by Zev Chafets
Spadafore lifted his glass and the others fell silent. “I wish to propose a toast,” he said. “To the memory of my friend Max Grossman, who was my brother for fifty years. And to his nephew, William Gordon, who, I hope, will be a part of our Family for the next fifty years to come.” He sipped the wine and smacked his lips appreciatively.
Gordon held his glass in front of him, untouched. “That’s something we’re going to have to talk about,” he said.
“Yes, but later,” said Spadafore blandly. “First, let us eat. And drink.” His eyes fell on Gordon’s glass, still poised in midair. The journalist looked at him steadily for a moment and then sipped the wine.
During dinner Spadafore said little, allowing Sesti to carry the conversation. The consigliere asked Gordon about various foreign trouble spots, expressing extravagant praise for his insights and knowledge and, from time to time, sending significant glances in the direction of the Don, who concentrated on the perfectly prepared scaloppini. To his annoyance, Gordon found himself playing to the old man, trying to capture his attention. Only once did the Don ask a question, inquiring about the stability of the Colombian regime. Colombia was one of the few countries in Latin America that Gordon had never visited, and he confined himself to the kind of general remarks that any reader of Time magazine could have made. Spadafore nodded politely, but his expression made it plain that he hadn’t learned anything new.
Mario and Pietro ate in silence. Spadafore seemed barely to notice them, and when the meal was finished he dismissed them with a nonchalance that surprised Gordon. “Pietro has an appointment,” he said with a slightly sardonic smile. “And Mario always wants to get home early.” The younger brother looked relieved, but Mario was clearly disappointed at being excluded. He stood heavily, emitted a small fart, waved his hand in the air, looked at his palm and then extended it to Gordon, who shook it with what he hoped was not evident reluctance.
When the two sons had departed, Spadafore led the way into his study. He seated Gordon in an easy chair next to his own. Sesti gave them DeNobli cigars from a cedar humidor, and lit them with his Dunhill. Then he poured each man some cognac in a large snifter. Spadafore accepted these ministrations in silence. The consigliere’s every gesture bespoke a profound respect and a sure grasp of the protocol that sustained his world. The Don stole a glance at Gordon, unable to tell if the journalist was impressed.
Spadafore raised his snifter. “We have business to discuss tonight,” he said in a soft voice, “but before we do, I wish to say a few personal words to you about your uncle.”
“Go ahead,” said Gordon. From the look on Spadafore’s face he realized immediately that his permission had been superfluous.
“When I said earlier that your uncle and I were like brothers, you may have taken it as the flowery sentiment of an old man. Perhaps you were even offended, since your father is Max’s true brother. But, as much as any two men of different blood can be, Max and I were brothers. We grew up together, prospered together and, yes, we sometimes fought together against those who would take what we had. My enemies were his, his enemies were mine. For fifty years we conducted business together without a written document or a single disagreement about money.
“You know stories about me,” he continued. “Some have been written in your newspaper. I will not dishonor you by pretending that I am what is known as a law-abiding citizen. I am not, and Max was not. And yet, I consider your uncle to have been a moral man. Crime is not the same as sin; it is a concept relative to time and place, like beauty. When we were young men we sold liquor and it was illegal; today, you can buy liquor anywhere. The same is true of the numbers. Once it was against the law; now the government runs the lottery. In New Jersey, until only a few years ago, games of chance were forbidden; today, casinos advertise on the television. Even drugs, which are so unpopular, will someday become legal, and people will no longer think of them as immoral. That is the way of the world.”
The Don paused to sip his cognac, sighed deeply, and then continued. “There are, of course, certain things that are sinful. Murder is one. Murder, I say, which is not to be confused with self-defense. But to take an innocent life is an infamy. So, too, are crimes against the poor, or children, or helpless women. Of these things Max was never guilty, nor was I.” Spadafore saw with satisfaction that Gordon was nodding in agreement. His message was getting through.
