The Godfather returns

by Mark Winegardner

  Milner had already whipped out a pad of paper. As a conductor, he was laconic and fluid, but he wrote charts the way a stray dog eats a pork chop. He was oblivious to anything else in the studio, even the intern standing next to him with a bottle of soda and a fistful of pencils.

  Johnny sat on his stool and lit a cigarette. “Mo-o-om! Da-a-ad!” Johnny called, looking first to Milner and then Ornstein, then pointing at Ping-Pong and Gussie. “My ride’s here. Don’t wait up!” His legs felt impossibly heavy. Finally he looked up and waved Gussie and Ping-Pong over.

  “My friend!” Jackie said, waddling toward him. He was a hugely fat man, just an acquaintance, really. “You’re looking like a million bucks. You sound even better.”

  Johnny knew he looked like death on toast. “What’s better than a million bucks?”

  “A million bucks and a blow job,” said Gussie Cicero, a pally from way back.

  “Wrong,” Johnny said. “If a chick knows you got a million, she’ll blow you for free.”

  “Those free blow jobs are the most expensive kind.”

  That cracked Johnny up. He slapped Cicero on the back. “Well, if I look like a million bucks,” Johnny said, “you two look like a shit I took this morning.”

  Johnny stood and let Ping-Pong and Cicero embrace him. For years Johnny had assumed that Jackie’s nickname had come from his bulging eyes, but not long ago Frank Falcone told him Jackie’s eyes hadn’t done that until years after he got the nickname, which had actually come about because of his name, Ignazio Pignatelli. Gussie Cicero owned the swankiest supper club in L.A. Johnny hadn’t played there since the time his voice went out onstage and Variety wrote it up like it was an occasion for the whole staff to break out the Crown Royal and dance on Johnny’s fresh grave. Gussie and Johnny had remained friends, though.

  “Frank Falcone sends his regards,” Gussie said. Gussie was said to be a made guy in the L.A. organization, which was connected somehow with Chicago.

  “He’s not coming?” Johnny said.

  “Mr. Falcone came down with something,” Ping-Pong said. His meaty fist clutched a new-looking satchel. He was Falcone’s underboss. Johnny couldn’t have said just what an underboss did. Johnny tried not to know more about that kind of thing than he had to. “Other than his regards, he also sends this.”

  “Nice,” said Johnny.

  “I’ll get you one,” Ping-Pong said, “quick as I can get it made and shipped over from Sicily. I got a guy there, works like a dog and makes ten of these a year. Virgin leather, best there is. Want me to send it to the Castle in the Sand? Your home? Which?”

  Fontane had been working on some kind of joke on the virgin part of virgin leather, but he was just too frazzled. Nothing clicked. “This one isn’t mine?”

  “I’ll get you one.”

  “Kidding, Jack.”

  “I’m not offering, I’m telling you. All right? But this one here,” he said, handing it to Johnny, “is for Mike Corleone, capisc’?”

  Meaning: Enough with the ragging and Whatever you do, kid, don’t fucking open it.

  The bag, packed tight, was heavy as a bowling ball. Johnny gave it a little shake, like a kid at Christmas, then held it up to his ear, making a show of seeing if it was ticking.

  “Funny guy.” Ping-Pong narrowed his eyes in his fat face and just stood there, apparently until he was satisfied that Johnny had gotten the message. “I must express my regrets also,” Ping-Pong finally said. “I have to see to some personal family matters.”

  “No sweat,” Johnny said. So I’m your fucking bagman now? But he just stood there, absorbing the indignity like acid into cheap cement.

  “It’s our loss, not seeing you,” Ping-Pong said. “You’re sounding great, John.”

  Milner kept writing. The musicians filed out. Johnny said his good-byes and headed out with Gussie and Ping-Pong. A Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow was idling by the back door.

  “Where’s the queen?” Johnny said.

  “Excuse me?” Ping-Pong frowned, as if he took it that he was being called a fag.

  “He means of England,” Gussie said. “He’s joking.”

  Ping-Pong shook his head in a kids-today way that Johnny could have done without.

  “The car’s mine, Johnny,” Gussie said.

