I Contadini (The Peasants)

by Lester S. Taube

  “Rose,” said Barrington, in his firm, straightforward manner. “We can’t express how deeply we sympathize with your bereavement at the loss of Vito and the boys, and we would not have intruded on your grief if we didn’t require your assistance to solve a delicate problem.”

  Rose gave a small, sad smile. “I know how you feel, Ned. And you also, Will, Cy, Neale,” she said, including the other officers and Boranski. “Vito and I always considered you more as friends than associates.”

  “Thank you, Rose. Your understanding makes our intrusion more palatable.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Rose, I don’t know whether you realize it but Vito ruled the organization as tightly as his father, GC. There is the saw that the Lord knows when each sparrow falls, and Vito was that type. He ran a one-man show. He delegated piecemeal responsibility. We did not chafe under his administration because Vito was a unique person who made us feel he relied upon us greatly. There are a number of us who can step into Vito’s shoes today and do the job. But we cannot exercise proper control without seeming to usurp powers not delegated to us. Since you will soon own all of Vito’s stock, only you can unblock this state of affairs.”

  “Ned, you knew Vito. He didn’t dream of talking about his business affairs with me, so I’m at a loss. What do you suggest?”

  “There are two ways to run the company - with a strong, one-man rule type of person like GC and Vito, or with a committee form of supervision. Donager Enterprises is a housekeeping organization now, not one that aggressively seeks out acquisitions. That is left to our subsidiaries. But it is very easy for a subsidiary to take a direction which could adversely affect the entire organization, so we have to monitor them closely. That requires a control at the top familiar with the entire spectrum of economy and finance.”

  Ettore said, “Why did you ask my son and me to be here at the meeting?”

  “Rose is not a sophisticated business person, and she has suffered unusually heavy personal blows. You and General DiStephano are astute in both business and administrative matters. We thought you should be present to offer her your advice.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Barrington. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

  “There is, however, another reason we wanted you here.” He turned to Rose. “Rose, we wondered whether General DiStephano would consider heading up a committee to run Donager.”

  “Me!” exclaimed Paul. He started laughing. “I’m no businessman. I’m a soldier.”

  “Why, Paul,” said Rose. “I think it’s a great idea. Ned and the others can help you break in, and I’m sure you will do well.”

  “So do we, General,” said Barrington. “We know your background thoroughly, and administering a company is not much different than running a brigade.”

  “Perhaps not,” replied Paul. “But the principal difference is that I prefer soldiering. I didn’t select the military profession because I was compelled to. I don’t want to give it up.”

  Barrington and his associates were taken aback by Paul’s refusal. “How very shortsighted of us to assume you would be interested,” he said. “However, before you make a firm decision, may I explain some of the advantages?”

  “I don’t wish to encourage you.”

  Barrington smiled. “I realize all this is supposition, General. The Board of Directors will recommend a starting salary of two hundred thousand dollars per year, plus certain fringe benefits, such as all business expenses, a considerable portion of your personal expenses, a private jet, and a bonus each year. I should explain that the bonus I spoke of will be a quarter of a million dollars or more. In addition, offerings of stock in acquisitions will be available, besides periodic stock options to take advantage of capital gains.” He cocked his head. “Plus the power of course, General. The man who heads up the committee will be among the fifty most influential men in the country.”

  Paul had listened closely. “That’s overwhelming. I never knew Vito had so much clout.”

  “I don’t think Rose will object to my telling you that Vito drew over four million dollars a year from the company. His own fortune probably earned twenty or more millions each year.”

  Rose was even more impressed than Paul. “I didn’t know that.”

  “It will now be coming to you, Rose,” said Barrington. He turned back to Paul. “Well, General, would you like some time to consider it?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Barrington. It –”

  “Paul,” interrupted Ettore. “I’d like to speak with you - alone.”

