The Godfather's Revenge (13 page)

The same breathing regimen he used before recording sessions.

He
wasn’t
some punk anymore. He was fifty-two jam-packed years old. His public looked to him as someone who’d fought and loved and lost and lived to tell about it,
sing
about it, on records that kept right on spinning in battered jukeboxes and lonely living rooms all around the world. Life had given him his share of raw deals, and he’d endured. Pain left a mark on him, but what could a man expect? He was just a regular Joe—like you, pally, only more so.

Breathe.

Johnny could feel his rage subsiding. He looked at his omelet cooling on the plate. He poked at it with a coffee stirrer. He wasn’t hungry. The early signs of a hangover were asserting themselves. He downed a small fistful of aspirin, chased it with a milky-white slug of antacid, and lit up a menthol cigarette. Both the aspirin and the antacid came from very large bottles.

It was the middle of the night in L.A., too early to call Ginny back. If he didn’t talk to her before the parade, how was that
his
fault? Blame the time zones. Blame the bigness of America.

And it was still more than two hours before his appointment with Michael Corleone.

He grabbed the satchel of movie scripts he’d brought with him from California and sprawled across the suite’s long red sofa.

By rights, this should have been one of the great days of his life. But instead of savoring it, Johnny Fontane was looking for redemption somewhere in a two-foot-high stack of screenplays and trying not to think too much about the day he had before him. He didn’t want to think about what to say to Michael Corleone. Johnny was a performer; he’d do better if he just let a thing like that happen. It was a business meeting, but Johnny’s business was show. Same for the parade, right?

He began to guzzle coffee and skim movie scripts, looking for a vehicle that would be good for his image. To his dismay (but not his surprise), most of the scripts came from people who wanted him to play a glamorous criminal—even though it was a kind of role he’d done only once, in a lighter-than-air musical. Two different pictures, in fact, were about the late Hyman Roth—one a straightforward biographical picture, the other about a character patterned on Roth. Both wanted Johnny for the lead, as if the audience would accept a mook like him as a ruthless Jew mastermind. He tossed them both into the trash.

Johnny sifted through the other scripts, making notes about good parts not intended for him but that he thought he could play. The crusading cop, for whom it’s now personal. The gun for hire who wins over the schoolmarm by saving the town from a fellow Union cavalry veteran, a swarthy outlaw named Covelli (
J. Fontane?
someone had scrawled on page 1). The retarded gardener who rises up at the end and kills the corrupt, wife-beating senator (who is revealed to be the gardener’s own brother). Johnny’s agent said nobody in Hollywood would cast him in roles like that right now. Yes, he had his own production company, but he still needed help to get a picture made and more help yet to get it distributed. That’s leaving aside whether Mr. and Mrs. America would fork over their hard-earned cash to see it. These days, the only people who went to the movies were teenagers who needed a place to sit in the dark and feel each other up. To get a bigger crowd than that, you had to give the people a big spectacle they couldn’t see on TV or else put out pictures that were made quickly and cheaply, featuring big stars in the same kind of roles they’d played a hundred times before. As a wise man once said, if the crowds don’t show up, there’s nothing you can do to stop them.

That was the conventional wisdom, anyway.

But if Johnny Fontane had been a big believer in the conventional wisdom, he’d probably still be back in the old neighborhood, waiting tables or selling shirts or walking a beat.

He stared at the scripts. Johnny was sure he could play a hero, given the right epic. Maybe not Jesus or King Arthur, but he could be as good as the next guy commanding an army in a just war or saving orphans from the ravages of the Great Chicago Fire—something along those lines. He could also do a great job in something classy but not too artsy, playing the little guy who’s down on his luck and gets one last shot at redemption, something that could earn Johnny good notices from the critics and maybe make a buck or two.

There were ways of getting the big shots in Hollywood to think differently.

But of course resorting to those tactics, calling in those favors, was what had gotten Johnny into the mess he was in now.

Johnny did believe what he’d told Lisa, every word of it. At the same time, it was also true that he’d never asked his godfather precisely what he meant when he said he was going to make Jack Woltz an offer he couldn’t refuse. Woltz, then as now the head of Woltz International Pictures, had vowed that over his dead body would Johnny get that part. There were wild rumors about why Woltz changed his mind, but Johnny dismissed them, then more or less forgot all about them. Johnny took the part, nailed the shit out of it, took his on-screen beating, and then took home the Oscar. When the Corleones bankrolled Johnny’s movie production company, he didn’t ask questions. When there were rumors that the Chicago outfit had a stake in his record label, Johnny’s accountants asked him if he really wanted to know what there was to know about that. He’d just laughed—
laughed
—and walked out of the office.

