The Last Don

by Mario Puzo

  “OK,” he said. “Your friend went to his room. She undressed. She wants to scream rape? What?”

  Loretta said hastily, “No, no. We just want him to keep quiet. If he talks it could be absolute disasters for our careers.”

  “He won’t talk,” Cross said. “He’s a funny kind of guy. Keeps a low profile. But take my advice, don’t get mixed up with him again. You girls should be more careful.”

  Loretta was annoyed by this last remark. The three women had decided to continue their outings. They were not going to be frightened by one mishap. Nothing really terrible had happened. She said, “How do you know he won’t talk?”

  Cross looked at her gravely. “I’ll ask him the favor,” he said.

  When Loretta left, Cross called for the secret camera file that showed all the guests at the registration desk. He studied them. Now that he had the information, it was easy to penetrate the disguises of the two women with Loretta Lang. It was dumb for Dante not to have gotten that info.

  Pippi came by the penthouse office to have lunch before he left for Los Angeles to check off the logistics of the Big Tim operation. Cross told him the story Loretta had told.

  Pippi shook his head. “The little bastard could have ruined the whole operation by throwing the timing off. And he keeps wearing that fucking hat after I told him not to.”

  Cross said, “Be careful on this operation. Keep your eye on Dante.”

  “I planned it, he can’t fuck it up,” Pippi said. “And when I see him in L.A. tonight, I’ll give him another briefing.”

  Cross told him about how Giorgio had prepared the papers on the Rolls so that Big Tim would not acquire legal ownership for a month and so that after his death, the Hotel could regain the car.

  “Typical Giorgio,” Pippi said. “The Don would have let the estate keep his car for his kids.”

  Big Tim the Rustler Snedden left Vegas two days later, owing sixty grand in markers to the Xanadu Hotel. He took the late-afternoon plane to Los Angeles, went to his office and worked for a few hours, and then drove to Santa Monica to have dinner with his ex-wife and his two children. His pockets had wads of five-dollar bills, which he gave to his kids along with a cardboard container, a quart of silver dollars. To his wife he gave the support and alimony check due, without which he would not be allowed to visit. He conned his wife with sweet talk after the children went to bed but she wouldn’t give him a screw, which he didn’t really want after Vegas. But he had to try, it was something for nothing.

  The next day Big Tim the Rustler had a very busy day indeed. Two Internal Revenue Agents tried to frighten him into paying some disputed taxes. He told them he would go to tax court and threw them out. Then he had to visit a warehouse of canned foods and another warehouse of over-the-counter drugs, all acquired at rock-bottom prices because their expiration dates were coming up. Those expiration dates would have to be changed. At lunch he met with a supermarket-chain vice president who would accept the shipment of these goods. During lunch he slipped the executive an envelope that held ten thousand dollars.

  After lunch he received a surprise call from two FBI agents who wanted to ask him about his relationship with a congress-man who was under indictment. Big Tim told them to go fuck themselves.

  Big Tim the Rustler had never known fear. Perhaps because of his bulk, or maybe there was a piece of his brain missing. For he not only lacked physical fear, he lacked mental fear. He had not only taken the offensive against man but against nature itself. When the doctors told him he was eating himself to death and he should seriously diet, he had opted instead for the stomach bypass operation, which was more hazardous. And it had turned out perfectly. He ate as he wished without apparent harmful effect.

  He had built his financial empire the same way. He made contracts that he refused to honor when they became unprofitable, he betrayed partners and friends. Everybody sued him, but they always had to settle for less than they would have received on the original terms. It was a life of success for one who took no precautions for the future. He always thought he would win in the end. He could always collapse corporate entities, shmooze over personal animosities. With women he was even more merciless. He promised them whole malls, apartments, boutiques. Then they settled for a small piece of jewelry at Christmas, a small check on their birthdays. Significant sums but not up to the original promises. Big Tim did not want a relationship. He just wanted to make sure he could have a friendly screw when he needed it.

  Big Tim loved all this rustling, it made life interesting. There had been an independent bookmaker in L.A. that he had stiffed for a seventy-grand bet on football games. The bookmaker held a gun to his head and Big Tim said, “Go fuck yourself,” then offered ten grand to settle the debt. The bookmaker took it.

