The Godfather's Revenge (32 page)

The black marble tombstone featured a bas-relief depiction of a horse.

“Khartoum,” Francesca said, reading the name off the stone. “Is this for real?”

“I think so. Yes. The horse was real, at any rate. It was a racehorse.”

“Huh,” Francesca said, staring at the grave for a long time. “He must have really loved that horse.”

“Must have,” Johnny said.

“So,” Francesca said. “Mr. and Mrs. Woltz, huh?” she said. “Explain that.”

“Who knows? There’s a rumor that he had some kind of scandal that was going to break, something that getting married helped make go away.” Which was that he liked to have sex with twelve-year-old girls and had been doing so for years. “Why she married him, I can’t imagine.”

Francesca rubbed her fingers together.

“I don’t think so,” Johnny said. “I heard she comes from a little money of her own. Her granddad supposedly invented the agitator for the washing machine. Though I guess you can never have too much.”

“Maybe she’s got daddy issues,” Francesca said, staring straight into Johnny’s eyes. Johnny found her expression unreadable.

“Is love out of the question?” Johnny said.

“Love,” Francesca said, without any particular inflection. “I never thought of that.”

Their faces drew almost imperceptibly closer.

“
There
you are,” said Theresa Hagen, startling them halfway off the bench. She was done with her tour. “Sorry,” she said.

“Somebody ought to put a bell on you,” Johnny said. Though what he felt was relief. He wondered if he could hire this broad to swoop in on an as-needed basis and save him from himself. Long hours, though.

“How was the tour?” Francesca said, smoothing her dress.

“Hard to put into words,” Theresa said. “They’re looking for you, Mr. Fontane,” she said, looking back and forth from Johnny to Francesca, clearly trying to figure out what she’d broken up.

“Call me Johnny.”

“Tom and Mr. Woltz and apparently some other people you’re meeting with…Johnny.” She looked at Francesca and rolled her eyes. “You know. Business.”

Johnny gave Francesca a kiss on the hand and did the same for Theresa Hagen.

Who, despite the way she was looking at him, hadn’t exactly broken up anything that was wrong or unseemly—anything but a conversation really.

He hurried around to the front of the mansion, so that he wouldn’t have to pass through that nightmare again.

You had to hand it to Vickie Adair, Johnny thought. That was a genius taunt. The rumor that he had a large penis was indeed true, but what the hell was he going to do about setting the record straight? Nothing. Johnny was a gentleman. He wasn’t about to tell Francesca Van Arsdale anything about his cock. And he certainly wasn’t going to show her. He knew that it was juvenile that he
wanted
to show her now, strictly in the interest of science, and he knew he’d never do it. He knew it shouldn’t bother him in the slightest that Francesca thought maybe he might have a small dick. In every sense, Johnny Fontane had nothing to prove.

He was not going to get involved with this woman. Period.

All that was going on was that he was getting her help on setting up this charity. It seemed like a good way to help repair his frayed connections with the Corleones, to work together on charitable causes and not just when they need favors from each other. This one made sense: Vito Corleone had been fond of Johnny’s friend Nino, who’d been a big success as a singer and an actor until the booze and the pills caught up with him. He’d have approved of a fund that honored the man’s memory and helped out people in the industry who, like Nino, had fallen on hard times and could use some help getting back on their feet. Francie was a sweet kid, but he wasn’t interested in her like that, and no doubt, without a couple martinis in her, neither was she. What was he, nuts? Michael Corleone’s niece? Sonny Corleone’s
daughter
? Whose family curse had already killed off her first husband? Never in a million years.

PRODUCTION ON
THE DISCOVERY OF AMERICA
WAS
set to begin the following week, on location in and around Genoa, and Woltz’s attorney—the legendary Ben Tamarkin, whom Tom had never met but to whom he had often been compared—joined the men in Woltz’s little theater to talk about a variety of related details. Tamarkin, a foppish silver-haired man with hair-tonic-green eyes and a red cravat, sat in silence throughout, taking it all in. There are few things on earth that are ultimately more dangerous than a good lawyer who can really listen.

