Last Don

by Mario Puzo

  “It’s done,” Lia said. “Wash off in the bathroom and go back to the Hotel. And get rid of your clothes. I’ll take the gun and clean up.”

  “And the rugs and the furniture?” Cross asked.

  “I’ll take care of everything,” Lia said. “Wash up and go to that party.”

  When Cross left, Lia helped himself to a cigar that was on a marble-topped table and looked for bloodstains while he was at it. There were none. But the sofa and the floor were soaked. Well, that was it.

  He wrapped Dante’s body in the plastic sheeting and, with the help of two of his men, stuffed it into the empty canvas bag. Then he gathered all the plastic sheeting in the room and stuffed it into the same bag. When he had finished, he drew the strings tight. First, they carried the bag containing Losey into the Villa garage and threw it into the van. They made another trip with Dante’s body bag.

  The van had been modified by Lia Vazzi. It had double floors with a space between the two. Lia and his men squeezed the two bags into the hollow space and then rejoined the floor strips.

  As a Qualified Man, Lia had prepared for everything. In the van were two cans of gasoline. He himself carried them back into the Villa and poured them over the floors and furniture. He set a fuse that would give him five minutes to get away. Then he got into the van and started the long drive to L.A.

  Before him and after him were the members of his crew.

  It was early morning before he pulled onto the pavement in front of the yacht that was waiting for him. He unloaded the two bags and brought them aboard. The yacht pulled away from shore.

  It was nearly noon when, far out at sea, he watched the iron cage holding the two bodies slowly descend into the ocean. They had made their final Communion.

  Molly Flanders disappeared with her stunt man, to his room in the Hotel rather than to the Villa, because Molly, despite her affection for the less worldly in power, had a tiny trace of the old Hollywood snobbism, she didn’t want it known she was screwing below the line.

  The wrap party began to filter out just as dawn appeared, the sun rising ominously clad in red, a thin trail of blue smoke rising to meet it.

  Cross had changed his clothes and showered and then had gone to the party. He was seated with Claudia, Bobby Bantz, Skippy Deere, and Dita Tommey celebrating the sure success of Messalina. Suddenly there were shouts of alarm from outside. The Hollywood group ran out and Cross followed them.

  A thin pillar of fire rose triumphantly over the neon lights of the Vegas Strip. It mushroomed into a great pillow of plum and rosy clouds against the sandy mountains.

  “Oh my God,” Claudia said, holding Cross tightly by the arm. “It’s one of your Villas.”

  Cross was silent. He watched the green flag over the Villa being consumed by smoke and fire, heard the fire engines screaming down the Strip. Twelve million dollars going up in flames to hide the blood he’d shed. Lia Vazzi was a Qualified Man who spared no expense, courted no risks.

  CHAPTER 23

  BECAUSE HE WAS on official leave, Detective Jim Losey’s disappearance wasn’t noted until five days after the fire at the Xanadu. The vanishing of Dante Clericuzio was, of course, never reported to any authorities.

  The investigation led to the police finding Phil Sharkey’s body. Suspicion focused on Losey, and it was assumed he had fled to escape interrogation.

  L.A. detectives came to interview Cross because Losey was last seen at the Xanadu Hotel. But there was nothing to show any connection between the two men. Cross explained he had only seen him briefly on the night of the party.

  But Cross was not worried about the law. He was waiting to hear from Don Clericuzio.

  Surely the Clericuzio knew that Dante was missing, surely they knew he had been at the Xanadu when last seen. Why then had they not contacted him for information. Could the whole matter be passed over so easily? Cross did not believe that for a moment.

  He continued to run the Hotel day by day, busy with plans to rebuild the burned-out Villa. Lia Vazzi had certainly taken care of the bloodstains.

  Claudia came to visit him. She was brimming over with excitement. Cross arranged for dinner to be brought up to his suite so they could talk in private.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” she said to Cross. “Your sister is going to be head of LoddStone Studios.”

  “Congratulations,” Cross said, giving her a brotherly hug. “I always said you were the toughest of the Clericuzio.”

  “I went to our father’s funeral for your sake. I made that clear to everyone,” Claudia said with a frown.

