Astorre was carefully watching his video monitor when he saw a half dozen men enter the back of the building from the loading dock. He had given his own men instructions to hide and not to attack until he gave them the signal.
He studied the screen and recognized Portella and Tulippa among the six. Then, as they faded off the monitor, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching his office. If they had already decided to kill him, Monza and his crew were at the ready and would be able to save him.
But then Portella called out to him.
He didn’t answer.
Within seconds Portella and Tulippa paused at the door.
“Come in,” Astorre said with a warm smile. He stood to shake their hands. “What a surprise. I hardly ever get visitors at this hour. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Yeah,” Portella cracked. “We’re having a big dinner and we ran out of macaroni.”
Astorre waved his hands magnanimously and said, “My macaroni, your macaroni.”
“How about your banks?” Tulippa asked ominously.
Astorre was ready for this. “It’s time we talked seriously. It’s time we did business. But first I’d like to give you a tour of the plant. I’m very proud of it.”
Tulippa and Portella exchanged a confused look. They were wary. “OK, but let’s keep it short,” Tulippa said, wondering how such a clown had been able to survive this long.
Astorre led them to the floor. The four men who had accompanied them were standing nearby. Astorre greeted them warmly, shaking hands with each of them and complimenting them on their dress.
Astorre’s own men were watching him carefully, waiting for his command to strike. Monza had stationed three shooters on a mezzanine overlooking the floor, hidden from view. The others had fanned out to opposite sides of the warehouse.
Long minutes passed as Astorre showed his guests through the warehouse. Then Portella finally said, “It’s clear that this is really where your heart is. Why don’t you let us run the banks? We will make you one more offer and cut you in for a percentage.”
Astorre was about to give his men the signal to shoot. But suddenly he heard a rattle of gunshots and saw three of his men fall twenty feet from the mezzanine and land facedown on the concrete floor in front of him. He scanned the warehouse, looking for Monza, as he quickly slipped behind a huge packaging machine.
From there he saw a black woman with a green eye patch sprint toward them and grab Portella by the neck. She jabbed him in his protruding belly with her assault rifle, then she pulled out a revolver and threw the rifle to the ground.
“OK,” Aspinella Washington said. “Everybody drop your weapons. Now.”When no one moved, she did not hesitate. She turned Portella around and fired two bullets into his stomach. As he doubled over, she slammed her revolver down on his head and kicked him in the teeth.
Then she grabbed Tulippa and said, “You’re next unless everybody does what I say. This is an eye for an eye, you bastard.”
Portella knew that without help, he would only live for a few more minutes. His vision was already beginning to fade. He was sprawled across the floor, breathing heavily, his florid shirt soaked with blood. His mouth was numb. “Do what she says,” he groaned weakly.
Portella’s men obeyed.
He had always heard that being shot in the stomach was the most painful way to die. Now he knew why. Every time he took a deep breath, he felt like he had been stabbed in the heart. He lost control of his bladder, his urine making a dark stain on his new blue trousers. He tried to focus his eyes on the shooter, a muscular black woman he didn’t recognize. He tried to utter the words “Who are you?” but couldn’t find the breath. His final thought was an oddly sentimental one: He wondered who would tell his brother, Bruno, that he was dead.
It took Astorre only a moment to figure out what had happened. He had never before seen Detective Aspinella Washington, except in newspaper photos and on TV news shows. But he knew if she had discovered him, she must have gotten to Heskow first. And Heskow must certainly be dead. Astorre did not mourn for the slippery bagman. Heskow had the great flaw of being a man who would say or do anything to stay alive. It was good that he was now in the ground with his flowers.
Tulippa had no idea why this angry bitch was holding a gun to his neck. He had trusted Portella to handle the security and given his own loyal bodyguards the night off. A stupid mistake. America is such a strange country, he thought to himself. You never know where the next violence is coming from.
