Mark Winegardner - The Godfather returns

“Which brings me to you, Tom,” Michael said. “Your job, that is.”

Hagen nodded.

Michael looked to Pete and Rocco. “With Tom involved more in politics, we need to move him out of certain things. Since stepping down as consigliere- ”

Hagen had not been consulted and had not sought change.

“-Tom has remained a trusted adviser, as anyone’s legal counsel should be. That’s how it’s going to stay. But it leaves a void as consigliere. Tom has done an excellent job, and my father-” Michael turned up the palm of his hand. Words couldn’t do justice to the late Don’s greatness. “I don’t see a clear successor. For the next year or so, I’ll be spreading the responsibilities of consigliere to all the capos and also you, Tom, when it’s appropriate.”

The failure to mention Fredo was no accident, Hagen thought.

“However,” Michael said. He let the pause linger. “There are situations where I need to be represented along with my consigliere- Commission meetings and the like. There’s no one I’d rather have at my side on such occasions than my father’s oldest friend, Pete Clemenza.”

Hagen applauded and slapped Pete on the back. Clemenza said he’d be honored. Rocco gave him a bear hug. Clemenza called out for Neri to have Enzo grab some strega for a toast. Hagen smiled. That was another thing: once men like Clemenza were gone, the important toasts would no longer be made with strega or homemade grappa. It would be Jack Daniel’s or Johnnie Walker. Before long they’d be in boardrooms clanking mugs of weak coffee.

Enzo, it turned out, had a bottle of strega in his desk drawer. He joined them for the toast. “May we live our lives so that when we die we are smiling,” Clemenza said, “and everyone else is crying like a fucking baby.”

They were about to leave when there was a knock on the door.

“Sorry, fellas,” Neri said, opening the door. “Seemed like you was wrapping up and-”

Johnny Fontane, carrying a fancy leather satchel, elbowed past him and, in a voice barely above a whisper, said something that sounded like “How’re your birds, fellas?” Neri scowled. He wasn’t the sort of man one elbowed past, not even a pezzonovante pretty boy like Fontane.

“We was just talking about you,” Clemenza said. “That statue you busted, up in your room there, you know that thing cost three grand?”

“You got a good deal on it,” Fontane said. “I’d have guessed five.”

He’d never been close to Michael, but he presumed to cross the room and, with his free arm, embrace him. Michael did not react. He said nothing.

Hagen had no use for show business people.

Hal Mitchell appeared in the doorway, now in his tux, too, breathless and apologizing. “It’s just that the opening act’s already on and-”

“First thing.” Fontane lifted the satchel as high as he could reach. “Here’s this.” He dropped it. It landed hard on the desk in front of Michael. It sounded like money. “Airmail from Frank Falcone. He sends his regrets, and so does Mr. Pignatelli.”

Presumably it was a “loan” from the pension fund of the Hollywood unions Falcone controlled-an investment in the Castle in the Clouds.

Michael remained seated. He looked at the satchel. Other than that, he was motionless. His expression couldn’t have been more blank if he’d spent all afternoon dead.

A vein in the singer’s temple began to twitch.

Michael ran his finger around the rim of his empty glass.

The other men kept still, letting Fontane and Mike stare each other down and waiting for Fontane to say what the second thing was. It seemed unthinkable that this, such a small favor in return for all that had been done on his behalf, would have provoked such a childish outburst.

Hagen would never understand Fontane’s lack of gratitude. Ten years ago, on Connie’s wedding day, Hagen had walked away with two favors to carry out: getting Enzo Aguello his American citizenship and getting Johnny the part in that war movie. Since then, Enzo had been a faithful friend, even standing unarmed at the hospital alongside Michael when two cars full of men had come to kill Vito, an act of bravery that probably saved the Don’s life. What had Johnny Fontane ever given back to the Corleones?

No one had put a gun to Johnny’s head to sign a contract with the Les Halley Orchestra, yet Vito Corleone had to send a man to put a gun to Halley’s to get him out of it. The Corleones had gotten Jack Woltz to cast him in that war picture, which Johnny would have had in the first place if he hadn’t sport-fucked a starlet Woltz was in love with. Hagen shuddered. After the murders of so many people, how was it possible that what stayed with him in his nightmares was Luca taking a machete and hacking off the head of Woltz’s racehorse? Something Hagen hadn’t even seen. And something Johnny didn’t even know about, since Woltz, as expected, had hushed it up. Another gift from the Corleones: the blessings of ignorance. The Corleones had even bought Fontane an Academy Award. All those favors, and this was how he acted?

The silence in the room thickened.

Fontane shifted his weight from foot to foot. Did he really think he could win a battle of nerves with Michael Corleone?

Finally, Fontane let out a deep breath. “All right, but here’s the second thing.” He pointed to his throat. “I’m sorry as hell, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go on.”

All Michael said was “Is that right?”

Clemenza pursed his lips and flicked a softened toothpick past Fontane’s ear. “I thought Fredo’s doctor friend fixed that. Your throat. The Jew surgeon, what’s-his-face. Jules Stein.”

“Segal,” Johnny corrected. “He did.” He looked around the room. “Which reminds me. You guys seen Fredo? I got something for him. A present. A present from me.”

“His plane was delayed,” Hagen said.

Fontane shrugged. “It’ll wait, I guess,” he said. “Look, fellas, you know me. I’m a pro.” The stage whisper made him seem like one of those women who do it to make men come closer. “My voice is good, but my throat?” He shook his head. “Not a hundred percent. Even so, I been doing these shows here, filling up the joint. Today I had a terrific recording session in L.A. Sometimes you just know. Here’s the rub. On the plane back here, I fell asleep. When I woke up, my throat? Awful sore. So I was thinking-”

“Your first mistake right there,” Clemenza said.

“-I should gargle some salt water and hit the hay. I’m no good like this. Numbnuts could go long.” Morrie “Numbnuts” Streator was Fontane’s long-suffering opening act, a comic he’d rescued from the Catskills. “He’s on now. He’s killin’ ’em. Ask the sarge.”

No one did. The issue here wasn’t how much the guests were enjoying the blue jokes.

“I took the liberty,” Fontane said, “of calling Buzz Fratello. He and Dotty don’t have a show tonight. They could do it. Step in for me. In fact, they’re on their way over right now.”

“Yeah?” said Clemenza, impressed. “The more I see that Buzz, the more I like him.”

“No can do, Johnny,” Hal said. He had not been invited to come in the room and, like Neri, had remained just outside the doorway. “Buzz Fratello and Dotty Ames are under contract across the way.” Meaning the Kasbah, which the Chicago outfit controlled. “Exclusively.”

“They don’t start there until next weekend. This thing’s just a private show, right? A party. It’s no different than someone singing in one of the lounges afterward. We all do that.”

Michael remained still, his eyes on Fontane. After a very long time, Michael reached up and flicked his fingertips backhanded against his own jawbone, a gesture so identical to the late Don’s it gave Hagen chills.