Chapter 11

FREDO CORLEONE whipped his rented Chevrolet up the drive and slammed on the brakes under the valet parking overhang. In back, Figaro woke up cursing in English, Capra in Sicilian. “See you up there, fellas,” Fredo said, hopping out. He peeled off a twenty for the valet, then saw that he was a regular and paused. “Just curious. What’s the biggest tip you ever got?”

The man looked at him funny. “A hundred,” he said. “Once.”

Fontane, Fredo thought. He just knew it. He peeled off two hundred. “Find me a good spot, okay, and get those bums out of the back first. So whose record did I break?”

“Yours, sir,” the valet said. “Just last week.”

Fredo laughed, went inside, and broke into a jog. Three in the morning, but inside the Castle in the Sand about the only way a person would know it wasn’t a more decent hour was the presence of hypnotized women in housecoats and curlers, cigarettes dangling from the corners of their grim, unmade mouths, feeding coins into the slot machines as if it were a part of making supper for an ungrateful family. Not a lot of people run through casinos, but none of those dames, and no one at the blackjack tables either, so much as looked up. The pit bosses looked, of course, and so did the eye in the sky if there was anyone up there, but these were men who’d seen Fredo Corleone hurry past them before, which is another way of saying that if anyone not associated with the security cameras or the Nevada Gaming Commission asked them if they’d seen Mr. Corleone go by, they’d have frowned and said “Who?”

He lived in a suite on the third floor-five rooms, including a den with a bar and a tournament-sized pool table. He’d been gone for two weeks, attending to business in New York and trying to help his mother get squared away for the move west. As soon as he opened the door, he knew in his gut that something was wrong. The first concrete thing he noticed was that the curtains were drawn and the place was inky dark. Fredo never closed his curtains, and he never turned off his television set, even when it went to the test pattern, even when he left town. When he slept during the day, he used one of those masks. He jumped back into the hall, out of the line of fire, and reached into his jacket for his gun.

No gun. That gorgeous Colt Peacemaker, the gun that had brought down ten thousand desperadoes in a thousand dusty movies, lost somewhere in the wilds of greater Detroit.

At the other end of the hall a door opened and some old frump in a hairnet and a housecoat came out, carrying a tin cup full of coins and an actual horseshoe. Behind her trailed some milquetoast in an undershirt, Bermuda shorts, and a shiny white cowboy hat he must have bought earlier that day. Fredo froze. There was no noise at all from his room. The frump must have seen Fredo crouching outside a door down the hall, but she kept her head down and headed straight for the stairs. The husband waved, his face contorted into a desperate rictus.

The stairwell door closed.

Fredo counted to ten. “Hello?” he called. “Who’s in there?”

He should have gone and gotten security. But he was exhausted and not thinking straight. He just wanted to grab a quick shower and get up to the ballroom. He did not want to be the candyass who called hotel security because some new maid hadn’t been told never to shut Mr. Corleone’s curtains or turn off his television set.

There was no noise at all. That had to be it, he thought: a new maid. As he walked in and reached for the light, the thought struck him that this was exactly the moment when guys got a slug right between the eyes, when they let down their guard and thought, Ah, fuck it, it’s nothing.

The instant he flicked the switch, the toilet flushed. His heart nearly knocked the meat from his ribs, but before he had a chance to run or duck or even shout “Who’s there?,” out of the open door of the bathroom came a naked woman, platinum blond. She screamed.

“My God,” she said. “You scared the crap out of me!”

Zee crap. Thick French accent. It sounded real. Fredo closed the hallway door behind him and felt his heart slow down a little. “Do I know you?”

She walked toward him and smiled. Her bush was jet black, though her eyebrows were also blond. “I’ve been waiting for you do you know how long?”

“Seriously, sweetheart. Who are you? What the hell is going on here? Who let you in?”

“Since five o’clock in the afternoon,” she said. She pointed to the champagne bucket next to his bed. “The ice, it finished melting hours ago.” She shrugged, which made her little tits bounce. She had dull red nipples so big around they practically covered the whole business. “I’m sorry, but the bottle, it is empty now, too.”

The accent was real. She was also slurring her words.

“Honey,” he said. “I don’t think you know who you’re dealing with, okay?”

“I think I might.” I sink. She jutted one of her hips and stuck out a pouty lower lip. “You’re Fredo Corleone, yes?” Fraid.

“Why don’t you start by telling me who you are?”

She extended her hand and giggled. “My name is Rita. Marguerite. But”-she dipped a naked shoulder, shy now-“I use Rita now.”

Fredo didn’t shake her hand. “Hello, Rita. The reason I shouldn’t have you thrown in jail for breaking and entering is what?”

“It’s not enough that a naked woman is waiting in your room to make love to you, huh?”

“I’m losing my patience with you, doll.”

“Ah!” She threw back her head, exasperated. “You are no fun. Johnny Fontane sent me, all right? I am”-she laughed, as if at a rueful private joke-“I am a present for you, no? Johnny said, you know, that I was to be naked and in your bed, waiting.” She blushed. “But a girl, she drinks the champagne, she’s going to have to tee-tee.”

Tee-tee? “That was real nice of Mr. Fontane, but it’s awful late, you’re awful drunk, and I’m awful tired, on top of which I still got one more thing to do tonight. This morning. Whatever. You should go, hon. If you need a cab or something, I got it.”

She nodded, turned around, and went to get her clothes, which she’d folded so neatly on the nightstand it broke his heart. She had nice muscular legs. First he’d noticed it.

He went into his closet to grab his own change of clothes. When he came back the only thing she’d managed to put on was a flowery cotton bra. He’d never understand that. You’d think they’d always cover up their snatch first, since that’s usually what came off last, but leave a woman alone to get dressed, and most of them start with the bra. She had her head in her hands, and she was sitting on the edge of the bed, crying.

Drunk broads, he thought, shaking his head.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

“Sorry, nothin’,” Fredo said. “Look, it’s not any sort of, I don’t know-” He put his hand on her cheek. She looked up at him. Real tears, and she was fighting them. She looked mad at herself. “You’re a beautiful girl, okay? It’s just that it’s late, and I got someplace to be. It’s business. I mean, I guess if you really want to wait here, I-”

She shook her head. “You do not understand.” She wiped her face with her underpants. They matched the bra. He caught a glimpse of the label: Sears. “I don’t do this. I mean-” She rolled her eyes and looked at the ceiling. “I mean, I do this, just not-” She let out a deep breath. “I’m a dancer, okay? I’m in a show, now, a tasteful one, too. Not even topless. This was supposed to be-a lark. That’s the word, yes? A dare I made to myself. I’m not a-”

Fredo got her a handkerchief. He’d been with a lot of broads since he’d moved to Las Vegas, and the one thing he’d learned about their crying is that it was always better to shut up and give them a nice handkerchief than to tell them everything would be okay.