Another Life_ A Memoir of Other People - Michael Korda [245]
Smart as the Bonannos undoubtedly were, they tended to do things that the rest of us would regard as imprudent or even reckless, and when they got caught, they gave explanations that often seemed, on the face of things, either too convoluted to understand or simply implausible.
As we spoke, the two Bonanno sons were out on parole again, while their father was under indictment. Even allowing for the government’s determination to make a case against the Bonannos and for the notoriety of their name, it appeared, to say the least, that they seldom approached even the simplest of business transactions in a straight line. The truth was that the old man did not see the world the same way as most of us. We may resent the law, but we accept it. He, on the other hand, rejected the whole concept of law, except as it was laid down by his own tradition and enforced by people like himself.
In the evening, Bonanno took us all to one of his favorite Italian restaurants, a dark, discreet place, hidden away in a fold of the desert. Inside, our large party was seated at the best table, while Mr. B. chatted to the proprietor at the bar. When he was done, he walked slowly down a shallow flight of steps into the restaurant, a dapper figure in his tailored blazer and tinted aviator glasses, not at all like the prince of darkness that the FBI swore he was. As he descended the steps, a small orchestra, hidden away in the gloom at the far side of the restaurant, struck up the theme from The Godfather. Mr. B. waved at them genially and sat down with a smile. His expression was shy, rather than proud, as if this musical tribute to his status, while deserved, was yet another part of the wearisome burden he carried as a don.
From out of the darkness, there appeared a succession of figures, most of them his age or thereabouts, who came to pay homage to him. They leaned over to whisper in Bonanno’s ear, clasping his hand as they talked, their diamond rings sparkling in the candlelight.
The proprietor brought over a bottle of wine and uncorked it. Mr. B. tasted the wine and nodded benevolently. “I like wine more than I used to,” he said, eerily echoing Don Corleone. “Anyway, I’m drinking more of it.” He had never been a big drinker, he went on. A man had to know how to control his appetites. Habits too were dangerous. Never stick to the same schedule every day, for example. Poor Albert Anastasia had stuck to a schedule, and look what happened to him, assassinated in a barbershop.… The only habit he had kept to all his life, Bonanno said, was to drink one—and only one—shot of good cognac at night, before going to bed. It helped him to sleep, he said.
I asked if he had trouble sleeping. He sipped his wine, shook his head. No, he always slept soundly, like a baby. Why not, after all? He had a clear conscience, that’s what really mattered. About his life, he had no apologies to make.
And second thoughts? I asked.
He sat silently for a moment, his big hands on the table. A few, he acknowledged at last. There were people he had trusted, and in whom his trust was misplaced. Yes, he went on with a sigh, perhaps he had been too trusting, too reliant on the old traditions of loyalty. Still, it had been a good life. He could not complain.
He took a drink of his wine as the antipasto was served and held up his glass to toast us.
“To cosa nostra,” I thought I heard him whisper.
There was a long silence; then, after a pause, he added with a laugh, “I’m talking about our book, of course.”
IT’S NO accident that the publishing of Mafia books has become a kind of subindustry in its own right. Americans have always yearned for a time and place in