  A black Lincoln pulled up. Ping-Pong and his men got in and sped off.

  As they did, Johnny caught a flash of metal out of the corner of his eye and jerked out of the way. He stumbled and fell against the side of the Rolls.

  It hadn’t been a bullet.

  Johnny wasn’t exactly sure why he’d thought it might be.

  “Nice catch,” Gussie said. “You all right?”

  Johnny reached down to pick up Cicero ’s car keys. “Long day,” Johnny said.

  “All you had to say,” Gussie said, “was no thanks.”

  “No thanks what?”

  “No thanks you didn’t want to drive my fucking Rolls-Royce.”

  Johnny tossed him his keys. “No thanks I don’t want to drive your fucking Rolls-Royce.”

  “See? Is that so hard?”

  “I didn’t hear you, okay? I’m bushed, brother.” The sun was about to set. Johnny couldn’t have said how long it had been since he’d had an honest-to-God night’s sleep.

  Gussie gave Johnny a hug and said it had been a privilege to hear him sing. They got in and headed for the airport. Johnny started spinning the dial on Gussie’s radio, checking out the competition. All around the dial were fads. Rock and roll. Fast-talking disc jockeys. Mambo: another fad. Weepy girl singers: yet another. Johnny never once came across his own voice. Maybe the other record companies were right. Maybe the kind of record Johnny Fontane was trying to make didn’t have a Chinaman’s chance. He kept spinning the dial. Gussie must have picked up on how jangled Johnny’s nerves were and for most of the ride there had the decency not to say anything until they were getting off the freeway for the airport.

  “What’s the difference,” Gussie said, “between Margot Ashton and a Rolls-Royce?”

  Margot had been Fontane’s second wife, Gussie’s first. Fontane had left Ginny for Margot. It wasn’t enough that Margot stole his heart; she took everything, even his self-respect. One time, he showed up on the set of a movie she was doing and the director put him to work cooking spaghetti. Without a word of complaint Fontane tied on an apron and did it. Love. Fucking love. “Not everyone’s been inside a Rolls-Royce,” Johnny said.

  “You heard that?”

  “Everyone’s heard that. You know, with different fancy cars and different sluts.”

  “Sluts don’t come much more different,” Gussie said, “than Margot Ashton.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, pal-o’-mine. A slut’s a slut.”

  Gussie made a wrong turn, toward the commercial flights.

  “You made a wrong turn,” Johnny said, pointing to the road to the private hangars.

  Gussie shook his head. “Actually,” he said, “I’m not going either. Frank didn’t want you to be sore, but, you know, a whole airplane, just for one guy-”

  He reached into his breast pocket, for a gun. But no, not a gun. Johnny was wrong. Gussie pulled out an envelope. “It’s commercial, but it’s first class.”

  Johnny took the plane ticket. His flight left in fifteen minutes. “You’re really not going?”

  “Actually,” Gussie said, “I was never invited.”

  “Of course you’re invited. I’m inviting you.”

  “It’s okay,” Gussie said. “Gina and I got plans.” Gina was the girl he’d married after he’d been dumped by Margot Ashton. Ashton had married an Arab sheik after that and already divorced him, too. “Our fifth anniversary, if you can believe it,” he said, stopping the car. Skycaps practically ran to help, seeing a Rolls, imagining big bags and bigger tips. “Next weekend, though, she and I got tickets to come up there and see you.”

  “You bought tickets?”

  “A bargain at any price, if you sound ha
lf as good as today.”

  “I catch you on anything but a comp list for any show I ever do, it’s your ass, pally.”

  There was a crowd, maybe twenty people, all different ages. He told the skycaps he didn’t have any bags except just this little one here, but he duked them anyway, twenty apiece. Two men in sky blue sport coats rushed to meet him and help him through the crowd, which caught everyone’s attention, even in a place like L.A. The crowd snowballed, surging behind him all the way to the gate. Against his better judgment, Johnny handed the satchel to one of the airline guys so that he could sign quick, illegible autographs, including one some dame wanted right on her face. He duked the two airline guys fifty.

