Mark Winegardner - The Godfather returns

In 1959, under oath and before a subcommittee of the U.S. Senate, Michael Corleone testified that he had not been in that farmhouse. He denied having been among those who had escaped what was undoubtedly an illegal police action.

Strictly speaking, Michael Corleone was telling the truth.

He and Hagen had driven there separately, for various business and security reasons (though they did have the archaic and, in the face of a police raid, worthless insurance policy provided by holding a Bocchicchio hostage at a whorehouse in the desert). Had Michael been as punctual as his father, he’d surely have been among those who, dignity be damned, went scrambling down the hill. Yes, he had escaped from more harrowing situations, with the air full of bullets and bombs and Jap Zeros heading his way on a divine tailwind. But that was a dozen years and a hundred thousand cigarettes ago. Who knows if he’d have been able to run fast enough and far enough to elude capture?

He did not have to find out-only because, as per usual, he was late: so egregiously late, in fact, that they’d started their business without him. A split second before Michael flicked on his turn signal to go down the gravel drive, he glimpsed something yellow in the bushes, not far from that rusted trailer. He put his hand back on the wheel and kept going. He passed the drive and began to round a bend. In his rearview mirror, he saw two men-cops of some kind-dragging yellow sawhorses from those bushes.

The car he was using was a blue Dodge, a few years old, equipped with a police scanner (Al Neri had been a cop; both the bland car and the scanner were his idea). Michael found the frequency the ATF agents were using.

He pounded the steering wheel as hard as he could and let out an anguished roar.

This was supposed to have been Michael’s last appearance at a meeting of the Commission or of all the Families. He’d planned to negotiate his retirement. After today, after he nailed down the deal in Cuba, he’d have been a completely legitimate businessman. He hit the wheel once more.

Calm down, he thought. Think.

He lit a cigarette. He sat back in his seat, forcing himself to take long and even breaths, listening to the raid he had so narrowly escaped. It was the sound of a world coming to an end. He’d heard about Pearl Harbor on a radio, too.

Michael Corleone had no idea where this narrow, winding road would lead. The sun was straight overhead, and he couldn’t even tell what direction he was going. Still he kept driving, scrupulously observing the traffic laws and looking for signs. What choice did he have? He sure as hell couldn’t turn around and go back the way he came.

Fredo Corleone did not wake up thinking, This is the day that I betray my brother. He did not set out to do it, and, as Nick Geraci had predicted, Fredo didn’t know what he’d done even after he’d sealed his fate by doing it. His day began, instead, when, in the suite at the Château Marmont, Deanna Dunn got out of the shower and, still smelling of last night’s gin, slipped into bed beside her sleeping husband.

“C’mon, lover,” she purred, starting to tie his wrist to the bedpost with a hand towel.

Fredo jerked his arm free. “What are you doing?”

“Be a sport,” she said.

“What time is it? I had an hour’s sleep, tops.”

She frowned and tossed the towel aside. “You don’t want me to be hungry for love on my first day of work with a new costar, do you?”

He had it on good authority-Wally Morgan, who’d know-that Deanna’s costar was hardly the sort of man who’d want to lay a hand on her.

Fredo nonetheless gave her what she wanted.

“Try doing more than up-down, up-down,” she said.

He was on top. “That ain’t exactly music to a guy’s ears.” He tried giving her a little side-to-side, or whatever it was she wanted. “Not in the middle of things.”

“Want me to roll over?” Before he could answer, she’d already done it. That was how she was about everything. “Not in the ass, though.” She was on all fours. “Not first thing in the morning.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he said. “Jesus.” Why did she keep bringing that up? Even with Wally Morgan, all Fredo usually did was get his dick sucked. Last night, for example, that was all he’d done. Fredo lost his erection. He threw himself down on the mattress, disgusted.

“Don’t be like that,” she said, reaching for his prick. “It’s nothing.”

Fredo slapped her hand away. “It’s something to me.”

“You’re just drinking too much,” she said.

“You should know,” he said.

They lay side by side, staring at themselves in the mirror she’d paid the hotel to install on the bedroom ceiling. After a while, Deanna took matters into her own hands. She was rough with herself. Fredo lit a cigarette and watched. The idea of it was dirty and excited him. He tried to keep his eyes off the round-bellied balding man in the mirror, whose limp prick lolled uselessly against his thigh. Deanna planted her feet on the bed, raised up her ass, and made a big show of bucking her hips and coming. It was like looking at a nature program on TV. Afterward, she kissed him. He rolled away. They lay there and rode out another long silence.

“Fredo,” she finally said. “Baby. I want you to know that I know. I’ve always known.”

“Known what?” Fredo got out of bed and went to take a piss. He knew what she meant, though. Rage washed over him.

“This is Hollywood. That’s entertainment, y’know? Plenty of people have marriages that are covers for… well, that. It’s fine. All I ask is a warm place to come at night-pun intended-and maybe some nice things once in a-”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Nothing.” She sighed. “Forget it.”

Fredo washed his hands and stood in the doorway to the bathroom. “I want to know.” He raised his fist and bounced it lightly against the doorframe. “Tell me.”

“What are you going to do? Are you going to hit me? Shoot another little dog? I’m telling you that I understand how you are. I don’t know if forgive is the right word, but-”

“Forgive me for what ?”

He could toss her out the window. She was a drunk bitch with a fading career. People like that jump out of windows every day.

“Really,” she said. “Forget it. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

His brothers would have beaten her up. Fredo knew that. They thought he was weak. Everyone did, but he wasn’t. He was strong. It took strength not to throw her out the window or beat her. Fredo kept his breathing perfectly even and ordered room service. When it came he did not smash his grapefruit in her face. He calmly ate his food and waited for her to leave.

Once she was out of earshot, he hurled his orange juice glass at the door.

He picked up the table lamp and slammed its iron base into the television screen. He threw a green glass ashtray against the row of liquor bottles behind the bar. He took out a knife and, taking his time, shredded the sofa, the chairs, the bed, the pillows, even the drapes.

He took running starts and stomped dozens of holes in the walls.

For no particular reason, the only things in the suite he was careful to leave alone were Deanna’s clothes and jewelry. And his own clothes. Otherwise, he destroyed whatever he could. People must have heard, but no one came to stop him.

Finally, he took out his gun. Some crummy off-brand piece of shit, nothing nice like those Colts. He went into the bathroom and fired a round at the bidet, which he’d never figured out how to use or whether it was just for women. Who the fuck wanted to pay prices like what this joint cost and feel stupid? A porcelain shard gashed his cheek, but he barely felt it.