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Authors: Mark Winegardner
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just business, isn’t it?”
He liked being married to a smart woman, but it posed certain challenges. “I don’t like Florida,” Tom said.
“Nonsense,” Theresa said. “Everybody likes Florida.”
“I wouldn’t live here for a million bucks.”
“Over time, we’ll probably make a million bucks. It’s a great investment.”
“We have other investments.”
“We have family here, Tom.”
Suddenly, he understood.
“This was you and Sandra,” he said, “wasn’t it?”
“You’re quick, counselor.”
“I’ll say this,” Tom said. “This gives new meaning to thick as thieves .” Sandra Corleone, Sonny’s widow, lived in Hollywood, Florida, which was not that far away. She’d been engaged for ten years to a former New York fire marshal who, as a reward for some of the fires he ruled to be accidents, now fronted a chain of liquor stores here. Sandra and Theresa weren’t blood, and they could hardly have been more different, but they were as close as any sisters Tom had seen. “How long have you two been cooking this up?”
Triumphant, Theresa clinked his glass again. “Just look at it, OK? Keep an open mind.”
Tom shook his head, defeated. “I don’t have to.” He could put accountants on this, too. If she wanted it, she wanted it. He did see how it was good for his family. A little place in the sun. It wasn’t as if he’d have to actually live there. “If you want to do this, just do it.”
“I love you, Tom.”
“You better.”
The waiter came by and refilled their wineglasses.
“Keep ’em coming,” Tom said, only half joking.
“So,” she said, “how was your day?”
Their eyes met. In this light, anyway, she looked as if she really thought that, this time, he might answer. He held her gaze. After all these years, after all the vague answers he’d given to this question, she kept right on asking it.
He reached for his glass and took a long drink.
What, really, did she want him to say?
Gee, it was swell, dear. This gentleman who almost destroyed our whole organization turned up, only maybe the FBI’s got him. The things he knows could get us all thrown in jail, which he’d never have talked about in a million years except that Michael, unbeknownst to me, tried to sabotage this guy’s airplane a few years back. Mr. Geraci didn’t just survive, he eventually figured the whole thing out — well before I did. Long story short, somehow we need to find this guy and kill him. Purely out of self-defense.
Then this afternoon, just as I told you, I had some routine legal matters to address. A lawyer with his briefcase can steal more than a hundred men with guns can, and I thank you again for the lovely briefcase. After that, I went for a quick meeting with the president of the United States; sorry I had to keep that from you, hon. It didn’t work out anyway. The president’s father was our connection, but he’s dead and his sons are turning on us, which is ridiculous. Jimmy Shea would have lost the election without us, and Bud Payton has been on the payroll of some friends of ours for so long that his retirement plan should have kicked in. Then again, it’s a ridiculous world. I know you agree, which is part of why you’ve got such a great eye for art. Anyway, Shea’s golf game gets rained out, but instead of meeting with me, he and Payton zoom off to a slapped-together rally at the gym where a Cuban fighter, a defector, is training for his shot at the title—which, by the way, if you want to make back some of the money you spent on that house, bet the other guy. At any rate, some snot-nosed aide tells me the meeting will happen in the limo, after the rally. I get to the gym in time to hear liberty championed, America blessed, common ground asserted, and a better world imagined. Payton hates Shea’s guts, by the way, and his smile looks like rigor mortis. All of this is staged inside a boxing ring. The fighter stands there clutching a tiny American flag. When
He liked being married to a smart woman, but it posed certain challenges. “I don’t like Florida,” Tom said.
“Nonsense,” Theresa said. “Everybody likes Florida.”
“I wouldn’t live here for a million bucks.”
“Over time, we’ll probably make a million bucks. It’s a great investment.”
“We have other investments.”
“We have family here, Tom.”
Suddenly, he understood.
“This was you and Sandra,” he said, “wasn’t it?”
“You’re quick, counselor.”
“I’ll say this,” Tom said. “This gives new meaning to thick as thieves .” Sandra Corleone, Sonny’s widow, lived in Hollywood, Florida, which was not that far away. She’d been engaged for ten years to a former New York fire marshal who, as a reward for some of the fires he ruled to be accidents, now fronted a chain of liquor stores here. Sandra and Theresa weren’t blood, and they could hardly have been more different, but they were as close as any sisters Tom had seen. “How long have you two been cooking this up?”
Triumphant, Theresa clinked his glass again. “Just look at it, OK? Keep an open mind.”
Tom shook his head, defeated. “I don’t have to.” He could put accountants on this, too. If she wanted it, she wanted it. He did see how it was good for his family. A little place in the sun. It wasn’t as if he’d have to actually live there. “If you want to do this, just do it.”
“I love you, Tom.”
“You better.”
The waiter came by and refilled their wineglasses.
“Keep ’em coming,” Tom said, only half joking.
“So,” she said, “how was your day?”
Their eyes met. In this light, anyway, she looked as if she really thought that, this time, he might answer. He held her gaze. After all these years, after all the vague answers he’d given to this question, she kept right on asking it.
He reached for his glass and took a long drink.
What, really, did she want him to say?
Gee, it was swell, dear. This gentleman who almost destroyed our whole organization turned up, only maybe the FBI’s got him. The things he knows could get us all thrown in jail, which he’d never have talked about in a million years except that Michael, unbeknownst to me, tried to sabotage this guy’s airplane a few years back. Mr. Geraci didn’t just survive, he eventually figured the whole thing out — well before I did. Long story short, somehow we need to find this guy and kill him. Purely out of self-defense.
Then this afternoon, just as I told you, I had some routine legal matters to address. A lawyer with his briefcase can steal more than a hundred men with guns can, and I thank you again for the lovely briefcase. After that, I went for a quick meeting with the president of the United States; sorry I had to keep that from you, hon. It didn’t work out anyway. The president’s father was our connection, but he’s dead and his sons are turning on us, which is ridiculous. Jimmy Shea would have lost the election without us, and Bud Payton has been on the payroll of some friends of ours for so long that his retirement plan should have kicked in. Then again, it’s a ridiculous world. I know you agree, which is part of why you’ve got such a great eye for art. Anyway, Shea’s golf game gets rained out, but instead of meeting with me, he and Payton zoom off to a slapped-together rally at the gym where a Cuban fighter, a defector, is training for his shot at the title—which, by the way, if you want to make back some of the money you spent on that house, bet the other guy. At any rate, some snot-nosed aide tells me the meeting will happen in the limo, after the rally. I get to the gym in time to hear liberty championed, America blessed, common ground asserted, and a better world imagined. Payton hates Shea’s guts, by the way, and his smile looks like rigor mortis. All of this is staged inside a boxing ring. The fighter stands there clutching a tiny American flag. When
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