“Explain to me how this is going to work,” Geraci said. “I’ve heard different things, but I wrote a lot of it off as just talk.”
“It’s simple. As you know, I promised Clemenza and Tessio they could have their own Families when the time was right. Tessio betrayed us and Pete’s dead, but the promise still lives.”
“Ogni promessa è un debito, eh?” Geraci said. “As my old man used to say.”
“Exactly,” Michael said. “Today I pay that debt. In every respect, you’re our best man in New York. As of today, I have no further need for the businesses you run, not even the income from them. I’m out. I’m the one who should call you Don. Don Geraci. Congratulations.”
That’s it. I’m dead. “Thank you,” Geraci said. “Just like that?”
“How else?” Michael said.
Despite himself, Geraci shot a glance at Neri. They were heading west on Seventy-ninth Street, into Central Park. Neri was looking straight ahead. “I’m deeply honored. Overwhelmed.”
“You earned it.”
Geraci held up his ringless right hand. “If I’d known, I’d have bought a ring.”
“Take mine,” Michael said. “It was blessed by the pope himself.” He started taking it off. It was tasteful, classy: a big diamond surrounded by sapphires.
He wouldn’t give that ring to a man he was about to kill, would he? And who’d give away a ring that had been blessed by the fucking pope?
“I was kidding,” Geraci said. “I couldn’t possibly accept. You’ve been too generous already.” Geraci held up his big right hand, half again the size of Michael’s and gnarled from the many punches it had landed, with and without boxing gloves. “Also, I don’t think it’ll fit.”
Michael laughed. “I never really noticed.” He slid the ring back on his finger.
How could he never have noticed? “You know what they say. Big hands-”
“Big rings.”
“Exactly. Really, Michael, this is incredible news. A dream come true.”
“You didn’t know?”
“Of course I knew. But I heard there was some trouble with the Commission.”
“You have good sources. The Commission has asked that I stay on. I was opposed to this, but their decision is binding. I will remain in an advisory capacity, both to them and to you. It should go without saying that this arrangement will be maintained in the strictest confidence. Anyone you appoint as capo must be cleared with the Commission, and I advise you to clear it with me first. I assume you’ll want to keep Nobilio?”
“I need to think about it.” Richie Two Guns had taken over Clemenza’s old regime. Everything Geraci knew about Richie was good-he’d helped put together the monopoly the New York Families now had on cement, for example, and had a big presence down in Fort Lauderdale, too-but saying yes, just like that, didn’t seem smart. If all this was on the level, that is. “Think Richie’ll be sore you picked me?”
“You don’t think he’ll be a lot more sore if you bust him down?”
“I’m not talking about busting him down. I’m just wondering how he’ll take the news.”
“I’m sure it won’t come as much of a surprise.”
“You talk to him?”
Michael shook his head. “It’s out there, though. If there’s a problem, I can talk to him.”
“I’m sure it’ll work out great.” He and Richie had talked about the rumors. Richie had said he’d be happy to see Geraci become the new Don and was pulling for the Commission to approve it. Probably he was telling the truth. “Richie seems like a good man.”
“For your own regime, I won’t presume to make suggestions. Just talk to me first.”
“Will do.”
“I’ll be providing limited counsel to you, but I won’t be serving as your consigliere. I have another sort of life I wish to lead. I don’t want my past to intrude on that life.”
“I understand.” Though he didn’t, not entirely. “Do I run that choice past you as well?”
“Up to you.”
“If you don’t mind,” Geraci said, “I’d like Tom Hagen to be my consigliere.”
“Unfortunately,” Michael said, “I do mind. My brother Tom will continue to work closely with me as my attorney.”
Another good sign. If Geraci really was about to be killed, Michael could have said yes.
“Thought I’d take a shot. You always want the best man you can get.”
“You don’t like me,” Michael said. “Do you, Fausto?”
Geraci quickly decided that lying would be more dangerous than telling the truth. “That’s true. I don’t. No disrespect, but I don’t know many people who do.”
