The Godfather Returns (42 page)

At first light, Sergeant Mitchell organized an assault on the ridge where most of the shooting was coming from. Michael and ten others made a run for it, about fifty yards to a clump of trees and scrub. Two were killed and two more were wounded before they got there. An American tank advanced to the other side of the ridge, and it drew fire the way tanks always do. Then the shooting stopped. They were twenty feet from the crest of the ridge. Hal Mitchell sent three men with automatic rifles and two with flamethrowers up to the crest. As they were about to scorch it, the Japs opened fire. Sergeant Mitchell ordered Vogelsong and Michael to help him get the wounded out of there and retreat. As Michael covered them, Vogelsong and Sergeant Mitchell carried one of the wounded men back to where Michael stood. As they were going back for the other one, an 80mm mortar killed him and wounded Vogelsong and Mitchell.

Later, when he was questioned about what he did next—both by his superiors and later by a reporter from
Life
magazine—Michael couldn’t explain what had possessed him to come to get his brothers in arms, or how he got out of there alive, either. Maybe there was too much coral dust from the mortar. Maybe they thought they’d already killed all the foot soldiers and were focused on taking care of the tank, which they blew up as Michael was charging their bunker. Michael had no training at all on that flamethrower. He just grabbed it without thinking and recoiled as a fat tongue of flame shot over the ridge.

There was machine-gun fire from a cave to his right, and Michael felt like his leg had been shot off. He fell and scrambled for cover—alone at the crest of the ridge, a sitting duck. The odor of burned flesh and napalm was horrible. He had a bullet in his thigh and one that went through his calf.

Right in front of him were six enemy soldiers with their eyes boiled out and their lips burned off. Their skin was mostly gone. Their muscles looked like a sketch from a science book.

Michael was pinned down for only twenty minutes before the Japs in that cave were taken out, too, and a corpsman covered head to toe with blood came over that ridge and got Michael out of there. He’d had whole years go by faster than those twenty minutes.

He had no memory of how he got from there to Hawaii.

His first thought when he came to his senses was that his mother must be worried sick. He wrote her a long letter, and he sweet-talked a nurse into picking out something as a gift to send along. The nurse chose a coffee mug with a map of the Hawaiian Islands painted on it. The day Carmela Corleone got it—along with the news that her son was coming home—she filled it with wine, raised the mug, and thanked the Virgin Mary for answering her prayers. From then on, each time she passed Michael’s photo on the mantelpiece, Carmela smiled.

Michael and Hal Mitchell both recuperated. Hank Vogelsong wasn’t so lucky. Right before he died he told the corpsman he wanted Michael Corleone to have his watch. When it arrived, Michael, who barely knew the man, wrote to Vogelsong’s parents, told them how brave Hank had been under fire, and offered to give them his watch back. They wrote back and thanked him but said they wanted him to have it.

While Michael was still in the hospital, he learned that he’d been accepted for pilot training. He was also promoted to second lieutenant. But the promotion was just symbolic, and he never did go to flight school. That was the end of Michael Corleone’s first war.

Just before Michael was discharged, a reporter from
Life
magazine came to interview him. Michael, who presumed that the story had been set up by his father, thanked the reporter for his interest but said that he was a private person. He already had a medal and he could do without the attention. But Admiral King personally told Michael to do it. Good for morale, he said.

Michael was photographed in a uniform that fit. The story ran in a special issue about the American fighting man. Audie Murphy was on the cover. On the facing page was James K. Shea, the future president of the United States.

BOOK VII

Januar
y
–
June 1961

Chapter 22

V
IA A MAZE
of intermediaries, Nick Geraci had been told to come in. To see the Boss. Geraci had a pretty good idea what it was about. He’d suggested the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens. Too public, he was told. Don Corleone couldn’t possibly risk doing anything that would make his appointment to the presidential transition team any more controversial than it already was—especially the day before the inauguration. It would have to be in the car, a limo.

Which cinched it: they were going to kill him.

