It was a huge marionette. The jewelry must be fake. An odd prank, but the monk had lived in Palermo a long time and had learned not to be surprised by anything that happened here.
He drew nearer.
The puppet lines beside Laughing Sal Narducci’s mouth were actually rivulets of blood.
The rope used to garrote him-just before noon, when the catacombs closed for lunch-lay on the floor beside the dead man’s shiny shoes.
The monk took in this grim tableau, in this strange and holy place, and something inside his heart broke. A common thief would have taken the jewels. An ordinary killer would have hidden the body, not left it here, in the same chamber with La bambina! The monk shouted a stream of curses at the Friends. Who else would do such a thing? He had devoted his life to paying penance for his family’s violent tradition, but again and again it sought him out. And now, so late in life, this atrocity. It felt cruelly inevitable. Rage filled him like a poison. His curses grew louder.
The brothers who ran to his aid told the authorities that when the beloved old man collapsed and died, his face was as red as the rightmost stripe of the Italian flag.
When, from the killer himself, Cesare Indelicato heard what had happened-on the terrace of his cliffside villa, overlooking the medieval city he essentially ruled-he marveled at God’s bleak sense of humor. Don Cesare had never met the poor monk, but he recognized the man’s name. It had been Don Cesare’s grandfather, Felice Crapisi, who killed the monk’s traitorous grandfather. Even more strangely, Don Cesare had been asked to kill Narducci twice (first by Thomas Hagen, then by Nick Geraci). The trusted soldato he’d sent had killed Narducci only once, yet the bloody poetics of the Creator saw fit to transform that lone killing into two deaths.
Don Cesare thanked the killer and dismissed him.
Alone, shaking his head in wonder and awe, Don Cesare raised a glass of grappa toward Palermo and toward the darkening heavens.
What toast might he give to such a world, such a God, that had made him so happy, so rich, that had rewarded his every duplicitous act while punishing the superstitious little ants down there striving to do good?
What else?
“Salut’,” he cried. He drank.
The toast echoed off the cliff. He heard it again, and again he drank.
Chapter 29
AT THE CORLEONE COMPOUND at Lake Tahoe, Theresa Hagen and Connie Corleone (who’d gone back to using her maiden name) were cooking dinner together, as they did most nights they were both home, which was most nights. They alternated kitchens, by no pattern Michael could see, some nights in his house, others (like tonight) at the Hagens’. There had been a remarkable change in Connie in the two years since she’d stopped trying to be a part of the jet set and come home to serve her brother-just as unmarried relatives have served as de facto first ladies to widowed or bachelor presidents. Theresa was no small part of Connie’s turnaround. She’d become the big sister Connie never had-complete with constant sisterly bickering, true, but they clearly loved each other. Because of Theresa, Connie had taken an interest in art and was helping Theresa raise funds to establish a permanent symphony orchestra in Lake Tahoe. They both held office in the League of Women Voters. The last year or so, Connie had even started dressing much more conservatively. They used the same designer the real first lady did.
In Tom Hagen’s office, the stone cottage behind the house, Tom and Michael were lying low until dinner was ready. Connie’s kids drove Michael nuts, even his godson, Mickey Rizzi, who was six years old and cried constantly. Connie ran things around the house, but Michael could have hired people to do that. Having someone else’s children living in his house made him miss Tony and Mary even more, he thought, than if he’d been rattling around over there alone. Not to mention the Hagen kids, right next door. Gianna Hagen and Mary were the same age, had gone to the same schools, and been best friends. It was impossible to look at Gianna and not feel a pang of yearning for the simple pleasure of reading a bedtime story to his daughter.
He and Tom also had business to discuss, of course. Tom had spoken to the Ambassador about getting Billy more responsibility in his job at the Justice Department; the Ambassador claimed to have spoken to his son Danny, the attorney general, but Tom had his doubts. Billy was apparently still being kept away from anything in the office that might be useful to the Corleones.
There was also the matter of Vincent Forlenza’s trumped-up rationale for killing his long-deported consigliere and the word Nick Geraci had sent that he needed to speak with Michael Corleone, in person, one on one.
“Did Geraci say what it was about?” Michael presumed it had to do with Narducci.
“He didn’t,” Tom said. “He said he could come out here if you’d rather-Aw, shit.”
On the putting green outside Tom’s office, Victor Rizzi-his twelve-year-old nephew, freshly suspended from school for fighting and drinking-executed a flying tackle of Andrew Hagen, seven years older and about to begin his sophomore year at Notre Dame. Andrew-a divinity major who planned to become a priest-was probably not the instigator. Victor came up swinging. Andrew tossed his putter aside and pinned Victor to the green.
Michael cocked an eyebrow.
“Forget it,” Tom said. “Andrew can handle it.”
“It’s not Andrew I’m worried about.”
The Hagens’ alarmed, obedient collie raced to the back door of the house, barking. A moment later, Connie came running out in a filthy apron, screaming at Victor. Andrew used his longer arms to his advantage and essentially handed Victor over to his furious mother.
“Remind you of anybody?” Tom said.
Michael knew Tom must have meant either him or Fredo, but it didn’t seem like something either of them would have done. Also, neither he nor Tom ever spoke Fredo’s name. There were things that had to be done, and you did them, and you never talked about it. You didn’t try to justify them. They can’t be justified.
“You mean me?” Michael said. “When did I ever-”
Tom rolled his eyes. So this had been his attempt to talk about Fredo.
“When did… he ever take on you and Sonny?”
Tom shook his head, gravely. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m getting old.”
A few beats late, Michael realized that Tom hadn’t meant Fredo. He’d meant Carmela, who’d broken up more petty fights in their neighborhood than ten beat cops combined.
“Anyway,” Tom said, “getting Geraci out here’s going to take a while. He’ll have to drive or take a train.”
“I’m supposed to go see the kids the week after next.”
“If you’re going to do it at all,” Hagen said, “I think that’s when. But-”
“I’m going to do it.”
“It could be a trap. Especially in New York, I think.”
“It’s fine,” Michael said. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll be sure Al takes every precaution.”
“What’ll happen when they find out we had the job done on Narducci before they did?”
Sal Narducci hadn’t seemed like the sort of man who’d hold up well if he were tortured. It hadn’t been a chance Michael was willing to take. They could suspect whatever they wanted from Narducci, but they weren’t going to hear it from that horse’s ass’s mouth. “How would they find out?” Michael said. “We contacted the same man they did. Indelicato waited to hear from them, as we told him he would, and then he did the job to our specifications.”
“You’re that confident in Cesare Indelicato? This was the first time I’d ever met the man. He’s worked with Geraci for years.”
“He’s been in business with the Corleone Family for many more years,” Michael said. “If it hadn’t been for the help of my father during the war, Cesare Indelicato would still be hijacking tomato carts. Anyway, what incentive does he have to side with anyone but himself? He was contacted twice, received two tributes, all for one simple job. He won’t give the matter a second thought.”