The Godfather returns

by Mark Winegardner

  He bore left, scanning the floor for debris or fallen body parts. His grandparents, who came from the tiny town of Corleone, were among those hung vertically. His grandfather wore a green velvet coat (underneath, the gunshot wound in his back gaped open and a steel rod was all that kept the powdery-boned torso from collapsing). His grandmother (an arm had dropped off some time ago and been loosely reattached with wire) wore her wedding dress. When the monk had first arrived, they, like many of the dead, still had faces. For a half century he’d watched the day-by-day disappearance of their eyes and skin. He kissed his fingertips, applied them spider delicately to the foreheads of his ancestors, mumbled a prayer for their souls, and hurried on.

  At the end of the tunnel was La bambina, the lovely two-year-old girl who’d died in 1920 and become one of Sicily’s most popular tourist attractions. The doctor who embalmed her had taunted the monks about the new procedure he’d invented. Before anyone learned his secret, he, too, died (from the deadly sin of pride, the monk would tell the younger brothers, though the prosaic cause was a ruptured spleen). The old monk had spent many reflective hours studying the doctor’s pitiful notes and the girl herself, fruitlessly trying to guess what the doctor had done. The baby with the long blond hair in that glass-covered coffin had been in there for forty-one years. She looked as though she’d died a few days ago.

  As the monk approached La bambina, his cloudy eyes seemed to be playing tricks on him. Against the wall near the poor babe was a body as well preserved as hers.

  He rubbed his eyes. It was a bald man in a raincoat. Diamonds gleamed from the rings on his fingers and the bar across his fat tie. The dead were not interred here wearing jewelry. Then the monk saw the distinct black lines on either side of the man’s mouth and felt a wave of relief.

  It was a huge marionette. The jewelry must be fake. An odd prank, but the monk had lived in Palermo a long time and had learned not to be surprised by anything that happened here.

  He drew nearer.

  The puppet lines beside Laughing Sal Narducci’s mouth were actually rivulets of blood.

  The rope used to garrote him-just before noon, when the catacombs closed for lunch-lay on the floor beside the dead man’s shiny shoes.

  The monk took in this grim tableau, in this strange and holy place, and something inside his heart broke. A common thief would have taken the jewels. An ordinary killer would have hidden the body, not left it here, in the same chamber with La bambina! The monk shouted a stream of curses at the Friends. Who else would do such a thing? He had devoted his life to paying penance for his family’s violent tradition, but again and again it sought him out. And now, so late in life, this atrocity. It felt cruelly inevitable. Rage filled him like a poison. His curses grew louder.

  The brothers who ran to his aid told the authorities that when the beloved old man collapsed and died, his face was as red as the rightmost stripe of the Italian flag.

  When, from the killer himself, Cesare Indelicato heard what had happened-on the terrace of his cliffside villa, overlooking the medieval city he essentially ruled-he marveled at God’s bleak sense of humor. Don Cesare had never met the poor monk, but he recognized the man’s name. It had been Don Cesare’s grandfather, Felice Crapisi, who killed the monk’s traitorous grandfather. Even more strangely, Don Cesare had been asked to kill Narducci twice (first by Thomas Hagen, then by Nick Geraci). The trusted soldato he’d sent had killed Narducci only once, yet the bloody poetics of the Creator saw fit to transform that lone killing into two deaths.

  Don Cesare thanked the killer and dismissed him.

  Alone, shaking his head in wonder and awe, Don Cesare raised a glass of grappa toward Palermo and toward the darkening heavens.

  What toast might he give to such a world, such a God, that had made him so happy, so rich, that had rewarded his every duplicitous act while punishing the superstitious little ants down there striving to do good?

  What else?

  “Salut’,” he cried. He drank.

  The toast echoed off the cliff. He heard it again, and again he drank.

