Everyone laughed, even Hagen, though he privately believed that the reason Irish and Jewish gangsters had managed to move from most-wanted lists to ambassadorships was that they (like Hagen himself) paid their taxes, to a point anyway. It was understandable that many Sicilians, whose distrust of a central government had run through their veins for centuries, did not. And it was also true that theirs was a cash business with nothing of importance written down. A hundred IRS agents working around the clock for a hundred years couldn’t figure out one percent of what went on. Still: Governments were no different from anyone or anything wielding great power. They wanted what was theirs. You had to wet their beak. Or kill them.
They discussed a host of practical matters that had to be addressed so that the Family and its interests could again become fully operational. Only near the end did Michael discuss the ambitious long-term plans that he and his father, in the months Vito had spent as Michael’s consigliere, had envisioned. Hagen let everyone know about his discussions with the Ambassador and the Family’s role in James Kavanaugh Shea’s plan for the White House in 1960. They already knew about Hagen ’s own, not-unrelated plan: to run for the Senate next year and lose (that senator was in the Corleones’ pocket anyway), then use the legitimacy garnered by a respectable loss to make it easy for the governor to appoint him to a cabinet position. By 1960, Hagen could run for governor and win. Which brought Michael to the last order of business.
“Before we take care of our shorthandedness in other areas, we need to fix it at the top. First, there’s the matter of Tessio’s old regime. Any thoughts before I make my choice?”
They shook their heads. The choice was obvious: Geraci would be a popular pick, especially among those who resented what had happened with Tessio. True, there had been grumbling about him from some of the older men in New York. He was Tessio’s protégé, but Tessio had betrayed the Family. There was the issue of a narcotics operation Geraci had been allowed to have (though it was still only a rumor). There was his age (though he was older than Michael). He was from Cleveland. He had a college degree and a few law school classes. Hagen had first heard of him when Paulie Gatto had him beat up the punks who’d assaulted Amerigo Bonasera’s daughter. Three years later, after Gatto was killed, Geraci had been Pete’s second choice to take over as top button man, after Rocco. Rocco had made the most of that opportunity and was now a capo, but Geraci was Michael’s type of guy. He was also one of the best earners the family had ever had. There were other options, older guys like the Di-Miceli brothers, or maybe Eddie Paradise. Solid, loyal men, but not in the same league with the Ace.
“My only words of wisdom on this subject,” Pete said, “are that if Christ himself was ready to get promoted to capo, you’d hear complaints. I been around a long time, and I never seen a guy who can earn like this Geraci. Kid can swallow a nickel and shit a banded stack of Clevelands. I don’t know him in and out, but what I do know is good. He’s impressed me.”
Michael nodded. “Anything else?”
“Quick thing on Eddie Paradise,” Rocco said.
“Yes?” Michael said.
Rocco shrugged. “He’s a good man. Paid his dues. People know him.”
“All right,” Michael said. “Any other words on the subject?”
“Eddie’s my wife’s cousin is all,” Rocco said. “When she asks me if I vouched for him, well-you’re all married, you all got families. Nah, no other words.”
“Vouching duly noted,” Michael said. “All right. My choice is Fausto Geraci.”
This was greeted with hearty approval. Hagen had never heard anyone else call Geraci Fausto, but Michael rarely called anyone by his street name, a quirk he’d picked up from the old man. Sonny had been the opposite. He’d know someone for years, pull jobs with him, eat dinner in his home, and most of the time he didn’t know the guy’s last name until he saw it printed in the bulletin at a wedding or a funeral.
“Which brings me to you, Tom,” Michael said. “Your job, that is.”
Hagen nodded.
Michael looked to Pete and Rocco. “With Tom involved more in politics, we need to move him out of certain things. Since stepping down as consigliere-”
Hagen had not been consulted and had not sought change.
“-Tom has remained a trusted adviser, as anyone’s legal counsel should be. That’s how it’s going to stay. But it leaves a void as consigliere. Tom has done an excellent job, and my father-” Michael turned up the palm of his hand. Words couldn’t do justice to the late Don’s greatness. “I don’t see a clear successor. For the next year or so, I’ll be spreading the responsibilities of consigliere to all the capos and also you, Tom, when it’s appropriate.”
The failure to mention Fredo was no accident, Hagen thought.
“However,” Michael said. He let the pause linger. “There are situations where I need to be represented along with my consigliere-Commission meetings and the like. There’s no one I’d rather have at my side on such occasions than my father’s oldest friend, Pete Clemenza.”
Hagen applauded and slapped Pete on the back. Clemenza said he’d be honored. Rocco gave him a bear hug. Clemenza called out for Neri to have Enzo grab some strega for a toast. Hagen smiled. That was another thing: once men like Clemenza were gone, the important toasts would no longer be made with strega or homemade grappa. It would be Jack Daniel’s or Johnnie Walker. Before long they’d be in boardrooms clanking mugs of weak coffee.
Enzo, it turned out, had a bottle of strega in his desk drawer. He joined them for the toast. “May we live our lives so that when we die we are smiling,” Clemenza said, “and everyone else is crying like a fucking baby.”
They were about to leave when there was a knock on the door.
“Sorry, fellas,” Neri said, opening the door. “Seemed like you was wrapping up and-”
Johnny Fontane, carrying a fancy leather satchel, elbowed past him and, in a voice barely above a whisper, said something that sounded like “How’re your birds, fellas?” Neri scowled. He wasn’t the sort of man one elbowed past, not even a pezzonovante pretty boy like Fontane.
“We was just talking about you,” Clemenza said. “That statue you busted, up in your room there, you know that thing cost three grand?”
“You got a good deal on it,” Fontane said. “I’d have guessed five.”
He’d never been close to Michael, but he presumed to cross the room and, with his free arm, embrace him. Michael did not react. He said nothing.
Hagen had no use for show business people.
Hal Mitchell appeared in the doorway, now in his tux, too, breathless and apologizing. “It’s just that the opening act’s already on and-”
“First thing.” Fontane lifted the satchel as high as he could reach. “Here’s this.” He dropped it. It landed hard on the desk in front of Michael. It sounded like money. “Airmail from Frank Falcone. He sends his regrets, and so does Mr. Pignatelli.”
Presumably it was a “loan” from the pension fund of the Hollywood unions Falcone controlled-an investment in the Castle in the Clouds.
Michael remained seated. He looked at the satchel. Other than that, he was motionless. His expression couldn’t have been more blank if he’d spent all afternoon dead.
A vein in the singer’s temple began to twitch.
Michael ran his finger around the rim of his empty glass.
The other men kept still, letting Fontane and Mike stare each other down and waiting for Fontane to say what the second thing was. It seemed unthinkable that this, such a small favor in return for all that had been done on his behalf, would have provoked such a childish outburst.
Hagen would never understand Fontane’s lack of gratitude. Ten years ago, on Connie’s wedding day, Hagen had walked away with two favors to carry out: getting Enzo Aguello his American citizenship and getting Johnny the part in that war movie. Since then, Enzo had been a faithful friend, even standing unarmed at the hospital alongside Michael when two cars full of men had come to kill Vito, an act of bravery that probably saved the Don’s life. What had Johnny Fontane ever given back to the Corleones?