“He’s not coming?” Johnny said.

“Mr. Falcone came down with something,” Ping-Pong said. His meaty fist clutched a new-looking satchel. He was Falcone’s underboss. Johnny couldn’t have said just what an underboss did. Johnny tried not to know more about that kind of thing than he had to. “Other than his regards, he also sends this.”

“Nice,” said Johnny.

“I’ll get you one,” Ping-Pong said, “quick as I can get it made and shipped over from Sicily. I got a guy there, works like a dog and makes ten of these a year. Virgin leather, best there is. Want me to send it to the Castle in the Sand? Your home? Which?”

Fontane had been working on some kind of joke on the virgin part of virgin leather, but he was just too frazzled. Nothing clicked. “This one isn’t mine?”

“I’ll get you one.”

“Kidding, Jack.”

“I’m not offering, I’m telling you. All right? But this one here,” he said, handing it to Johnny, “is for Mike Corleone, capisc’?”

Meaning: Enough with the ragging and Whatever you do, kid, don’t fucking open it.

The bag, packed tight, was heavy as a bowling ball. Johnny gave it a little shake, like a kid at Christmas, then held it up to his ear, making a show of seeing if it was ticking.

“Funny guy.” Ping-Pong narrowed his eyes in his fat face and just stood there, apparently until he was satisfied that Johnny had gotten the message. “I must express my regrets also,” Ping-Pong finally said. “I have to see to some personal family matters.”

“No sweat,” Johnny said. So I’m your fucking bagman now? But he just stood there, absorbing the indignity like acid into cheap cement.

“It’s our loss, not seeing you,” Ping-Pong said. “You’re sounding great, John.”

Milner kept writing. The musicians filed out. Johnny said his good-byes and headed out with Gussie and Ping-Pong. A Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow was idling by the back door.

“Where’s the queen?” Johnny said.

“Excuse me?” Ping-Pong frowned, as if he took it that he was being called a fag.

“He means of England,” Gussie said. “He’s joking.”

Ping-Pong shook his head in a kids-today way that Johnny could have done without.

“The car’s mine, Johnny,” Gussie said.

A black Lincoln pulled up. Ping-Pong and his men got in and sped off.

As they did, Johnny caught a flash of metal out of the corner of his eye and jerked out of the way. He stumbled and fell against the side of the Rolls.

It hadn’t been a bullet.

Johnny wasn’t exactly sure why he’d thought it might be.

“Nice catch,” Gussie said. “You all right?”

Johnny reached down to pick up Cicero ’s car keys. “Long day,” Johnny said.

“All you had to say,” Gussie said, “was no thanks.”

“No thanks what?”

“No thanks you didn’t want to drive my fucking Rolls-Royce.”

Johnny tossed him his keys. “No thanks I don’t want to drive your fucking Rolls-Royce.”

“See? Is that so hard?”

“I didn’t hear you, okay? I’m bushed, brother.” The sun was about to set. Johnny couldn’t have said how long it had been since he’d had an honest-to-God night’s sleep.

Gussie gave Johnny a hug and said it had been a privilege to hear him sing. They got in and headed for the airport. Johnny started spinning the dial on Gussie’s radio, checking out the competition. All around the dial were fads. Rock and roll. Fast-talking disc jockeys. Mambo: another fad. Weepy girl singers: yet another. Johnny never once came across his own voice. Maybe the other record companies were right. Maybe the kind of record Johnny Fontane was trying to make didn’t have a Chinaman’s chance. He kept spinning the dial. Gussie must have picked up on how jangled Johnny’s nerves were and for most of the ride there had the decency not to say anything until they were getting off the freeway for the airport.

“What’s the difference,” Gussie said, “between Margot Ashton and a Rolls-Royce?”

Margot had been Fontane’s second wife, Gussie’s first. Fontane had left Ginny for Margot. It wasn’t enough that Margot stole his heart; she took everything, even his self-respect. One time, he showed up on the set of a movie she was doing and the director put him to work cooking spaghetti. Without a word of complaint Fontane tied on an apron and did it. Love. Fucking love. “Not everyone’s been inside a Rolls-Royce,” Johnny said.

“You heard that?”

“Everyone’s heard that. You know, with different fancy cars and different sluts.”

“Sluts don’t come much more different,” Gussie said, “than Margot Ashton.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, pal-o’-mine. A slut’s a slut.”

Gussie made a wrong turn, toward the commercial flights.

“You made a wrong turn,” Johnny said, pointing to the road to the private hangars.

Gussie shook his head. “Actually,” he said, “I’m not going either. Frank didn’t want you to be sore, but, you know, a whole airplane, just for one guy-”

He reached into his breast pocket, for a gun. But no, not a gun. Johnny was wrong. Gussie pulled out an envelope. “It’s commercial, but it’s first class.”

Johnny took the plane ticket. His flight left in fifteen minutes. “You’re really not going?”

“Actually,” Gussie said, “I was never invited.”

“Of course you’re invited. I’m inviting you.”

“It’s okay,” Gussie said. “Gina and I got plans.” Gina was the girl he’d married after he’d been dumped by Margot Ashton. Ashton had married an Arab sheik after that and already divorced him, too. “Our fifth anniversary, if you can believe it,” he said, stopping the car. Skycaps practically ran to help, seeing a Rolls, imagining big bags and bigger tips. “Next weekend, though, she and I got tickets to come up there and see you.”

“You bought tickets?”

“A bargain at any price, if you sound half as good as today.”

“I catch you on anything but a comp list for any show I ever do, it’s your ass, pally.”

There was a crowd, maybe twenty people, all different ages. He told the skycaps he didn’t have any bags except just this little one here, but he duked them anyway, twenty apiece. Two men in sky blue sport coats rushed to meet him and help him through the crowd, which caught everyone’s attention, even in a place like L.A. The crowd snowballed, surging behind him all the way to the gate. Against his better judgment, Johnny handed the satchel to one of the airline guys so that he could sign quick, illegible autographs, including one some dame wanted right on her face. He duked the two airline guys fifty.

When he boarded the plane, there was applause. He waved and smiled but did not remove his sunglasses. He took his seat. He put the bag on the floor between his legs. Under different circumstances he’d have been after that redheaded stewardess with the big tits, but all he asked her for was a pillow, a bourbon rocks, and a hot tea with honey. He looked at the satchel. Another sort of guy would open it now. Johnny couldn’t have given a shit.

It took her forever to bring the drinks. “We don’t have honey,” she said.

“No tea, either, looks like.”

“I’m heating the water right now.”

She turned around. He looked down at the satchel. He opened it.

It was jammed with cash, of course. On top was an unsigned, typewritten note that said, “Told you not to look.” The o’s in look had dots inside; underneath was an upside-down smile.

Johnny wadded the note up. He saw the redhead coming with the tea and downed half his bourbon. He chewed ice as she set the tea down. He made his left hand into a pistol, pointed it at her, winked, and made a little clucking sound. She blushed.

By the time the redhead passed through the cabin getting everything squared away for takeoff, he’d finished the bourbon and the tea and was sound asleep.