  Chapter 29

  A T THE CORLEONE COMPOUND at Lake Tahoe, Theresa Hagen and Connie Corleone (who’d gone back to using her maiden name) were cooking dinner together, as they did most nights they were both home, which was most nights. They alternated kitchens, by no pattern Michael could see, some nights in his house, others (like tonight) at the Hagens’. There had been a remarkable change in Connie in the two years since she’d stopped trying to be a part of the jet set and come home to serve her brother-just as unmarried relatives have served as de facto first ladies to widowed or bachelor presidents. Theresa was no small part of Connie’s turnaround. She’d become the big sister Connie never had-complete with constant sisterly bickering, true, but they clearly loved each other. Because of Theresa, Connie had taken an interest in art and was helping Theresa raise funds to establish a permanent symphony orchestra in Lake Tahoe. They both held office in the League of Women Voters. The last year or so, Connie had even started dressing much more conservatively. They used the same designer the real first lady did.

  In Tom Hagen’s office, the stone cottage behind the house, Tom and Michael were lying low until dinner was ready. Connie’s kids drove Michael nuts, even his godson, Mickey Rizzi, who was six years old and cried constantly. Connie ran things around the house, but Michael could have hired people to do that. Having someone else’s children living in his house made him miss Tony and Mary even more, he thought, than if he’d been rattling around over there alone. Not to mention the Hagen kids, right next door. Gianna Hagen and Mary were the same age, had gone to the same schools, and been best friends. It was impossible to look at Gianna and not feel a pang of yearning for the simple pleasure of reading a bedtime story to his daughter.

  He and Tom also had business to discuss, of course. Tom had spoken to the Ambassador about getting Billy more responsibility in his job at the Justice Department; the Ambassador claimed to have spoken to his son Danny, the attorney general, but Tom had his doubts. Billy was apparently still being kept away from anything in the office that might be useful to the Corleones.

  There was also the matter of Vincent Forlenza’s trumped-up rationale for killing his long-deported consigliere and the word Nick Geraci had sent that he needed to speak with Michael Corleone, in person, one on one.

  “Did Geraci say what it was about?” Michael presumed it had to do with Narducci.

  “He didn’t,” Tom said. “He said he could come out here if you’d rather-Aw, shit.”

  On the putting green outside Tom’s office, Victor Rizzi-his twelve-year-old nephew, freshly suspended from school for fighting and drinking-executed a flying tackle of Andrew Hagen, seven years older and about to begin his sophomore year at Notre Dame. Andrew-a divinity major who planned to become a priest-was probably not the instigator. Victor came up swinging. Andrew tossed his putter aside and pinned Victor to the green.

  Michael cocked an eyebrow.

  “Forget it,” Tom said. “Andrew can handle it.”

  “It’s not Andrew I’m worried about.”

  The Hagens’ alarmed, obedient collie raced to the back door of the house, barking. A moment later, Connie came running out in a filthy apron, screaming at Victor. Andrew used his longer arms to his advantage and essentially handed Victor over to his furious mother.

  “Remind you of anybody?” Tom said.

  Michael knew Tom must have meant either him or Fredo, but it didn’t seem like something either of them would have done. Also, neither he nor Tom ever spoke Fredo’s name. There were things that had to be done, and you did them, and you never talked about it. You didn’t try to justify them. They can’t be justified.

  “You mean me?” Michael said. “When did I ever-”

  Tom rolled his eyes. So this had been his attempt to talk about Fredo.

  “When did… he ever take on you and Sonny?”

  Tom shook his head, gravely. “I shouldn’t have said a
nything. I’m getting old.”

  A few beats late, Michael realized that Tom hadn’t meant Fredo. He’d meant Carmela, who’d broken up more petty fights in their neighborhood than ten beat cops combined.

  “Anyway,” Tom said, “getting Geraci out here’s going to take a while. He’ll have to drive or take a train.”

  “I’m supposed to go see the kids the week after next.”