“But you fear me.”
“Fear is the enemy of logic,” Geraci said, “but you’re right. I do. More than death. I know what you’re trying to say, Michael. I’m ready. I know what it means to you, the sacrifices your family has made to build this organization. I’ll give it all I have. Everything.”
Michael reached over and slapped Geraci on the knee, affectionately.
They got onto Broadway, uptown.
No mention had been made of what had used to be Rocco Lampone’s regime. Rocco had gotten himself killed two years ago in Miami and still hadn’t been replaced. There were made guys out in Nevada-Al Neri, his nephew Tommy, Figaro, four or five others, plus the connected guys underneath them. If they were a part of this deal, Michael would have said so. Especially with Neri right there, Geraci wasn’t going to push his luck. Fuck Nevada.
Geraci rubbed his chin. “Maybe I took a couple punches too many,” he said, “but I’m confused. You honest to God have no further need for my businesses? You’re gonna just, what, control a couple casinos in Nevada and call it a career?”
Michael nodded. “Fair question,” he said. “I made my family a promise that I’d get out, and I’m keeping my promise. As a matter of fact, I had this in place two years ago. Between the casinos in Nevada and the ones in Cuba and our various real estate holdings, I had a business empire that would’ve sustained itself for a hundred years. But then the Communists took over Cuba and we lost everything there. The various misfortunes that came our way at about the same time meant both that the organization as a whole needed the income from those legitimate businesses and that I couldn’t yet step down. But two years and Jimmy Shea’s election have changed everything. Losing our legal gambling revenues in Cuba was terrible, but now we have influence in New Jersey. We got their governor elected president, but I’d say what was even more important there was the mutually beneficial arrangement you’ve built with the Stracci Family. For as long as I can remember, there’s been talk of legalizing gambling in Atlantic City, and I plan to stay on the Commission until that happens-probably in a year-so that we can get in there, too. How long is a Communist country a hundred miles off our shore going to last? If it wasn’t for the Russians, we’d have taken the place back the moment they started stealing from us, but the difference between Cuba and every other Communist country is that they’re so close to the richest country in the world they can taste it and already have. I give it two years, maybe three, and we’ll be back in business there, too. I have assurances from the Shea government that they’ll enforce the return of all properties to their previous owners. The point I’m trying to make is that if we don’t have considerable resources banked, we can’t run casinos without the likes of Louie Russo crushing us. We don’t quite have those resources yet. Between what we do have, both financial and in terms of personnel, together with what now seems inevitable-well, it’s better to get out a year too early than a minute too late.”
“So who feeds the meat eaters?” Geraci asked. The Corleone Family’s greatest asset was the network of people it kept on its payroll. “I know a lot of the cops and union people we have, some of the judges and the D.A.s, but I’m sure I don’t know the half of it. And the politicians, forget it. All I know is rumors.”
Geraci had been running most of the Family’s business in New Yor
k, but the connection guys were under Michael and Hagen.
“Tom will be in touch with you,” Michael said. “There will be a transition period. When I took over from my father, it took him and Tom six months to explain everything to me.”
“I guess if it’s possible to make the transition from one leader of the free world to another in two months, I can figure all this out in six.”
Michael chuckled.
“You’re really not going to use our judges and cops and so on?” Geraci asked. “You’re giving that up?”
“Did I say that? I said I have no more need for the income from the businesses you run.”
“Sure,” Geraci said. “I understand. You’re out.”
“Don’t be naive, Fausto. There are plenty of men on the president’s transition team who are feeding more meat eaters than we do.”
So there’s retired and then there’s whatever it is that you are, Geraci thought. Got it.
“And the seat on the Commission. Do I have one, or is that you?”
“That’s me for now. You’ll have one eventually. Get yourself organized, and after that the Commission will take care of it. I don’t think there’s going to be any problem with that.”
