“It’s a long story.”
“Because maybe give me the Reader’s Digest version.”
Nick tried to.
Stracci seemed content to follow the gist of it.
“It’s a sad story in a lot of ways from where I sit,” Stracci said. “I’m sure you been in a similar position from time to time. Friends you got which for mysterious reasons can’t work things out with other friends you got. It breaks your heart, you know? But, as I get older—as a matter of fact, maybe one good reason I did make it to this old—is that I make it my business to stay out of everything I can that’s not my business.”
“Don’t you think it is your business, though?” Geraci asked. “Our import operation we worked out, that was us, Don Stracci. You and me.”
Stracci shrugged. He had a bigger part of the business now, in Nick’s absence, than when Nick had been there to run his side of things. “It was Michael who was over you,” he said. “It’s Michael I’m still in business with, when it comes right down to it.”
“But I have your word you haven’t talked to him about—”
“On my honor,” Stracci said. He folded his arms.
“Forgive me for even asking,” Geraci said.
“You have a question you want to ask, ask,” Stracci said. “This right here, it’s just friends talking.”
He kept his arms folded. Nick had no choice but to continue.
“All right,” he said, “I understand your perspective. I respect anybody smart enough to take the long way around someone else’s crossfire. But I really think it is your business, Don Stracci. Don’t you think it’s your business that Michael Corleone—however good he is at handling outside situations—always seems to be having internal problems? Always some kind of problems in his borgata? That kind of instability—we both know in the long run, that’s bad for everyone. Plus, you’ve got him in the news all the time for his various mishandling of things I don’t need to go into now, but it’s a long list.”
“Ah, Nicky. Wait’ll you’re a boss,” Stracci said. “If you ever are. Because if and when that happens, you’ll see we’re, all of us, always fighting with that.”
“With all due respect,” Geraci said, “the things I’m talking about aren’t your everyday situations that anyone running any business has to contend with when his employees fuck up. Michael is a bright, capable, ruthless businessman, without a doubt. But he never wanted to be involved with this thing of ours in the first place. From the very beginning up to this very moment, he’s constantly been flying in the face of the rules that everybody else has to live by. He’s constantly shown contempt for those rules.”
“Contempt?” Stracci said. He unfolded his arms. He had a sip of his coffee.
“Contempt, yes. The thing that took him from college boy to eventual bane of my existence was that he shot a police captain, executed him, completely against the rules and with nobody’s sanction. Was Mike ever a capo or consigliere on the way up? Or did he ever even run so much as a sports book and kick upstairs? No. Those ways of doing things don’t apply to him, either. Mike never proved himself as an earner at all, he didn’t come up through the ranks the way I know all three of us here did, and yet the next thing you know—and this must be particularly hard to take, out here in New Jersey—he’s not just the boss of our Family but just because he’s in New York, he winds up as I guess what you’d call first among equals of all the bosses. Something like being your boss.”
Stracci looked slightly stung. “It’s more complicated than that,” he said. “But, uh…whattayacallit. Go on.”
Geraci had him on the hook now, he was sure of it. Now he just had to reel him in.
“Michael moves his base of operations to Nevada for a while there, when Las Vegas and Tahoe are supposed to be open cities for everybody, which I know for a fact he never ran by the Commission. And he’s divorced, which just goes to show you what taking sacred vows means to him. And he tries to kill me, Don Stracci: me, your friend and business partner, his best capo, he sacrifices me so that other people he gave the orders on—without the approval of the Commission in that case as well, if I’m not mistaken—so that it doesn’t look like he’s behind what happened to those men.”
“Tried to sacrifice you,” Elio pointed out.
“Right,” Geraci said. “Lucky me. And then when he’s trying to find me, he has his goons torture civilian members of my family, did you know that?”
From his reaction and the look he and Elio exchanged, it was clear that he did not.
“Torture?”
“He had my daughter tortured and my father killed, did you know that?”