  “If you’re going to do it at all,” Hagen said, “I think that’s when. But-”

  “I’m going to do it.”

  “It could be a trap. Especially in New York, I think.”

  “It’s fine,” Michael said. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll be sure Al takes every precaution.”

  “What’ll happen when they find out we had the job done on Narducci before they did?”

  Sal Narducci hadn’t seemed like the sort of man who’d hold up well if he were tortured. It hadn’t been a chance Michael was willing to take. They could suspect whatever they wanted from Narducci, but they weren’t going to hear it from that horse’s ass’s mouth. “How would they find out?” Michael said. “We contacted the same man they did. Indelicato waited to hear from them, as we told him he would, and then he did the job to our specifications.”

  “You’re that confident in Cesare Indelicato? This was the first time I’d ever met the man. He’s worked with Geraci for years.”

  “He’s been in business with the Corleone Family for many more years,” Michael said. “If it hadn’t been for the help of my father during the war, Cesare Indelicato would still be hijacking tomato carts. Anyway, what incentive does he have to side with anyone but himself? He was contacted twice, received two tributes, all for one simple job. He won’t give the matter a second thought.”

  “After all the bullshit Forlenza fed the Commission about Narducci’s activities in Sicily,” Hagen said, “I’m surprised he didn’t send his own men to do the job. Or at least to contact Don Cesare.”

  “Forlenza will just say that Geraci’s from Cleveland-his godson, et cetera-and was going to Sicily on business anyway, which is true. It’s suspicious, but Don Forlenza made no secret of it. He told the Commission that this was how he was going to handle it. Brilliant. It looked like he had nothing to hide.”

  “And you’re still certain they do have something to hide.” They meaning Forlenza, Geraci, and Russo.

  “What in this life is certain?” Michael said. “I’m certain enough.”

  “If it was anyone else,” Hagen said, “I’d say be careful.”

  Michael smiled. “If it came from anyone else, I’d take offense.”

  “I think I have an idea,” Tom said, “about how to handle things with Russo.”

  He was interrupted by Connie banging the dinner gong as if she were seeking rescue, not serving up the evening meal.

  When they got to the table, it was a bruised and chastised Victor who led them in grace.

  Francesca Van Arsdale had spent all morning making a picnic lunch to surprise her husband, but when she and little Sonny showed up at his office, Billy grumbled about all the tourists on the Mall and how hot it was before he finally thanked her for the gesture and agreed to go. “It’s not as if I’m too busy to get away,” he said.

  Billy had probably begun working at the Justice Department with unrealistically high hopes, although, after seven miserable months on the job, he still seemed unready to admit that to himself, much less to his wife. He was only two years out of law school, Francesca reminded him, but that only launched him on some litany of names she didn’t know-people who, like Billy, had been president of law review at Harvard and what glamorous and/or lucrative things those strangers were doing two years later.

  “Exactly,” she said, “and someday some other, younger presidents of law review will have you on the same kind of list. ‘Do you know what Senator Van Arsdale-’”

  “C’mon, Francie.”

  “‘-was doing two years out of law school? Working for the United States Justice Department, that’s what, and not just under any attorney general. No! Under Daniel Brendan Shea! The greatest attorney general in American history and our, y’know, thirty-seventh president or whatever number he’d be.’”

  Sonny was jumping around in the grass of the Mall doing the famous Monkey Dance from Jojo, Mrs. Cheese and Annie. Except for the gold football helmet bobbing on the boy’s head, it was a dead-on impression of Jojo. Tourists paused to watch.

  “When did he learn to do that?” Billy whispered, spreading out the blanket.

  “It’s from TV,” she said. Months ago was the answer. He frowned, either confused or disapproving, Francesca didn’t want to know which. Sonny finished, and bystanders applauded. Francesca firmly told him he couldn’t do an encore like Jojo, because it was time to eat.

