by Mario Puzo
“My favorite cousin,” Cross said dryly. Of all the Cleri-cuzio he liked Giorgio least, and it was obvious the senator felt the same way.
Then Wavven delivered the bombshell. “The president has told me he will veto the bill.”
Cross had been feeling jubilant over the final success of Don Clericuzio’s master plan. To build a legitimate empire based on legal gambling. Now, he was confused. What the hell was Wavven babbling about?
“And we don’t have enough votes to overcome a veto,” Wavven said.
Just to give himself time to recover his composure, Cross said, “So the five mil is for the president?”
The senator was horrified. “Oh, no, no,” he said. “We’re not even in the same party. And besides, the president will be a very rich man when he retires into private life. Every board of directors of every big company will want him. He has no need for petty cash.” Wavven gave Cross a satisfied smile. “Things work differently when you are the president of the United States.”
“So we’re nowhere unless the president drops dead,” Cross said.
“Exactly,” Wavven said. “He is a very popular president, I must say, though we are in opposing parties. He will surely be reelected. We must be patient.”
“So we have to wait five years and then hope to get a president who won’t veto?”
“That’s not exactly true,” the senator said, and here he faltered a bit. “I must be honest with you. In five years the composition of the Congress may change, I may not have the votes I have now.” He paused again. “There are many factors.”
Cross was completely bewildered now. What the hell was Wavven really saying? Then the senator tipped his hand. “Of course if something happens to the president, the vice president will sign the bill. So, as malicious as it sounds, you have to hope that the president has a heart attack or his plane crashes, or he has an incapacitating stroke. It could happen. All of us are mortal.” The senator was beaming at him and then suddenly it all became clear to Cross.
He felt a flash of anger. This bastard was giving him a message for the Clericuzio: The senator had done his part, now they had to kill the president of the United States to get the bill passed. And he was so slick and so sly, he had not implicated himself in any concrete way. Cross was sure the Don would not go for it, and if he did, Cross would refuse to be part of the Family ever after.
Wavven was going on with an affable smile. “It looks pretty hopeless but you never know. Fate may take a hand and the vice president is a very close friend of mine, even though we’re from different parties. I know for a fact, he will approve my bill. We just have to wait and see.”
Cross could scarcely believe what the senator was saying. Senator Wavven was the personification of the virtuous All-American politician, though admittedly with a weakness for women and innocent golf. His face was honorably handsome and his voice patrician. He presented himself as one of the most likable men on earth. Yet he was implying that the Cleri-cuzio Family assassinate his own president. This is a piece of work, Cross thought.
The senator was now picking at the food on the table. “I’m only staying for one night,” he said. “I hope you have some girls in your show who would like to have dinner with an old geezer like me.”
Back in his penthouse suite Cross called Giorgio and told him he would be in Quogue the next day. Giorgio told him the Family driver would pick him up at the airport. He didn’t ask any questions. The Clericuzio never talked business on the phone.
When Cross arrived at the Quogue mansion, he was surprised to find a full attendance. Assembled in the windowless den were not only the Don, but also Pippi, and the Don’s three sons, Giorgio, Vincent, and Petie, and even Dante, wearing a sky-blue Renaissance hat.
There was no food in the den, dinner was to come later. As usual the Don made everyone look at the photos of Silvio and the christening of Cross and Dante on the mantelpiece. “What a happy day,” the Don always said. They all settled in on chairs and sofas, Giorgio handed out drinks, and the Don lit up his twisted black Italian cheroot.
Cross gave a detailed report: how he had delivered the five million to Senator Wavven and then, word for word, his conversation with him.
There was a long silence. None of them needed Cross’s interpretation. Vincent and Petie looked the most concerned. Now that Vincent had his chain of restaurants, he was less inclined to take risks. Petie, though he was head of the soldiers in the Bronx Enclave, had his enormous construction business as his primary concern. They did not relish such a terrible mission at this stage of their lives.
“That fucking senator is crazy,” Vincent said.