  Cross laughed. “You certainly did, and you pissed everybody off except the Don himself who said, ‘Let her go make pictures and God bless her.’ ”

  Claudia shrugged. “I don’t care about them. But let me tell you what happened because it is so strange. When we all left Vegas in Bobby’s jet, everything seemed perfect. But when we landed in L.A., all hell broke loose. Detectives arrested Bobby. For guess what?”

  “Making lousy movies,” Cross teased.

  “No, listen, this is weird,” Claudia said. “Remember that girl Johanna that Bantz had with him at the wrap party? Do you remember what she looked like? Well, it turns out she was only fifteen years old. They got Bobby on statutory rape and white slavery because he took her across the state border.” Claudia’s eyes were wide with excitement. “But it was all a setup. Johanna’s mother and father were there screaming bloody murder that their poor daughter had been raped by a man forty years older.”

  “She sure didn’t look fifteen,” Cross said. “Though she did look like a good hustler.”

  “It would have made a terrible scandal,” Claudia said. “But good old Skippy Deere took charge. He got Bantz off the hook for that moment. He kept him from being arrested and the whole thing getting into the media. So everything seems squared away.”

  Cross was smiling. Apparently good old David Redfellow had lost none of his skills.

  “It’s not funny,” Claudia said reproachfully. “Poor Bobby was framed. The girl swore that Bobby forced her to have sex in Vegas. The father and mother swore they cared nothing for money but wanted to stop all future rapists of young and innocent girls. The whole Studio was in an uproar. Dora and Kevin Marrion were so upset that they talked about selling the Studio. Then Skippy took charge again. He signed the girl to star in a low-budget film, the script to be written by her father. For very good money. Then he got Benny Sly to rewrite the script in one day for a lot of money. Not bad, by the way, Benny is some kind of genius. We’re all set. And then the district attorney of Los Angeles insists he’s going to prosecute. The DA that LoddStone got elected, the DA who was treated like a king by Eli Marrion. Skippy even offered him a job at the Studio in Business Affairs at a million a year for five years and he turned it down. He insisted Bobby Bantz be fired as head of the Studio. Then he would make a deal. Nobody knows why he was being so hard-nosed.”

  “An unbribable public official,” Cross said with a shrug. “It happens.”

  He thought of David Redfellow again. Redfellow would violently disagree that there was any such animal. And Cross envisioned how Redfellow had managed everything. Redfellow probably said to the DA, “I’m bribing you to do your duty?” And as for the money, Redfellow would have immediately gone to the limit. Twenty, Cross figured. On a ten-billion buy of the Studio, what the hell was twenty million? And with no risk for the DA. He would be acting strictly according to law. It was really elegant.

  Claudia was still talking, fast. “Anyway, Bantz had to step down,” she said. “And Dora and Kevin were happy to sell the Studio. Plus the deal for five green lights on their own movies, a billion dollars cash in their pockets. And this little Italian guy appears at the Studio, calls a meeting and announces he will be the new owner. And then right out of the blue, he makes me head of the Studio. Skippy was pissed. Now, I’m his boss. Is this crazy?”

  Cross just watched her with amusement, then he smiled.

&nbs
p; Suddenly, Claudia stood back and looked at her brother. And her eyes were darker, sharper, more intelligent than he had ever seen before. But she had a good-natured smile on her face when she said, “Just like the boys, right, Cross? Now, I’m doing it just like the boys. And I didn’t even have to fuck anybody. . . .”

  Cross was surprised. “What’s the matter, Claudia?” he asked. “I thought you were happy.”

  Claudia smiled. “I am happy. I’m just not dumb. And because you’re my brother, and I love you, I want you to know that I haven’t been fooled.”

  She walked over and sat on the couch next to him. “I lied when I said I went to Daddy’s funeral just for you. I went because I wanted to be part of something that he was part of, that you were part of. I went because I couldn’t stay away any longer. But I do hate what they stand for, Cross. The Don as well as the others.”

  “Does that mean you don’t want to run the Studio?” Cross asked.