As Aspinella dug the nozzle of the gun deep into his skin, Tulippa made a promise to himself that if he escaped and could return to South America, he would speed up production of his nuclear arsenal. He would personally do everything he could to blow up as much of this America as possible, especially Washington, D.C., an arrogant capital of lazy bullies in armchairs, and New York City, where they seemed to breed crazy people like this one-eyed bitch.
“All right,” Aspinella said to Tulippa. “You offered us half a mil to take care of this guy.” She pointed to Astorre. “It would be my pleasure to accept the job, but since my accident I’ve had to double my fee. With only one eye, I have to concentrate twice as hard.”
Kurt Cilke had been staking out the warehouse throughout the day. Sitting in his blue Chevy with nothing but a pack of gum and a copy of Newsweek, he waited for Astorre to make his move.
He had come alone, not wanting to involve any other federal agents in what he believed might be the end of his career. When he saw Portella and Tulippa enter the building, he felt the bile rising in his stomach. And he realized what a clever foe Astorre was. If, as Cilke suspected, Portella and Tulippa attacked Astorre, Cilke would have a legal duty to protect him. Astorre would be free and would clear his name without breaking his silence. And Cilke would blow years of hard work.
But when Cilke saw Aspinella Washington storm into the building toting an assault rifle, he felt something different—cold fear. He had heard about Aspinella’s role in the airport shooting. It sounded suspicious to him. Just didn’t add up.
He checked the ammunition in his revolver and felt a distant hope that he would be able to count on her for help. Before leaving the car, Cilke decided it was time to inform the Bureau. On his cell phone, he dialed Boxton.
“I’m outside Astorre Viola’s warehouse,” Cilke told him. Then he heard the sound of rapid gunfire. “I’m going in now, and if things go wrong, I want you to tell the director I was acting on my own. Are you recording this call?”
Boxton paused, not sure whether Cilke would appreciate being taped. But ever since Cilke had become a target, all of his calls were being monitored. “Yes,”he said.
“Good,” Cilke responded. “For the record, neither you nor anyone else within the FBI is responsible for what I’m going to do now. I am entering a hostile situation involving three reputed organized-crime figures and one renegade New York City cop who is heavily armed.”
Boxton interrupted Cilke. “Kurt, wait for backup.”
“There isn’t time,”Cilke said. “And besides, this is my mess. I’ll clean it up.” He thought of leaving a message for Georgette, but he decided that would be too morbid and self-indulgent. Better to let his actions speak for themselves. He hung up the phone without saying anything more. As he left the car, he noticed he was illegally parked.
The first thing Cilke saw when he entered the warehouse was Aspinella’s gun digging into Tulippa’s neck. Everyone in the room was silent. No one moved.
“I am a federal officer,” Cilke announced, waving his gun upward. “Lay all your weapons down.”
Aspinella turned to Cilke and spoke with derision: “I know who the fuck you are. This is my bust. Go collar some accountants or stockbrokers or whatever the hell it is you suits spend your pansy-ass time on. This is an NYPD matter.”
“Detective,” Cilke said calmly, “drop your weapon now. If you don’t, I will use force if necessary. I have reason to believe you are part of a racketeering co
nspiracy.”
Aspinella had not counted on this. From the look in Cilke’s eyes and the steadiness of his voice, she knew he would not back down. But she was not about to give in, not as long as she had a gun in her hand. Cilke probably hadn’t fired on anyone in years, she thought. “You think I’m part of a conspiracy?”she yelled. “Well, I think you’re part of a conspiracy. I think you’ve been taking bribes from this piece of shit for years.” She jabbed Tulippa again with the gun. “Isn’t that right, señor?”
At first Tulippa didn’t say anything, but when Aspinella kneed him in the groin, he folded and nodded.
“How much?” Aspinella asked him.
“Over a million dollars,” Tulippa gasped.
Cilke controlled his fury and said, “Each dollar they wired into my account was monitored by the FBI. This is a federal investigation, Detective Washington.” He took a deep breath, counting down, before he told her, “This is my final warning. Put down your weapon or I’ll fire.”