The Don said to Cross, “Are you sure that was the message the senator was sending us? That we should actually assassinate the leader of our country, one of his colleagues in government?”
Giorgio said dryly, “They’re not in the same political party, the senator says.”
Cross answered the Don. “The senator would never incriminate himself. He just presented the facts. I think he assumes we will act on it.”
Dante spoke up. He was excited by the idea, by the glory, by the profit. “We can get the whole gambling business, legal. That would be worth it. That’s the biggest prize.”
The Don turned to Pippi. “And what do you think, Martèllo of mine?” he asked affectionately.
Pippi was obviously angry. “It can’t be done and it shouldn’t be done.”
Dante said in a taunting voice, “Cousin Pippi, if you can’t do it, I can.”
Pippi looked at him contemptuously. “You’re a butcher, not a planner. You couldn’t plan something like this in a million years. This is too big a risk. This is too much heat. And the execution is too difficult. You cannot get away free.”
Dante said arrogantly, “Grandfather, give me the job. I’ll get it done.”
The Don was respectful to his grandson. “I’m sure you could,” he said. “And the rewards would be very great. But Pippi is right. The aftermath would be too risky for our Family. One can always make mistakes, but never make a fatal mistake. Even if we were successful and achieved our aim, the deed would hang over us forever. It is too great a crime. Also, this is not a situation that endangers our existence, it is simply one that achieves a purpose. A purpose that can be achieved with patience. Meanwhile, we sit in a pretty position. Giorgio, you have your seat on Wall Street, Vincent, you have your restaurants, Petie, you have your construction business. Cross, you have your hotel and Pippi, you can retire and spend your last years in peace. And Dante, my grandson, you must have patience, some day you will have your gambling empire, that shall be your legacy. And when you do, it will be without the shadow of a terrible deed hanging over your head. So—let the senator swim to the bottom of the ocean.”
Everyone in the room relaxed, the tension broken; except for Dante, all were happy with the decision. And all agreed with the Don’s curse that the senator should drown. That he had dared to put them in this dangerous dilemma.
Only Dante seemed to disagree. He said to Pippi, “You’ve got a lot of balls, calling me a butcher. What are you, a fucking Florence Nightingale?”
Vincent and Petie laughed. The Don shook his head disapprovingly. “Another thing,” Don Clericuzio said. “I think we for now should continue all our ties with the senator. I don’t begrudge him the extra five million, but I take it as an insult that he thinks we would kill the president of our country to further a business venture. Also, what other fish does he have to fry? How does this act benefit him? He seeks to manipulate us. Cross, when he comes to your hotel, build up his markers. Make sure he has a good time. He is too dangerous a man to have as an enemy.”
Everything was settled. Cross was hesitant about bringing up another sensitive problem. But he told the story of Lia Vazzi and Jim Losey. “There could be an informer inside the Family,” Cross said.
Dante said coolly, “That was your operation, that’s your problem.”
The Don shook his head decisi
vely. “An informer cannot be,” he said. “The detective found something by accident and he wants a bonus to stop. Giorgio, take care of it.”
Giorgio said sourly, “Another fifty grand. Cross, that’s your deal. You’ll have to pay it out of your hotel.”
The Don relit his cigar. “Now that we are all here together, are there any other problems? Vincent, how is your restaurant business?”
Vincent’s granite features softened. “I’m opening three more,” he said. “One in Philly, one in Denver, and another in New York City. High class. Pop, would you believe I charge sixteen dollars for a plate of spaghetti? When I make it at home, I figure out the cost is half a buck a plate. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make it more than that. I even put in the cost of the garlic. And meatballs, I’m the only high-class Italian restaurant that serves meatballs, I don’t know why, but I get eight dollars for them. And not big ones. They cost me twenty cents.”
He would have gone on but the Don cut him off. He turned to Giorgio and said, “Giorgio, how goes your Wall Street?”
