“Fredo,” she finally said. “Baby. I want you to know that I know. I’ve always known.”

“Known what?” Fredo got out of bed and went to take a piss. He knew what she meant, though. Rage washed over him.

“This is Hollywood. That’s entertainment, y’know? Plenty of people have marriages that are covers for… well, that. It’s fine. All I ask is a warm place to come at night-pun intended-and maybe some nice things once in a-”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Nothing.” She sighed. “Forget it.”

Fredo washed his hands and stood in the doorway to the bathroom. “I want to know.” He raised his fist and bounced it lightly against the doorframe. “Tell me.”

“What are you going to do? Are you going to hit me? Shoot another little dog? I’m telling you that I understand how you are. I don’t know if forgive is the right word, but-”

“Forgive me for what?”

He could toss her out the window. She was a drunk bitch with a fading career. People like that jump out of windows every day.

“Really,” she said. “Forget it. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

His brothers would have beaten her up. Fredo knew that. They thought he was weak. Everyone did, but he wasn’t. He was strong. It took strength not to throw her out the window or beat her. Fredo kept his breathing perfectly even and ordered room service. When it came he did not smash his grapefruit in her face. He calmly ate his food and waited for her to leave.

Once she was out of earshot, he hurled his orange juice glass at the door.

He picked up the table lamp and slammed its iron base into the television screen. He threw a green glass ashtray against the row of liquor bottles behind the bar. He took out a knife and, taking his time, shredded the sofa, the chairs, the bed, the pillows, even the drapes.

He took running starts and stomped dozens of holes in the walls.

For no particular reason, the only things in the suite he was careful to leave alone were Deanna’s clothes and jewelry. And his own clothes. Otherwise, he destroyed whatever he could. People must have heard, but no one came to stop him.

Finally, he took out his gun. Some crummy off-brand piece of shit, nothing nice like those Colts. He went into the bathroom and fired a round at the bidet, which he’d never figured out how to use or whether it was just for women. Who the fuck wanted to pay prices like what this joint cost and feel stupid? A porcelain shard gashed his cheek, but he barely felt it.

He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. He put a bullet in the reflection of his balding head. Then he shot the mirror over the bed, too. The shower of glass was spectacular. His life up to now had been but forty-three years of bad luck; if he’d just brought on another seven, another fourteen, so what?

Fredo looked at his watch. The whole day had gotten away from him. He was supposed to meet Jules Segal and some possible investors at Gussie Cicero’s supper club in an hour. Fredo called the front desk and said that his wife had had a wild party last night. “You might want to send someone up to figure out the damage,” he said. “Just put it on my bill.”

The clerk asked if Fredo had heard shots fired.

“Oh, that,” Fredo said. “I had a Western on the TV full-blast.”

He hung up. He gave the ruined TV set a kick. He went into the flooded bathroom and turned off the water to the toilet. He looked around the suite. A hell of a goddamned mess, but in the end, all he’d wasted on this one was a day. He’d spent forty-three years on the mess he’d made of his life. He grabbed his tux and his Mary Janes. He could get dressed at Cicero’s.

After two encores, J. J. White, Jr., left the stage, drenched in sweat and to a standing ovation. Fredo and Jules Segal were at a table in front, along with two Beverly Hills attorneys, Jacob Lawrence and Allen Barclay-friends of Segal’s and also the registered owners of a Vegas casino that really belonged to Vincent Forlenza. Fredo had wrangled gorgeous young starlets as dates for the two married lawyers. Segal’s date was Lucy Mancini, who used to be Sonny Corleone’s goumada. The ladies all went to powder their noses.

Figaro and Capra were at the next table with dates of their own, watching Fredo’s back.

“All right, Doc,” Fredo said, sitting down. “I got this theory.”

“I know what you’re going to say,” Segal said. “J.J.’s better when he’s solo and not kissing Johnny Fontane’s ass with all the Uncle Tomming.”

“My theory,” Lawrence said, “is that Jews are the best entertainers. It’s in our blood.”

This cracked Barclay and Segal up. White, a Negro, had married a Jew and converted. Lawrence, Barclay, and Segal were all born Jewish, though the lawyers had changed their names.

Fredo frowned. “J.J.’s great, but I’m not talking about nothin’ like that,” he said. “I’m talking about our possible business arrangement in New Jersey. My theory is, the trick to getting anybody to do anything is that you gotta get ’em to think it was their own idea in the first place.”

“You’re just figuring that out?” Segal said. “How old are you?” A few years ago, his hair had been gray. Now it was brown as milk chocolate. His suntanned face was only a shade lighter.

Fredo forced a smile. “Point is, I could twist things around and make you think you were the ones who thought of this cemetery thing, but that’s not how I do business. I’m not trying to sell you on nothin’. You don’t want to get in on the ground floor here? Believe me, I know a hundred guys who will. But Jules, you’ve helped me out of a lot of tight spots with the ladies; the least I could do was give you this chance. You fellas, too. Friends of Jules are friends of mine. I’m friends with your Cleveland friends, too. Me and Nick Geraci, probably you know him, we’re like this. Tight. When the time comes, he’ll be in on this, too, believe me. And the Jew?” he said, meaning Forlenza. “Personal friend.” Fredo had actually never laid eyes on the guy. “Long story short, this was my idea, all right? But put your pride aside, and you’ll see that if you go in on this, we’ll all make a mint.”

Capra buried his head in his date’s hair. His English was too shaky for him to pick up on what was going on at the next table. Figaro, on the other hand, was stunned that Fredo would go to civilians for money-even though Geraci had said that this was probably what would happen. Figaro used to cut Geraci’s hair; his original connection to the Family had been Tessio (another customer). The longer Figaro was out in Nevada and California, the more he was convinced that Vito’s sons were wrecking everything. The base of the Family’s power was New York-where Figaro was born, and where his loyalties remained. He was Nick Geraci’s guy, all the way.

Gussie Cicero and Figaro made eye contact from across the room. Figaro nodded. Gussie went to tell Mortie Whiteshoes and Johnny Ola they had the opening they’d need to get Fredo to help them get their boss and Michael to wrap up some sort of mutually beneficial negotiations. As far as Gussie knew, he himself was doing a harmless favor, and Figaro was just confirming that Fredo was talking about whatever it was that he’d supposedly come there to talk about. As far as Gussie Cicero knew, the idea for putting Ola and Whiteshoes together with Fredo Corleone-for whatever reason-had come from Jackie Ping-Pong. As far as Ping-Pong knew, the idea was Louie Russo’s. As far as Russo knew, it was Vincent the Jew’s idea.

“It may well be a good idea, Fredo,” Segal said. “But good ideas are for suckers.”

Fredo cocked his head.

“What makes an idea valuable,” Segal said, “is knowing what to do with it.”

This was a lot of disrespect to swallow from a self-important, cunt-happy Jew who’d have never even gotten his medical license back if the Corleones hadn’t made the head of the review board an offer he couldn’t refuse. “I know,” Fredo said in a near-whisper, consciously aping the quiet menace his father and brother came by so naturally, “what to do with it.”