  When he boarded the plane, there was applause. He waved and smiled but did not remove his sunglasses. He took his seat. He put the bag on the floor between his legs. Under different circumstances he’d have been after that redheaded stewardess with the big tits, but all he asked her for was a pillow, a bourbon rocks, and a hot tea with honey. He looked at the satchel. Another sort of guy would open it now. Johnny couldn’t have given a shit.

  It took her forever to bring the drinks. “We don’t have honey,” she said.

  “No tea, either, looks like.”

  “I’m heating the water right now.”

  She turned around. He looked down at the satchel. He opened it.

  It was jammed with cash, of course. On top was an unsigned, typewritten note that said, “Told you not to look.” The o’s in look had dots inside; underneath was an upside-down smile.

  Johnny wadded the note up. He saw the redhead coming with the tea and downed half his bourbon. He chewed ice as she set the tea down. He made his left hand into a pistol, pointed it at her, winked, and made a little clucking sound. She blushed.

  By the time the redhead passed through the cabin getting everything squared away for takeoff, he’d finished the bourbon and the tea and was sound asleep.

  Chapter 8

  Y OU WERE at the Tri Delt ice cream social, right?” said the honey-voiced blonde in line in front of Francesca Corleone as she took her food: cling peaches on cottage cheese and a wilted leaf of iceberg lettuce. This, plus sweet tea, was the entirety of the girl’s dinner.

  Behind Francesca, Suzy Kimball kept her eyes on her tray and hummed.

  “That wasn’t me,” Francesca said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh.” This was where a normal person would introduce herself. Instead, the girl turned around and went back to her chirpy giggling with the girls she’d come with.

  There were many other girls in line at the dining hall who did not have Greek letters on their clothing, other girls who weren’t whispering among themselves, who weren’t cowering underneath their raincoats as upperclassmen came in. These girls existed, but Francesca didn’t see them. What she noticed was Suzy, the quiet dark-skinned girl behind her, choosing the food Francesca chose, following Francesca to a table by the window.

  “You know,” said a deep voice behind Francesca, “this used to be a girls’ school.”

  Francesca turned around. At the next table was a tanned young man in a seersucker suit. He clutched a wooden replica of a rocket ship. Pushed up in his curly blond hair was a pair of sunglasses, the kind pilots wore.

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  “ Florida College for Women.” His white teeth revealed a crooked smile. “Until right after the war. Sorry for eavesdropping. I was just there helping my little brother move in. It’s good that your mother’s protective. She really loves you. You’re lucky.”

  His own mother couldn’t wait to get him and his brother out of the house, he said. He finally set the rocket ship down.

  Francesca felt dizzy, awash in the smell of blooming tea olive bushes.

  He’d turned away from a group of people-upperclassmen, from the looks of them, including the blonde with the peaches-to talk to her. There was something about this boy, both awkward and smooth, in the way he couldn’t stop talking. Finally he apologized for not introducing himself. “I’m Billy Van Arsdale.” He extended his hand.

  This was her big chance. Fran Collins. Franny Taylor. Frances Wilson. Francie Roberts. As she reached out her hand, she realized her palms were sweaty. Not just sweaty: drenched. But she was committed. No stopping now. In a panic, she took Billy’s hand in her somewhat less damp fingertips, turned it, and kissed it on the knuckles.

  Billy’s dinner companions broke out laughing.

  “Francesca Corleone,” she said, barely in a whisper and, despite herself, pronouncing all four syllables of her last name, in her best Italian. She tried to smile, as if she’d meant the kiss as a joke. “So, um. What’s the story with the spaceship?”

  “That,” Billy said, “is a really lovely name.”

  “She’s Italian,” blurted Suzy Kimball, bright-eyed, as if she were in class and it was the first time all term she’d known the right answer. She was saying it to Billy’s whole table. “They’re big kissers, the Italian people. I thought it was Corle-own, not Corle-oney. Which is it?”

  Francesca couldn’t bear to say anything, couldn’t take her eyes off Billy.

  Someone at the other table said, “Mamma mia, where’s-a da mozzarella?” which inspired more laughter. Billy ignored them. “Welcome to FSU. If I can ever do anything-”

  “Here it goes,” said one of the men at his table.

