school?”
“I know people.” He’d done it on his own steam, night school, busted his ass. He still had a few classes to go. But Nick Geraci knew the right answers to things. “I have friends.”
“Friends,” Narducci repeated. “Attaboy.” He put his hands on Geraci’s shoulders and gave him a quick rub, the way a cornerman might.
The door opened. Geraci braced himself. They stepped into a dark, carpeted hallway crowded with chairs and settees and little carved tables that were probably worth a mint. At the end of the hall was a bright marble-floored room. A young redheaded nurse pushed Vincent “the Jew” Forlenza toward them in a wheelchair. Narducci left to go get Falcone and Molinari.
“
Padrino,
” said Geraci. “How are you feeling?” His speech and probably brain were fine, but he wasn’t going to walk again.
“Eh,” Forlenza said. “What do doctors know?”
Geraci kissed Forlenza on each cheek and then on his ring. Forlenza had stood as godfather at his christening.
“You’ve done well, Fausto,” Forlenza said. “I hear good things.”
“Thank you, Godfather,” Geraci said. “We hit a rough patch, but we’re making progress.”
Forlenza smirked. His disapproval might have been gentle, but it registered; a Sicilian doesn’t have the American faith in progress, doesn’t use the word the way Geraci just had.
Forlenza motioned to a round table by the window. The storm raged even stronger now. The nurse pushed Forlenza to the table. Geraci continued to stand.
Narducci returned, accompanied by the other Dons and their bodyguards, who’d freshened up from their airsickness episode but still seemed shaky. Frank Falcone entered with a heavy-lidded stare, bovine in its blankness. It told the whole story. Molinari had, as planned, told him who Geraci was. Falcone pointed at the paintings of men in jodhpurs and pale stout women in tiaras. “People you know, Don Forlenza?”
“Came with the place. Anthony, Frank. Let me introduce you to an
amico nostro.
” A friend of ours. A friend of
mine
was just an associate. A friend of
ours
was a made guy. “Fausto Dominick Geraci, Jr.”
“Call me Nick,” Geraci said to Falcone and Molinari.
“A good Cleveland boy,” Forlenza said, “Ace, we used to call him, who now does business in New York. He is also, I am proud to say, my godson.”
“We met,” Falcone said. “More or less.”
“Eh, Frank. I’m sure you can indulge a man’s pride in his godson.”
Falcone shrugged. “Of course.”
“Gentlemen,” Geraci said, “I bring you greetings from Don Corleone.”
Forlenza looked at the guards and pointed to Geraci. “Go ahead, do your job.”
Geraci presented himself to be frisked, though of course they’d done it to him back in Detroit, too.
One more time today and we’ll be going steady,
he thought. This search was state of the art, complete with a hand inside his shirt and under the band of his underpants, looking for recording devices. As they finished, two white-haired waiters in bow ties brought out a crystal tray of
biscotti all’uovo,
small bowls of strawberries and orange wedges, and steaming glass mugs of cappuccino. They set a silver bell beside Forlenza and left.
“They came with the place, too.” Forlenza took a sip of his cappuccino. “Before we get started,” he said, “you must all understand that the decision to invite an emissary from Don Corleone was mine alone.”
Geraci doubted this but had no way of knowing for certain.
“No offense, Vincent,” said Falcone, “or, what’s-your-face? Geraci. No offense, but I still can’t get used to calling that little
pezzonovante
Michael
Don Corleone.
” Falcone had ties with the Barzini Family and also with a Hollywood union guy named Billy Goff whom the Corleones had supposedly clipped. On top of which, he had made his bones in Chicago, under Capone.
“Frank,” said Molinari. “Please. This accomplishes nothing.”
Forlenza asked them to sit,
“I know people.” He’d done it on his own steam, night school, busted his ass. He still had a few classes to go. But Nick Geraci knew the right answers to things. “I have friends.”
“Friends,” Narducci repeated. “Attaboy.” He put his hands on Geraci’s shoulders and gave him a quick rub, the way a cornerman might.
The door opened. Geraci braced himself. They stepped into a dark, carpeted hallway crowded with chairs and settees and little carved tables that were probably worth a mint. At the end of the hall was a bright marble-floored room. A young redheaded nurse pushed Vincent “the Jew” Forlenza toward them in a wheelchair. Narducci left to go get Falcone and Molinari.
“
Padrino,
” said Geraci. “How are you feeling?” His speech and probably brain were fine, but he wasn’t going to walk again.
“Eh,” Forlenza said. “What do doctors know?”
Geraci kissed Forlenza on each cheek and then on his ring. Forlenza had stood as godfather at his christening.
“You’ve done well, Fausto,” Forlenza said. “I hear good things.”
“Thank you, Godfather,” Geraci said. “We hit a rough patch, but we’re making progress.”
Forlenza smirked. His disapproval might have been gentle, but it registered; a Sicilian doesn’t have the American faith in progress, doesn’t use the word the way Geraci just had.
Forlenza motioned to a round table by the window. The storm raged even stronger now. The nurse pushed Forlenza to the table. Geraci continued to stand.
Narducci returned, accompanied by the other Dons and their bodyguards, who’d freshened up from their airsickness episode but still seemed shaky. Frank Falcone entered with a heavy-lidded stare, bovine in its blankness. It told the whole story. Molinari had, as planned, told him who Geraci was. Falcone pointed at the paintings of men in jodhpurs and pale stout women in tiaras. “People you know, Don Forlenza?”
“Came with the place. Anthony, Frank. Let me introduce you to an
amico nostro.
” A friend of ours. A friend of
mine
was just an associate. A friend of
ours
was a made guy. “Fausto Dominick Geraci, Jr.”
“Call me Nick,” Geraci said to Falcone and Molinari.
“A good Cleveland boy,” Forlenza said, “Ace, we used to call him, who now does business in New York. He is also, I am proud to say, my godson.”
“We met,” Falcone said. “More or less.”
“Eh, Frank. I’m sure you can indulge a man’s pride in his godson.”
Falcone shrugged. “Of course.”
“Gentlemen,” Geraci said, “I bring you greetings from Don Corleone.”
Forlenza looked at the guards and pointed to Geraci. “Go ahead, do your job.”
Geraci presented himself to be frisked, though of course they’d done it to him back in Detroit, too.
One more time today and we’ll be going steady,
he thought. This search was state of the art, complete with a hand inside his shirt and under the band of his underpants, looking for recording devices. As they finished, two white-haired waiters in bow ties brought out a crystal tray of
biscotti all’uovo,
small bowls of strawberries and orange wedges, and steaming glass mugs of cappuccino. They set a silver bell beside Forlenza and left.
“They came with the place, too.” Forlenza took a sip of his cappuccino. “Before we get started,” he said, “you must all understand that the decision to invite an emissary from Don Corleone was mine alone.”
Geraci doubted this but had no way of knowing for certain.
“No offense, Vincent,” said Falcone, “or, what’s-your-face? Geraci. No offense, but I still can’t get used to calling that little
pezzonovante
Michael
Don Corleone.
” Falcone had ties with the Barzini Family and also with a Hollywood union guy named Billy Goff whom the Corleones had supposedly clipped. On top of which, he had made his bones in Chicago, under Capone.
“Frank,” said Molinari. “Please. This accomplishes nothing.”
Forlenza asked them to sit,
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