They discussed several other specific issues. The car crossed the park again and started back down Lexington Avenue-hardly a neighborhood for a murder. They really weren’t going to kill him. Michael still hadn’t learned who was really behind his brother’s betrayal. But Geraci wasn’t taking any chances.
“Speaking of excellent sources,” he said, “I want you to know something. They tried to kill your brother.”
“Who tried to kill my brother?”
“Louie Russo. Fuckface.”
“My brothers are dead.”
“A while ago. I just learned about it.”
“Which brother?”
It unnerved Geraci that Michael could call Hagen my brother one moment and say My brothers are dead the next. “Fredo. It was a botched hit, and Russo called it off. Remember Labor Day?”
Geraci didn’t need to say which Labor Day. Michael nodded.
“After Pete’s kid’s wedding, Fredo wound up in a motel in Canada. With-I don’t know how to say this-with another man. The button guys were supposed to make it look like Fredo killed himself out of shame or what-have-you. I’d tell you that it was a setup, a frame-up, except for a few things.”
The problem with Michael’s poker face was that when he put it on, you noticed it.
“First,” Geraci said, “when Russo’s men got to the motel, Fredo was gone but there was still someone there-a salesman; nice job, wife, kids-and he’s naked on the bed. Second, the button guys open the door, and the salesman pulls a gun and shoots them. The gun’s a Colt Peacemaker with the serial number filed off. It may have been Fredo’s gun, maybe not, but he definitely lost a gun on that trip-Figaro told me that-and Fredo loved those Colts. Anyway, the salesman kills one guy, wounds the other. Next day, someone chloroforms a nurse, slits the wounded guy’s throat, then buries the knife in his eye up to the hilt and leaves it there. The day after that, the salesman goes to meet with his lawyer, and that’s the last anybody ever sees him. Other than his hands, that is, which someone chopped off and mailed to his wife.”
“You’re saying Don Russo covered his tracks.”
“I’m saying that, yes.”
“Why didn’t they come after Fredo again?”
“The idea was to embarrass the Family. You named Fredo sotto capo, and right after that it turns out he’s queer. I’m not saying he was, all right? I’m just giving you information.”
Michael nodded.
“If they made it look like he offed himself,” Geraci said, “that would’ve been the end of it. No revenge, no nothing. Our organization is hurt, and they benefit. They were mad about Las Vegas. They thought of it as their turf. But then after… you know. The crash. My crash. It wasn’t necessary anymore, at least for a while. I can’t prove it, but it stands to reason that Russo was behind the tragedy with your brother. Fredo was out in L.A. half the time, and L.A. was where he betrayed us.” Geraci raised his eyebrows, shrugged. “L.A. equals Chicago, right?”
It was no secret among the made members of the Family that Michael had ordered his own brother killed.
“How do you know so much?” Michael said. “How did you learn these things?”
“I’ve got a guy,” Geraci said. “Somebody inside the FBI.”
“The FBI?” Michael said, clearly impressed. The FBI-the director’s peccadillos notwithstanding-was considered incorruptible.
“The gun Fredo was arrested with in L.A. when he killed that dog? Also a Colt with its serial number filed off. In the lab they were able to use acid and bring the number back up. Same with the gun from Windsor. They were both part of a shipment that our guy in Reno got and sold to nonexistent people. Thank God not to Gerald O’Malley. Oh, and one more thing.”
Geraci reached in his coat pocket for the closest thing he had to a concealed weapon-a cigarette lighter: jeweled, made in Milan, engraved CHRISTMAS 1954. He tossed it to Michael.
“Recognize this?”
Michael’s face reddened. He turned the lighter over in his small, perfectly manicured hand, then made a fist, covering it. Almost covering it.
“The salesman said it belonged to the other guy,” Geraci said. “Listen, Michael, I feel awful about this. If you want me to go after Russo, say the word and it’s done. I’ll come at him with everything we got.”
Michael turned to face the window. For several blocks he tapped the fist with the lighter in it against his chin.