  “Honey,” said the girl with the cling peaches, “you are incorrigible.”

  “-don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Corleone, huh?” said the mozzarella boy. He held up an invisible tommy gun and made ack-ack sounds. “You any relation?” someone said.

  “You guys are jerks,” Billy said. “Don’t be ridiculous. They’re jerks,” Billy said to Francesca. “Anyway, I have to run, but if you need anything, I’m in the book. Under ‘W.B.’ ”

  “Yes, dahling,” Cling Peaches said, “William Brewster Van Ahhhsdale the Third.”

  Billy rolled his eyes, gave Francesca’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, grabbed his wooden rocket, flicked his sunglasses into place, and left. Francesca expected the people at the other table to keep needling her, but they lost interest and went back to talking to one another.

  “I’m sorry,” Suzy mumbled. She was quivering like an abused house pet.

  What could Francesca say? “You’re right. I am.” Italian. “We are.” Big kissers. There were worse things to be, no? “Forget it. Say my name any way you want.”

  Suzy looked up, then covered her mouth. “You should see yourself.”

  “See myself why?” Francesca said.

  A thunderclap sounded.

  Suzy shook her head, but Francesca knew. She could still feel Billy’s touch.

  After dinner, they worked on their room. Suzy’s clothes were more like uniforms: nearly identical skirts and blouses, utterly identical bras, socks, and underpants. They agreed to make more room by bunking their beds, and Francesca said Suzy could pick. She picked the bottom. Who picks the bottom? The rain stopped. The dorm mother herded everyone out, handed them small white candles, and marched them across campus to freshman convocation. The marching band played as they entered the football stadium. A misty rain began. There were rows and rows of white wooden folding chairs. Suzy and Francesca sat near the back. The swarthy ones. She had to find a way to distance herself from this girl and not be a bad person.

  On a platform at the fifty-yard line, some dean welcomed them. Then he introduced the university president, a lugubrious man in a black robe. The dean sat down, and only then did Francesca notice, in the seat beside the dean, that blue seersucker suit, that blond hair, and even from across the field those white teeth. For a moment, she thought it must be a delusion. The heat. Then Suzy dug her elbow into Francesca’s side and pointed.

  “It’s William Brewster Van Arsdale the Third!” she said.

  “That was a joke,” Francesca said.

  “You have that look on your face again,” Suzy said.

  Francesca tried
to cock her eyebrow the way Deanna Dunn had in that movie a few years back where she played a killer.

  Billy spent the duration of the president’s remarks making notes on index cards. Francesca spent it telling herself that in a world of stupid crushes, this was plainly the stupidest.

  The president tugged at his sashes. He told them to look right and look left and that one of those people wouldn’t make it to graduation and to make sure that one person wasn’t you, then he directed jumper-clad Spirit Leaders at the ends of the aisles to start lighting everyone’s candles. Thunder sounded. He said it was now his pleasure to introduce the student body president. “Of course, anyone out there who ever ate any fresh Florida fruit is already a faithful friend of his family.” The president paused to chuckle and call attention to how pleased he was at his own alliteration. “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. William Brewster Van Arsdale.”

  “I thought you said that was a joke?” Suzy said.

  Francesca shrugged. Van Arsdale Citrus?

  Billy came to the podium, waving. He pulled out the rocket ship from inside his jacket. As he did, the rain began to fall harder. Billy forged on. The rocket was a prop for him to talk about the coming space age in which the students here would live their exciting lives. Candles flickered out. People started to leave. Abruptly, in that Florida way, the skies opened. Francesca buttoned her raincoat. The band ran for cover. Moments later, water filled the track around the field. Billy tucked the rocket back into his jacket and whipped his index cards into the wind. “Our formal education,” he shouted, “should stay in balance with the important things we’ve already learned. Love. Family. Common sense. C’mon, everybody, let’s have enough sense to come in out of the rain!”

  By the time he said it, most everyone had. Except Francesca, who just sat there.

  She was kidding herself. It was ridiculous. It was obvious to her now that, in the dining hall, he’d been up to one of two things. Either he was trying to be a do-gooder, reaching out to the two weird-looking ethnic girls. Or else he’d been making fun of her.