Still, that didn’t mean that any of these people were
gangsters.

To get big things done, big people do things John Q. Public never sees. The inside dope on how the Plaza Hotel came to be would probably make your toes curl. Same with New York City itself. America? Stolen. Same with every great empire. If the thieves responsible are smart enough to build an organization around themselves and go to the trouble of sewing a flag, they go into the history books as heroes.

Johnny looked at his watch. Still too early to call. Much as he hated to give up on the idea of sharing this honor with his daughter, he was having second thoughts.

He picked up the next script from the pile.
The Discovery of America.
It was twice as long as most of the others: one of those big epics. For a few pages, he wondered if he could play Columbus, then he pitched it aside and looked for something that had a ghost of a chance. He pulled out a script called
Trimalchio Rex.
What caught Johnny’s eye was the Italian name of the screenwriter, Sergio Lupo. Two pages in, through no fault of the screenplay itself, sleep fell on Johnny Fontane like a silk sheet.

He drifted off thinking Ginny was probably right, that she’d always been right, that nothing had been perfect in his life since the summer they were falling in love. His coffee cup slipped from his hand and hit the floor. It took a tiny chip out of the thing. Only at a joint like the Plaza could it qualify as broken.

E
ddie Paradise had been up since dawn. He left his waterfront house in Island Park and drove himself to a softball field not far from the docks in Red Hook, even closer to the precinct house where the police captain he was waiting for worked. Nothing on the radio sounded good until he found a station playing rock-and-roll instrumentals—Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass, Dick Dale & the Del-Tones, Link Wray & the Wraymen, James Brown & the Famous Flames, and his personal favorite Booker T. & the MG’s, with that “Green Onions” number.
Eddie Paradise
was a good name for a leader, he thought.
Eddie Paradise & the
…what?

Finally, the captain showed up in a gleaming ’59 Riviera, silver with a black top, and still in his bathrobe. Eddie gave him a Marlboro carton full of money—not a payoff, since the captain was on the payroll already: a gift is all it was, half now, half this time tomorrow, presuming tonight’s Commission meeting reached its peaceful conclusion. Did the captain even say thank you? He did not. Did Eddie need to give him the money personally? No. That went above and beyond. Did this crooked fucknuts give a shit? Eddie shook his head as the cop drove away. No. He did not.

Eddie got back in his car and went by the restaurant on Union Street, where the meeting would be, just to check on things—how fresh the calamari was (very), whether any chairs were tippy (the two that were had been replaced), how well the black roller shade was able to cover the front window (perfectly), the dope on the chefs and all the waiters who’d be working tonight (every one of whom was a member of the owner’s family, though Eddie vetoed a Neapolitan in-law he’d never seen in here before), if the neighbors had taken advantage of their all-expenses-paid getaway weekends to the Jersey shore (they had). Eddie listened to various petty requests—some cousin in jail for getting in a fight, some dishwasher who wanted a loan just until next month so he could bring his grandmother over from Racalmuto, et cetera. The usual. And, as usual, Eddie said he’d see what he could do. He wrote nothing down. He had a mind for remembering shit like this. On his way out, Eddie grabbed a broom and swept the front sidewalk himself, even though it seemed to have already been done.

Having the Commission meeting on Eddie’s turf was an honor, especially for someone who’d just been promoted to
capo
. If everything went perfectly, Michael Corleone would get the credit. If anything went wrong, it’d be Eddie’s ass. Which suited Eddie fine—that’s how you moved up, you deny credit for anything and heap it onto your boss. But an honor? It was getting harder for Eddie to see it that way. When what’s heaped on you is the level of bullshit that was heaped on Eddie Paradise, it’s hard to see much past the end of your own flat and broken nose.

Eddie commended the restaurant owner on the way things were coming together, then went to his regular bakery, on President Street, where he took his morning espresso and held court. Then he headed to his social club, hoping for a civilized gentleman’s nap, but no such luck. He turned the corner and saw five men from Flatbush Novelties, dressed in work shirts with their names stitched above the pockets, waiting for him in front of the red door of the Carroll Gardens Hunt Club. The fireworks guys.