Giorgio said cautiously, “It goes up and down. But the commissions we get for trading are as good as the shylocks get on the streets if we churn it enough. And with no risk of deadbeats or jail. We should forget about all our other business, except maybe gambling.”
The Don was enjoying these recitals, success in the legitimate world was dear to him. He said, “And Petie, your construction business? I hear you had a little trouble the other day . . .”
Petie shrugged. “I got more business than I can handle. Everybody’s building something and we have a lock on the highway contracts. All my soldiers are on the payroll and make a good living. But a week ago, this eggplant shows up on my biggest construction job. He’s got a hundred black guys behind him with all kinds of civil rights banners. So I take him into my office and all of a sudden he’s charming. I just have to put ten percent blacks on the job and pay him twenty grand under the table.”
That tickled Dante. “We’re getting strong-armed?” he said with a giggle. “The Clericuzio?”
Petie said, “I tried to think like Pop. Why shouldn’t they make a living? So I gave the eggplant his twenty grand and told him I’d put five percent on the job.”
“You did well,” the Don told Petie. “You kept a small problem from becoming a big problem. And who are the Clericuzio not to pay their share in the advancement of the other people and civilization itself?”
“I would have killed the black son of a bitch,” Dante said. “Now, he’ll come back for more.”
“And we will give him more,” the Don said. “Just so long as they are reasonable.” He turned to Pippi and said, “And what troubles do you have?”
“None,” Pippi said. “Except that now the Family is nearly nonoperational and I’m out of a job.”
“That is your good fortune,” the Don said. “You’ve worked hard enough. You’ve escaped many perils, so now enjoy the flower of your manhood.”
Dante didn’t wait to be questioned. “I’m in the same boat,” he said to the Don. “And I’m too young to retire.”
“Play golf like the Brugliones,” Don Clericuzio said dryly. “And don’t worry, life always provides work and problems. Meanwhile, be patient. I fear your time will come. And mine.”
CHAPTER 14
ON THE MORNING of Eli Marrion’s funeral, Bobby Bantz was screaming at Skippy Deere.
“This is fucking crazy, this is what’s wrong with the movie business. How the fuck can you allow this to happen?” He was waving a stapled bundle of pages in Deere’s face.
Deere looked at it. It was the transportation schedule for a picture shooting in Rome. “Yeah, so what?” Deere said.
Bantz was in rage. “Everyone in the picture is booked first class on the flight to Rome . . . the crew, the bit players, the fucking cameo roles, the gofers, the interns. There is only one exception. You know who that is? The LoddStone accounting officer we sent there to control the spending. He flew economy.”
“Yeah, again, so what?” Deere said.
Bantz became deliberate in his anger. “And the picture has on budget a school to be set up for the children of everybody on the picture. The budget has the renting of a yacht for two weeks. I just read the script carefully. There are twelve actors and actresses who have maybe two, three minutes in the film. The yacht is listed for just two days’ shooting. Now explain to me how you allowed this.”
Skippy Deere was grinning at him. “Sure,” he said. “Our director is Lorenzo Tallufo. He insists his people travel first class. The bit players and cameo roles were written into the script because they were screwing the vehicle stars. The yacht is booked for two weeks because Lorenzo wants to visit the Cannes Film Festival.”
“You’re the producer, talk to Lorenzo,” Bantz said.
“Not me,” Deere told him. “Lorenzo has four one-hundred-million-dollar-grossing pictures, he has two Academy Awards. I’ll kiss his ass when I help him onto the yacht. You talk to him.”
There was no answer to this. Technically, in the hierarchy of the industry, the head of the Studio outranked everybody. The producer was the person who got all the elements together and oversaw the budget and script development. But the reality was that once the picture started shooting, the director was the supreme power. Especially if he had a record of successful movies.
Bantz shook his head. “I can’t talk to Lorenzo, not when I don’t have Eli to back me up. Lorenzo would tell me to go fuck myself and we’d lose the picture.”
“And he’d be right,” Deere said. “What the hell, Lorenzo always steals five million off a picture. They all do it. Now calm down so we can show ourselves at the funeral.”