Hagen disliked both Woltz and Fontane. They disliked each other as well. Tom had expected to be amused, watching these overindulged, self-important boy-men pretend to be magnanimous, watching their long-standing and childish grievances fall away as they spoke with genuine excitement over the movie itself, its financial prospects, and some of the consequent doors those profits might open. But, to Tom’s surprise, it was actually sad. The poor bastards really seemed to have no idea what was about to befall them.

Tom had been a little wary that he was pushing it too hard, that they’d see what was coming. Every day, the trades seemed to announce yet another big star who’d signed on for a supporting role or cameo. A cover story about the construction of the life-size replicas of the
Niña
, the
Pinta
, and the
Santa Maria
was coming out next month in
Life
magazine. Hagen, for his part, had used some connections—including the public relations firm Eddie Paradise controlled—to plant stories in other magazines and big newspapers, overhyping the movie to the extent possible. Many of those same reporters were already on the hook to write stories about how troubled the production was. The hilarious thing about entertainment writers was that they didn’t even need to be bribed in the conventional way. They’d write what you told them to for the low, low price of junkets and swag, garnished with a fresh sprig of access to the stars.

The lavish production didn’t stop with the three ships (four, really, since there was a spare
Santa Maria
in case the first one sank, which it was destined to do). They’d reconstructed fifteenth-century Madrid in the countryside outside Genoa, transforming a monastery there into the palace of Queen Isabella (Deanna Dunn) and King Ferdinand (Sir Oliver Smith-Christmas). The sets alone cost more than most entire movies, though, of course, sometimes that was how it went with movies like this. You had to spend money to make it. The amount of spending on this movie seemed justifiable to Woltz and Fontane for several reasons, which Hagen recapped now. First and foremost was that the movie theaters the Corleones owned or could influence seemed to ensure that the distribution costs would be a fraction of the usual, and the number of screens on which it would play was guaranteed to be especially high. Another factor was that the dollar was strong relative to the hopelessly devalued lira. Also, Hagen had helped secure highly advantageous deals with the unions here and in Italy. And Michael had gotten “a friend of ours in Italy” (they wouldn’t have known who Cesare Indelicato was, anyway) to agree to have his men watch over the production, so that no one would dare steal from them or overcharge them for so much as a nail.

“And there’s a final piece of good news for you, gentlemen,” Hagen said. “The Italian government has agreed to help underwrite the production with an economic-development grant of one million dollars.”

“Not bad,” Tamarkin said, the first time he had reacted to anything.

“See, Jack?” Johnny said. “What’d I tell you about my friends here, huh? How better to make money in business than to be in business with people who never lose money in business?”

Woltz seemed pleased as well, but there was a sourness to his smile that revealed a man who knew what he was hearing was too good to be true and just couldn’t figure out why. Woltz had made a mint off the last picture he made with Johnny and with the Corleones’ backing. There was little reason to imagine that this wouldn’t turn out even better. His bean counters—who were under Tamarkin’s supervision—liked the idea largely because of all the free publicity, huge discounts, and distribution advantages.

According to Tom’s research, Woltz was leveraged to the hilt. He hadn’t gotten into TV when some of the other studios had, and he was getting by now by quietly selling off parcels of land, including some of the outer reaches of the studio lot (a trend the Corleones hoped to accelerate soon). He’d married Vickie Adair not just to quell the rumors of his pedophilia but for her money—which she’d promptly squandered on the renovations, believing that Woltz was so rich that her money wasn’t needed. Woltz had been too proud to tell her the truth. He’d also kept thinking his studio was just one blockbuster away from turning the tide.