  His fortune, his ruddy health, his imposing bulk, his lack of guilt made Big Tim successful in everything he touched. His belief that all humanity was corruptible gave him a certain air of innocence that was useful not only in a woman’s bed but also in the courts of law. And his gusto for life gave him a certain charm. He was a con man who let you peek at his cards.

  So Big Tim did not wonder at the mystery of the arrangement Pippi De Lena had made with him for that night. The man was a hustler like himself and could be dealt with appropriately. Big promises and small rewards.

  As for Steve Sharpe, Big Tim smelled a great opportunity, a multiyear scam. The little guy had dropped at least a half million in one day at the tables that he observed. Which meant he had an enormous credit line at the casino and must be in a position to earn a great deal of black money. He would be perfect in the Super Bowl fix. Not only could he supply the betting money, but he had the confidence of bookmakers. After all, those guys didn’t take mammoth bets from just anybody.

  Then Big Tim daydreamed about his next visit to Vegas. Finally he would get a Villa. He pondered on who to bring with him as guests. Business or pleasure? Future scam victims or maybe all women? Finally it was time to go to dinner with Pippi and Steve Sharpe. He called his ex-wife and his two kids for a chat and then was on his way.

  The dinner was at a small fish restaurant down in the L.A. dock area. There was no valet service, so Big Tim put his car in a parking lot.

  In the restaurant he was greeted by a tiny maître d’ who took one look at him and ushered him to a table where Pippi De Lena was waiting.

  Big Tim was an expert of the abraccio and he took Pippi into his arms. “Where’s Steve? Is he jerking me around? I haven’t the time for that kind of bullshit.”

  Pippi turned on all his charm. He clapped Big Tim on the shoulder. “What am I, chopped liver?” he said. “Sit down and have the best fish dinner you ever ate. We’ll be seeing Steve after.”

  When the maître d’ came to take their order, Pippi told him, “We want the best of everything and the most of everything. My friend here is a champion eater and if he gets up from this table hungry, I’ll talk to Vincent.”

  The maître d’ smiled confidently; he knew the quality of his kitchen. His restaurant was part of Vincent Clericuzio’s empire. When the police backtracked Big Tim’s trail, they would meet a blank wall here.

  They ate a progression of clams, mussels, shrimps, and then lobsters: three for Big Tim and one for Pippi. Pippi was finished long before Big Tim. He said to him, “This guy is a friend of mine and I can tell you now he is tops in drugs. If that scares you off, tell me now.”

  “That scares me as much as this lobster,” Big Tim said, waving its huge, nibbled claws in Pippi’s face. “What else?”

  “He always has to launder black money,” Pippi said. “Your deal will have to include that.”

  Big Tim was enjoying the food; all the briney spices of the ocean filled his nostrils. “Great, I know all that,” he said. “But where the fuck is he?”

  “He’s on his yacht,” Pippi said. “He doesn’t want anybody to see you with him. That’s to your interest. He’s a very cautious guy.”

  “I don’t give a flying f
uck who sees me with him,” Big Tim said. “I want to see me with him.”

  Finally Big Tim was finished. His dessert was fruit, with a cup of espresso. Pippi skillfully skinned a pear for him. Tim ordered another espresso. “To keep me awake,” he said. “That third lobster nearly put me away.”

  No check was presented. Pippi left a twenty-dollar bill on the table and the two left the restaurant, the maître d’ silently applauding Tim’s performance at the table.

  Pippi guided Big Tim to a small rental car that Tim squeezed into with difficulty. “Christ, can’t you afford a bigger car?” Big Tim said.

  “It’s only a short distance,” Pippi said soothingly. And indeed it was a five-minute ride. By that time it was really dark except for the lights of a small yacht moored to the pier.

  The gangplank was down, guarded by a man almost as big as Tim. There was another man on the far deck. Pippi and Big Tim went up the gangplank and onto the deck of the yacht. Then Dante appeared on the deck and came forward to shake their hands. He was wearing his Renaissance hat, which he guarded good-naturedly from Big Tim’s swipe.

