Inherit the Mob (14 page)

“All right, I’d choose the spots we operate. But I’d have no control over the operation itself, according to Carlo. How do I know that someone else won’t foul up and implicate me?” asked Gordon.

“That is precisely one of the dangers I mentioned before,” said Spadafore. “Another would be if we were to withhold from you a fair share of the profits.” Gordon began to protest, but the old man silenced him with a gesture. “It is only natural that the question has crossed your mind. I can say only this: You know Nathan Belzer, your uncle’s associate. He has been involved with us for fifty years. You have my permission to ask him about our reliability and honesty.”

“I don’t need permission to talk to Nate Belzer,” said Gordon petulantly. Although he had made an effort not to show it, he was uneasy with the way the conversation was going, with the entire evening for that matter. Gordon was not used to being patronized, and he resented Spadafore’s Godfather routine—the big musty house full of garlic fumes and outsized furniture, the tuxedos, the sons like rented movie extras, Sesti buzzing around the Don.

It annoyed Gordon that Spadafore would imagine that he could be taken in by such transparent crap. For twenty years he had been interviewing world leaders, people for whom Luigi Spadafore would be less than a peasant, and he had seen the real thing, the imperial style up close. Nikolae Ceausescu, sitting at his desk in a darkened office the size of a basketball court, the brilliant light of three giant chandeliers flashing on at the flick of his finger; Papa Doc Duvalier, the Haitian dictator, who had offered him a cigar from a solid gold humidor and a human skull for an ashtray; Sadat, sitting on the
endless lawn of the Abdeen Palace, surrounded by twelve giant Nubian attendants in white
galabias
who stood at rigid attention throughout a three-hour meeting; Golda Meir, making him sit like a schoolboy at the Formica table in her small kitchen while she cooked a nauseating dish of farfel and gizzards and lectured through her nose. He had been up against the greatest stage managers in the world, and he had held his own, asked his questions, got his story, refused to be fooled or intimidated by poses and postures.

Gordon was annoyed at being underestimated; but, he admitted to himself, he was also disconcerted. Secretly he regarded his relations with world leaders as contests; in an image Marty Bronstein would have appreciated, he saw them as professional wrestlers, each dressed up in a costume—the Avenger, the Phantom, the Mad Bomber. For twenty years he had been the clean-cut young athlete, clad in nothing but simple trunks, who grappled with them, tore off their masks and pinned their shoulders to the mat.

But now, after two decades of tossing heavyweights, he somehow felt that he couldn’t get his arms around Luigi Spadafore’s thick neck. The old man was like a sumo wrestler, fat and slick and elusive. His old-fashioned, flowery speech and avuncular pose made Gordon feel callow and self-conscious, like a teenager unable to keep his voice in the right octave, or his probing fingers off a pimple.

“I believe that you do need my permission,” said Spadafore softly. “I assume you understood that this conversation is confidential. I would be very unhappy if you discussed it with anyone outside this room.”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Spadafore?” Gordon asked, flushing. “I’ve already been threatened once this week, by Mr. Sesti, here, and I don’t like it. One thing you should know about me is that I don’t scare—”

A look of theatrical astonishment came over the old man’s face. “Threatened?” he said, turning to Sesti. “Is this true?”

The consigliere seemed suddenly alarmed. “Mr. Gordon asked me a hypothetical question at lunch the other day, and I gave him a hypothetical answer,” he said. “In no way did I intend it as a threat.”

Spadafore reddened. “Listen to me carefully, consigliere,” he said in a harsh tone. “William Gordon is the nephew of my brother. His
blood is as sacred to me as that of my own sons.” Sesti kept his eyes averted, but his pale face became even paler. “You will apologize to Mr. Gordon,” said the old man.

“Yes, of course,” Sesti said in a tight voice. “I do apologize, certainly, if my remarks were misconstrued.” Gordon noticed that the unflappable Sesti was jiggling his left leg nervously.

Gordon nodded. “That’s all right, as long as we understand each other,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the old man’s shoulders slump.