As for Johnny, his old accountant had turned up recently in the Bahamas—where, coincidentally, some of the movie’s nautical scenes were to be filmed as well as a few of the beach scenes with the Indians. The accountant was found on the beach as well, shot in the back of the head. Most of Johnny’s money had been recovered, and it was all the capital that his new accountant—handpicked by Tom Hagen—had allowed Johnny’s company to invest in this movie. Johnny was going to lose every penny, but he’d lost it once before, so, in essence, it was like playing with the house’s money. Johnny’s career was going to take one on the chin here, too, when the movie bombed, but his career had gotten up off the canvas a time or two already, as a fighter with great will and great cornermen will do.

J
ohnny left and the other three men were able to turn their attention to the matter of Danny and Jimmy Shea. To Tom’s surprise, this began with Woltz calling for the lights.

“Don’t worry,” Woltz stage-whispered. “The projectionist isn’t right in the head. He doesn’t talk, he doesn’t understand what he sees, he just knows how to run the projector.”

“Sounds like quite a find,” Hagen said.

Tamarkin chuckled. “If only you could have found a girl like that, huh, Jack? Doesn’t talk, doesn’t understand what she sees. Just someone who knows how to take it up her tight young ass.”

Woltz, to Hagen’s astonishment, didn’t say a word.

Hagen had supplied this copy of the film to Woltz, but he hadn’t seen it before, and he could have done without seeing it now. Pornography made him squeamish, and this was worse: a nauseating reminder of what had happened to Judy Buchanan and what had come from it.

The film started, grainy black-and-white stock, single camera, fixed position, no sound, poor lighting. A large-breasted, dark-haired woman—no one noteworthy, it seemed, just an idle conquest—was sprawled on a huge bed in a dark-colored scoop-necked dress, looking over at the camera, vamping it up. She pulled the dress down and flashed a naked breast and laughed.

A moment later, into the frame came the current president of the United States, naked only below the waist. He said something and the woman cracked up. He laughed, too. Instead of getting in bed, instead of taking off any more clothes, Jimmy Shea crossed the room and took a seat in a big armless chair, almost a throne. The camera was perfectly positioned to capture him in profile. He had a slight paunch that the cut of his suits hid. He seemed fully erect and normally endowed.

The woman came over to him, still in her dress. She sank to her knees and got right to business. It was a remarkably energetic blowjob—clearly playing to the camera, Tom thought.

Hagen started to object. Woltz shushed him. Hagen sighed, but let it play out. This reel was only a few minutes long. There were a couple hours of it in all. It had been Rita Duvall, Michael’s lady friend, who’d mentioned that the Shea brothers were fond of filming their bedroom escapades. She swore she’d never done so herself, during her brief fling with Jimmy Shea—that it was actually his desire to film it that brought an end to things. After a little digging, Tom Hagen had found that Johnny Fontane’s Negro valet had made a copy of some footage shot at Johnny’s house in Beverly Hills, back when the Sheas and Johnny were still close.

Onscreen now, the woman, still on her knees, leaned back away from then-Governor Shea. He got to his feet and started jacking off right over her mostly covered breasts.

“Enough,” Tamarkin said.

“Lights,” Woltz said.

The men sat in silence for a long time.

“Where is that?” Tamarkin said. “Where was it filmed?”

Hagen said he didn’t know.

“So how did you happen to come into possession of an art film such as this?”

“Attorney-client privilege,” Hagen said. Which was true. Though he’d paid Fontane’s valet for the films, he’d also had him give back a dollar, as a retainer.

“I need to make a phone call,” Tamarkin said.

“There’s a pay phone in the lobby,” Woltz said. “Long story.”

“Two minutes,” Tamarkin said, and left.

“So it’s true?” Hagen asked Woltz. “About the single phone call?”

Jack Woltz put his head in his hands and didn’t answer.

Some people called Tamarkin the Phantom. He was the ultimate fixer. He reported to a group of vastly wealthy men almost no one knew, and he himself, though more of a public figure, was rarely seen in public. He’d helped bring countless miracles to Southern California, including the Brooklyn Dodgers and a nearly limitless supply of water. It was often said that Ben Tamarkin could save the damned with a single phone call.