  Dante led them below deck to a cabin decorated as a dining room. They sat around a table in comfortable chairs screwed into the floor.

  On the table was an array of liquor bottles, a bucket of ice, and a tray with drinking glasses. Pippi poured them all a brandy.

  At that moment the engines started and the yacht began to move. Big Tim said, “Where the hell are we going?”

  Dante said smoothly, “Just a little spin for some fresh air. Once we’re out on the open sea, we can go up on the deck and enjoy it.”

  Big Tim was not that unsuspicious, but he had faith in himself, that he could handle anything that happened in the future. He accepted the explanation.

  Dante said, “Tim, my understanding is that you want to go into business with me.”

  “No, I want you to go into business with me,” Big Tim said with boastful good humor. “I run the show. You get your money washed without paying a premium. And make a good bit extra. I have a mall I’m building outside Fresno and you can get a piece for five million or ten. I have a lot of other deals all the time.”

  “That sounds very good,” Pippi De Lena said.

  Big Tim gave him a cold stare. “Where do you shine in? I’ve been meaning to ask.”

  “He’s my junior partner,” Dante said. “My advisor. I have the money but he has the brains.” He paused and then said sincerely, “He’s told me a lot of good things about you, Tim, that’s why we’re talking.”

  The yacht was moving very swiftly now, the glasses trembled on the tray. Big Tim debated whether he should cut this guy in on the Super Bowl fix. Then he had one of his hunches, and they were never wrong. He leaned back in his chair, sipped his brandy, and gave both men a serious questioning look, which he often gave and had in fact rehearsed. The look of a man about to bestow his trust. In a best friend. “I’m going to let you guys in on a secret,” he said. “But first, are we going to do business? You want a piece of the mall?”

  “I’m in,” Dante said. “Our lawyers will get together tomor-row and I’ll put up some good faith money.”

  Big Tim emptied his brandy glass and then leaned forward. “I can fix the Super Bowl,” he said. With a dramatic flourish he signaled to Pippi to fill his glass. He was gratified to see the look of astonishment on their faces. “You think I’m full of shit, right?” he said.

  Dante took off his Renaissance hat and looked at it thoughtfully. “I think you’re peeing in my hat,” he said with a reminiscing smile. “A lot of people try. But Pippi is the expert on this stuff. Pippi?”

  “Can’t be done,” Pippi said. “The Super Bowl is eight months away and you don’t even know who’ll be in it.”

  “Then fuck you,” Big Tim said. “You don’t want part of a sure thing, that’s okay with me. But I’m telling you I can fix it. If you don’t want it okay, let’s do the mall. Turn this boat around and stop wasting my fucking time.”

  “Don’t be so touchy,” Pippi said. “Just tell us how the fix works.”

  Big Tim gulped his brandy and said in a regretful voice, “I can’t tell you that. But I’ll give you a guarantee. You bet ten million and we split the winnings. If anything goes wrong, I’ll give you ten million back. Now is that fair?”

  Dante and Pippi looked at each other with amused grins. Dante ducked his head, and his Renaissance hat made him look like a cunning squirrel. “You give me the money back in cash?” he asked.

  “Not exactly,” Big Tim said. “I’ll make it up on another deal. Take ten million off the price.”

  “Do you fix the players?” Dante asked.

  “He can’t,” Pippi said. “They make too much money. It must be the officials.”

  Big Tim was enthusiastic now. “I can’t tell you but it’s foolproof. And never mind the money. Think of the glory. It will be the biggest fix in sports history.”

  “Sure, they’ll toast us in jail,” Dante said.

  “That’s the beauty of me not telling you anything,” Big Tim said. “I go to jail, you guys don’t. And my lawyers are too good and I have too many connections.”

  For the first time, Dante varied Pippi’s script. He said, “Are we far enough out?”

  Pippi said, “Yeah, but I think if we talk a little more, Tim will tell us.”

  “Fuck Tim,” Dante said pleasantly. “You hear that, Big Tim? Now I want to hear how the fix works and no bullshit.” His tone was so contemptuous that Big Tim’s face flushed red.

