Mark Winegardner - The Godfather returns

P ETE CLEMENZAwas holding court at a diner just outside the Garment District, a place with a back dining room where no one who was not with Clemenza was ever seated. The man who owned the place was old enough to be Pete’s father, and Pete was seventy. They’d been friends longer than either man could remember. This particular morning, the boss was home sick and Pete was in the kitchen, an apron tied over his silk suit, cooking peppers and eggs, redoing the chopped onions (the ones already prepared were “a million times too coarse”), and showing the ropes to the punks who worked for his friend, keeping them in line. Two of Clemenza’s men sat at a metal table crammed in the corner, listening to Clemenza do what he’d done for the better part of his waking life, which was tell a story. It had been what had sealed his bond with Vito Corleone. Pete was a born storyteller, Vito a born listener.

This one happened five years ago, right after Pete got out of prison for a short stretch he’d had to do for extortion (the case was overturned on appeal). Pete had gone to see Tessio’s new TV. “Compared to the TV sets in the joint,” Pete said, “this one’s got a picture so pretty it made your dick hard. It’s Friday night, and Tessio’s got a few of us over to watch the fights, hoist a couple, place a friendly wager or two. Tessio had inside dope on every fight in creation, but he’s extending his hospitality, so losing money to him, it’s like slipping the house a little something for a good seat. Only guy there I don’t know is this one kid-new guy, wound tight as a squirrel. For somebody who’s not well known, he’s asking a lot of questions, and at a certain point I say something about it. Kid goes white, but Sally says, ‘Let him ask, how else does a guy learn?’ A little later I’m in the hall comin’ out of the can when Richie Two Guns asks what the squirrel’s story was. I didn’t know shit, I said, which maybe oughta be on my tombstone. The first fight starts, and Sally tells Richie to turn the sound off, that he can’t stand the announcer. Then Sally tells the squirrel to announce the fight. Kid laughs, but Sally pulls out a gun and waves it at him like get on with it. Kid looks like he might piss himself. ‘Welcome to Madison Square Garden,’ he says, and, I shit you not, his voice comes out of the TV! ‘Who’s in the dark trunks?’ Sally says. The squirrel says, ‘In the dark trunks, we have Beau Jack,’ which again comes through the TV. Sally smiles and says he don’t like this announcer, either. Richie rips the squirrel’s shirt off, and damned if this hairy bastard ain’t wearing a wire. First one I ever saw with a transmitter. Primitive government piece of shit played right through Sally’s new TV. Sally goes over, leans into the microphone part, and says, ‘ Fatta la legge, trovato l’inganno. ’ For every law, there’s a loophole, I guess you’d say. Anyway, this cop or whatever he was must have known Italian and figured out that despite the rule against killing cops, Sally was going to get the job done anyway. So then the squirrel really does piss himself. It shorts out the fucking transmitter. Squirrel starts jerking and screaming. Swear to God, his nuts are on fire. His nuts!”

Everyone in that cramped kitchen laughed.

Clemenza keeled over onto the grill.

They must have thought he was going for a bigger laugh yet. For a moment-as the big man’s great big heart blew like a bald truck tire-he got one. Then the flesh of his fat face seared and crackled and his suit coat burst into flame. His men leapt up and pulled him from the grill. They smothered the fire in no time.

All the last original employees of Genco Pura Olive Oil-its president, Vito Corleone; its manager, Genco Abbandando; and its two salesmen, Sal Tessio and Pete Clemenza-were dead.

The train station in Cleveland was near enough to the lake that gusts of icy wind were knocking down disembarking passengers. Nick Geraci fell, as did two of his men. Eddie Paradise broke his arm, though it was a few days before he figured that out.

The Polack was out by the Thinker.

It was the day before Clemenza’s funeral and an hour after the Cleveland Museum of Art closed. Geraci was shown into a white room, utterly empty except for Vincent Forlenza-the largest anonymous donor in the history of that great museum-and his wheelchair. He called to his men to get Mr. Geraci a chair or a bench, but Geraci insisted that it was fine, he’d stand. Forlenza’s nurse and all the bodyguards waited at the end of a long hall.

Geraci admitted that his first impulse had been to have Laughing Sal’s car sabotaged and make it look like an accident. Tit for tat, more or less. Forlenza’s idea had been to car-bomb Narducci into a hundred corners of oblivion. Car bombing was the midwestern Families’ style. It was a labor saver, eliminating any need to dispose of the bodies.

They discussed the merits of torturing Narducci, as Forlenza had the dead pal of the dead mechanic. But there was nothing Narducci could tell them that they hadn’t already confirmed. If they were going to kill him, they might as well just give him two to the head or, sure, wire up his car.

But Geraci talked Forlenza into keeping Narducci alive. For now.

First of all, if Narducci died or disappeared, Michael Corleone would be onto them. And Narducci hardly seemed to pose a threat. He’d made the most indirect move on Forlenza possible. Furthermore, as far as Geraci knew, no consigliere had ever betrayed his boss. This could be a terrible embarrassment to the Cleveland organization. Narducci would have to be disposed of in a way that wouldn’t look as if it had been ordered or even condoned by Don Forlenza.

Killing Michael Corleone would have been another option, and, like killing Narducci, a satisfying one. But where would it have led? Mayhem, war, millions of dollars in lost profits in the meantime. Even if they won, they’d lose.

For now, they’d keep a close eye on the men who’d betrayed them but turn their efforts to building a new set of allegiances. Geraci already worked with Black Tony Stracci and his organization. Forlenza had ties to Paulie Fortunato. With Clemenza’s death, Geraci would be controlling the day-to-day operations of the Corleone Family in New York. He was practically a boss himself now. So that was three of the five New York Families.

The key after that would be Chicago. Louie Russo already had a coalition involving Milwaukee, Tampa, Los Angeles, New Orleans, and Dallas. Put that together with what Geraci and Forlenza could build, and Michael Corleone will wish he was dead.

The best revenge on Michael Corleone was tit for tat.

They would use Fredo as a pawn, the same way Michael had tried to use Nick Geraci.

They’d stay above the fray and let their enemies kill each other off.

They’d take it slowly. Carefully.

When it was over, Cleveland and Chicago and the other midwestern Families would again control the West. Nick Geraci would be the boss of what used to be the Corleone Family, doing business in and around New York. All they needed to do was put Fredo in the middle between Michael and Hyman Roth.

Don Forlenza shook his frail head. Morgues are full of new arrivals who look more vital than the ancient Don. “Tell me this, Fausto,” he said. “Why would this Fredo do it?”

Fausto. Only he and Michael Corleone called Geraci Fausto and it always threw him, just a little. The real Fausto called him no name at all, just names. Genius. Big shot. Ace.

“That time he cried on the street in New York after his father was shot?” Forlenza said. “Didn’t that come after his brother Sonny took sides against the Family on the issue of narcotics?”