Astorre coolly watched them. Aldo Monza was standing unnoticed behind another of the machines. Astorre saw a twitch in Aspinella’s face. Then, as if it were happening in slow motion, he saw her slip behind Tulippa and fire at Cilke. But as soon as she fired, Tulippa broke free and dove to the ground, pushing her off balance.
Cilke had been hit in the chest. But he fired once at Aspinella and saw her stagger backward, blood spurting from below her right shoulder. Neither had been shooting to kill. They were following their training to the very end, aiming for the widest part of the body. But as Aspinella felt the searing pain of the bullet and saw its damage, she knew it was time to forget procedure. She took aim between Cilke’s eyes. She fired four times. Each bullet hit its mark until Cilke’s nose was a flattened pulp of cartilage and she could see chunks of his brain splattered on what was left of his forehead.
Tulippa saw that Aspinella was wounded and reeling. He tackled her and elbowed her in the face, knocking her out cold. But before he had a chance to grab her gun, Astorre came out from behind the machine and kicked it across the room. Then he stood over Tulippa and gallantly offered his hand.
Tulippa accepted it and Astorre pulled him up. Meanwhile, Monza and the surviving members of his team rounded up the rest of Portella’s men and tied them to steel support beams of the warehouse. No one touched Cilke and Portella.
“So,” Astorre said, “I believe we have some business to finish.”
Tulippa was puzzled. Astorre was a mass of contradictions—a friendly adversary, a singing assassin. Could such a wild card ever be trusted?
Astorre walked to the center of the warehouse and signaled Tulippa to follow. When he reached an open space, he stopped and faced the South American. “You killed my uncle and you tried to steal our banks. I should not even waste my breath on you.” Then Astorre pulled out the stiletto, its silver blade flashing, and showed it to Tulippa. “I should just slice your throat and be done with it. But you are weak, and there is no honor in butchering a defenseless old man. So I’ll give you a fighting chance.”
With those words and an almost imperceptible nod toward Monza, Astorre raised both of his hands, as if in surrender, dropped his knife, and took several steps back. Tulippa was older and bulkier than Astorre, but he had carved rivers of blood in his lifetime. He was an extremely qualified man with a knife. Still, he was no match for Astorre.
Tulippa picked up the stiletto and began to move toward Astorre. “You are a stupid and reckless man,” he said. “I was ready to accept you as a partner.” He lunged at Astorre several times, but Astorre was quicker and evaded him. When Tulippa stopped momentarily to catch his breath, Astorre removed the gold medallion from his neck and threw it to the ground, exposing the purple scar in his throat. “I want this to be the last thing you see before you die.”
Tulippa was transfixed by the wound, a shade of purple he had never seen. And before he knew it, Astorre kicked the stiletto out of his hand and with rapid precision kneed Tulippa in the back, put him in a headlock, and snapped his neck. Everyone heard the crack.
Without pausing to look at his victim, Astorre picked up his medallion, placed it back on his throat, and left the building.
Five minutes later a squadron of FBI cars arrived at the Viola Macaroni Company. Aspinella Washington, still alive, was taken to the intensive care unit of the hospital.
When the FBI officers had completed their study of the silent videotape recorded by the cameras Monza had run, they determined that Astorre, who had raised his hands and dropped his knife, had acted in self-defense.
EPILOGUE
NICOLE SLAMMED down the phone and yelled to her secretary, “I am sick of hearing about how weak the damn Eurodollar is. See if you can track down Mr. Pryor. He’s probably on the ninth hole of some golf course.”
Two years had passed, and Nicole had taken over as head of the Aprile banks. When Mr. Pryor was ready to retire, he had insisted she was the best person for the job. She was a skilled corporate fighter who wouldn’t fold under pressure from bank regulators and demanding customers.
Today Nicole was frantically trying to clear her desk. Later that night she and her brothers would fly to Sicily for a family celebration with Astorre. But before she could go, she had to deal with Aspinella Washington, who was waiting to hear whether Nicole would represent her in an appeal to avoid the death penalty. The thought of it filled her with dread, and not just because she had a full-time job.