Hagen had also turned up some evidence that Tamarkin’s power was derived from playing a dangerous game: feeding the FBI just enough information to keep himself out of trouble, but not enough to bring down the powerful men he served and protected. Hagen couldn’t get proof, but, to be on the safe side, he was proceeding on the presumption that it was all true.

Exactly two minutes after he left, Tamarkin strode down the center aisle and returned to his seat.

“My apologies,” he said. “Continue.”

Hagen stood to face the other two men. “As I’ve told Mr. Woltz, there is quite a bit more of this unsavory material,” he said. “Some of it involves the president’s brother as well, who, I’m told, indulges in a much wider variety of activities. The reel we had copied for Mr. Woltz is apparently a representative sample. I’d rather not know any more than I already do. I’d rather no one know. I’m confident few people have seen these, and it’s certainly our hope that this situation continues.”

Tamarkin looked up at him, impassive. Even though Woltz was scheduled to introduce the president at a fund-raiser tomorrow night, Hagen realized that any meaningful change had to go through Tamarkin.

“Gentlemen,” Tom said, “we are all three men who came from humble beginnings. All three of us were, for at least a little while, earning our keep while we were still boys. It’s easier for us to see certain things that someone who’s always been rich, like Danny Shea, cannot. For example, he fails to understand that the two union leaders he’s trying to prosecute have inarguably made things better for the dues-paying, blue-collar men they serve. Union politics can be a dirty business, and a man who’s able to get things done probably isn’t going to be a candidate for sainthood.”

Woltz still had his head in his hands, but Hagen looked: he was still breathing. Tamarkin, in contrast, was focused on Hagen with laser-beam intensity.

“By the same token,” Hagen continued, “many of the men with whom Michael Corleone does business are staunch opponents of this administration. It may simply be easier for Mr. Corleone, whose background is so similar to the president’s, to appreciate certain matters as well, things that those men, who can’t see past their differences with some of the administration’s policies, cannot. The strong economy, employment rate, the space program, the inspirational leadership, the ability to stare down the Communists: it’s a long list, as I think we all agree.”

Tamarkin folded his arms now.

“Michael Corleone,” said Hagen, “is not the demon that Danny Shea is making him and people like him out to be. He was involved in the president’s campaign in the last election and may have been instrumental in the outcome. He’d like to have that chance again—and would, gladly and aggressively, if this administration stopped treating him like an adversary.”

Finally Woltz raised his large, bald head. “Let me get this straight,” Woltz said. “You want us to help you blackmail the president of the United States?”

Tamarkin gave the old man a look of heavy-lidded contempt.

“Absolutely not,” Hagen said. “How would we do that? What newspaper would print it? What TV station would broadcast it? Unless I’m missing something, which I suppose is possible,” he said, and let the pause linger, “this material is of no political value. On the other hand,” he said, pointing at the screen, “an honorable man keeps the secrets of his friends. What incentive is there to harbor the ruinous secrets of an enemy? It seems so…unnecessary, that the president would want us as adversaries when he can have us as friends—
did
have us as friends, until the recent unpleasantness his little brother provoked. Mr. Woltz, Mr. Tamarkin, we know that you’re on a friendly basis with the president and several of the men in his inner circle. We wouldn’t ask you to in any way compromise those friendships. I’m not asking you to be Mr. Corleone’s messenger. I’m not asking you anything at all, really, but to consider the situation, to consider it fully, and to do what you think is right.” He walked over and put his hand on Tamarkin’s shoulder, then bent down and faced Woltz. “All I’m suggesting is this,” Hagen said. “Let your conscience be your guide.”

TOM DIDN’T RELISH THE IDEA OF STAYING OVERNIGHT
in this ghastly house under the same roof with these loud and ghastly people, but it was one more price he had to pay to atone for the hundreds of enjoyable times he’d had putting his mind and body at ease alone with Judy Buchanan. Monogamy had to have been a woman’s invention, pious and unrealistic, an absurdity—like the need they think they have for all those expensive, cheaply made shoes. Monogamy, thought Tom Hagen, was the imposition of the way things ought to be onto the way they really were.