  “You little prick,” he said, “you think you can scare me? You think you’re tougher than the FBI, and the IRS, and the toughest shylock on the West Coast? I’ll shit in your hat.”

  Dante leaned back in his chair and banged on the wall of the cabin. A few seconds later two large, tough-looking men opened the door, then stood guard. In answer, Big Tim stood up and swept the table clean with one huge arm. Liquor bottles, the bucket of ice, and the tray of glasses crashed to the cabin floor.

  “No Tim, listen to me,” Pippi shouted. He wanted to spare the man unnecessary suffering. Also, he did not want to be the shooter, that was not part of the plan. But Big Tim was rushing toward the door, ready to do battle.

  Then suddenly Dante was slipping inside Big Tim’s arms, nestled against his huge body. They broke apart and Big Tim sagged to his knees. It was a frightening sight. Half his shirt had been sliced away and where once his hairy right breast had been there was just a huge red patch from which an enormous gush of blood poured, staining half the table.

  In Dante’s hand was the knife he had used, the blood crimson on its broad blade up to the hilt.

  “Put him in a chair,” Dante said to the guards, and then he took the cloth off the table to staunch Big Tim’s bleeding. Big Tim was nearly unconscious with shock.

  Pippi said, “You could have waited.”

  “No,” Dante said. “He’s a tough guy. Let’s see how tough.”

  “I’ll get things ready on the deck,” Pippi said. He didn’t want to watch. He had never done torture. There were really no secrets so important that justified that kind of work. When you killed a man, you merely separated him from this world so that he could do you no harm.

  Up on the deck he saw that two of his men had already prepared. The steel cage was ready on its hook, the slatted bars closed. The deck was covered with a plastic sheet.

  He felt the balmy air fragrant with salt, the night ocean purple and still. The yacht was slowing down and then it stopped.

  Pippi gazed down at the ocean for a full fifteen minutes before the two men who had stood guard at the door appeared, carrying Big Tim’s body. It was so terrible a sight that Pippi averted his eyes.

  The four men put Big Tim’s body into the cage and then lowered it over the water. One of the men adjusted the slats so that the cage was open for the denizens of the ocean deep to slide between the bars and feast on the body. Then the hook was released and the cage plunged to the b
ottom of the sea.

  Before the sun rose, there would be only the skeleton of Big Tim’s body swimming eternally in its cage on the ocean floor.

  Dante came up on deck. He had obviously taken a shower and changed his clothes. Underneath the Renaissance hat his hair was slick and wet. There was no trace of blood.

  “So he already made his Communion,” Dante said. “You could have waited for me.”

  Pippi said, “Did he talk?”

  “Oh yeah,” Dante said. “The fix was really simple. Except maybe he was full of shit right up to the end.”

  The next day Pippi flew East to give the Don and Giorgio a full report. “Big Tim was crazy,” he said. “He bribed the caterer who supplies the food and drink to the teams in the Super Bowl. They were going to use drugs to make the team they bet against weaker as the game went on. The coaches and players would notice even if the fans didn’t, and the FBI, too. You were right, Uncle, the scandal would have set back our program maybe forever.”

  “Was he an idiot?” Giorgio asked.

  “I think he wanted to be famous,” Pippi said. “Rich wasn’t enough.”

  “What about the others involved in the scheme?” the Don asked.

  “When they don’t hear from the Rustler, they’ll be scared off,” Pippi said.

  Giorgio said, “I agree.”

  “Very good,” the Don said. “And my grandson, did he perform well?”

  It seemed an offhand remark, but Pippi knew the Don well enough to understand that this was a very serious question. He answered as carefully as he could but with a certain purpose.

  “I told him not to wear his hat on this operation in Vegas and L.A. He did anyway. Then he didn’t follow the script of the operation. We could have got the information with more talk but he wanted blood. He cut the guy to pieces. He cut off his cock and nuts and breasts. That wasn’t necessary. He enjoys doing it and that is very dangerous for the Family. Somebody really has got to talk to him.”

  “It will have to be you,” Giorgio said to the Don. “He doesn’t listen to me.”