  Claudia laughed aloud. “No, I’m willing to admit I’m still a Clericuzio. And I want to make good movies and make a lot of money. Movies are great equalizers, Cross. I can make a good movie about great women. . . . Let’s see what can happen when I use the Family talents for good instead of evil.” They both laughed.

  Then Cross took her in his arms. He kissed her on the cheek. “I think it’s great, really great,” he said.

  And he meant it for himself as well as for her. For if Don Clericuzio had made her head of the Studio, he did not connect Cross with the disappearance of Dante. The whole scheme had worked.

  They had finished dinner and had been talking for hours. When Claudia rose to leave, Cross took a purse of black chips from his desk. “Take a shot at the tables on the house,” he said.

  She gave him a soft slap on the cheek and said, “Only if you’re not going to get into that big brother thing again and talk to me like a child. That last time I wanted to deck you.”

  He hugged her, it felt good to feel her so close. In a moment of weakness, he said, “You know, I left a third of my estate to you in case anything happens. And I’m very rich. So you can always tell the Studio to fuck off if you want to.”

  Claudia eyes were shining when she said, “Cross, I appreciate you worrying about me, but I can tell the Studio to fuck off anyway, without your estate . . .” Then suddenly she looked worried. “Is anything wrong? Are you sick?”

  “No, no,” Cross said. “I just wanted you to know.”

  “Thank God,” Claudia said. “Now that I’m in, maybe you can get out. You can break away from the Family. You can be free.”

  Cross laughed. “I am free,” he said. “I’m going away very soon, to live with Athena in France.”

  On the afternoon of the tenth day, Giorgio Clericuzio appeared at the Xanadu to see him, and Cross felt a sinking sensation in his stomach that he knew would lead to panic if he did not control it.

  Giorgio left his bodyguards outside the suite with Hotel Security. But Cross was under no illusions, his own bodyguards would follow any order Giorgio gave. And he was not reassured by Giorgio’s appearance. Giorgio seemed to have lost weight, and his face was very pale. It was the first time that Cross had seen him look as though he was not in complete control.

  Cross greeted him effusively. “Giorgio,” he said, “this is an unexpected pleasure. Let me call down and get a Villa ready for you.”

  Giorgio gave him a tired smile and said, “We can’t locate Dante.” He paused for a moment. “He’s gone off the map and the last time he was seen was here at the Xanadu.”

  “Jesus,” Cross said, “that’s serious. But you know Dante, he was not always under control.”

  Now Giorgio didn’t bother to smile. “He was with Jim Losey and Losey is gone too.”

  “They were a funny combo,” Cross said. “I wondered about that.”

  “They were pals,” Giorgio said. “The old man didn’t like it but Dante was the guy’s paymaster.”

  “I’ll help any way I can,” Cross said. “I’ll check all the Hotel employees. But you know Dante and Losey weren’t officially registered. We never do that for anyone in the Villas.”

  “You can do that when you get back,” Giorgio said. “The Don wants to see you personally. He even chartered a plane to bring you back.”

  Cross paused for a long moment. “I’ll pack a bag,” he said. “Giorgio, is it serious?”

  Giorgio looked him squarely in the face. “I don’t know,” he said.

  On the chartered plane to New York, Giorgio studied a briefcase full of papers. Cross did not impose himself, though this was a bad sign. In any case Giorgio would never give him any information.

  The plane was met by three closed cars and six Clericuzio soldiers. Giorgio got into one car and motioned Cross into another. Again a bad sign. Dawn was breaking when the cars rolled through the security gates of the Clericuzio compound in Quogue.

  The door of the house was guarded by two men. Other men were scattered around the compound, but there were no women or children to be seen.

  Cross said to Giorgio, “Where the hell is everybody, in Disneyland?” But Giorgio refused to acknowledge the joke.

  The first thing Cross saw in the Quogue living room was a circle of eight men, and inside that circle two men were talking in a very amiable way. His heart gave a jump. They were Petie and Lia Vazzi. Vincent was watching them and he looked angry.