“It is not all right,” the Don said. “Dishonor is never all right. You have my solemn assurance, my blood oath on the lives of my sons, that neither I nor my associates would ever harm you in any way.” The Don’s voice was imploring, his eyes watery. Suddenly he seemed deflated, and very, very old.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Gordon, feeling in control for the first time all night. He had the key now to throwing the old bastard—honor, respect, blood oaths for Christ’s sake. He couldn’t wait to tell Flanagan. “Listen, Mr. Spadafore, it’s getting late, and I think we should talk business. Mr. Sesti has made me an offer; I want you to repeat it, just to make sure we’re all talking about the same thing.”

The Don nodded. “Carlo,” he said. In a clipped monotone Sesti repeated the details of his proposal, including Gordon’s conditions.

“I’ve thought it over,” Gordon said when the consigliere had finished, “and I’m inclined to accept. But I want five million dollars deposited immediately, and a third of the operation. I also want it understood that we confine ourselves to legitimate business—government contracts, arms, construction projects, that kind of thing. I’m not getting involved in anything illegal; what you do without me is your own affair, but you can’t use my contacts to do it. Agreed?”

“Five million dollars is a great deal of money,” said Spadafore, frowning.

“It’s a fraction of what my uncle left me,” said Gordon. “And a fraction of what you will make.”

Spadafore hesitated, and Gordon could see that he had scored a point. Finally the old man nodded. “Agreed,” he said. “Carlo, you will see to the money.” His voice took on a harsher note. “And you will scrupulously observe Mr. Gordon’s wishes. I have given my word.”

“Yes, Don Spadafore,” Sesti said in a formal tone.

“William, there is one thing that troubles me,” said the old man. “That is your desire to interest your friend Flanagan in our affairs. I believe that it is unwise.”

Gordon shook his head decisively; he had anticipated this objection, and he wanted to use it to assert his control over the foreign operation. “I’ve known Flanagan for twenty years, and he’s absolutely reliable,” he said. “Besides, it would be my business he’s involved in, not yours.”

The Don sighed heavily. “All right, then,” he said. He extended his beefy hand, and Gordon took it, noticing the liver spots and a slight tomato stain on his cuff. “You drive a very hard bargain. Your uncle Max would have been proud of you this night.”

“I’ve learned from masters,” said Gordon, and the two men laughed. Sesti managed a smile, but continued to look grim.

“It is late,” said Don Spadafore, “and I am tired. Carlo will work out the details with you, and we will meet again to finalize them. In the meantime, if you will excuse me I will go to bed. Carlo will show you out.” The Don pronounced the name with such cold distaste that Gordon felt a bit sorry for the consigliere.

All three men stood. Spadafore took Gordon by the shoulders and pulled him near. “Our association gives me great pleasure,” he said. Gordon could smell the anchovies and denture paste on his breath. “My old friend is gone, but the nephew of my old friend has taken his place.” There was a sob in the Don’s voice as he placed his cheek next to Gordon’s in a ceremonial kiss. Unsure of what to do, Gordon blew a kiss into the air. Behind him, Carlo Sesti saw the old man stare into space, and then suddenly give him a barely perceptible wink of his watery blue eye.

F
lanagan and Gordon sat in a corner booth in Gallagher’s. It was three in the afternoon, but the bar was crowded with barbered, beefy businessmen and half a dozen high-priced hookers.

“The auto show’s in town,” said Gordon. “Jesus, look at these guys. No wonder the Japs are kicking our ass.”

“Japan might be a good place to start,” said Flanagan, stirring his Jameson’s with his index finger. “Begin right at the top.”

“Let’s not rush it, chief,” said Gordon. “First, I want to get all the details set with Sesti. Then we can start conquering the world, OK?”

“I’ve been thinking about Sesti,” Flanagan said. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to meet with him from now on. I think I should do that.”

“Why? Don’t give me that Tom Hagan routine, John. Seriously. This isn’t a game anymore.”

“Look, you said yourself that these people are living in the Middle
Ages. Spadafore’s supposed to be the Duke of Earl and Sesti’s his spear carrier. OK, we should establish some kind of parity. I’ll deal with Sesti, you deal with the Don—otherwise, you lose status in the old bastard’s eyes.”

