Mark Winegardner - The Godfather returns

Fredo put his head down and strode to the elevator. In the penthouse, he strapped on the gun belt he’d stolen from the set of Apache Creek (his second movie; he’d played an Indian) and two loaded Colt Peacemakers. Despite the pills, he felt an abiding calm. Revenge was justified, and in a few moments he’d have it.

But when he got back to the pool, they were gone.

The next thing Fredo knew, he was standing in the garage of the Château Marmont, leveling a pistol at the Regal Turquoise 1958 Corvette he’d bought Deanna for their first anniversary. He heard his heart beating. He took several deep breaths, keeping his arm steady, squeezing but not quite pulling the trigger. They’d gone to Flint together to pick up the car. Their publicist had gotten the photos of that smiling moment into newspapers and magazines across the world-good ink for all involved.

Fredo opened fire: into the rear window, the left rear tire, two in the driver’s door, one through the driver’s window and out the passenger’s, one in the windshield. It felt good to kill a car. Glass shattered, and tires and upholstery exploded. The echoes of metal on metal and the aftershock tinkling of who knew what.

He holstered the first Colt, opened the Corvette’s hood, and took out the other. The hotel manager and several of his people showed up, but they knew Fredo and knew that this was Deanna Dunn’s car. They’d seen many more famous people engaging in stranger and more clearly criminal behavior. In an even voice the manager asked if there was anything he could do.

“Nope.” Fredo fired a slug into the four-barrel carburetor. “Got it covered, thanks.”

The next one provoked a small explosion and a puff of white smoke. The first gawkers were showing up now.

“It’s rather late, Mr. Corleone. As you can see, several of the other guests-”

He put another bullet in the engine block.

“-have unfortunately been disturbed.”

Two more into the passenger side. His final bullet missed the car.

Behind him, a lady screamed and shouted shrill nonsense in what might have been French. When Fredo turned around, there was Matt Marshall-shirtless, barefoot, and in chinos, charging toward him, his blandly handsome face contorted in rage.

Fredo drew the other gun, too, and pointed them both at Marshall-who either was nuts or knew Fredo was out of bullets, because he kept coming. Fredo had never experienced a moment of such clarity. He stood his ground. Marshall lunged toward him, and Fredo dodged him, deftly as a matador. Marshall hit the pavement. He rose, bloodied, and charged again, head stupidly down. Fredo wanted to laugh but instead threw a roundhouse pistol-whip haymaker. It made a sound like dropping a roast from a tall building. Marshall crumpled.

As one-except for the shrieking French lady-the crowd that had gathered said, “Ooh.”

Fredo holstered the guns. “Self-defense,” he said, “pure and simple.”

It was Hagen who came to bail him out.

“You made good time,” Fredo said as they walked out of the police station. “You fly?”

“Only in a manner of speaking. Jesus, Fredo. I’m not sure anyone in that hotel ever managed to get themselves arrested.”

“Stray bullets,” he said. “It could happen to anyone. I feel rotten about that dog, though.”

The French lady was a deposed countess, out walking her toy poodle. One of the bullets had blown all but a few stringy remnants of its head off. The other problematic shot was one that had somehow passed through the Corvette and torn up the grille of the car behind it, a white DeSoto Adventurer, the pace car for the 1957 Indy 500. The winner of the race had made a mint selling it to Marshall, best known to moviegoers as the cocky gearhead with a heart of gold in Checkered Past, Checkered Flag. That asshole wasn’t fighting for Deanna or on her behalf. What set him off had been the acrid smoke coming from his precious car.

“It’s worse than stray bullets, Fredo. Those guns-”

“They’re clean. Neri said they were as clean as they come.”

“They better be, because the LAPD is bringing in the FBI to help check ’em out.”

“They’re clean.”

They got into Hagen ’s Buick-everyone in the Family was driving boring cars all of sudden-and they drove in silence to the Château Marmont. Not only hadn’t the management kicked Fredo out, but Hagen had taken a room there, too. There’s a lot to be said for a place with a discreet staff. There was also a lot to be said for tipping well, paying for one’s room in advance, and being married to a VIP. Hagen and Fredo took a walk together on the secluded tropical grounds.

“So what about those pills they found in your pocket?” Hagen said.

“Prescription. Segal gave ’em to me.” That was true, at least indirectly. He’d sent Figaro, his guy in Vegas, out to get the pills. Jules Segal, an old friend of the family, was head of surgery at the hospital the Corleones had built.

“They tell me they were in an aspirin bottle.”

“I dumped ’em in there and then took all the aspirin. There’s no law that says you gotta carry pills a certain way.”

“I don’t know. Segal got suspended once for that, a long time ago, and before he worked at our hospital. But now… well, the hospital makes us look good, and if-”

“Get a different doc at that hospital to say he prescribed it, then. Make it worth his while. You’ve fixed problems a hundred times worse than this. Jesus, Tommy. Pop always called you the most Sicilian one. What the fuck happened? They remove that from you with a special act of Congress? I told you what that guy did! It was my wife !”

“You told me on the phone. Which wasn’t smart, Fredo.”

Fredo shrugged, in concession. “ Marshall didn’t die or nothin’, did he?”

“No, thank God.” Hagen said. “He’ll be fine. His face is another matter, though.”

“Pretty bad, huh?”

“Pretty bad. Matt Marshall makes a living with his cheekbones, one of which is now more of a liquid than a solid. Which would be bad enough, but as you know he’s in the middle of shooting a movie. They don’t seem to think they can finish it without him. It’s possible we can take care of things, but L.A. is a tough town for us anymore, with the Chicago -”

“We got peace with those guys. They know me, they like me. I can handle ’em.”

“At any rate, you’ve given me a lot of things to take care of.”

“C’mon, Tom. What would you have done if it had been Theresa?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Kill a car, a poodle, and a major motion picture?”

“At least you didn’t say it would never be Theresa.”

“It would never be Theresa.”

“Fuck you, you fucking holier-than-thou fuck.”

“How many pills you take today, Fredo?”

“None.” He didn’t think like that, about the number. “I only take ’em off and on.” He didn’t want to go by Bungalow 3, and he didn’t wasn’t to go by the pool. “Better view this way,” he said. “Of Sunset Boulevard and all.”

“I know,” Hagen said. “I’ve stayed here. I was the one who told you about this place.”

“So you know, then. Better view this way.”

They went that way.

“I been meaning to ask,” Fredo said. “Did Kay go nuts when you told her about the bugs?”

“She doesn’t know,” Hagen said.

Fredo had guessed right: Mike hadn’t even told her himself. He’d have Tom do it. There was some pilgrim who’d lost his woman. “Kay’s smart. She knows things. Even if she don’t know, sooner or later but probably sooner you’ll tell her.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m not saying you’re sweet on her or nothin’, but everyone knows she’s got a way of getting things out of you.”