  Barrington and his group got to their feet at once. “Please sit down,” said Ettore. “Paul and I can talk outside.” Once in the hallway, Ettore looked up at his son. Paul was the tallest and the hardest looking of the DiStephanos. He had always possessed a self-assured nature, but during the past five years or so it had crystallized into a bearing of utter competence. When he had realized the need to reverse his stance against the family feud, he had done so without mental strain. His mind had checked off the pros and cons, the risks and safeguards, the ethics and immoralities, and he had made his decision without a display of theatrics and verbiage.

  “Paul,” said Ettore. “There are two ways this family can go. We can try to make peace with Bonazzi or fight it out. But even if he agrees to stop this killing, he will sooner or later get Dom. It’s his nature, the same as it is mine to kill him for what he did to Vince. You still have time to pull out of all this. The incident at his house isn’t important enough for him to swear to your death. However, you must make a decision now. If you elect to fight, you cannot sit in your office at the Pentagon and expect the military to protect you. You’ll have to take a leave of absence or resign until Bonazzi is destroyed. On the other hand, Barrington’s offer gives you a base to fight from. So it boils down to us either passing the word to Bonazzi that you are out of this, and then you can go back to your soldiering, or resigning and accepting Barrington’s offer so you can fight with a lot more resources.”

  Paul grinned. “Papa, the army lost one whale of a strategist when it didn’t shanghai you. All right, I’ll try to get a lengthy leave of absence. If not, I’ll resign.”

  It was characteristic of Paul not to mention how deeply hurt he was to leave the army. Another professional man would understand, but rarely a civilian. As a soldier you dealt with totals. Wounds and pain and blood became as commonplace to you as to a doctor. You were an engineer with your roads and bridges and bulldozers. Law was an everyday topic, from an Article Fifteen to General Orders. Logistics made you a grocer and trucker and gas station attendant. Maintenance formed you into a plumber and telephone installer and auto mechanic. But all this was tied together by the ability to command, the welding of all parts into a magnificent tool. When the time came to employ it as an instrument of destruction, it brought out in each soldier a love for those who shared his danger.

  The funeral of Vito, Bob and Bert took place on a gray, windy October day. The police cordoned off the church and allowed only those invited inside. Almost five hundred mourners attended the mass, and two hundred more stood quietly outside listening over loudspeakers. The coffin of Bert had been weighted with sand bags to give some semblance of normalcy, since only fragments of his body had been found.

  The services were kept at a low key, although the eulogy, given by a bishop from Boston, was surfeit with revelations about this unusual man who had filled his world with love, and who had suffered a tragedy beyond most men. Many listening were surprised that the thrust of the tribute was not directed towards his awesome power. But not Rose or the family or the large group of executives of his company and subsidiaries. Being a magnate was his duty, all of them knew well enough, but loving his family and friends was his occupation.

  The bishop was very wise. He turned the speaking of the eulogies of Bob and Bert over to a young priest who had known the boys well. Rose broke here and Carol became her support.

  Almost all at the church and most of those standing outside joined the cortege to the c
emetery. Rose needed a chair during the graveside services. She was put to bed when the family returned home, but when all the well wishers had gone, she descended in a house robe to sit at the kitchen table. It was now a small gathering, only Ettore, Paul, Anthony, Rose, Carol and Eleanor. They did not speak of war or revenge, but only of the sadness which is left behind.

  They also did not speak of other matters, because Paul had warned each of them about the tap in the kitchen.

  CHAPTER 18

  Two things happened the following morning. The first was the receipt of a telegram by Carlo Bonazzi from Don Alfredo Paladino. It was brief. It said, “Bene, bene.” The second was that Paul took command of the DiStephano family.

  He and Ettore had stayed up part of the night determining their next steps. Dominic received the initial consideration. It was decided to have him continue running and hiding. If the police were unable to find him, than Bonazzi might also share the same inability. The word had come from friends of Vincent that a warrant had been issued by the Canadian police for his apprehension, and although it had been sent to the FBI information center in the United States, nobody was actively searching for him. If picked up for any offense, however, he would ultimately be sent back to Canada for investigation and certain trial. Bail bond there would be out of the question, but all kinds of legal maneuvering could be employed to fight the case against him for Caesar Bonazzi’s murder. If worst came to worst, that the police were able to uncover enough evidence to convince a jury, there were always appeals.