In a situation like this, though, there’s no choice but to go where you’re told. It’s a part of the life. Geraci knew that a long time ago. A wiseguy who’s called in, if he’s smart, is like a lawyer preparing a case. You anticipate every question you might get asked and hope for the best. If you’re able to talk your way out of it, walk away pissed off, not grateful.

Asking to bring his guys along for the ride would arouse suspicion. That was out. Packing a gun or a knife was a bad risk. If he’s searched, he’s done for. Even if he’s not, there’s not much chance he’d have enough time to whip out a concealed weapon at the moment of truth.

He waited all morning at a corner table in a tavern on First Avenue along with Donnie Bags, Eddie Paradise, and Momo the Roach. A few connected guys milled around outside. A row of pallid men from the neighborhood drank breakfast at the bar. The place was owned by Elwood Cusik, a boxer who’d done enforcer work for the Corleones.

Michael had tried to kill him once before, and Geraci had retaliated beautifully. He’d used Forlenza to let Russo know what was going on with Fredo and down in Cuba; after that, Geraci hadn’t had to lift a finger. Fredo had unwittingly betrayed Michael, over nothing. Anyone could see that Cuba was unstable and going to blow. Yet Michael was so blinded by the millions he could make as an almost-legitimate businessman there that he had allowed himself to get sucked into a situation where he’d killed his own brother. His
wife
had left him over it, took the kids, and moved a continent away. He’d lost two
capo
s—Rocco and Frankie Pants, both rivals of Geraci’s—fighting over an empire in Cuba that was destined never to exist. If there really was a fate worse than death, Geraci had inflicted it on Michael Corleone.

As he waited, Geraci tried to figure out how Michael could have learned about this. He was at a loss.

Two hours late, Donnie Bags, near the window, signaled that Michael’s limo was there. The Roach and Eddie Paradise flanked Geraci as he crossed the sidewalk. He was ready for anything. He pictured his daughters’ faces. And he reached for the door handle.

“Hello, Fausto.”

“Don Corleone.” Geraci got into the car alone and climbed into the seat facing Michael. Al Neri, behind the wheel, was the only other person in the car. “You have a nice trip?”

Geraci nodded to the Roach, who closed the door. Neri put the car in gear.

“Outstanding. You should go up again. These new planes practically fly themselves.”

“I’ll bet,” Geraci said. One of Michael’s thank-you gifts from Ambassador M. Corbett Shea had been a new airplane. “I have dreams that I’m flying. Funny thing is, they’re never nightmares. But once I wake up, I can’t even imagine being a passenger again. Hey, congratulations, by the way. Next best thing to having a
paesan’
in the White House.”

“It’s just the transition team,” Michael said. “I only served as an adviser. One of many.”

Over the years, the Corleones had granted the Sheas many favors, including several that had helped get the new president elected. In return, Michael had asked for this appointment. Geraci had it on good authority that Michael had never met face-to-face with anyone in the new administration. It was understood that he would participate in name only. All Michael wanted was the credibility the appointment gave him.

“Think we’ll live to see it?” Geraci said. “An Italian in the White House?”

“I’m certain of it,” Michael said.

Geraci had positioned himself on the seat so that Neri would have to stop the car before killing him. There didn’t seem much chance that Michael would do the job himself. If it happened, it would happen someplace they took him, probably by men waiting for him there. “I hope you’re right, Don Corleone.”

“Just Michael, okay? We’re old friends, Fausto, and I’m retired now.”

“That’s what I hear.” The rumors that Michael was going legit had been swirling around for years and intensified after Shea’s election. “But I didn’t think we had retirement in this thing of ours. Whatever happened to ‘You come in alive and you go out dead’? We all swear to that.”

“I swore to it, and I’ll uphold it. I’ll always be a part of the Family my father built,” Michael said. “But my relationship to it will be the same as it is for some of the men my father’s age who’ve served us well and moved to Florida or Arizona. Men from whom we ask nothing.”

“Explain to me how this is going to work,” Geraci said. “I’ve heard different things, but I wrote a lot of it off as just talk.”