“Earlier you referred to me as Uncle Luigi. I know it was a jest, but I was, I will admit, warmed by the phrase. Although you have never, until now, entered our world, Max spoke of you often. I have followed your career with pleasure and pride. And so, I am taking the liberty tonight to speak to you as an uncle.
“Several days ago, Carlo here came to me with a proposal. You already know its details, there is no reason to mention them now. My first reaction was to say no, not out of disrespect for Carlo, for whom I have great admiration, but out of respect for you and your uncle.”
Spadafore paused and held out his glass. Sesti sprang with an athletic ease from his chair, poured three fingers of the clear liquor for the old man, and refilled Gordon’s glass as well. The Don sipped his drink and expelled a huge cloud of DeNobli smoke before continuing.
“Let me explain my reasoning,” he said. “First, you are a famous journalist. I thought that you might consider a proposal that you abandon a field in which you have distinguished yourself to be in some sense insulting. Also, I knew from your uncle that you displayed little interest in his affairs. This I took as a sign of disapproval.”
Gordon cleared his throat to protest, but Spadafore held up a thick, powerful hand. “Please, it is not important if I was correct; I am merely explaining my reasoning. I also feared a disrespect to Max. It was not, I thought, my place to make a proposal to you that your uncle himself had refrained from making during his lifetime.
“Those, as I say, were my thoughts. But I am an old man, and Carlo, who belongs to your generation, thought differently. He pointed out that you are a worldly man, not likely to be shocked by any proposal, or unaware of the relative nature of criminal justice. He also said that, as the nephew of Max Grossman, you could be trusted, whatever your decision, to be discreet. Finally, he pointed out that a great deal of money is involved, and you must, out of respect, be made the offer. You are not, after all, an innocent child; you are a grown man, capable of deciding your own future.” Spadafore noted that this last thrust had made Gordon flush with pleasure. Knowing Albert Grossman, it was not difficult to guess the reason for the young man’s gratified response.
“Let me say that all of this was persuasive, but I still remained unsure. Carlo,” he said, turning to the consigliere, “this is a dangerous conversation. You are learning how easily I am influenced by you.” Sesti smiled at the compliment, and bowed his head graciously.
“What finally convinced me that I should allow Carlo to go ahead was a question I put to myself: What would my friend Max want me to do? As I have said, Max was not ashamed of our profession. And I knew of his, ah, legacy to you—”
“I was wondering when you were going to get around to that,” said Gordon. “If you really want to know what my uncle wanted, I think his will made it pretty clear.” He looked at Spadafore evenly, and the Don averted his eyes. Sesti smiled inwardly; it was an old trick, calculated to make Gordon overestimate the force of his own personality.
“William, let me ask you a question,” said the Don. “Suppose the owner of your newspaper died, and left it to his nephew. And, suppose that this nephew had never written for a newspaper, never displayed any interest in newspapers, in fact had never even read a newspaper. Further suppose that a single mistake by this nephew could ruin the entire newspaper, cause thousands of people to become unemployed. Would you consider that a prudent step?”
“No, but it’s not exactly—”
“Please, allow me to finish,” said the Don, once again raising his hand, palm up, toward Gordon. “You perhaps believe that you understand my world,
the world of your uncle Max. That is a common enough illusion these days, shared by the writers of novels, the producers of films and many officers of the law. But you do not. It is more complex, more subtle—and more dangerous—than it is imagined to be. To function in this world, at this level, requires a lifetime of experience. Even the most brilliant novice would flounder; and in our world, floundering would be disastrous, not only for you, but for all of us.”
Gordon looked at the Don, considering the logic of this last statement. Spadafore saw it in his eyes. He is a reasonable man, he thought—a terrible handicap in any negotiation.
The Don leaned toward Gordon and placed an avuncular hand on the younger man’s arm. “For these reasons, I decided to allow Carlo to approach you with his proposal. I insisted only that you be given an alternative—to accept a cash settlement. Our business is no longer as violent as it once was; the day of the gangster is, thank God, gone forever. But there are still risks, particularly with the law. And I do not want you to feel compelled to take such risks if you are not …” The Don let the phrase dangle. He had seen enough of Gordon to be able to guess how he would fill it in. “—man enough.”
