“Let it mean what you want it to mean. I know you’re out and all that bit, but I’m not in the casino business and you are. I thought you’d be interested to know in advance about the opportunities that might be coming up, and also to be sure you knew about the competition.”
Competition? “Competition for what?”
“Well, this is where, if I’d have known everything that was going on, I’d have come to you right away. I was led to believe that my thing out in Jersey was the whole operation, but I started hearing different things. Come to find out, Sammy Drago down in Tampa’s got something just like it, training right on the beach way south of Miami. That didn’t bother me half as much as when I happen to learn that there’s fifty or so men training at a closed-off part of the navy base in Jacksonville, which I actually use from time to time in my own business. All the wiseguys I could find anything out about at that base are connected to Carlo Tramonti and New Orleans, but-” He turned his trembling palms over and smirked in an of-course way. “Tramonti’s a puppet. Drago’s an empty suit. Put it all together, what’s it spell?” Geraci spelled it out on the fingers and thumb of his left hand, as if he were counting. “R. U. S. S. O.”
Michael presumed that come to find out and I happened to learn were Geraci’s way of covering up his obvious sources for this-either Vincent Forlenza, who was down in Key Biscayne for the winter, or Louie Russo himself.
“Stop right there,” Michael said. “I know that you’re telling me these things out of your respect for me and for our friendship, and for that I’m grateful. But you’ve said too much already. I can’t be a part of this. I appreciate the awkward position that puts you in, but all I can tell you is that in spite of what you may have heard from your godfather in Cleveland, I assure you I’m doing everything I can to move this along so that you can have my seat on the Commission and I can be out altogether. I’m close. We’re close. You and I want the same things. This would be a terrible time to start up any trouble at all with any of the other Families.”
Michael couldn’t tell if Geraci was nodding or trembling.
“I know I don’t need your blessing,” Geraci said, getting up to leave. “I’m just trying to make sure I avoid the opposite. Your curse, I guess.”
Michael would have thought that a move that cravenly defensive was beneath him. “Good luck to you and your men in Cuba,” Michael said. “Say hello to all the things that were stolen from us. Are we clear?”
“Will do,” Geraci said, descending the stars. “And yes.”
A week later, back in Lake Tahoe, Joe Lucadello showed up alone, as promised, in a crummy little boat and tied up to the Corleone dock. Capra and Tommy Neri met him and frisked him and gave Michael the all clear. Michael called Tom Hagen and told him Joe had arrived, then waited until Hagen was already out there before making his own way down the sloping lawn to the aluminum bench at the end of the dock, taking his place in the middle.
“Tom didn’t seem to want to tell me,” Joe said. “Maybe you know, Mike. Who thought up that pizza parlor trick? Because I must say, I’m impressed.”
It had been Geraci’s idea, but Michael couldn’t see anything to gain by telling this to Joe. “Tell me if what Fausto Geraci said is true,” Michael said.
“That always throws me,” Joe said. “No one else calls him that.”
Michael stared his old friend down.
“All right, yes,” he said. “There are others. I mean, I never said there weren’t others.”
“You knew about this, and-”
“No, I didn’t. Not at first. The more I learn about your… whadda-yacallit,” Joe Lucadello said. “Your tradition. The more similarities I see. Secret societies, with vows of silence and a code of honor, et cetera. But this situation here is a way we differ. You seem to have ways of finding out everything you need to know, but in my line of work, nobody knows everything about anything.”
“That’s not acceptable,” Michael said.
“I don’t make the rules. Though, honestly, I don’t think it affects you. You’re part of the project. Once anybody gets the job done, it’s safe to say that everyone on the project will get a big dose of Christmas for their troubles. Plus, our operation is by far the best. They’re not willing to lose a few men if necessary as part of the war on communism, and because of your military training, you are, which gives us an enormous advantage. I don’t know all the ins and outs of the other plans, but I hear stories. They’re talking about going to the radio station where our target gives his speeches to the Cuban people and putting aerosol spray in the air, some hallucinogenic drug called LSD that’ll make him sound crazy. They’re working on ways of poisoning his cigars or shining his shoes with a chemical that’ll seep into his skin and make his hair fall out, beard included, to embarrass him that way. They’ve killed a hundred pigs and monkeys field-testing pills that are supposed to dissolve right away in frozen daiquiris. The newest idea I heard about was having a midget submarine drop a pretty seashell on the reef where the guy goes scuba diving. The seashell will be attached to a bombshell, and when he picks the thing up, he’ll be hamburger. In other words, they’re a bunch of pussies. We’re taking a straightforward route. We’re going to shoot the Commie bastard.”
The men sat silently on the bench for a long time.
“So what’s the deal?” Joe said. “You want to pull the plug? Because the others won’t, I can tell you that.”
“Can you guarantee us that our people will be the first ones in?”
“Guarantee?” Joe said. “What do I look like, Sears and Roebuck? I can tell you that your man Geraci is the best person we have on this, though. He was the first to get his facility organized, and he has the best people. I have it from the top that they’re the most ready to go. I have to be honest with you, I’m wondering if some of your competition here is just taking the money with no intention of doing anything ever. So, yes, I’m confident our people will be first, but I won’t guarantee you the sun will come up in the morning. If and when Geraci’s men are dispatched, I’ll let you know. A promise, not a guarantee.”
“Understood,” Michael said.
They discussed the details of what would happen when the men got to Cuba until Michael was satisfied that he should go ahead and let what was going to happen happen.
“I never thought we’d have men on our side as good as the ones we’re going up against in Cuba,” Joe said. “Not because our men are inferior-they’re not-but because our people just work for money. If something goes wrong, they’re out some cash, a promotion, what have you. But the men that SOB in Cuba has, if they fuck up, they know he’ll kill them. That’s what makes his intelligence so good. But your people?” Joe shook his head in admiration. “With them, we’ve got the best of both worlds.”
Michael didn’t know what else to say but to thank him.
Joe got up to go.
“Whoever thought of the pizza parlor thing, by the way,” he said as Hagen untied the boat for him, “it’s a hell of a good idea. I’m not saying what I’m saying, but we have the same kind of thing. Fairly new. Most Special Fellows, they’re called. Doesn’t matter if I tell you, because, believe me, you’ll never hear about it. The Company sets them up, makes sure they prosper, but for the most part we leave ’em alone for years until we need ’em for something. I’m not involved with it at all, but mark my words, there will come a time when the American president will be a Most Special Fellow. Of course, you won’t know it when it happens.”
As Michael watched the boat pull away, the flicker of a smile played across his face. Already, he knew of at least three such Fellows, including the man who lost to Jimmy Shea in the last election; the son of a senator on the Family’s payroll, now bumbling around in Texas, pretending to be an oilman; and Peter Clemenza’s son Ray, the shopping mall magnate.