“You could be right,” Gordon conceded. “I don’t think Sesti will be anxious to deal with me after last night. All right, set it up with him. But I want to approve the final details.”

“What’s the matter, Don Velvel, don’t you trust me?” Flanagan grinned, but there was a questioning look in his eyes.

“Listen, John, I think we’ve got to get something straight,” said Gordon. “If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t be bringing you into this. But we’re both getting into something that’s damn serious. Maybe these guys aren’t as dangerous as I thought, but they’re not Boy Scouts, either, and it’s their ball we’re playing with. You and I have to be on the same wavelength and cover each other’s ass, especially in the beginning when we don’t know the rules of the game.” Flanagan nodded and sipped his whiskey, Adam’s apple bobbing and blue eyes fastened on Gordon.

“There’s something else, too,” Gordon continued. “Ever since we’ve known each other, you’ve sort of set the tone. Ever since Saigon. I never minded and I still don’t. But the thing is, John, this is my deal. Max was my uncle, and Spadafore came to me, not you. If it was the other way around, I’d either be in or out, on your terms. But it’s not the other way around, and you’re going to have to do this my way if you want to do it at all. And I want to know, going in, if you have a problem with that.”

Flanagan looked up from his drink. “Let me ask you a question—what do you want to get out of this?”

“Are you kidding?” said Gordon. “We’re talking about millions of dollars, maybe hundreds of millions.”

“I don’t buy it, kid. You don’t give a shit about money, you never have. Are you trying to prove a point for your old man or what?”

“That might have something to do with it, although I hate to admit it,” said Gordon. “But I don’t think it’s the main reason. I’m sick of being a hack, for one thing. I once tried to make a list of the countries I’ve been in and I got stuck about number fifty-five. It’s like trying to count up all the girls you’ve laid—once you’ve done it, so what? I know more than any living American about the politics of
Kuala Lumpur. I had brunch with Pol Pot. I once saw Maggie Thatcher’s underpants—”

“No shit?” said Flanagan. “You never told me that. Where?”

“It was at a state dinner in London. I bent over to pick up my napkin and I got a beaver shot. The point is, so what? I’m ready for a change.”

“In other words, you’re doing this for the challenge,” said Flanagan.

“I wouldn’t put it exactly that way, but OK, for the challenge. The thing is, there’s not going to be any challenge if we wind up dead.”

“Will you relax?” said Flanagan in an exasperated voice. “You think I’m an idiot?”

“No, John. But I know you—everything’s a game. I think you don’t really understand what kind of trouble we could get into if we’re careless.”

“And I think you’re forgetting something. I may screw around, but I’m forty-seven years old, and nobody’s picked my pocket yet. While you were off sniffing Maggie Thatcher’s undies I was here in New York, drinking with humps from the Truckers Union who put cherries in their dry martinis and Mafia goombahs whose idea of a free press is stealing newspapers. You think I didn’t learn something? I learned what you found out last night at Spadafore’s—these guys are retards, dumb fucks—”

“Sesti’s no dumb fuck,” Gordon said.

“Bullshit. You just got done telling me how he sat there while a hundred-year-old pizza-head who thinks he’s Niccolo Machiavelli read him the riot act. What do you call that?”

“What’s your point, John?”

“My point is, I don’t underestimate these guys. But I don’t overestimate them, either. The truth is, both of us are burned out with the newspaper business. It’s for young guys with powerful legs who still don’t know that puppies shit on yesterday’s headlines. But I don’t want to leave the paper if we’re going to spend the whole time running scared. In that case, find yourself another Irish consigliere.”

“Ah, John, come on, you know I wouldn’t do this without you. I just want you to calm down a little, that’s all.”

“Hey, I’m calm, OK? You want me to fix a meeting with Sesti?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” said Gordon. “But do me a favor.”

“Sure, boychik, whatever you want.”

“Be serious for once in your life,” Gordon said. “And be careful.”