appear.”
Morgan turned and saw him and waved, and Mori went forward. “Carl, nice to see you. And you, Asta.” He touched his hat.
“What can I do for you?” Morgan asked.
“Business, Carl, something came up last night that might interest you.”
Morgan said, “Nothing you can’t talk about in front of Asta, surely?”
Mori hesitated. “No, of course not.” He took the small tape recorder from his pocket. “My grandson, Tony, had a man die on him at Our Lady of Mercy Hospital last night. He told Tony a hell of a story, Carl. I think you could be interested.”
“Okay, let’s get in out of the rain.” Morgan handed Asta into the estate car and followed her.
Mori joined them. “Here we go.” He switched on the tape recorder.
Morgan sat there after it had finished, a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth, his face set.
Asta said, “What a truly astonishing story.” Her voice was low and pleasant, more English than American.
“You can say that again.” Morgan turned to Mori. “I’ll keep this. I’ll have my secretary transcribe it and send it to Don Giovanni in Palermo by coded fax.”
“I did the right thing?”
“You did well, Antonio.” Morgan took his hand.
“No, it was Tony, Carl, not me. What am I going to do with him? Harvard Medical School, the Mayo Clinic, a brilliant student, yet he works with the nuns at Our Lady of Mercy for peanuts.”
“You leave him,” Morgan said. “He’ll find his way. I went to Vietnam, Antonio. No one can take that away from me. You can’t argue with it, the rich boy going into hell when he didn’t need to. It says something. He won’t be there forever, but the fact that he was will make people see him as someone to look up to for the rest of his life. He’s a fine boy.” He put a hand on Mori’s shoulder. “Heh, I hope I don’t sound too calculating.”
“No,” Mori protested. “Not at all. He’s someone to be proud of. Thank you, Carl, thank you. I’ll leave you now. Asta.” He nodded to her and walked away.
“That was nice,” Asta told Morgan. “What you said about Tony.”
“It’s true. He’s brilliant, that boy. He’ll end up in Park Avenue, only unlike the other brilliant doctors there he’ll always be the one who worked downtown for the nuns of Our Lady of Mercy, and that you can’t pay for.”
“You’re such a cynic,” she said.
“No, sweetheart, a realist. Now let’s get going. I’m famished. I’ll take you out to dinner.”
They had finished their meal at The Four Seasons, were at the coffee stage when one of the waiters brought a phone over. “An overseas call for you, sir. Sicily. The gentleman said it was urgent.”
The voice over the phone was harsh and unmistakable. “Carl. This is Giovanni.”
Morgan straightened in his seat. “Uncle?” He dropped into Italian. “What a marvelous surprise. How’s business?”
“Everything looks good, particularly after reading your fax.”
“I was right to let you know about this business then?”
“So right that I want you out of there on the next plane. This is serious business, Carl, very serious.”
“Fine, Uncle. I’ll be there tomorrow. Asta’s with me. Do you want to say hello?”
“I’d rather look at her, so you’d better bring her with you. I look forward to it, Carl.”
The phone clicked off, the waiter came forward and took it from him. “What was all that about?” Asta said.
“Business. Apparently Giovanni takes this Chungking Covenant thing very seriously indeed. He wants me in Palermo tomorrow. You too, my love. It’s time you visited Sicily,” and he waved for the head waiter.
They took a direct flight to Rome the following morning where Morgan had a Citation private jet standing by for the flight to Punta Raisi Airport twenty miles outside Palermo. There was a Mercedes limousine waiting with a chauffeur and a hard-looking individual in a blue nylon raincoat with heavy cheekbones and the
Morgan turned and saw him and waved, and Mori went forward. “Carl, nice to see you. And you, Asta.” He touched his hat.
“What can I do for you?” Morgan asked.
“Business, Carl, something came up last night that might interest you.”
Morgan said, “Nothing you can’t talk about in front of Asta, surely?”
Mori hesitated. “No, of course not.” He took the small tape recorder from his pocket. “My grandson, Tony, had a man die on him at Our Lady of Mercy Hospital last night. He told Tony a hell of a story, Carl. I think you could be interested.”
“Okay, let’s get in out of the rain.” Morgan handed Asta into the estate car and followed her.
Mori joined them. “Here we go.” He switched on the tape recorder.
Morgan sat there after it had finished, a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth, his face set.
Asta said, “What a truly astonishing story.” Her voice was low and pleasant, more English than American.
“You can say that again.” Morgan turned to Mori. “I’ll keep this. I’ll have my secretary transcribe it and send it to Don Giovanni in Palermo by coded fax.”
“I did the right thing?”
“You did well, Antonio.” Morgan took his hand.
“No, it was Tony, Carl, not me. What am I going to do with him? Harvard Medical School, the Mayo Clinic, a brilliant student, yet he works with the nuns at Our Lady of Mercy for peanuts.”
“You leave him,” Morgan said. “He’ll find his way. I went to Vietnam, Antonio. No one can take that away from me. You can’t argue with it, the rich boy going into hell when he didn’t need to. It says something. He won’t be there forever, but the fact that he was will make people see him as someone to look up to for the rest of his life. He’s a fine boy.” He put a hand on Mori’s shoulder. “Heh, I hope I don’t sound too calculating.”
“No,” Mori protested. “Not at all. He’s someone to be proud of. Thank you, Carl, thank you. I’ll leave you now. Asta.” He nodded to her and walked away.
“That was nice,” Asta told Morgan. “What you said about Tony.”
“It’s true. He’s brilliant, that boy. He’ll end up in Park Avenue, only unlike the other brilliant doctors there he’ll always be the one who worked downtown for the nuns of Our Lady of Mercy, and that you can’t pay for.”
“You’re such a cynic,” she said.
“No, sweetheart, a realist. Now let’s get going. I’m famished. I’ll take you out to dinner.”
They had finished their meal at The Four Seasons, were at the coffee stage when one of the waiters brought a phone over. “An overseas call for you, sir. Sicily. The gentleman said it was urgent.”
The voice over the phone was harsh and unmistakable. “Carl. This is Giovanni.”
Morgan straightened in his seat. “Uncle?” He dropped into Italian. “What a marvelous surprise. How’s business?”
“Everything looks good, particularly after reading your fax.”
“I was right to let you know about this business then?”
“So right that I want you out of there on the next plane. This is serious business, Carl, very serious.”
“Fine, Uncle. I’ll be there tomorrow. Asta’s with me. Do you want to say hello?”
“I’d rather look at her, so you’d better bring her with you. I look forward to it, Carl.”
The phone clicked off, the waiter came forward and took it from him. “What was all that about?” Asta said.
“Business. Apparently Giovanni takes this Chungking Covenant thing very seriously indeed. He wants me in Palermo tomorrow. You too, my love. It’s time you visited Sicily,” and he waved for the head waiter.
They took a direct flight to Rome the following morning where Morgan had a Citation private jet standing by for the flight to Punta Raisi Airport twenty miles outside Palermo. There was a Mercedes limousine waiting with a chauffeur and a hard-looking individual in a blue nylon raincoat with heavy cheekbones and the
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