  Petie and Lia seemed to be on the best of terms. But Lia was dressed only in slacks and a shirt, no jacket or tie. Lia usually dressed formally, so this meant he had been searched and disarmed. And indeed he looked like a cheerful mouse surrounded by merry, menacing cats. Lia gave Cross a sad nod of acknowledgment. Petie never glanced his way. But when Giorgio led Cross into the back den, Petie broke off and followed, as did Vincent.

  There, Don Clericuzio was waiting for them. Seated in a huge armchair, he was smoking one of his crooked cigars. Vincent went to him and handed him a glass of wine from the bar. Cross was offered nothing. Petie remained at the door, standing. Giorgio sat down on the sofa next to the Don and motioned to Cross to sit with him.

  The Don’s face, drawn thin with age, had no trace of emotion. Cross kissed him on the cheek. The Don looked at him and his face softened as if with sadness.

  “So Croccifixio,” the Don said, “it was all cleverly done. But now you must explain your reasons. I am Dante’s grandfather, my daughter is his mother. The men here are his uncles. You must answer to all of us.”

  Cross tried to keep his composure. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  Giorgio said harshly, “Dante. Where is he?”

  “Christ, how should I know?” Cross said as if surprised. “He never reported to me. He could be down in Mexico having a good time.”

  Giorgio said, “You don’t understand. Don’t fuck around. You are already judged guilty. Where did you dump him?”

  At the bar, Vincent turned away as though he could not look into his face. Behind him Cross could hear Petie coming closer to the sofa.

  “Where’s the proof?” Cross said. “Who says I killed Dante?”

  “I do.” It was the Don who spoke. “Understand: I have pronounced you guilty. There is no appeal from that judgment. I brought you here to make your plea for mercy, but you must justify the killing of my grandson.”

  Hearing that voice, the measured tone, Cross knew that everything was over. For him and Lia Vazzi. But Vazzi already knew. It had been in his eyes.

  Vincent turned to Cross, his granite face softened. “Tell my father the truth, Cross, it’s your only chance.”

  The Don nodded. He said, “Croccifixio, your father was more than my nephew, of Clericuzio blood, as you are. Your father was my trusted friend. And so I will listen to your reasons.”

  Cross prepared himself. “Dante killed my father. I judged him guilty as you judged me guilty. And he killed my father out of revenge and ambition. He was a Santadio in his heart.”

  The Don did not respond. Cross went on. “How
could I not avenge my father? How could I forget my father was responsible for my life? And I had too much respect for the Cleri-cuzio, as my father had, to suspect your hand in the killing. Yet, I think you must have known Dante was guilty and did nothing. So how could I come to you to redress the wrong?”

  “Your proof,” Giorgio said.

  “A man like Pippi De Lena could never be surprised,” Cross said. “And Jim Losey at the other end is too much of a coincidence. There is not a man in this room who believes in coincidence. All of you know Dante was guilty. And Don, you yourself told me the story of the Santadio. Who knows what Dante planned after he killed me, as he surely knew he must. Next, his uncles.” Cross did not dare to mention the Don. “He counted on your affection,” he said to the Don.

  The Don had laid his cigar aside. He face was inscrutable but held a touch of sadness.

  It was Petie who spoke. Petie had been the closest to Dante. “Where did you dump the body?” Petie asked again. And Cross could not answer him, could not get the words out of his mouth.

  There was a long silence and then finally the Don raised his head to all of them and spoke. “Funerals are wasted on the young,” he said. “What have they done to celebrate them? How have they inspired great respect? The young have no compassion, no gratitude. And my daughter is already crazy, why should we compound her grief and erase hopes for her recovery. She will be told her son has fled and it will take years for her to know the truth.”

  And now it seemed that everyone in the room relaxed. Petie came forward and sat on the sofa beside Cross. Vincent, behind the bar, raised a glass of brandy to his lips in what could have been a salute.

  “But justice or no, you have committed a crime against the Family,” the Don said. “There must be a punishment. For you, money, for Lia Vazzi, his life.”

  Cross said, “Lia had nothing to do with Dante, for Losey, yes. Let me ransom him. I own half the Xanadu. I will transfer half that ownership to you as payment for me and Vazzi.”