Geraci was bluffing. He didn’t have anyone in the FBI. He’d heard those Colts all came from the same dealer and hoped that was right. He’d gotten the lighter from Russo, who’d gotten it from the salesman’s killer.
But Geraci was serious about going after Russo. He’d had peace in his regime for five years. He had a hell of a war chest. The last few years, Cesare Indelicato, the Sicilian capo di tutti capi, had been providing Geraci not only with heroin and other drugs but also personnel. Geraci had a whole crew of zips now, over in Bushwick, there on Knickerbocker Avenue, and he’d been setting up some of the legal immigrants with jobs in pizza parlors all over the Midwest, quietly tossing dough and making a little of it until the time may come for them to do Nick Geraci a favor. Men like that, living as law-abiding good neighbors for years in Kenosha, Cleveland Heights, or Youngstown, could go on “vacation,” do a job on somebody, come home, and nobody would ever in a million years connect them to some dead gangster eight hundred miles away. If Richie Two Guns was as good as he seemed, Geraci was confident the Corleones could cripple the Chicago outfit and make those animals answerable to the New York Families again. And, of course, Geraci could in the process cover his tracks for his role in manipulating Fredo to betray his brother. Better to do it on Michael’s say-so (with Michael having to answer to the Commission for it) than for Geraci to worry about whether to do it later.
“Thank you just the same,” Michael finally said. “But as I told you, I’m retired.”
The car stopped. They were back on First Avenue, in front of the Roach’s bar. Geraci wondered if Michael had really been thinking all that time or if he’d simply waited until the end of the drive to answer.
Nick Geraci held out his left hand, palm down, in front of his chest and held his right underneath, pointing at the bottom of his palm. “Qui sotto non ci piove.” Under here you won’t be rained on. “Un giorno avrai bisogno di me.” One day you’ll need me.
An old expression. Tessio would say it when pledging his protection, and Michael must have heard his father say it, too.
“I appreciate that, Fausto,” Michael said.
“Don’t mention it.”
Michael smiled. A chill went through Nick Geraci.
“You thought I was going to kill you,” Michael said, “didn’t you?”
“I think everyone’s trying to kill me all the fucking
time,” Geraci said. “Force of habit.”
“That’s probably why you’re still alive.”
How did he mean that? That it was probably why no one had ever killed him or why Michael wasn’t killing him now? Geraci wasn’t about to ask for a clarification.
“Anyway, Michael, what reason would I have to think you were going to kill me?” Geraci said. “Like you said, you’re retired. Good luck to you in your new life.”
Michael still had the lighter in his fist.
They kissed and embraced, and Geraci watched the limo pull away. When he walked inside the bar, his men had somehow known to gather, a good thirty or forty of them. Shaking, Nick Geraci went upstairs and slumped in a big leather chair in the corner. His men followed. He slipped his wedding ring onto the little finger of his right hand, and his men lined up to kiss it.
Chapter 23
M R. FONTANE ! Have you been promised a job in the Shea administration?”
The lobby of Constitution Hall was full of reporters. Johnny Fontane was sitting behind a table on a crowded dais, flanked by a dozen stars of stage and screen. There would be many more onstage tomorrow. They were making history. No one he’d asked to perform at the inaugural ball for Jimmy Shea had said no. If the Russians dropped the bomb on Washington, there’d be little left of show business but school plays, rock music, and stag films. “A job?” Johnny said, in mock horror. “I became a saloon singer so I’d never have to have a job.”
This got a decent laugh. He wanted them to think the answer might be yes. The Ambassador had talked about setting Fontane up to run for office. Jimmy himself-at Fontane’s place in Vegas, on a break from going at it with Rita Duvall, who was also on the podium now-had suggested making Fontane the ambassador to Italy. Or how about some little tropical paradise with blue skies and limitless pussy? He and Johnny had both been pretty drunk at that point.
“What does it say about the Shea presidency,” a voice shouted, “that the inaugural ball is being produced by someone like yourself with reputed Mafia ties?”
The Godfather returns Page 42