“I asked about your family,” Stracci said. “You didn’t say nothin’ about that.”
“It’s hard to talk about in a how’s-your-family context. And my daughter’s doing fine,” he lied, “which is not the point. The point is that was a vile act, a horrible betrayal of our code.”
“Really? Your father wasn’t in this thing?” asked Elio Nunziato. “I thought he was.”
“My father was just an around-town guy, back in Cleveland. He’d been retired from even that for a long time, down in Arizona, which is where they killed him.”
“Come to think of it,” Elio said, “I heard about this at the time, only I heard it was a heart attack.”
“That was no heart attack,” Geraci said.
He dug in the bag and took out a jelly doughnut. One bite and he set it down on a napkin. Presti’s, back in Cleveland, a block from the house where he grew up, was such a magical place that it ruined a man for the rest of life’s doughnuts.
“Then there’s the matter of his consigliere, Tom Hagen, remember him? What I heard is, his big scandal last year just about got the whole Commission run in for questioning. If that’s true, that’s surely your business, Don Stracci. On top of that, now he’s been missing for almost two months. I know the prevailing wisdom is that he skipped the country because he’s afraid he’s going to finally get prosecuted for killing his whore. But—maybe you heard this, I don’t know—there’s a rumor going around he’s in FBI custody and going to rat us all out.”
Stracci looked at Elio, and Elio nodded in confirmation. This had found its way into the tabloids. It would be a tough rumor for Michael to stamp out, especially with no body. Nick had done his homework: the sinkhole in the Everglades where Hagen and his Buick now rested was so deep no one had yet found the bottom. There were more of these than people would think.
“Rumors,” Stracci said, waving his hand in dismissal. “Whattaya gonna do, am I right?”
“You may be right,” Geraci said. “But on the other hand, Hagen, he’s not Italian, and so not a made guy, of course. He never took vows or anything like that, never swore to omertà, and yet he was Mike’s consigliere. He even had him as acting boss for a while, which I don’t know if you knew. Tom Hagen was at Michael’s side for things nobody but a Sicilian should ever see or hear about, certainly nobody but an Italian, and if he does sing like the narrowback canary I’m afraid he is…Well, to cite an old New Jersey saying, we’re all in Trouble River, six feet high and rising.”
“That’s if,” Stracci said.
But Geraci felt like he had him. “My sources tell me that Sid Klein—you know him, right?”
“Know of him.”
“Klein’s been given all the lawyer jobs Tom Hagen used to handle, back when Michael still limited Hagen to just those specific areas of the Family business. As to who Michael’s going to bring to the Commission meeting as his consigliere, it’s anybody’s guess, but I’m picking Sid Klein and giving the points.”
Stracci shook his head.
“You have to admit, though,” Geraci said. “Stranger things have happened.”
Stracci finished his coffee and handed his empty cup to his consigliere, who dutifully got up to refill it.
“I understand your frustration, Nicky,” the old man said. “But what I think you’re asking me to do, I cannot do.”
“This is the beautiful part,” Geraci said. “All I’m asking you to do is give Michael Corleone what he always wanted.”
Stracci fish-eyed him. “Go on.”
“Michael didn’t want to be in this thing of ours,” Geraci said, “so fine. He wants out, we let him out. He wants to be a legitimate businessman—how many times you heard that, huh? Enough to make you sick of hearing it, I bet. Here again, we give him what he wants. We let him be just that—and nothing more.”
“Meaning specifically what?” Stracci said.
“We retire him.”
He paused to let that sink in.
“Or, rather,” Geraci said, “the Commission does it. I take over as boss, which I can assure you I’ve already laid the groundwork to do. You’ve worked with me for twenty years: you know that the men in the street believe in me. In taking over, I give certain assurances. I pledge to the Commission that Michael Corleone will walk away from our thing a rich man, with full control over a few perfectly legal businesses, enough to provide for his family for decades if he can run them without the advantages of enforcement and connections he was handed on his silver platter by his father, may he rest in peace.”