  The family would move to Boston, that Paul demanded at once. Even Carol and Eleanor. So after Anthony left for his university, the family packed their clothes, took a private plane to the east, and set up residence on Rose’s estate. Donager Enterprise people were sent to Houston to settle Carol’s affairs. Eleanor was enrolled in a nearby school under the watchful eyes of round the clock guards, and a team was secretly dispatched to look out for Anthony.

  Paul was delighted with his first sight of the Donager home offices. Set in a park outside Dorchester, about ten miles south of Boston and overlooking the bay, it was an H shaped building, eight stories high, surrounded by flawlessly tended lawn. Flowers still grew everywhere, perfectly arranged to offer a profusion of colors and aromas. To one side were tennis courts, an oval track, and handball walls. Cyril Boranski, who had come to Rose’s mansion in a company limousine with a follow-up car containing two men to escort Paul to the office, explained that the park comprised thirty acres, had a steel fence surrounding it, and that a mile or two down the road was a private marina for company boats and slips for two score of craft belonging to employees. Six hundred people worked in the building, and were fed free of charge in a modern, self service restaurant for the rank and file, in a plush dining area for executives, and in an ultra plush club room for the twenty-five senior executives.

  The entrance was of white Italian marble flecked with gray. Curved niches in the walls held small Grecian statues, paintings of country scenes of Italy were hung about the room, giving the reception area an air of conservative distinction. A young, plain faced girl seated at a hand carved table smiled as Paul and Boranski entered. She made no pretense of not knowing who he was. Paul’s quick eye took in the open, leather-bound sign-in book, the neatness of the papers she was typing, the modern internal switchboard she was operating. He saw under the table that she wore braces on her legs. He answered her smile with a wink, and her grin grew broad. To one side was an office with a glass front in which two sharply uniformed guards monitored remote television screens.

  One of the guards stepped out, held open an elevator door, ushered them inside, then tapped the 8th floor button. The car rose noiselessly and opened on what Paul identified at once as the holy of holies. In a luxuriously carpeted reception area, a beautiful, dark haired woman sat behind an ornate, semi-circular mahogany desk. Soft, classical music played. Two marble fireplaces stood on the sides, flanked by needle-pointed silk divans. Mother-of-pearl inlaid tables with spiraled mahogany legs were positioned in front of the divans.

  The woman rose as Paul exited the elevator. “Good morning, General. I am Eloise Langdon, receptionist.”

  Paul nodded. “I see the people here are as lovely as the decor.” They both smiled as Boranski escorted Paul down a corridor to a door at the end. Inside, Paul felt as if he had entered a world a hundred years back. His secretary was a trim, middle-aged woman, seated behind a large, hand-carved, roll-top desk, her chair as straight backed as she herself. Matching tables and chairs stood about the room, one table holding notepaper, pads and pens for anyone who wished to jot down information while waiting there. The walls were of solid polished oak, decorated with paintings of Italian peasants and American farm workers. Paul understood the significance, that none should forget from whom one originally came.

  The woman stood up. “Good morning, General. I am Dorothy Palone, your secretary.”

  “Good morning, Miss Palone. It’s a truly beautiful office you have here.”

  She looked about at it fondly. “Mr. Donini’s grandfather built it sixty years ago.” She walked to the window. “Over there,” she said, pointing to a stone marker two hundred feet away. “Then when GC erected this building twenty years ago, he had this office and yours taken apart piece by piece and installed here.” She stared him straight in the eye. “Only two secretaries have occupied this office. My predecessor, a Mrs. Martha Valati, had it thirty-four years. I’ve had it since.”

