Mark Winegardner - The Godfather returns

“Leave that door open,” Geraci said to Neri.

Neri glanced at Michael, who nodded. Neri left the door up and positioned himself outside it.

“So that’s how it is between us now?” Michael said.

“What’s how it is?”

“I have you searched,” Michael said, “and you won’t meet with me behind closed doors.”

“The searching, I can’t speak to,” Geraci said, “though I have no argument with it. And since I’m sure the lovely and talented Mr. Al Neri out there is packing one or more deadly weapons, I think it’s clear that my trust in you remains as solid as ever. It’s just… I don’t know if you realize this, but this is the first time I’ve been inside an airplane since… you know.”

Michael did know. He said nothing. He filled out a flight plan for the next leg of his trip.

“Even when I take my kids to Coney Island,” Geraci said, “if a ride leaves the ground, it leaves without me. I’d consider it a personal favor if we could keep the door open and, if you don’t mind too much, while you’re sitting right there, if you could kill the engine.”

Michael had heard about Nick Geraci’s tremors, but this was the first time he’d seen them. They weren’t as bad as he’d imagined.

“We’ll split the difference,” Michael said, finishing the form and tossing it to Neri so he could run it over to the tower. “You keep the door open, and I’ll keep the engine running.”

Did Geraci really think that Michael would take off without Neri? With the door open? That Michael would be so reckless he’d try to pull something like that in an enclosed space with a former heavyweight boxer who, tremors notwithstanding, kept himself in good shape and looked like he could knock Michael Corleone into a brain-damaged tomorrow?

“All right,” Geraci agreed. “Let me just say this, and I’ll go. It’s just something that I wanted you to know about. I don’t know where to start, so I’ll just say it. I’ve worked out a deal for us to get back into Cuba.”

Michael’s surprise was genuine, even though nothing Geraci was saying came as any news. Not the offer from the one-eyed “Jewish” CIA agent, not fenced-off land in New Jersey, guarded by a crew of federal agents and a pack of rottweilers. Not the combustible mix of mercenary Sicilians and aggrieved, once-wealthy Cubans who’d overcome their differences (language, culture, motives, you name it) and an unfortunate stabbing incident (one of Geraci’s men, recuperating nicely back in Toledo, Ohio) and were only a few weeks away from trying to sneak onto the island, in assassin squads of two or three, in the hope that the killing of one man would produce certain desirable results. What shocked Michael was that Nick Geraci was telling him about it at all.

“When you say you’ve worked out a deal for us, ” Michael said when Geraci finished, “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Let it mean what you want it to mean. I know you’re out and all that bit, but I’m not in the casino business and you are. I thought you’d be interested to know in advance about the opportunities that might be coming up, and also to be sure you knew about the competition.”

Competition? “Competition for what?”

“Well, this is where, if I’d have known everything that was going on, I’d have come to you right away. I was led to believe that my thing out in Jersey was the whole operation, but I started hearing different things. Come to find out, Sammy Drago down in Tampa’s got something just like it, training right on the beach way south of Miami. That didn’t bother me half as much as when I happen to learn that there’s fifty or so men training at a closed-off part of the navy base in Jacksonville, which I actually use from time to time in my own business. All the wiseguys I could find anything out about at that base are connected to Carlo Tramonti and New Orleans, but-” He turned his trembling palms over and smirked in an of-course way. “Tramonti’s a puppet. Drago’s an empty suit. Put it all together, what’s it spell?” Geraci spelled it out on the fingers and thumb of his left hand, as if he were counting. “R. U. S. S. O.”

Michael presumed that come to find out and I happened to learn were Geraci’s way of covering up his obvious sources for this-either Vincent Forlenza, who was down in Key Biscayne for the winter, or Louie Russo himself.

“Stop right there,” Michael said. “I know that you’re telling me these things out of your respect for me and for our friendship, and for that I’m grateful. But you’ve said too much already. I can’t be a part of this. I appreciate the awkward position that puts you in, but all I can tell you is that in spite of what you may have heard from your godfather in Cleveland, I assure you I’m doing everything I can to move this along so that you can have my seat on the Commission and I can be out altogether. I’m close. We’re close. You and I want the same things. This would be a terrible time to start up any trouble at all with any of the other Families.”

Michael couldn’t tell if Geraci was nodding or trembling.

“I know I don’t need your blessing,” Geraci said, getting up to leave. “I’m just trying to make sure I avoid the opposite. Your curse, I guess.”

Michael would have thought that a move that cravenly defensive was beneath him. “Good luck to you and your men in Cuba,” Michael said. “Say hello to all the things that were stolen from us. Are we clear?”

“Will do,” Geraci said, descending the stars. “And yes.”

A week later, back in Lake Tahoe, Joe Lucadello showed up alone, as promised, in a crummy little boat and tied up to the Corleone dock. Capra and Tommy Neri met him and frisked him and gave Michael the all clear. Michael called Tom Hagen and told him Joe had arrived, then waited until Hagen was already out there before making his own way down the sloping lawn to the aluminum bench at the end of the dock, taking his place in the middle.

“Tom didn’t seem to want to tell me,” Joe said. “Maybe you know, Mike. Who thought up that pizza parlor trick? Because I must say, I’m impressed.”

It had been Geraci’s idea, but Michael couldn’t see anything to gain by telling this to Joe. “Tell me if what Fausto Geraci said is true,” Michael said.

“That always throws me,” Joe said. “No one else calls him that.”

Michael stared his old friend down.

“All right, yes,” he said. “There are others. I mean, I never said there weren’t others.”

“You knew about this, and-”

“No, I didn’t. Not at first. The more I learn about your… whadda-yacallit,” Joe Lucadello said. “Your tradition. The more similarities I see. Secret societies, with vows of silence and a code of honor, et cetera. But this situation here is a way we differ. You seem to have ways of finding out everything you need to know, but in my line of work, nobody knows everything about anything.”

“That’s not acceptable,” Michael said.

“I don’t make the rules. Though, honestly, I don’t think it affects you. You’re part of the project. Once anybody gets the job done, it’s safe to say that everyone on the project will get a big dose of Christmas for their troubles. Plus, our operation is by far the best. They’re not willing to lose a few men if necessary as part of the war on communism, and because of your military training, you are, which gives us an enormous advantage. I don’t know all the ins and outs of the other plans, but I hear stories. They’re talking about going to the radio station where our target gives his speeches to the Cuban people and putting aerosol spray in the air, some hallucinogenic drug called LSD that’ll make him sound crazy. They’re working on ways of poisoning his cigars or shining his shoes with a chemical that’ll seep into his skin and make his hair fall out, beard included, to embarrass him that way. They’ve killed a hundred pigs and monkeys field-testing pills that are supposed to dissolve right away in frozen daiquiris. The newest idea I heard about was having a midget submarine drop a pretty seashell on the reef where the guy goes scuba diving. The seashell will be attached to a bombshell, and when he picks the thing up, he’ll be hamburger. In other words, they’re a bunch of pussies. We’re taking a straightforward route. We’re going to shoot the Commie bastard.”