Stracci raised his pastry heavenward in acknowledgment.
“If Michael Corleone agrees to this and goes peacefully, there will be no reprisals whatsoever from me or from the men who work for me. This I can guarantee.”
“And you want me to make this proposal on your behalf?”
Geraci nodded.
Stracci seemed to be pretending to think this over, but Geraci was certain he had him, and he let the barbs of the plan sink in.
“And what if I do make this proposal? What if others don’t agree?”
“If you do it, Don Stracci,” Geraci said, “others will agree. Enough others. Not counting Michael, of course, there are nine voting members. So the proposal needs five votes and—to be safe—one strong advocate. If you are that advocate, Don Stracci, it’s certain this would get six votes.”
Geraci broke it down. Three—and only three—Dons were blindly loyal to Michael: Ozzie Altobello and Leo Cuneo here, plus Joe Zaluchi from Detroit. Nick could promise the support of Tramonti and Drago, plus John Villone from Chicago, who Geraci knew from his Cleveland days and had met with personally. Villone, new on the Commission, saw the wisdom in the plan, but he understandably didn’t want to lead a charge like this. He’d pledged to keep as quiet as possible and vote to retire Michael so long as it looked like that was the side that was going to win. He and Nick had agreed that Don Stracci was the pivotal vote. Not only did he make a fourth vote for Geraci, his support delivered Frank Greco, too. Greco was new on the Commission and, though he had little stake in what happened in New York, as the boss of the Philly/South Jersey outfit, he had dealings with the Straccis every day. Frank the Greek had every incentive in the world to go along with the wishes of his older, wiser associate to the north.
“That makes it five to three,” Nick said. “Without even considering the Barzinis.”
Geraci enjoyed watching Nunziato and Stracci’s faces and seeing the gears turn.
For as long as anyone could remember, the peace between the Barzinis and the Corleones had been uneasy and fragile, with at least three outbreaks of what could be called outright war. While Fat Paulie Fortunato, the Don of the Barzinis now, was known to be a man disinclined to take the offensive, it was difficult to imagine what objection he would raise to the retirement of the last Corleone left in the Corleone Family. He’d be able to do so without initiating the idea himself and do so on his home turf in Staten Island and be the vote that would make Michael’s three loyalists see the handwriting on the wall and therefore, most likely, accede to the inevitable.
Geraci could practically see the lightbulb go on over Black Tony Stracci’s grotesque head.
“It could be unanimous,” Stracci said, a faint note of awe in his voice.
“That’s right,” Geraci said. “It most certainly could be.”
“And what do I tell my friend Michael as he sits there and we discuss all this? That it’s only business?”
Geraci smiled. “He understands that.”
Stracci nodded, seeming to warm even further to the idea. Nunziato came to his side and Stracci whispered something to him, and the consigliere nodded and whispered something in return.
“I’ll speak with Frank Greco personally,” said Stracci. “You’ll have your answer within forty-eight hours.”
Black Tony Stracci stood. The men embraced again. As Nunziato showed Nick to the door, he offered him a doughnut for the road and Nick took it so as not to be rude.
“If you can content yourself with this resolution,” Stracci said, and Nick paused in the doorway and turned around, “I can only conclude two things. One, you, the new generation, are not as caught up in revenge as we have been, for which I congratulate you. And, two, that you must have had something to do with what happened to Tom Hagen.”
Geraci frowned. “What did happen to Tom Hagen? Was there news?”
“Very quick, young man,” Stracci said, wagging his bony finger. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Forty-eight hours,” Nick said. “Take as much of it as you need. And, from my heart, thank you, Don Stracci.”
“Prego.”
“By the way,” Nick said, backing away, “next time we talk, remind me to tell you about an investment opportunity in the cemetery business. Large-scale.”
“Welcome home, Nicky.”