The room they’d been given had twin beds and was, aside from the Degas sketches over those beds, plainly furnished. Tom and Theresa Hagen, in their bathrobes, pulled up a couple of chairs and sat by the window, sharing a bottle of red wine that had been waiting for them and looking out at the view of the spotlighted statue of Jack Woltz.

“Woltz is a Jew, right?” Theresa asked.

“Through and through. So what?”

“So he’s got I would say twenty pieces of art in this place that were stolen from the Jews during the war and unaccounted for since. I’d have to have a closer look to be sure, but if I were a betting woman, I’d bet the over on twenty.”

“How do you know a thing like that?”

“What the over/under bet is?”

“No,” Tom said. “The other.”

“I joined a group down in Miami—Miami Beach, actually—mostly Jews themselves. They work to find significant works of art that are missing, be it from World War Two or otherwise, but they specialize in World War Two. There’s more of it than you’d think.”

“What happens when they find something?” Tom asked.

“They track down the rightful owner or his heirs and the courts do their magic after that. Or, I should say, the fear of the courts. The fear of getting publicly unmasked as a receiver of stolen goods from the Nazis is enough to get people to listen to the better angels of their nature. Even if the new owner doesn’t know provenance from Providence, Rhode Island, if all of his crimes are inadvertent, being an inadvertent Nazi collaborator is hardly something a person wants to have to answer for in court. People see the evidence, talk to their lawyers, and relent.”

She poured him some more wine.

“You’re not thinking about me,” she said, “my involvement in this group, anything interesting about the project. You’re just thinking about how you can use this information against Woltz.”

She had always seemed to be able to read his mind, though it was something she rarely did anymore. “I was thinking about why it makes any difference that he’s a Jew. Just because he’s a Jew, he’s supposed to be a crusader to help all the other Jews? Start thinking like that, and where does it end?”

“You’re an intelligent man, Tom Hagen, but when it comes to looking at the world through anyone else’s perspective, you can only do it when you want something. You’re all but incapable of empathy.”

She wasn’t talking about Woltz, he realized.

“It just kills me,” Theresa said, “and this is just one example, but it just kills me that you might think of me as the kind of wife who’s so naïve she doesn’t know what men do.”

“I don’t understand,” he lied. “What do you mean?”

“I know, all right?” she said. “I’m around artists all the time. Artists are outlaws. They live outside the law; they think that rules are for other people. You think that the conditions in your world are so
secretive.
You think they’re unique, which is a laugh. I can’t stand it that you might think of me as some poor Italian peasant girl who’s just going to accept that the
signore
is going to have his
comare.
Or that it would be a burden lifted off of me, a chore I don’t want to do, like hiring someone to come in and help with the cleaning.”

“Theresa, that’s not—”

“How can you possibly not understand that I’d like to do what you did. I
like
sex, in case you didn’t notice, and every reason you’d have for going and getting some strange
pussy,
I’d have for wanting to go get some strange hard
cock.
But I don’t do it. I would never do it. You know what bothers me the most?”

Hagen’s hands were thrust into his robe pockets and balled into fists. “No.”

“You’ll never figure it out.”

“I imagine I won’t. You already said I can’t see the world through other people’s eyes.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not mocking you.”

They sat in silence for a while. Then Theresa poured herself more wine.

“What bothers me the most,” she said, “is that you keep saying that it didn’t mean anything. That you didn’t love her, but my God, Tom, listen to yourself. Why did you rip your family apart over something that doesn’t mean anything? Why did you leave yourself vulnerable to whoever was behind the murder of that whore? If you had loved her, I could understand it. I’d have better understood why you’d run a risk like that. But more importantly, if you’d loved her, it would have shown me some passion in you.”

Tom willed himself to relax, to open his fists and extend his fingers and take a deep breath. Most of the men he knew would have hit their wives by now. Tom had never laid a hand on her—her or any person—in anger. Like anyone else, he’d had the impulse. But even as a boy, Tom had the impulse control of an ascetic country priest.