The Last Don - Mario Puzo [159]
The Don shook his head decisively. “An informer cannot be,” he said. “The detective found something by accident and he wants a bonus to stop. Giorgio, take care of it.”
Giorgio said sourly, “Another fifty grand. Cross, that’s your deal. You’ll have to pay it out of your hotel.”
The Don relit his cigar. “Now that we are all here together, are there any other problems? Vincent, how is your restaurant business?”
Vincent’s granite features softened. “I’m opening three more,” he said. “One in Philly, one in Denver, and another in New York City. High class. Pop, would you believe I charge sixteen dollars for a plate of spaghetti? When I make it at home, I figure out the cost is half a buck a plate. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make it more than that. I even put in the cost of the garlic. And meatballs, I’m the only high-class Italian restaurant that serves meatballs, I don’t know why, but I get eight dollars for them. And not big ones. They cost me twenty cents.”
He would have gone on but the Don cut him off. He turned to Giorgio and said, “Giorgio, how goes your Wall Street?”
Giorgio said cautiously, “It goes up and down. But the commissions we get for trading are as good as the shylocks get on the streets if we churn it enough. And with no risk of deadbeats or jail. We should forget about all our other business, except maybe gambling.”
The Don was enjoying these recitals, success in the legitimate world was dear to him. He said, “And Petie, your construction business? I hear you had a little trouble the other day . . .”
Petie shrugged. “I got more business than I can handle. Everybody’s building something and we have a lock on the highway contracts. All my soldiers are on the payroll and make a good living. But a week ago, this eggplant shows up on my biggest construction job. He’s got a hundred black guys behind him with all kinds of civil rights banners. So I take him into my office and all of a sudden he’s charming. I just have to put ten percent blacks on the job and pay him twenty grand under the table.”
That tickled Dante. “We’re getting strong-armed?” he said with a giggle. “The Clericuzio?”
Petie said, “I tried to think like Pop. Why shouldn’t they make a living? So I gave the eggplant his twenty grand and told him I’d put five percent on the job.”
“You did well,” the Don told Petie. “You kept a small problem from becoming a big problem. And who are the Clericuzio not to pay their share in the advancement of the other people and civilization itself?”
“I would have killed the black son of a bitch,” Dante said. “Now, he’ll come back for more.”
“And we will give him more,” the Don said. “Just so long as they are reasonable.” He turned to Pippi and said, “And what troubles do you have?”
“None,” Pippi said. “Except that now the Family is nearly nonoperational and I’m out of a job.”
“That is your good fortune,” the Don said. “You’ve worked hard enough. You’ve escaped many perils, so now enjoy the flower of your manhood.”
Dante didn’t wait to be questioned. “I’m in the same boat,” he said to the Don. “And I’m too young to retire.”
“Play golf like the Brugliones,” Don Clericuzio said dryly. “And don’t worry, life always provides work and problems. Meanwhile, be patient. I fear your time will come. And mine.”
CHAPTER 14
ON THE MORNING of Eli Marrion’s funeral, Bobby Bantz was screaming at Skippy Deere.
“This is fucking crazy, this is what’s wrong with the movie business. How the fuck can you allow this to happen?” He was waving a stapled bundle of pages in Deere’s face.
Deere looked at it. It was the transportation schedule for a picture shooting in Rome. “Yeah, so what?” Deere said.
Bantz was in rage. “Everyone in the picture is booked first class on the flight to Rome . . . the crew, the bit players, the fucking cameo roles, the gofers, the interns. There is only one exception. You know who that is? The LoddStone accounting officer we sent there to control the spending. He flew economy.”
“Yeah, again, so what?” Deere said.
Bantz became deliberate