“It’s simple. As you know, I promised Clemenza and Tessio they could have their own Families when the time was right. Tessio betrayed us and Pete’s dead, but the promise still lives.”

“
Ogni promessa è un debito,
eh?” Geraci said. “As my old man used to say.”

“Exactly,” Michael said. “Today I pay that debt. In every respect, you’re our best man in New York. As of today, I have no further need for the businesses you run, not even the income from them. I’m out. I’m the one who should call
you
Don. Don Geraci. Congratulations.”

That’s it. I’m dead.
“Thank you,” Geraci said. “Just like that?”

“How else?” Michael said.

Despite himself, Geraci shot a glance at Neri. They were heading west on Seventy-ninth Street, into Central Park. Neri was looking straight ahead. “I’m deeply honored. Overwhelmed.”

“You earned it.”

Geraci held up his ringless right hand. “If I’d known, I’d have bought a ring.”

“Take mine,” Michael said. “It was blessed by the pope himself.” He started taking it off. It was tasteful, classy: a big diamond surrounded by sapphires.

He wouldn’t give that ring to a man he was about to kill, would he? And who’d give away a ring that had been blessed by the fucking pope?

“I was kidding,” Geraci said. “I couldn’t possibly accept. You’ve been too generous already.” Geraci held up his big right hand, half again the size of Michael’s and gnarled from the many punches it had landed, with and without boxing gloves. “Also, I don’t think it’ll fit.”

Michael laughed. “I never really noticed.” He slid the ring back on his finger.

How could he never have noticed? “You know what they say. Big hands—”

“Big rings.”

“Exactly. Really, Michael, this is incredible news. A dream come true.”

“You didn’t know?”

“Of course I knew. But I heard there was some trouble with the Commission.”

“You have good sources. The Commission has asked that I stay on. I was opposed to this, but their decision is binding. I will remain in an advisory capacity, both to them and to you. It should go without saying that this arrangement will be maintained in the strictest confidence. Anyone you appoint as
capo
must be cleared with the Commission, and I advise you to clear it with me first. I assume you’ll want to keep Nobilio?”

“I need to think about it.” Richie Two Guns had taken over Clemenza’s old regime. Everything Geraci knew about Richie was good—he’d helped put together the monopoly the New York Families now had on cement, for example, and had a big presence down in Fort Lauderdale, too—but saying yes, just like that, didn’t seem smart. If all this was on the level, that is. “Think Richie’ll be sore you picked me?”

“You don’t think he’ll be a lot more sore if you bust him down?”

“I’m not talking about busting him down. I’m just wondering how he’ll take the news.”

“I’m sure it won’t come as much of a surprise.”

“You talk to him?”

Michael shook his head. “It’s out there, though. If there’s a problem, I can talk to him.”

“I’m sure it’ll work out great.” He and Richie had talked about the rumors. Richie had said he’d be happy to see Geraci become the new Don and was pulling for the Commission to approve it. Probably he was telling the truth. “Richie seems like a good man.”

“For your own
regime,
I won’t presume to make suggestions. Just talk to me first.”

“Will do.”

“I’ll be providing limited counsel to you, but I won’t be serving as your
consigliere.
I have another sort of life I wish to lead. I don’t want my past to intrude on that life.”

“I understand.” Though he didn’t, not entirely. “Do I run that choice past you as well?”

“Up to you.”

“If you don’t mind,” Geraci said, “I’d like Tom Hagen to be my
consigliere.
”

“Unfortunately,” Michael said, “I do mind. My brother Tom will continue to work closely with me as my attorney.”

Another good sign. If Geraci really was about to be killed, Michael could have said yes.

“Thought I’d take a shot. You always want the best man you can get.”

“You don’t like me,” Michael said. “Do you, Fausto?”

Geraci quickly decided that lying would be more dangerous than telling the truth. “That’s true. I don’t. No disrespect, but I don’t know many people who do.”

“But you fear me.”