Why the Roach hadn’t already taken care of whatever they needed, who knows? It was always something. Somebody always wanted some goddamned thing from Eddie Paradise. At home, at the bakery, at his club, sitting down eating lunch, even out on his boat. Like they say, gotta pay the cost to be the boss, but Jesus Geronimo Christ. A whole
regime
under him now, yet nothing important got done and stayed done unless Eddie saw to it himself. If he did have a group, know what he’d call it? Eddie Paradise & the Worthless
Coglioni.
Or better yet, Just Eddie. He’d have thought that by now he’d be at a station in life where once in a while he could take the day off from anyone’s needs but his own. One day. Why does Columbus need a day? Fuck Columbus.
Merdaiolo
’s been dead for centuries.

The two men walking with Eddie asked him if he knew the people in front of the club.

“I’ll take care of it,” Eddie said.

The day hell freezes over’s got a name, and it’s Eddie Day.

Say this for the men in his crew, though: they were well trained—a tradition in this
regime
since Salvatore Tessio started it up. Without even needing to be told, they positioned themselves between the Flatbush Novelties panel truck and their boss.

The owner of the fireworks company, sitting on the stoop, tried to hand Eddie his morning paper.
George,
his shirt read. George Spanos.

“Anything good in there, George?”

The men behind Eddie shot one another a look.

“What do you mean?”

Unfolding his morning paper, reading it fresh, was one of Eddie’s pleasures. Once it’d been around awhile—into the can and who knows where—he wouldn’t touch it.

“You read my newspaper,” Eddie said, “and I’m asking you what you got out of it.”

Spanos started to say something and stopped himself. “Rained out the Series again yesterday. Supposed to rain again today. It’s what the Giants get for moving out west.”

The thing Spanos thought better of saying was probably something about Eddie or his associates. Spanos was such a lousy gambler, Eddie’s little girl could have read his tells. Eddie glanced at what he could see of the headlines and didn’t see anything earthshaking.

“The World Series can kiss my hairy ass,” Eddie said. “All I follow is the Mets.”

The fireworks people snickered.

There was a day when Eddie Paradise would have snapped right there, but watching Nick Geraci had taught him things. Even if the guy had gone bad, he’d been a good teacher.

“Laugh.” Eddie shrugged. “But I got news for you, the Dodgers and Giants ain’t comin’ back. I live in the present, y’know? I got season tickets and everything.”

Spanos stood, still proffering the newspaper. “You got season tickets for the present?”

“For the Mets, you fat Greek fuck.” Eddie was also the sole provider of all cement poured for the team’s new ballpark and all the construction trash hauled away from the site. “What made you think you could read my paper?”

Eddie went up a step, so he’d be eye to eye with Spanos. Eddie also had a thing about his height (he was five-one), though he prided himself on not having a short man’s personality.

“I put it back in order,” Spanos practically pleaded. “Perfect order.”

“Keep it,” Eddie said.

Spanos, like most degenerate gamblers, had a tendency to push his luck. “Really, take it,” he said. “I’m done with it.”

On the other hand, that tendency was what led to Eddie taking over the man’s business. Eddie smiled his menacing smile. “Then shove it up your ass.”

Eddie had practiced that smile in the mirror. He’d worked up a lot of different looks.

He glanced up, at the window of his office, and saw Momo the Roach looking down on him. Momo had come back from Acapulco so tanned he could have joined the Harlem Globetrotters. He’d been back awhile now, but he was using a sunlamp to make the tan linger, like some Hollywood
finocch’
.

“Is there anything you gentlemen actually need,” Eddie said, “or are you going to block my path for the rest of this beautiful fall morning?”

“They wanted to see permits,” Spanos said.

“Who wanted to see permits?”

“The city.”

“The whole fuckin’ city wanted to see permits? Who’d you talk to?”

“We’re down at the waterfront there, setting up.” Spanos fished a business card from his shirt pocket and gave it to Eddie. “And this guy here told us we needed permits. We showed him what we had, and he said no, those are the wrong kind.”

“It was this guy here?” Eddie said, flicking the business card with his middle finger. It belonged to a councilman. “Or somebody who works for this guy?”

“That guy there. He had a detective with him, Chesbro, and a uniformed cop, too.”

Greedy double-dipping
stronzoni
. Chesbro was already on the payroll. As was the councilman, who’d apparently stopped to wet his beak on his way to the Columbus Day Parade. Eddie had just taken over as
capo
. This was part of a bigger pattern these days: men who won’t
stay
bought. Happened more and more all the time. At every turn, even when all Eddie Paradise was trying to do was something nice for the good people of New York, hard-ons like this were testing him.