“Exactly how big a risk are we talking about?” asked Gordon. Spadafore shrugged. “We would do nothing to intentionally expose you to trouble,” he said. “After all, your greatest value lies in your associations, and should you be compromised, they would soon disappear. And of course you would choose your own activities; it would be up to you to decide which countries and which officials can be safely approached. Still, nothing in our world can be guaranteed one hundred percent; in this, we are like the rest of humanity.”
“All right, I’d choose the spots we operate. But I’d have no control over the operation itself, according to Carlo. How do I know that someone else won’t foul up and implicate me?” asked Gordon.
“That is precisely one of the dangers I mentioned before,” said Spadafore. “Another would be if we were to withhold from you a fair share of the profits.” Gordon began to protest, but the old man silenced him with a gesture. “It is only natural that the question has crossed your mind. I can say only this: You know Nathan Belzer, your uncle’s associate. He has been involved with us for fifty years. You have my permission to ask him about our reliability and honesty.”
“I don’t need permission to talk to Nate Belzer,” said Gordon petulantly. Although he had made an effort not to show it, he was uneasy with the way the conversation was going, with the entire evening for that matter. Gordon was not used to being patronized, and he resented Spadafore’s Godfather routine—the big musty house full of garlic fumes and outsized furniture, the tuxedos, the sons like rented movie extras, Sesti buzzing around the Don.
It annoyed Gordon that Spadafore would imagine that he could be taken in by such transparent crap. For twenty years he had been interviewing world leaders, people for whom Luigi Spadafore would be less than a peasant, and he had seen the real thing, the imperial style up close. Nikolae Ceausescu, sitting at his desk in a darkened office the size of a basketball court, the brilliant light of three giant chandeliers flashing on at the flick of his finger; Papa Doc Duvalier, the Haitian dictator, who had offered him a cigar from a solid gold humidor and a human skull for an ashtray; Sadat, sitting on the endless lawn of the Abdeen Palace, surrounded by twelve giant Nubian attendants in white galabias who stood at rigid attention throughout a three-hour meeting; Golda Meir, making him sit like a schoolboy at the Formica table in her small kitchen while she cooked a nauseating dish of farfel and gizzards and lectured through her nose. He had been up against the greatest stage managers in the world, and he had held his own, asked his questions, got his story, refused to be fooled or intimidated by poses and postures.
Gordon was annoyed at being underestimated; but, he admitted to himself, he was also disconcerted. Secretly he regarded his relations with world leaders as contests; in an image Marty Bronstein would have appreciated, he saw them as professional wrestlers, each dressed up in a costume—the Avenger, the Phantom, the Mad Bomber. For twenty years he had been the clean-cut young athlete, clad in nothing but simple trunks, who grappled with them, tore off their masks and pinned their shoulders to the mat.
But now, after two decades of tossing heavyweights, he somehow felt that he couldn’t get his arms around Luigi Spadafore’s thick neck. The old man was like a sumo wrestler, fat and slick and elusive. His old-fashioned, flowery speech and avuncular pose made Gordon feel callow and self-conscious, like a teenager unable to keep his voice in the right octave, or his probing fingers off a pimple.
“I believe that you do need my permission,” said Spadafore softly. “I assume you understood that this conversation is confidential. I would be very unhappy if you discussed it with anyone outside this room.”
“Is that a threat, Mr. Spadafore?” Gordon asked, flushing. “I’ve already been threatened once this week, by Mr. Sesti, here, and I don’t like it. One thing you should know about me is that I don’t scare—”
A look of theatrical astonishment came over the old man’s face. “Threatened?” he said, turning to Sesti. “Is this true?”
The consigliere seemed suddenly alarmed. “Mr. Gordon asked me a hypothetical question at lunch the other day, and I gave him a hypothetical answer,” he said. “In no way did I intend it as a threat.”
Spadafore reddened. “Listen to me carefully, consigliere,” he said in a harsh tone. “William Gordon is the nephew of my brother. His blood is as sacred to me as that of my own sons.” Sesti kept his eyes averted, but his pale face became even paler. “You will apologize to Mr. Gordon,” said the old man.
