Another Life_ A Memoir of Other People - Michael Korda [240]
CHAPTER 29
At about the same time as I was coming a-cropper with Richard Adams, I stumbled upon a different kind of literature, which would eventually bring me many friendships with people who were not part of the book world.
There was a time when nothing much was known about the Mafia, and few books were written about it, but all that changed dramatically when Mario Puzo turned it, overnight, into an enduring American myth. Books were soon as much a part of Mafia life as pistols.
Long before I acquired a reputation for publishing books by “wiseguys,” I knew wiseguys. My son, Christopher, and I used to ride at Clove Lake Stables, on Staten Island, once or twice a week. On Thursday nights, the stable put on a floodlit “musical ride” for young riding students, in which up to twenty of them, mounted, performed intricate maneuvers in the ring, to the accompaniment of rousing martial-band music from loudspeakers. A lot of the kids were regulars, including one little girl, about Chris’s age, who was always brought to the musical ride by her father, a tall, bulky, well-dressed man, who was driven in a big, black, shiny Cadillac.
One cool, dusty autumn evening, I was leaning against the side of my black VW Beetle, when a large man in a belted raincoat and hat à la George Raft came over to me and whispered hoarsely, “Mr. F. wants a word wid yez.” He did not seem to be offering me a choice. He waved his thumb in the direction of the little girl’s father, who was leaning against the side of his Cadillac and wearing a camel-hair overcoat with the belt knotted loosely around his waist, a silk scarf, and a homburg.
Mr. F. and I shook hands, and he offered me a cigarette. His voice was conspiratorial, even where no conspiracy was involved, and as gravelly as a trout stream. He had admired the way I brought my son out here to ride. No doubt I had noticed, he did the same for his daughter.
I nodded, wondering where this was going. Did I think that the fellow in the derby was a good instructor? Very much so, I said, happy to vouch for Paul Nigro. Mr. F. nodded. He thought so too. This Nigro fellow had told him that she would ride a lot better if she had her own pony—what did I think of that? I said I thought Nigro was probably right.
Mr. F. leaned closer, sharing his expensive aftershave with me. I should understand, he said, that he didn’t know a goddamn thing about horses. He liked a good day at the track, you couldn’t beat it, go with some good fellows, get some fresh air, win a few bucks.… He knew a lot of people in that world, but they weren’t any help when it came to buying a kid’s pony. Since I rode myself, did I have any idea where he might start?
I gave Mr. F. a couple of names, which he wrote down on the back of an envelope, and promised to make a few calls on his behalf myself. I made the calls, as promised, and shortly afterward heard that he had bought a pony, paying in cash.
A few weeks later, I saw him again. This time he came across to me himself, followed by his bodyguard, and shook my hand warmly. I congratulated him on his purchase. He took me by the arm and leaned close. “Listen,” he said. “You did me a favor. I want to do you one.”
I told him that wasn’t necessary.
He shook his head impatiently. “I found out a little bit about you, my friend,” he said. “Turns out you’re some kind of big-shot boy wonder in book publishing. No offense, but if you’re such a big shot, why are you driving a piece a shit like this?” He gave the left front tire of my VW a contemptuous kick. What kind of car did I like? he asked. Maybe a Chrysler, a Mercury? Or a Buick?
I was partial to Buicks, I allowed, maybe because my father had owned one when we lived in Beverly Hills.
“Al-right!” Mr. F.