Let ’em. There was power in being underestimated. That was the Corleone way.

“And it took five of you to come here and tell me this?”

“What else could we do? They made us stop working.”

“Did you tell ’em who you was working for?”

Spanos shook his head. “He knew, though. He mentioned you by name.”

Eddie nodded to the men standing by the panel truck, took another step up, and reached down to put his hand on the taller man’s shoulder. “Go back down to the pier. My associates here will follow you. When our friends show up, they’ll reason with them.”

On the way to get their car, one of the men whispered to Eddie that he needed money. That figured. Eddie jerked his thumb toward upstairs. Get it from the Roach. Carroll Gardens was home-field advantage, but Eddie wasn’t about to stand on the street and pull out cash.

He watched them drive away. Then he met the eye of a neighborhood kid. They were always around, the way seagulls trail tourist boats. “Newspaper,” Eddie said.

“Which one?”

He waved dismissively. “All of ’em. Make sure they’re today’s.”

The boy sprinted off. He knew not to ask Eddie for money. Whatever the kid spent, he’d get it back tenfold.

Eddie Paradise stepped over the sullied newspaper, then walked around back and entered the Carroll Gardens Hunt Club through the basement door.

He and Momo had grown up in this neighborhood, and they’d bought the place together. It was tucked on a residential street, all brownstones, on a block that was still a hundred percent Italian. It had once been a real hunt club, and it came with a built-in pistol range down in the basement. Also down here was an empty cage made with iron bars supposedly pinched during the construction of the Bronx Zoo. The guess was that the cage was originally used for dogs. It was Eddie’s dream to get a lion—a real lion—and keep it down there. He’d made inquiries. It could be done.

The ground floor had a kitchen and a lounge—sofas, card tables, a pool table, and an ornately carved bar. On the walls—Eddie’s personal collection—were dozens of old World War II posters.
HE’S WATCHING YOU. WHO WANTS TO KNOW? IF YOU TALK TOO MUCH, THIS MAN DIES. THE ENEMY IS LISTENING/HE WANTS TO KNOW WHAT YOU KNOW
. The popular favorite was a fabulous pouty-lipped dame, hunched over a table toward the camera so you could see the great dark valley of her cleavage, pointing at a red pair of dice.
PLEASE DON’T GAMBLE WITH YOUR LIFE!
it read.
BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY
. Personally, Eddie loved the one with two gunners drawn in profile, a tough Italian-looking guy with a rivet gun that looked like a
lupara
and, below him, a helmeted soldier with a tommy gun.
GIVE ’EM BOTH BARRELS
. Every time he looked at it, it made him smile.

On the second floor were storage rooms, crash apartments, and the business office. The desk sat on a six-inch platform (Eddie’s idea), so that the person behind the desk looked down on anybody sitting across from him. The whole top floor was a banquet hall with a kitchenette and a spiral staircase to a small rooftop terrace.

He closed his office door. “Downstairs still looks like a pigpen.”

“The way you are with the having to have your new soap,” Momo said, “or your new socks, all that bit, those are things you can pass off as you wanting to be classy. But friend to friend? Your newspaper thing has gotten fucking
calabrese
.”

Eddie didn’t wear socks more than once. He also threw away bars of soap once the lettering disappeared. As if he hadn’t earned some of the finer things in life.

“Yeah, well, we all got our little eccentricities,” Eddie said, feinting as if he was going to muss the Roach’s shellacked hair, which really was about as hard as a cockroach’s exoskeleton. Momo’s given name was Cosimo Barone. He’d hoped to get tabbed as
capo,
which if it had happened wouldn’t have surprised Eddie or pissed him off, either. Momo was a good man who’d earned what he’d gotten. There were rumors that the Roach was considered too close to Nick Geraci to take over as
capo
, but he wasn’t all that much closer to Geraci than Eddie had been. When the shake-up happened, Momo had been in the joint, sent upstate on a fluke bust at a Family-owned chop shop. He’d done his time and kept his mouth shut, which, on the one hand, was a reason to reward him but on the other made him, first, maybe too hot to tab as
capo
and, second, definitely out of the swing of things. So Eddie Paradise got promoted, and Momo the Roach got paroled and was rewarded with a month at a resort in Acapulco, all expenses paid, including women. Fair or not, that needed to be the end of it. Unless the Roach wanted to go the way of Nick Geraci or Momo’s own uncle Sally, the guy needed to live in the present. Eddie prided himself on living in the present.