Mark Winegardner - The Godfather returns

“Uneventful,” Michael said, hugging his old brother in arms. “The best kind.”

Behind Mitchell, already there of course, was Tom Hagen. Hagen and the white-haired cowboy stood. The bald man in the wheelchair extended his hand to be shaken. Michael was the only one wearing a tux. It wasn’t sundown yet, but there’d be no real chance to change.

Mitchell’s office walls were covered with photos of celebrities, save a twelve-year-old snapshot of Sergeant Mitchell, PFC Corleone, and several Marines who never made it home, posing in front of a burned-out Jap tank on the beach at Guadalcanal. The office overlooked the main entrance to the Castle in the Sand. The marquee said WELCOME AMERICAN LABOR!; Fontane’s name would go back up tomorrow. On the stone plaza below, union officials arrived steadily for the convention that would start tomorrow, as did other friends of the Corleone Family.

Mitchell offered Michael the seat behind his desk, though Michael would have none of it. The man in the wheelchair was the president of a Las Vegas bank. The white-haired man in the cowboy hat was a lawyer, in private practice now after a term as state attorney general and then many years as the chairman of the Nevada Republican Party. On paper, these two men, Mitchell, and a real estate holding company controlled by Tom Hagen were the casino’s four biggest stockholders. Michael’s construction company was, on paper, sixth, behind his brother, Fredo, who-in a risk that had inspired much debate within the Corleone Family and the Nevada Gaming Commission alike-had used his own name. Fredo was also supposed to be here.

“Fredo Corleone sends his regrets,” Hagen said. “His flight was unavoidably delayed.”

Michael only nodded. There was nothing more to say, not in the presence of people outside the Family and most certainly not in this room, which was bugged.

The meeting lasted about an hour. It was not purely theater-neither the bank president nor the cowboy lawyer had any idea that law enforcement officials were listening in-and it didn’t differ in kind from any meeting of the top shareholders of any privately held corporation: purchasing matters, personnel matters, assessments of the effectiveness of current marketing and advertising efforts. There was discussion of Mitchell’s idea to hold A-bomb picnics on the roof. Privately, Michael wondered what kind of idiot would go up to the roof at some ungodly hour and pay ten bucks to hear a lounge act that was free downstairs, all to view a puff of smoke they could easily see from their rooms. But he didn’t say anything. His mind was on the next two meetings. The most spirited debate in this one concerned what to call the new casino in Lake Tahoe. Hal’s idea-Hal Mitchell’s Castle in the Clouds-emerged as the consensus choice.

When they finished, Mitchell said he hoped he’d see everyone and their wives at the Fontane VIP show. Johnny was their new partner, after all, with a ten percent share in the Castle in the Clouds. The other men said they wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Hagen waited for them to leave and then made a quick phone call to Louie Russo.

“Don Russo is on his way to the Chuckwagon now,” Hagen said to Michael.

They started down the back stairs.

“What’s the deal with Fredo?” Michael said.

“He’ll get in early tomorrow,” Hagen said. “He’s fine. There’s two good men with him.”

“You mean to tell me that barber and that kid off the boat, the goat farmer-”

“Right.”

Michael shook his head. The barber was supposed to get straightened out tonight, after the Fontane show. It was to be a surprise-that’s how initiations were done-but he was on tap. “So why’d Fredo miss the plane, huh?”

“I don’t know. People miss planes, I guess.”

“You don’t.”

“I actually did,” he said. “Today, in fact.”

“Yet here you are, on time.”

Hagen didn’t say anything. He’d always been soft on Fredo.

“So how’d that go?” Michael said. “ Palm Springs.”

“Just what you and I discussed. We’re on target there.”

They crossed the lobby to a café, the Chuckwagon, that was open only for breakfast. Michael had a key. He and Hagen took a seat at a table in the corner. Moments later, one of Hal Mitchell’s assistants let Russo and two of his men into the café and relocked the door behind them. Russo was a pale man with a bad rug, gigantic sunglasses, and tiny hands. He made a beeline to the wall switches and turned off all the lights. His men closed the curtains.

“Hey, you brought your Mick consigliere. ” He had a high, girlish voice. “That’s cute.”

“Welcome to the Castle in the Sand, Don Russo.” Hagen stood, his overly wide smile the only trace of his insincerity.

Michael didn’t say anything until Russo’s men retreated across the room and sat down on stools at the counter.

“I assure you, Don Russo,” Michael said, pointing at the light fixture above him, “we’ve paid our electric bill.”

“The dark’s better,” Russo said, tapping his sunglasses, the size of which made his nose seem even more like a penis than it might have otherwise. “Some punk tried to shoot me through the window of a candy store. The glass cut my eyes. I can see good, but most of the time, the light’s still painful.”

“Of course,” Michael said. “We only want you to be comfortable.”

“I can tell it bothers you,” Russo said, taking a seat at the table, “that I turned all the lights off and closed the curtains without sayin’ nothin’. Right? So now you know how it feels.”

“How what feels?” Hagen said.

“C’mon, Irish. You know what I mean, and your boss does, too. You New Yorkers are all alike. You people made a deal. Everything west of Chicago is Chicago. Soon as you realize there is anything west of Chicago, you backpedal. Capone gets what’s coming to him, and you think that syphilitic Neapolitan shitweasel is Chicago. The rest of us? We’re nothing. You put together that Commission, and are we a part of it? No. Moe Greene takes all that New York money and builds up Las Vegas. We’re not consulted. You just up and call this an open city. Which you know what I think? I think great. Open works in Miami. Works in Havana, and I hope to God it stays that way. And it’s workin’ maybe best of all here. But why does it have to be so disrespectful? We weren’t so much as asked. That’s my point. Yet we went along with it. We weren’t in no position to argue. We had a few years where, forget about it, nothin’ was organized good. What happened was-I don’t want to say you took advantage, but we lost out. Fine. Vegas is working out perfect as is. In Chicago, everything’s under control. In New York, for a while you had blood running in the streets and all that bit, but from what I hear you got peace again. I pray that’s true. My point is this. During your troubles, did I think, Hey, time to take advantage of my friends in New York ? No. I stayed out of it. I don’t want you to hold a parade for me or nothin’, but Christ. What do I get for the respect I gave you during your hour of need? You move the headquarters of your whole thing here. Here! Which is supposed to be open and, if you want to be technical about it, is rightly ours. I’m not stupid, all right? But I’m not a lawyer like Irish here, and I didn’t go to no fucking Ivy League school neither. So help me out. Tell me why I should stand for this.”

Louie Russo supposedly had an IQ of 90, but he was a genius at reading people. The glasses made it difficult to read him in return.

“I appreciate your candor, Don Russo,” Michael said. “There’s nothing I appreciate more than an honest man.”