“But you fear me.”

“Fear is the enemy of logic,” Geraci said, “but you’re right. I do. More than death. I know what you’re trying to say, Michael. I’m ready. I know what it means to you, the sacrifices your family has made to build this organization. I’ll give it all I have. Everything.”

Michael reached over and slapped Geraci on the knee, affectionately.

They got onto Broadway, uptown.

No mention had been made of what had used to be Rocco Lampone’s regime. Rocco had gotten himself killed two years ago in Miami and still hadn’t been replaced. There were made guys out in Nevada-Al Neri, his nephew Tommy, Figaro, four or five others, plus the connected guys underneath them. If they were a part of this deal, Michael would have said so. Especially with Neri right there, Geraci wasn’t going to push his luck. Fuck Nevada.

Geraci rubbed his chin. “Maybe I took a couple punches too many,” he said, “but I’m confused. You honest to God have no further need for my businesses? You’re gonna just, what, control a couple casinos in Nevada and call it a career?”

Michael nodded. “Fair question,” he said. “I made my family a promise that I’d get out, and I’m keeping my promise. As a matter of fact, I had this in place two years ago. Between the casinos in Nevada and the ones in Cuba and our various real estate holdings, I had a business empire that would’ve sustained itself for a hundred years. But then the Communists took over Cuba and we lost everything there. The various misfortunes that came our way at about the same time meant both that the organization as a whole needed the income from those legitimate businesses and that I couldn’t yet step down. But two years and Jimmy Shea’s election have changed everything. Losing our legal gambling revenues in Cuba was terrible, but now we have influence in New Jersey. We got their governor elected president, but I’d say what was even more important there was the mutually beneficial arrangement you’ve built with the Stracci Family. For as long as I can remember, there’s been talk of legalizing gambling in Atlantic City, and I plan to stay on the Commission until that happens-probably in a year-so that we can get in there, too. How long is a Communist country a hundred miles off our shore going to last? If it wasn’t for the Russians, we’d have taken the place back the moment they started stealing from us, but the difference between Cuba and every other Communist country is that they’re so close to the richest country in the world they can taste it and already have. I give it two years, maybe three, and we’ll be back in business there, too. I have assurances from the Shea government that they’ll enforce the return of all properties to their previous owners. The point I’m trying to make is that if we don’t have considerable resources banked, we can’t run casinos without the likes of Louie Russo crushing us. We don’t quite have those resources yet. Between what we do have, both financial and in terms of personnel, together with what now seems inevitable-well, it’s better to get out a year too early than a minute too late.”

“So who feeds the meat eaters?” Geraci asked. The Corleone Family’s greatest asset was the network of people it kept on its payroll. “I know a lot of the cops and union people we have, some of the judges and the D.A.s, but I’m sure I don’t know the half of it. And the politicians, forget it. All I know is rumors.”

Geraci had been running most of the Family’s business in New York, but the connection guys were under Michael and Hagen.

“Tom will be in touch with you,” Michael said. “There will be a transition period. When I took over from my father, it took him and Tom six months to explain everything to me.”

“I guess if it’s possible to make the transition from one leader of the free world to another in two months, I can figure all this out in six.”

Michael chuckled.

“You’re really not going to use our judges and cops and so on?” Geraci asked. “You’re giving that up?”

“Did I say that? I said I have no more need for the income from the businesses you run.”

“Sure,” Geraci said. “I understand. You’re out.”

“Don’t be naive, Fausto. There are plenty of men on the president’s transition team who are feeding more meat eaters than we do.”

So there’s retired and then there’s whatever it is that you are, Geraci thought. Got it.

“And the seat on the Commission. Do I have one, or is that you?”

“That’s me for now. You’ll have one eventually. Get yourself organized, and after that the Commission will take care of it. I don’t think there’s going to be any problem with that.”

They discussed several other specific issues. The car crossed the park again and started back down Lexington Avenue-hardly a neighborhood for a murder. They really weren’t going to kill him. Michael still hadn’t learned who was really behind his brother’s betrayal. But Geraci wasn’t taking any chances.

“Speaking of excellent sources,” he said, “I want you to know something. They tried to kill your brother.”

“Who tried to kill my brother?”

“Louie Russo. Fuckface.”

“My brothers are dead.”

“A while ago. I just learned about it.”

“Which brother?”

It unnerved Geraci that Michael could call Hagen my brother one moment and say My brothers are dead the next. “Fredo. It was a botched hit, and Russo called it off. Remember Labor Day?”

Geraci didn’t need to say which Labor Day. Michael nodded.

“After Pete’s kid’s wedding, Fredo wound up in a motel in Canada. With-I don’t know how to say this-with another man. The button guys were supposed to make it look like Fredo killed himself out of shame or what-have-you. I’d tell you that it was a setup, a frame-up, except for a few things.”

The problem with Michael’s poker face was that when he put it on, you noticed it.

“First,” Geraci said, “when Russo’s men got to the motel, Fredo was gone but there was still someone there-a salesman; nice job, wife, kids-and he’s naked on the bed. Second, the button guys open the door, and the salesman pulls a gun and shoots them. The gun’s a Colt Peacemaker with the serial number filed off. It may have been Fredo’s gun, maybe not, but he definitely lost a gun on that trip-Figaro told me that-and Fredo loved those Colts. Anyway, the salesman kills one guy, wounds the other. Next day, someone chloroforms a nurse, slits the wounded guy’s throat, then buries the knife in his eye up to the hilt and leaves it there. The day after that, the salesman goes to meet with his lawyer, and that’s the last anybody ever sees him. Other than his hands, that is, which someone chopped off and mailed to his wife.”

“You’re saying Don Russo covered his tracks.”

“I’m saying that, yes.”

“Why didn’t they come after Fredo again?”

“The idea was to embarrass the Family. You named Fredo sotto capo, and right after that it turns out he’s queer. I’m not saying he was, all right? I’m just giving you information.”

Michael nodded.

“If they made it look like he offed himself,” Geraci said, “that would’ve been the end of it. No revenge, no nothing. Our organization is hurt, and they benefit. They were mad about Las Vegas. They thought of it as their turf. But then after… you know. The crash. My crash. It wasn’t necessary anymore, at least for a while. I can’t prove it, but it stands to reason that Russo was behind the tragedy with your brother. Fredo was out in L.A. half the time, and L.A. was where he betrayed us.” Geraci raised his eyebrows, shrugged. “L.A. equals Chicago, right?”

It was no secret among the made members of the Family that Michael had ordered his own brother killed.

“How do you know so much?” Michael said. “How did you learn these things?”

“I’ve got a guy,” Geraci said. “Somebody inside the FBI.”

“The FBI?” Michael said, clearly impressed. The FBI-the director’s peccadillos notwithstanding-was considered incorruptible.