At first, when Nicole had offered to run the banks, Astorre had hesitated, remembering the Don’s final wishes. But Mr. Pryor convinced him that Nicole was her father’s daughter. Whenever a big loan was due, the bank could count on her to deploy a potent combination of sweet talk and veiled intimidation. She knew how to get results.
Nicole’s intercom buzzed, and Mr. Pryor greeted her in his courtly manner: “What can I do for you, my dear?”
“We’re getting killed on these exchange rates,” she said. “What do you think of moving more heavily into deutsche marks?”
“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Mr. Pryor said.
“You know,” Nicole said, “all of this currency trading is about as logical as going to Vegas and playing baccarat all day.”
Mr. Pryor laughed. “That may be true, but baccarat losses aren’t guaranteed by the Federal Reserve.”
When Nicole hung up, she sat for a moment and reflected on the bank’s progress. Since taking over, she had acquired six more banks in booming countries and doubled corporate profits. But she was even more pleased that the bank was providing larger loans to new businesses in developing parts of the world.
She smiled to herself as she remembered her first day.
As soon as her new stationery had arrived, Nicole had drafted a letter to Peru’s finance minister demanding repayment of all of the government’s overdue loans. As she expected, this produced an economic crisis in the country, resulting in political turmoil and a change of government. The new party demanded the resignation of Peru’s consul general to the United Nations, Marriano Rubio.
In the months that followed, Nicole was delighted to read that Rubio had declared personal bankruptcy. He was also involved in fighting a series of complicated lawsuits with Peruvian investors who had bankrolled one of his many ventures—a failed theme park. Rubio had vowed it would become “the Latino Disneyland,” but all he had been able to attract was a Ferris wheel and a Taco Bell.
. . .
The case, which the tabloids dubbed the Macaroni Massacre, had become an international incident. As soon as Aspinella Washington recovered from the wound inflicted by Cilke’s gunshot—a punctured lung—she had made a series of pronouncements to the media. While awaiting her trial, she portrayed herself as a martyr on the scale of Joan of Arc. She sued the FBI for attempted murder, slander, and violation of her civil rights. She also sued the New York Police Department for back pay she was owed while under suspension.
Despite her protestations, it had taken the jury only three h
ours of deliberation to convict her. When the guilty verdict was announced, Aspinella fired her attorneys and petitioned the Campaign Against the Death Penalty for representation. Demonstrating further flair for publicity, she demanded that Nicole Aprile take her case. From her cell on death row, Aspinella told the press, “Her cousin got me into this, so now she can get me out.”
At first Nicole refused to meet with Aspinella, saying that any good lawyer would recuse herself from such an obvious conflict of interest. But then Aspinella accused Nicole of racism, and Nicole—not wanting bad blood with minority lenders—agreed to see her.
The day of their meeting, Nicole had to wait twenty minutes while Aspinella greeted a small congress of foreign dignitaries. They hailed Aspinella as a brave warrior against America’s barbaric penal code. Finally Aspinella gave Nicole the signal to approach the glass window. She had taken to wearing a yellow eye patch stitched with the word FREEDOM.
Nicole launched into all of her reasons for wanting to turn down the case and concluded by pointing out that she had represented Astorre in his testimony against her.
Aspinella listened carefully, twirling her new dreadlocks. “I hear you, she said, “but there’s a lot you don’t know. Astorre was right: I am guilty of the crimes I’ve been convicted of, and I will spend the rest of my life atoning for them. But please, help me live long enough to begin to make whatever amends I can.”
At first Nicole figured this was just another one of Aspinella’s ploys to gain sympathy, but there was something in her voice that moved Nicole. She still believed that no human being had the right to condemn another to death. She still believed in redemption. She felt Aspinella deserved a defense, just as every death row inmate did. She just wished she didn’t have to handle this one.
Before Nicole could make a final decision, she knew there was one person she had to face.
After the funeral, at which Cilke had received a hero’s burial, Georgette had requested a meeting with the director. An FBI escort picked her up from the airport and took her to Bureau headquarters.