“Fear is the enemy of logic,” Geraci said, “but you’re right. I do. More than death. I know what you’re trying to say, Michael. I’m ready. I know what it means to you, the sacrifices your family has made to build this organization. I’ll give it all I have. Everything.”

Michael reached over and slapped Geraci on the knee, affectionately.

They got onto Broadway, uptown.

No mention had been made of what had used to be Rocco Lampone’s
regime.
Rocco had gotten himself killed two years ago in Miami and still hadn’t been replaced. There were made guys out in Nevada—Al Neri, his nephew Tommy, Figaro, four or five others, plus the connected guys underneath them. If they were a part of this deal, Michael would have said so. Especially with Neri right there, Geraci wasn’t going to push his luck. Fuck Nevada.

Geraci rubbed his chin. “Maybe I took a couple punches too many,” he said, “but I’m confused. You honest to God have no further need for my businesses? You’re gonna just, what, control a couple casinos in Nevada and call it a career?”

Michael nodded. “Fair question,” he said. “I made my family a promise that I’d get out, and I’m keeping my promise. As a matter of fact, I had this in place two years ago. Between the casinos in Nevada and the ones in Cuba and our various real estate holdings, I had a business empire that would’ve sustained itself for a hundred years. But then the Communists took over Cuba and we lost everything there. The various misfortunes that came our way at about the same time meant both that the organization as a whole needed the income from those legitimate businesses and that I couldn’t yet step down. But two years and Jimmy Shea’s election have changed everything. Losing our legal gambling revenues in Cuba was terrible, but now we have influence in New Jersey. We got their governor elected president, but I’d say what was even more important there was the mutually beneficial arrangement you’ve built with the Stracci Family. For as long as I can remember, there’s been talk of legalizing gambling in Atlantic City, and I plan to stay on the Commission until that happens—probably in a year—so that we can get in there, too. How long is a Communist country a hundred miles off our shore going to last? If it wasn’t for the Russians, we’d have taken the place back the moment they started stealing from us, but the difference between Cuba and every other Communist country is that they’re so close to the richest country in the world they can taste it and already have. I give it two years, maybe three, and we’ll be back in business there, too. I have assurances from the Shea government that they’ll enforce the return of all properties to their previous owners. The point I’m trying to make is that if we don’t have considerable resources banked, we can’t run casinos without the likes of Louie Russo crushing us. We don’t quite have those resources yet. Between what we
do
have, both financial and in terms of personnel, together with what now seems inevitable—well, it’s better to get out a year too early than a minute too late.”

“So who feeds the meat eaters?” Geraci asked. The Corleone Family’s greatest asset was the network of people it kept on its payroll. “I know a lot of the cops and union people we have, some of the judges and the D.A.s, but I’m sure I don’t know the half of it. And the politicians, forget it. All I know is rumors.”

Geraci had been running most of the Family’s business in New York, but the connection guys were under Michael and Hagen.

“Tom will be in touch with you,” Michael said. “There will be a transition period. When I took over from my father, it took him and Tom six months to explain everything to me.”

“I guess if it’s possible to make the transition from one leader of the free world to another in two months, I can figure all this out in six.”

Michael chuckled.

“You’re really not going to use our judges and cops and so on?” Geraci asked. “You’re giving that up?”

“Did I say that? I said I have no more need for the income from the businesses you run.”

“Sure,” Geraci said. “I understand. You’re out.”

“Don’t be naive, Fausto. There are plenty of men on the president’s transition team who are feeding more meat eaters than we do.”

So there’s retired and then there’s whatever it is that you are,
Geraci thought.
Got it.

“And the seat on the Commission. Do I have one, or is that you?”

“That’s me for now. You’ll have one eventually. Get yourself organized, and after that the Commission will take care of it. I don’t think there’s going to be any problem with that.”

They discussed several other specific issues. The car crossed the park again and started back down Lexington Avenue—hardly a neighborhood for a murder. They really weren’t going to kill him. Michael still hadn’t learned who was really behind his brother’s betrayal. But Geraci wasn’t taking any chances.