Mark Winegardner - The Godfather returns

Later, when he was questioned about what he did next-both by his superiors and later by a reporter from Life magazine-Michael couldn’t explain what had possessed him to come to get his brothers in arms, or how he got out of there alive, either. Maybe there was too much coral dust from the mortar. Maybe they thought they’d already killed all the foot soldiers and were focused on taking care of the tank, which they blew up as Michael was charging their bunker. Michael had no training at all on that flamethrower. He just grabbed it without thinking and recoiled as a fat tongue of flame shot over the ridge.

There was machine-gun fire from a cave to his right, and Michael felt like his leg had been shot off. He fell and scrambled for cover-alone at the crest of the ridge, a sitting duck. The odor of burned flesh and napalm was horrible. He had a bullet in his thigh and one that went through his calf.

Right in front of him were six enemy soldiers with their eyes boiled out and their lips burned off. Their skin was mostly gone. Their muscles looked like a sketch from a science book.

Michael was pinned down for only twenty minutes before the Japs in that cave were taken out, too, and a corpsman covered head to toe with blood came over that ridge and got Michael out of there. He’d had whole years go by faster than those twenty minutes.

He had no memory of how he got from there to Hawaii.

His first thought when he came to his senses was that his mother must be worried sick. He wrote her a long letter, and he sweet-talked a nurse into picking out something as a gift to send along. The nurse chose a coffee mug with a map of the Hawaiian Islands painted on it. The day Carmela Corleone got it-along with the news that her son was coming home-she filled it with wine, raised the mug, and thanked the Virgin Mary for answering her prayers. From then on, each time she passed Michael’s photo on the mantelpiece, Carmela smiled.

Michael and Hal Mitchell both recuperated. Hank Vogelsong wasn’t so lucky. Right before he died he told the corpsman he wanted Michael Corleone to have his watch. When it arrived, Michael, who barely knew the man, wrote to Vogelsong’s parents, told them how brave Hank had been under fire, and offered to give them his watch back. They wrote back and thanked him but said they wanted him to have it.

While Michael was still in the hospital, he learned that he’d been accepted for pilot training. He was also promoted to second lieutenant. But the promotion was just symbolic, and he never did go to flight school. That was the end of Michael Corleone’s first war.

Just before Michael was discharged, a reporter from Life magazine came to interview him. Michael, who presumed that the story had been set up by his father, thanked the reporter for his interest but said that he was a private person. He already had a medal and he could do without the attention. But Admiral King personally told Michael to do it. Good for morale, he said.

Michael was photographed in a uniform that fit. The story ran in a special issue about the American fighting man. Audie Murphy was on the cover. On the facing page was James K. Shea, the future president of the United States.

V IA A MAZE of intermediaries, Nick Geraci had been told to come in. To see the Boss. Geraci had a pretty good idea what it was about. He’d suggested the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens. Too public, he was told. Don Corleone couldn’t possibly risk doing anything that would make his appointment to the presidential transition team any more controversial than it already was-especially the day before the inauguration. It would have to be in the car, a limo.

Which cinched it: they were going to kill him.

In a situation like this, though, there’s no choice but to go where you’re told. It’s a part of the life. Geraci knew that a long time ago. A wiseguy who’s called in, if he’s smart, is like a lawyer preparing a case. You anticipate every question you might get asked and hope for the best. If you’re able to talk your way out of it, walk away pissed off, not grateful.

Asking to bring his guys along for the ride would arouse suspicion. That was out. Packing a gun or a knife was a bad risk. If he’s searched, he’s done for. Even if he’s not, there’s not much chance he’d have enough time to whip out a concealed weapon at the moment of truth.

He waited all morning at a corner table in a tavern on First Avenue along with Donnie Bags, Eddie Paradise, and Momo the Roach. A few connected guys milled around outside. A row of pallid men from the neighborhood drank breakfast at the bar. The place was owned by Elwood Cusik, a boxer who’d done enforcer work for the Corleones.

Michael had tried to kill him once before, and Geraci had retaliated beautifully. He’d used Forlenza to let Russo know what was going on with Fredo and down in Cuba; after that, Geraci hadn’t had to lift a finger. Fredo had unwittingly betrayed Michael, over nothing. Anyone could see that Cuba was unstable and going to blow. Yet Michael was so blinded by the millions he could make as an almost-legitimate businessman there that he had allowed himself to get sucked into a situation where he’d killed his own brother. His wife had left him over it, took the kids, and moved a continent away. He’d lost two capo s-Rocco and Frankie Pants, both rivals of Geraci’s-fighting over an empire in Cuba that was destined never to exist. If there really was a fate worse than death, Geraci had inflicted it on Michael Corleone.

As he waited, Geraci tried to figure out how Michael could have learned about this. He was at a loss.

Two hours late, Donnie Bags, near the window, signaled that Michael’s limo was there. The Roach and Eddie Paradise flanked Geraci as he crossed the sidewalk. He was ready for anything. He pictured his daughters’ faces. And he reached for the door handle.

“Hello, Fausto.”

“Don Corleone.” Geraci got into the car alone and climbed into the seat facing Michael. Al Neri, behind the wheel, was the only other person in the car. “You have a nice trip?”

Geraci nodded to the Roach, who closed the door. Neri put the car in gear.

“Outstanding. You should go up again. These new planes practically fly themselves.”

“I’ll bet,” Geraci said. One of Michael’s thank-you gifts from Ambassador M. Corbett Shea had been a new airplane. “I have dreams that I’m flying. Funny thing is, they’re never nightmares. But once I wake up, I can’t even imagine being a passenger again. Hey, congratulations, by the way. Next best thing to having a paesan’ in the White House.”

“It’s just the transition team,” Michael said. “I only served as an adviser. One of many.”

Over the years, the Corleones had granted the Sheas many favors, including several that had helped get the new president elected. In return, Michael had asked for this appointment. Geraci had it on good authority that Michael had never met face-to-face with anyone in the new administration. It was understood that he would participate in name only. All Michael wanted was the credibility the appointment gave him.

“Think we’ll live to see it?” Geraci said. “An Italian in the White House?”

“I’m certain of it,” Michael said.

Geraci had positioned himself on the seat so that Neri would have to stop the car before killing him. There didn’t seem much chance that Michael would do the job himself. If it happened, it would happen someplace they took him, probably by men waiting for him there. “I hope you’re right, Don Corleone.”

“Just Michael, okay? We’re old friends, Fausto, and I’m retired now.”