herself sound like a high school girl going on a prom date. Her innocence was a work of genius.
Mr. Pryor was wearing his cap low over his eyes, but he was watching Astorre.
Astorre said, “She’s very good, isn’t she?”
“A natural,” Mr. Pryor said.
“Were these tapes made when I was going with her?” Astorre asked.
Mr. Pryor made a deprecating gesture. “It was my duty to protect you. Yes.”
“And you never said anything?” Astorre said.
“You were really madly in love,” Mr. Pryor said. “Why should I spoil your pleasure? She was not greedy, she treated you well. I was young myself once, and believe me, in love the truth is of no importance. And despite everything, she is a marvelous girl.”
“A high-class call girl,” Astorre said, almost bitterly.
“Not really,” Mr. Pryor said. “She had to live by her wits. She ran away from home when she was fourteen, but she was highly intelligent and wanted an education. She also wanted to live a happy life. All perfectly natural. She could make men happy, a rare talent. It was fair that they should pay a price.”
Astorre laughed. “You are an enl
ightened Sicilian. But what about spending twenty-four hours with the dead body of a lover?”
Mr. Pryor laughed with delight. “But that is the best part of her. Truly Mafioso. She has a warm heart but a cold mind. What a combination. Magnificent. But then, you must always be wary of her. Such a person is always dangerous.”
“And the amyl nitrate?” Astorre asked.
“Of that she is innocent. Her affair with the professor had been going on before she met you, and he insisted on the drug. No, what we have here is a girl who straightforwardly thinks of her own happiness to the exclusion of everything else. She has no social inhibitions. My advice to you is stay in touch. You may want to make some professional use of her.”
“I agree,” Astorre said. He was surprised that he felt no anger toward Rosie. That her charm was all she needed to be forgiven. He would let it go, he told Mr. Pryor.
“Good,” Mr. Pryor said. “After a year here, you will go to Don Aprile.”
“And what will happen to Bianco?” Astorre asked.
Mr. Pryor shook his head and sighed. “Bianco must yield. The Corleonesi cosca is too strong. They will not pursue you. The Don made the peace. The truth is that Bianco’s success has made him too civilized.”
Astorre kept track of Rosie. Partly out of caution, partly out of fond remembrance of the great love of his life. He knew that she had returned to school and was working toward her Ph.D. in psychology at New York University and that she lived in a secure apartment building nearby where she had finally become more professional with older and richer men.
She was very clever. She ran three liaisons at a time and apportioned her rewards among expensive gifts of money, jewelry, and vacations to the spas of the rich—where she made further contacts. No one could call her a professional call girl, since she never asked for anything, but she never refused a gift.
That these men fell in love with her was a foregone conclusion. But she never accepted their offers of marriage. She insisted that they were friends who loved each other, that marriage was not suitable for her or them. Most of the men accepted this decision with grateful relief. She was not a gold digger; she did not press for money and showed no evidence of greed. All she wanted was to live in a luxurious style, free of encumbrance. But she did have an instinct to squirrel money away for a rainy day. She had five different bank accounts and two safe-deposit boxes.
It was a few months after the Don’s death that Astorre decided to see Rosie again. He was certain that it was only to get her help in his plans. He told himself that he knew her secrets and she could not dazzle him again. And she was in his debt and he knew her fatal secret.
He knew also that in a certain sense she was amoral. That she put herself and her pleasure in an exalted realm, an almost religious belief. She believed with all her heart that she had a right to be happy and that this took precedence over everything else.
But more than anything, he wanted to see her again. Like many men, the passage of time had lessened her betrayals and heightened her charms. Now her sins seemed more a youthful carelessness, not some proof that she did not love him. He remembered her breasts, how they blotched with pink when she made love; the way she ducked her head in shyness; her infectious high spirits; her gentle good humor. The way she walked so effortlessly with her stiltlike legs and the incredible heat of her mouth on his lips. Despite all this, Astorre convinced himself that this visit was strictly business. He had a job for her to do.
Rosie was about to enter her apartment building when he stepped in front of her, smiled, and said hello. She was carrying books in her right arm and she dropped them on the pavement. Her face blushed with pleasure; her eyes sparkled. She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth.
“I knew I’d see you again,” she said. “I knew you’d forgive me.” Then she pulled him into the building and led him up one flight of stairs to her apartment.
There she poured them drinks, wine for her, brandy for him. She sat next to him on the sofa. The room was luxuriously furnished, and he knew where the money came from.
“Why did you wait so long?” Rosie asked. As she spoke, she was removing the rings from her fingers, detaching her earrings, tugging at the lobes. She slipped off the three bracelets from her left arm, all gold and diamonds.
“I was busy,” Astorre said. “And it took me a long time to find you.”