  Paul returned her level look. “I will take proper care of the office, Miss Palone.”

  Her perfectly composed face loosened with the hint of a smile. “Thank you, General,” she replied simply.

  His office was a replica of his secretary’s, only much larger, with a deep swivel chair behind his desk, and more easy chairs for visitors. The windows opened on the bay. He could see the small marina sitting neat and picturesque to one side.

  “It’s like stepping back in history,” said Paul, sitting down in his chair. “I’ve never known the story of the Donini family.”

  Boranski offered Paul a cigarette, then lit them both. “Mr. Donini’s grandfather came to the United States just before the Civil War. He was a tailor back in Italy, and set up a tiny shop in Boston. Being an enterprising sort of person, he began to sell textiles on the side, then when some of the mills in this area fell upon hard times because of their inability to get cotton during the war, he bought one. Due to his small savings, it was the most run down affair he could find. Nonetheless, he secured a government contract for uniforms, was able to obtain a small supply of materials, then he went on a campaign to collect material ends which he laboriously put together to fill the gap in his supplies. His uniforms seem to have been accepted by the inspectors, so he took what he could scrape together and bought options on the cotton crops of some farmers in Maryland. The option deal he offered was a novelty there, and elsewhere, for that matter, since no one had ever thought of offering a farmer money in advance for goods to be sold at market price. But it gave him a source of supply. It was a dangerous gamble, but he did rather well. At the conclusion of the war, he moved his mill, lock, stock and barrel to South Carolina. That again was a wise move. It gave him an edge on the other mills, what with transportation, a warm water port for shipping, and cheap labor. During the depression of the early eighteen-nineties, he returned to Boston and bought up several of the mills going bankrupt. The Spanish-American War made him a rich man, and he diversified into any number of businesses afterwards. When he died, directly after World War I, he had investments in railroads, ships, oil wells, and Lord knows what. But he wasn’t a tycoon like the Vanderbilts or the Astors or the Morgans. GC put it all together and made the company.”

  “What was he like?”

  “Shorter than Mr. Donini, heavier, with a notoriously quick temper. While many of the Irish and Portuguese and Italians were trying to dilute their ethnic identities, he was as proud as punch of his. Used to speak Italian at every opportun
ity, but had a terrible accent from what I gather. He had Mr. Donini late in his life, and he thought the sun rose and set on him. The only thing that kept him from ordering Mr. Donini back in from Chicago was that he knew how much he loved your sister and how badly she wanted to stay there.”

  He broke off as Paul’s intercom lit. Barrington was on the other end saying hello and asking if he was ready for a briefing. Paul affirmed. Soon he was in a large conference room shaking hands with a score of senior executives, then sitting at the head of a long polished table hearing a young assistant brief him on exactly what Donager controlled. It was a top-grade, professional job, with movies, slides, charts, and well timed breaks for coffee and Danish.

  Lunch was taken in the senior executives’ club room. Paul’s table for eight was decorated with a small red flag bearing his single star of rank. Barrington, whose title was senior executive vice-president, joined him with his six executive vice-presidents. The meal put to shame all the generals’ messes he had eaten at, with a service equal to the food.

  In mid-afternoon, Paul was ushered through a door in his office which opened into a large, finely appointed apartment - one of his fringe benefits. His executive assistant, a man named William Connell, slender, mid-thirties, showed him a chest full of sports clothes. In short order the two of them were out on the track with forty or more of the employees. Paul gloried in the fresh air and movement as he trotted swiftly and effortlessly lap after lap. He was pleasantly surprised to have Connell keep up with him.

  “Everyone gets off an hour in the afternoon for exercise,” his assistant explained, breathing evenly. “GC was a great believer in it. The basement of the building has a well equipped gym when the weather is inclement.”

  “Super idea,” said Paul.

  After exercising, he showered in the apartment, then continued his briefings until five o’clock. Boranski was waiting at the limousine to take him home, the same follow up car trailing behind.