But Bantz was now looking at another cost sheet. “On your picture,” he said to Deere, “there’s a charge of five hundred thousand dollars for Chinese take-out food. Nobody, nobody, not even my wife can spend a half million dollars on Chinese food. French food maybe. But Chinese? Chinese take-out?”
Skippy Deere had to think fast, Bobby had him there. “It’s a Japanese restaurant, the food is sushi. That’s the most expensive food in the world.”
Bantz was suddenly calm. People were always complaining about sushi. The head of a rival studio had told him about taking a Japanese investor to dinner at a restaurant that specialized in sushi. “A thousand bucks for two people for twenty fucking fish heads,” he had said. Bantz was impressed.
“OK,” Bantz said to Skippy Deere, “but you have to cut down. Try to get more college interns on your next picture.” Interns worked for free.
The Hollywood funeral of Eli Marrion was more newsworthy than even that of a Bankable Star. He had been revered by studio heads, producers, and agents, he had even been respected and sometimes loved by Bankable Stars, directors, and even screenplay writers. What had inspired this was his civility and an overpowering intelligence that had solved many problems in the movie business. He also had had the reputation of being fair, within reason.
In his later years, he was an ascetic, did not wallow in power, did not command sexual favors from starlets. Also, LoddStone had made more great movies than any other studio, and there was nothing more precious to people who actually made movies.
The president of the United States sent his chief of staff to give a brief eulogy. France sent its minister of culture, though he was an enemy of Hollywood movies. The Vatican sent a papal envoy, a young cardinal, handsome enough to receive offers for cameo roles. A Japanese group of business executives magically appeared. The highest executives of movie corporations from the Netherlands, Germany, Italy, and Sweden did Eli Marrion honor.
The eulogies began. First a male Bankable Star, then a female Bankable Star, then an A director; even a writer, Benny Sly, gave Marrion tribute. Then the president’s chief of staff. Then, just so the show would not be judged pretentious, two of the movie’s greatest comics made jokes about Eli Marrion’s power and business acumen. Finally, Eli’s son, Kevin, and his daughter, Dora,
and Bobby Bantz.
Kevin Marrion extolled Eli Marrion as a caring father, not only to his own children, but to everyone who worked at LoddStone. He was a man who carried the torch of Art on a film. A torch, Kevin assured the mourners, that he would pick up.
Eli Marrion’s daughter, Dora, gave the most poetic speech, written by Benny Sly. It was eloquent, spiritual, and addressed Eli Marrion’s virtues and accomplishments with a humorous respect. “I loved my father more than any man I have ever known,” she said, “but I’m glad I never had to negotiate with him. I only had to deal with Bobby Bantz and I could outsmart him.”
She got her laugh and it was Bobby Bantz’s turn. Secretly he resented Dora’s joke. “I spent thirty years building LoddStone Studios with Eli Marrion,” he said. “He was the most intelligent, the kindest man I have ever known. Under him, my service of thirty years has been the happiest time of my life. And I will continue to serve his dream. He showed his faith in me by leaving me in control of the Studio for the next five years and I will not fail him. I cannot hope to equal Eli’s achievements. He gave dreams to billions of people all over the world. He shared his wealth and love with his family and all the people of America. He was indeed a lodestone.”
The assembled mourners knew that Bobby Bantz had written the speech himself, because he had given an important message to the whole movie industry. That he was to rule LoddStone Studios for the next five years and that he expected everyone to give him the same respect they had given Eli Marrion. Bobby Bantz was no longer a Number Two man, he was a Number One.
Two days after the funeral, Bantz summoned Skippy Deere to the studio and offered him the job of head of production of LoddStone, the job he had held himself. Now he was moving up to Marrion’s job as chairman. The rewards he offered Deere were irresistible. Deere would get a share of profits of every movie made by the Studio. He would be able to green-light any picture budgeted for less than thirty million dollars. He would be able to fold his own production company into LoddStone as an independent, and name the head of that company.