Rosie gave him an affectionate, tender look. “Do you still sing? Do you still ride in that ridiculous red outfit?” She kissed him again, and Astorre felt a warmth in his brain, a hopeless response.
“No,” he said. “Rosie, we can’t go back.”
Rosie pulled him to his feet. “It was the happiest time of my life,” she said. Then they were in the bedroom, and in seconds they were naked.
Rosie took a bottle of perfume from her night table and sprayed first herself, then him. “No time for a bath,” she said, laughing. And then they were in bed together and he saw the pink blotches grow slowly over her breasts.
For Astorre it was a disembodied experience. He enjoyed the sex but he could not enjoy Rosie. A vision arose in his mind of her keeping vigilance over the dead professor’s body for a night and a day. Had he been alive, could he have been helped to live? What had Rosie done alone with death and the professor?
Lying on her back, Rosie reached out to touch his check. She ducked her head down and murmured softly, “That old black magic doesn’t work anymore.” She had been toying with the gold medallion on his neck, saw the ugly purple wound, and kissed it.
Astorre said, “It was fine.”
Rosie sat up, her naked torso and breasts hanging over him. “You can’t forgive me for the professor, that I let him die and stayed with him. Isn’t that right?”
Astorre didn’t answer. He would never tell her what he knew about her now. That she had never changed.
Rosie got out of bed and started to dress. He did the same.
“You’re a much more terrible person,” Rosie said. “The adopted nephew of Don Aprile.” And your friend in London who helped clean up my mess. He did a very professional job for an English banker, but not when you know he immigrated from Italy. It wasn’t hard to figure out.”
They were in the living room, and she made them another drink. She looked earnestly into his eyes. “I know what you are. And I don’t mind, I really don’t. We’re really soul mates. Isn’t that perfect?”
Astorre laughed. “The last thing I want to find is a soul mate,” he said. “But I did come to see you on business.”
Rosie was impassive now. All the charm was gone from her face. She began to slip her rings back onto her fingers. “My price for a quickie is five hundred dollars,” she said. “I can take a check.” She smiled at him mischievously—it was a joke. He knew she only took gifts on holidays and birthdays, and those were far more substantial. In fact, the apartment they were in had been a birthday gift from an admirer.
“No, seriously,” said Astorre. And then he told her about the Sturzo brothers and what he wanted her to do. And he put the closer on it. “I’ll give you twenty thousand now for expenses,” he said, “and another hundred thousand when you’re done.”
Rosie looked at him very thoughtfully. “And what happens afterward?” she asked.
“You don’t have to worry,” Astorre said.
“I see,” Rosie said. “And what if I say no?”
Astorre shrugged. He didn’t want to think about that. “Nothing,” he said.
“You won’t turn me in to the English authorities?” she said.
“I could never do that to you,” Astorre said, and she could not doubt the sincerity in his voice.
Rosie sighed. “OK.” And then he saw her eyes sparkle. She grinned at him. “Another adventure,” she said.
Now, riding out through Westchester, Astorre was awakened from his memories by Aldo Monza pressing his leg. “A half hour to go,” Monza said. “You have to prepare yourself for the Sturzo brothers.”
A
storre stared out the car window at the fresh snowflakes falling. They were in a countryside barren but for large, bare trees,whose sparkling branches stuck out like magician’s wands. The blanket of luminescent snow made the covered stones seem like bright stars. At that moment Astorre felt a cold desolation in his heart. After this night, his world would change, he would change, and in some way his true life would begin.
Astorre reached the safe house in a landscape ghostly white, snow in huge drifts.
Inside, the Sturzo twins were handcuffed, their feet shackled, and special restraining jackets fitted onto their bodies. They were lying on the floor of one bedroom, guarded by two armed men.
Astorre regarded them with sympathy. “It’s a compliment,” he told them. “We appreciate how dangerous you are.”
The two brothers were completely different in their attitudes. Stace seemed calm, resigned, but Franky glared at them with hatred that transfigured his face from its usual amiable look into a gargoyle.
Astorre sat on the bed. “I guess you guys have figured it out,” he said.
Stace said quietly, “Rosie was bait. She was very good, right, Franky?”
“Exceptional,” Franky said. He was trying to keep his voice from ranging hysterically high.
“That’s because she really liked you guys,” Astorre said. “She was crazy about you, especially Franky. It was tough for her. Very tough.”
Franky said contemptuously, “Then why did she do it?”
“Because I gave her a lot of money,” Astorre said. “Really a lot of money. You know how that is, Franky.”
“No, I don’t,” Franky said.
“I figure it took a big price for two smart guys like you to take the contract on the Don,” Astorre said. “A million? Two million?”
Stace said, “You have it all wrong. We had no part in that. We’re not that stupid.”