Read Online Omerta by Mario Puzo - Free Book Online Page B

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    Cilke said, “We’re helping out with the investigation of your father’s death. Do you have knowledge of anyone who would bear him ill will?”
    “I really wouldn’t know,” Marcantonio said, smiling. “My father kept us all at a distance, even his grandchildren. We grew up completely outside his circle of business.” He gave them a small apologetic wave of his hand.
    Cilke didn’t like that gesture. “What do you think was the reason for that?” he asked.
    “You gentlemen know his past history,” Marcantonio said seriously. “He didn’t want any of his children to be involved in his activities. We were sent away to school and to college to make our own place in the world. He never came to our homes for dinner. He came to our graduations; that was it. And of course, when we understood, we were grateful.”
    Cilke said, “You rose awfully fast to your position. Did he maybe help you out a little?”
    For the first time Marcantonio was less than affable.
    “Never. It’s not unusual in my profession for young men to rise quickly. My father sent me to the best schools and gave me a generous living allowance. I used that money to develop dramatic properties, and I made the right choices.”
    “And your father was happy with that?” Cilke asked. He was watching the man closely, trying to read his every expression.
    “I don’t think he really understood what I was doing, but yes,” Marcantonio said wryly.
    “You know,” Cilke said, “I chased your father for twenty years and could never catch him. He was a very smart man.”
    “Well, we never could either,” Marcantonio said. “My brother, my sister, or me.”
    Cilke said, laughing as if at a joke, “And you have no feeling of Sicilian vengeance? Would you pursue anything of that kind?”
    “Certainly not,” Marcantonio said. “My father brought us up not to think that way. But I hope you catch his killer.”
    “How about his will?” Cilke asked. “He died a very rich man.”
    “You’ll have to ask my sister, Nicole, about that,” Marcantonio said. “She’s the executor.”
    “But you do know what’s in it?”
    “Sure,” Marcantonio said. His voice was steely.
    Boxton broke in. “And you can’t think of anyone at all who might wish to do him harm?”
    “No,” Marcantonio said. “If I had a name, I’d tell you.”
    “OK,” Cilke said. “I’ll leave you my card. Just in case.”
    B efore Cilke went on to talk to the Don’s two other children, he decided to pay a call on the city’s chief of detectives. Since he wanted no official record, he invited Paul Di Benedetto to one of the fanciest Italian restaurants on the East Side. Di Benedetto loved the perks of the high life, as long as he didn’t have to dent his wallet.
    The two of them had often done business over the years, and Cilke always enjoyed his company. Now he was watching Paul sample everything.
    “So,” Di Benedetto said, “the feds don’t often spring for such a fancy meal. What is it that you want?”
    Cilke said, “That was a
great
meal. Right?”
    Di Benedetto shrugged with heavy shoulders, like the roll of a wave. Then he smiled a little maliciously. For such a tough-looking guy, he had a great smile. It transformed his face into that of some beloved Disney character.
    “Kurt,” he said, “this place is full of shit. It’s run by aliens from outer space. Sure, they make the food look Italian, they make it smell Italian, but it tastes like goo from Mars. These guys are aliens, I’m telling you.”
    Cilke laughed. “Hey, but the wine is good.”
    “It all tastes like medicine to me unless it’s guinea red mixed with cream soda.”
    “You’re a hard man to please,” Cilke said.
    “No,” Di Benedetto said. “I’m easy to please. That’s the whole problem.”
    Cilke sighed. “Two hundred bucks of government money shot to shit.”
    “Oh, no,” Di Benedetto replied. “I appreciate the gesture. Now, what’s