CHAPTER 31
The answer, delivered the next day via intermediaries, was yes.
Stracci sent word, however, that Frank Greco, since he and Geraci had never met, wanted to get together for a drink, right beforehand. Geraci sent word that he looked forward to it. The drinks were on him.
NICK HAD BEEN LIVING ON MOMO BARONE’S BOAT, which the Roach bought from Eddie Paradise when Eddie got a new one. It was tied up at a small marina on Nicoll Bay—so close and yet so far away from his house in East Islip—rather than Sheepshead Bay or Canarsie, where most of the wiseguys Nick knew who had boats kept theirs. It had proven to be a perfect short-term hideout: close enough to the city that he could go meet with people he needed to meet with (including a few carefully arranged meetings with Charlotte), yet far enough out that it seemed pretty unlikely he’d run into any connected guys. For most of the people he was trying to avoid, New York City extended no farther east than the airports. The cabin downstairs was perfectly comfortable. He’d even set up his typewriter on a poker table belowdecks and managed to finish his book—all but the last chapter, which he felt like he needed to live before he could write about it. He had some notes, though.
“So how’s it going to work?” Momo asked him. It was the night before the meeting. They were out on the water, pretending to fish. “Michael’s going to this meeting without knowing what the agenda for it is?”
Geraci shook his head. “He’s going to it, thinking it’s something else. They’ve got the usual series of bullshit conflicts to hammer out, and the word from a couple of the other Dons is, Michael’s going to ask the Commission to sanction a hit on the yats.”
Momo brightened. “The New Orleans guys. What’s that going to accomplish?”
“He just wants a scapegoat,” Nick said, “in case the government’s investigation into the assassination of Jimmy Shea starts sniffing around, making trouble for friends of ours. Look, Roach, it’s academic. It’s moot. It doesn’t matter. Michael’s going to walk in there, he’s going to hear the sensible reasons he ought to retire, and with any luck at all, that’ll be that.”
“What about afterward?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Nick said.
“So you’re just going to go to this meeting and, poof, magically you’ll take over?”
“Something like that. What is it you’re worried about?”
“Jesus Christ, Nick. How long you known me? I’m worried about everything.”
Geraci
laughed. It was all he could do not to muss the Roach’s cemented-down hair, or try to. “Why do you do that? I always meant to ask.”
“Do what?”
“With your hair.”
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
“Nothing.”
“C’mon. What’s wrong with my hair?”
“Nothing’s wrong with your hair. Forget about it.”
“OK, well, take the present moment, just for one example,” the Roach said. “Out on the water with the wind and such, but do I have a worry in the world about if I’m going to look like a bum when we’re done here?” He pointed to his hair with both hands. “No, I do not. It’s all in place. Shipshape, if you will. Just one example of why I do it. But, you know, when it comes to fashion-type choices, who knows? Why do some guys want their tailors to show a lot of cuff and some guys not so much?”
“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” Nick said.
“What the fuck, you know?” Momo said. “To be honest with you, it’s a trademark at this point, is all it is.”
“To answer your original question,” Nick said. “Retiring a guy this big, against his will, hasn’t been done since Charlie Lucky got put out to pasture, which was years ago, so there’s not exactly much of a playbook for us to follow. The night of the meeting, you go to your social club, stick close to there so I know where to find you afterward, but I really don’t think there’s going to be trouble. To use Michael’s way of looking at things, it’ll be no different from when the board of directors of a company fires the company president.”
“Maybe,” the Roach said. “Only, up to now, his family has been the company. So, it’d be more like the board at Getty Oil shitcanning J. Paul Getty.”
Geraci arched his eyebrows.
“What?” Momo said. “You know, just because I’m not allowed to touch fucking Crazy Eddie’s newspapers before he does don’t mean I don’t read ’em at some point. If I’m going to be a good consigliere, I—”
“No need to be defensive,” Nick said, making a Halt! sign with his hands. “You’ve already got the job, OK?”
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