Mark Winegardner - The Godfather returns

“Much deserved, I might add,” Johnny said, which was true. Even Jimmy’s political opponents had to admit that aside from the Cuban escapade, the young charismatic president was off to one of the finest starts in American history. “Come on out early if you want,” Johnny said. “Bring your wife or come alone. Stay as long as you’d like.”

“My wife!” the Ambassador said, guffawing. He’d been to Fontane’s place in Beverly Hills a few times and was as randy an old guy as you’d ever want to meet.

He arrived a few days later with only his Secret Service detail. He sat out by the pool in the nude, making long distance calls almost nonstop, visibly pissed off nearly all the time but keeping his voice down. Here and there, he took a few minutes off and went up to his room for a session with one of the high-class pros Johnny had arranged. The Ambassador never went into town to see a show or place a friendly bet, never even played tennis, even though he supposedly still played and Fontane had put in a lighted court.

Truckloads of food and beverages arrived for the impending visit. The day before the president left for his trip west, Johnny took a handcart and rolled the latest delivery out beside the larger pool to show to his guest. It was a thick bronze plaque, four feet by three feet, that read PRESIDENT JAMES KAVANAUGH SHEA SLEPT HERE.

“What in hell are you going to do with that?”

“What do you think, Corbett? I have a crew on their way over right now to bolt it over the headboard in the room where Jimmy’s staying. I was going to put quotation marks around slept, but I didn’t want to be disrespectful.”

The Ambassador frowned. “Kind of big, don’t you think?”

“Look around, Corbett. The biggest and the best of everything. My friends are worth nothing less.”

The Ambassador shook his head. “There must have been a misunderstanding, John. Jimmy’s not coming.”

That cracked Johnny up. “Seriously, though. Any idea what time they’re getting here tomorrow? I have some arrangements I need to take care of.”

“You deaf, you stupid Guinea? He’s not coming. I never said he was. You invited me out here, and I came. Jimmy has too many other matters to contend with right now. He’s going to make that speech, but there’s not going to be time for a vacation. Even if there is, it’s a bad idea for him to be seen in a town like Las Vegas or at the home of… well, at your home.”

“What’s wrong with my home? What are you talking about?”

But Fontane had it figured out now.

“You know we all appreciate everything you’ve done for us,” the Ambassador said.

“That sounds a hell of a lot like a kiss-off.”

“I’m sorry if there was a misunderstanding, John. Blame that cocksucker in Cuba. He embarrassed my boy. We’re looking into what we can do for revenge. You Italians understand that, though, right? Revenge?”

What did that cocksucker in Cuba have to do with such a titanic act of rudeness? “Who did you think all this food was for? All these-”

“How the hell would I know?” He stood up, letting his towel fall, stark naked with his arms outstretched. He was a large but frail man. Why an old goat like this was determined to go around all the time with his shriveled prick flapping in the wind, Johnny couldn’t imagine. “Do I look like I have your social calendar hidden on me here somewhere?”

Johnny Fontane shook his head. He swallowed the firestorm of anger rising in him. He left the plaque where it was, turned around, and went inside. He didn’t think it would have been a good move to beat the president’s father to a bloody pulp. He was tempted to make a few calls and send up some girl with a disease for Corbett Shea’s nightcap, but he thought better of that, too. He just avoided the despicable old coot.

Early the next morning, the Ambassador left without saying good-bye.

On the outside, Johnny seemed to be taking this snub with impressive Sicilian stoicism. He even rented a semi and helped his staff load up the food. He gave the driver directions to a soup kitchen in one of the poorest neighborhoods in Los Angeles, with strict instructions to tell the staff only that it was from an anonymous donor.

The president gave the speech. Johnny Fontane watched it on television. It was hard to be angry at a man who could make you feel that good about your country’s future.

But at the end of the story, the reporter said the president would be spending the next week in Malibu, vacationing at the home of a Princeton classmate of his, a lawyer who-according to the reporter-“is a direct descendent of President John Adams.”

Fontane watched in stunned disbelief.

You stupid Guinea.

Then he flicked off the television and went out to the workshop the construction crews had been using. The crate of TNT they’d used to blow a hole in the rock that had been where the second pool now was had only two sticks left. He’d never used TNT before but was far too furious to be afraid, at least until he lit the first stick and saw the flame racing down the wick. He heaved it, and it landed dead bang in the middle of the helipad. The air rained sand and fist-sized chunks of cement.

You stupid Guinea.

After the second stick, the helipad was pretty much a crater.

T OM HAGEN,early for his tee time, ducked into the country club restaurant for coffee. He ordered two cups, as was his habit, so he wouldn’t be at anyone’s mercy for a refill.

“Mr. Hagen!” a voice called.

Hagen turned around. “Mr. Ambassador,” he said, approaching the old man’s table, hand outstretched. Corbett Shea was at a table with Secret Service men. “What a pleasant surprise.” It was a secret, apparently, that he’d been staying at Johnny Fontane’s, but there were few secrets in Nevada that Hagen didn’t know about. “What brings you to Las Vegas?”

“My foundation is considering a request to build a theater building at the university here,” he said. “I was so shocked Las Vegas even had a university, much less a theater department, I had to come out and see it for myself. Sit.”

Like he was a goddamned dog. But that was the Ambassador. Hagen got the waiter’s attention, then sat. “I just have a minute. Early tee time.”

The Ambassador raised his cup. “Never too early for tea.”

Hagen smiled. “Coffee man, myself,” he said. “You a member here?”

The Ambassador cringed, as if Hagen had asked him if he’d ever fucked a chicken.

“Your son’s doing a magnificent job,” Hagen said. “I wasn’t in Washington long, but it was long enough to know how hard it is to get things done, especially things that might really make a difference in the lives of average Americans.”

This launched the Ambassador into a litany of (Cuba-free) fatherly bragging. Hagen had been sincere, though. His kids had pictures of President Shea on their walls, next to rock-and-roll singers, movie stars, and Jesus. As tainted as the election had been and as callow as Jimmy Shea seemed, Hagen had been astonished to see how swiftly he’d become a great leader. It reminded Hagen of when he was teaching Michael to take over for his father.

Hagen finished his second cup. He had to go. “Are you in town long?” he asked.

“On my way out, actually,” he said. “Couple quick meetings, and I head out of this desert hellhole for California.”

“We still need to get that tennis game in sometime,” Hagen said.

“What tennis game?”

“Forget it,” Hagen said. “Please give the president my regards. Anything he ever needs, consider it done.”

“I’ll do that.”