“Yes, of course,” Sesti said in a tight voice. “I do apologize, certainly, if my remarks were misconstrued.” Gordon noticed that the unflappable Sesti was jiggling his left leg nervously.
Gordon nodded. “That’s all right, as long as we understand each other,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the old man’s shoulders slump.
“It is not all right,” the Don said. “Dishonor is never all right. You have my solemn assurance, my blood oath on the lives of my sons, that neither I nor my associates would ever harm you in any way.” The Don’s voice was imploring, his eyes watery. Suddenly he seemed deflated, and very, very old.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Gordon, feeling in control for the first time all night. He had the key now to throwing the old bastard—honor, respect, blood oaths for Christ’s sake. He couldn’t wait to tell Flanagan. “Listen, Mr. Spadafore, it’s getting late, and I think we should talk business. Mr. Sesti has made me an offer; I want you to repeat it, just to make sure we’re all talking about the same thing.”
The Don nodded. “Carlo,” he said. In a clipped monotone Sesti repeated the details of his proposal, including Gordon’s conditions.
“I’ve thought it over,” Gordon said when the consigliere had finished, “and I’m inclined to accept. But I want five million dollars deposited immediately, and a third of the operation. I also want it understood that we confine ourselves to legitimate business—government contracts, arms, construction projects, that kind of thing. I’m not getting involved in anything illegal; what you do without me is your own affair, but you can’t use my contacts to do it. Agreed?”
“Five million dollars is a great deal of money,” said Spadafore, frowning.
“It’s a fraction of what my uncle left me,” said Gordon. “And a fraction of what you will make.”
Spadafore hesitated, and Gordon could see that he had scored a point. Finally the old man nodded. “Agreed,” he said. “Carlo, you will see to the money.” His voice took on a harsher note. “And you will scrupulously observe Mr. Gordon’s wishes. I have given my word.”
“Yes, Don Spadafore,” Sesti said in a formal tone.
“William, there is one thing that troubles me,” said the old man. “That is your desire to interest your friend Flanagan in our affairs. I believe that it is unwise.”
Gordon shook his
head decisively; he had anticipated this objection, and he wanted to use it to assert his control over the foreign operation. “I’ve known Flanagan for twenty years, and he’s absolutely reliable,” he said. “Besides, it would be my business he’s involved in, not yours.”
The Don sighed heavily. “All right, then,” he said. He extended his beefy hand, and Gordon took it, noticing the liver spots and a slight tomato stain on his cuff. “You drive a very hard bargain. Your uncle Max would have been proud of you this night.”
“I’ve learned from masters,” said Gordon, and the two men laughed. Sesti managed a smile, but continued to look grim.
“It is late,” said Don Spadafore, “and I am tired. Carlo will work out the details with you, and we will meet again to finalize them. In the meantime, if you will excuse me I will go to bed. Carlo will show you out.” The Don pronounced the name with such cold distaste that Gordon felt a bit sorry for the consigliere.
All three men stood. Spadafore took Gordon by the shoulders and pulled him near. “Our association gives me great pleasure,” he said. Gordon could smell the anchovies and denture paste on his breath. “My old friend is gone, but the nephew of my old friend has taken his place.” There was a sob in the Don’s voice as he placed his cheek next to Gordon’s in a ceremonial kiss. Unsure of what to do, Gordon blew a kiss into the air. Behind him, Carlo Sesti saw the old man stare into space, and then suddenly give him a barely perceptible wink of his watery blue eye.
CHAPTER 8
Flanagan and Gordon sat in a corner booth in Gallagher’s. It was three in the afternoon, but the bar was crowded with barbered, beefy businessmen and half a dozen high-priced hookers.
“The auto show’s in town,” said Gordon. “Jesus, look at these guys. No wonder the Japs are kicking our ass.”
“Japan might be a good place to start,” said Flanagan, stirring his Jameson’s with his index finger. “Begin right at the top.”