  They sat down as a family. Why couldn’t he appreciate this? she thought. Why couldn’t he accept this as the point of life and take pleasure in it? Between his unhappiness at work-which he talked about all the time-and their joint unhappiness about losing the baby-which they never really talked about-she was feeling more and more like they had to get out of this godforsaken city. Billy had been so good to her from the time she’d found out about the affair until the night they’d lost the baby, but he’d barely touched her since then. The only time they’d tried to make love, he couldn’t get hard and she was too fragile herself to make it happen for him. He rolled off her, onto his back, and used his hand. When he came, she started crying, though she was also strangely relieved. About half the nights since then, for no apparent reason, he’d spent the night on the couch with the TV test pattern on.

  “You don’t understand, Francie,” Billy said. “It’s complicated.” He’d folded several napkins to sit on, even on top of the blanket, so he wouldn’t get his seersucker suit dirty. “All day I sit on my duff in the library,” he said, slapping said duff, “checking other people’s citations. Some of the lawyers who wrote those things are my age, and most of them wouldn’t know a decent English sentence from-I don’t know, the Monkey Dance, but-”

  “Monkey Dance!” Sonny cast aide his bologna sandwich, grabbed his football helmet, and shot up, dancing. Billy didn’t even budge. Francesca got up, got Sonny under control, and, with the minor concession of allowing him to keep the helmet on, got him back to eating lunch.

  “When I was on law review,” Billy said, “I had people doing this kind of job for me.”

  It took her a second to realize he meant the work in the law library, not her efforts to subdue a four-year-old with a Monkey Dance fixation. Billy had people for that, too: her. A normal, healthy four-year-old boy was wearying enough without having to contend with a whiny husband, too. She’d only been eleven when her father died. She knew she’d probably built him up into someone who never existed, but she hadn’t even the vaguest memory of him whining to his wife, not once. “Well, you’re not on law review anymore,” Francesca said, “are you?”

  “How can I talk to you about this? You didn’t even finish college. Nobody in your family ever did.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Aunt Kay did, and so did Uncle Tom and Aunt Theresa.”

  Billy laughed. “They’re not blood, though, are they? Other than Theresa, they’re not even Italian.”

  Francesca would have let him have it-verbally, at least-if Sonny hadn’t been sitting right there. “My twin sister finished, and she’s getting her doctorate. My brother Frankie is doing great at Notre Dame, and-”

  “Your brother Frankie plays football. What’s the toughest class he’s taking, Theory of Gym Class?”

  “That’s low.” Frankie was in fact a phys ed major and had never been good in school. She was proud he was doing as well as he was, even in a gut major. “I’d have finished my degree, too, if you hadn’t-” Sonny was devouring his sandwich now, but Francesca didn’t want to risk saying anything in front of him. “You know.”

  Billy shrugged. “Takes two to tango,” he said. “If you took exception to that, you h
ad your chance to have it taken care of.”

  A look of horror crossed his face; he immediately realized what he’d said.

  “Taken care of!” she said.

  “I’m sorry!” He reached out to her, and she pushed his arm away. He spent most of the rest of lunch apologizing. He was a talker. Eventually, he wore her down.

  “It’s the job,” Billy said. “It’s gotten to the point that it’s affecting the way I am with you. I need to be making more of a difference in the world, and what it comes down to, I guess, is that I’m not going to be happy until I am. Can you understand that?”

  She told him she did understand, as she’d told him before, and told him he really needed to talk to the attorney general and make his unhappiness known, as she’d been saying for weeks. She didn’t understand why he wouldn’t do it. She was raised to believe that if you had a problem, you went to the man at the top. Billy had been raised with all the advantages, so she’d have thought he’d believe in that, too. All she could figure was maybe he was intimidated by Daniel Brendan Shea, though that, too, mystified her. Danny Shea, a pale and scrawny version of his brother, possessed the startled, blinking manner of a man whose eyeglasses have just been yanked from his face, though in fact his eyesight, if not his vision, was perfect.