The Godfather - Puzo Mario (читать книги без регистрации .TXT) 📗
The horse inside the stall was, even to Hagen’s inexperienced eyes, a beautiful animal. Khartoum’s skin was jet black except for a diamond-shaped white patch on his huge forehead. The great brown eyes glinted like golden apples, the black skin over the taut body was silk. Woltz said with childish pride, “The greatest racehorse in the world. I bought him in England last year for six hundred grand. I bet even the Russian Czars never paid that much for a single horse. But I’m not going to race him, I’m going to put him to stud. I’m going to build the greatest racing stable this country has ever known.” He stroked the horse’s mane and called out softly, “Khartoum, Khartoum.” There was real love in his voice and the animal responded. Woltz said to Hagen, “I’m a good horseman, you know, and the first time I ever rode I was fifty years old.” He laughed. “Maybe one of my grandmothers in Russia got raped by a Cossack and I got his blood.” He tickled Khartoum’s belly and said with sincere admiration, “Look at that cock on him. I should have such a cock.”
They went back to the mansion to have dinner. It was served by three waiters under the command of a butler, the table linen and ware were all gold thread and silver, but Hagen found the food mediocre. Woltz obviously lived alone, and just as obviously was not a man who cared about food. Hagen waited until they had both lit up huge Havana cigars before he asked Woltz, “Does Johnny get it or not?”
“I can’t,” Woltz said. “I can’t put Johnny into that picture even if I wanted to. The contracts are all signed for all the performers and the cameras roll next week. There’s no way I can swing it.”
Hagen said impatiently, “Mr. Woltz, the big advantage of dealing with a man at the top is that such an excuse is not valid. You can do anything you want to do.” He puffed on his cigar. “Don’t you believe my client can keep his promises?”
Woltz said dryly, “I believe that I’m going to have labor trouble. Goff called me up on that, the son of a bitch, and the way he talked to me you’d never guess I pay him a hundred grand a year under the table. And I believe you can get that fag he-man star of mine off heroin. But I don’t care about that and I can finance my own pictures. Because I hate that bastard Fontane. Tell your boss this is one favor I can’t give but that he should try me again on anything else. Anything at all.”
Hagen thought, you sneaky bastard, then why the hell did you bring me all the way out here? The producer had something on his mind. Hagen said coldly, “I don’t think you understand the situation. Mr. Corleone is Johnny Fontane’s godfather. That is a very close, a very sacred religious relationship.” Woltz bowed his head in respect at this reference to religion. Hagen went on. “Italians have a little joke, that the world is so hard a man must have two fathers to look after him, and that’s why they have godfathers. Since Johnny’s father died, Mr. Corleone feels his responsibility even more deeply. As for trying you again, Mr. Corleone is much too sensitive. He never asks a second favor where he has been refused the first.”
Woltz shrugged. “I’m sorry. The answer is still no. But since you’re here, what will it cost me to have that labor trouble cleared up? In cash. Right now.”
That solved one puzzle for Hagen. Why Woltz was putting in so much time on him when he had already decided not to give Johnny the part. And that could not be changed at this meeting. Woltz felt secure; he was not afraid of the power of Don Corleone. And certainly Woltz with his national political connections, his acquaintanceship with the FBI chief, his huge personal fortune and his absolute power in the film industry, could not feel threatened by Don Corleone. To any intelligent man, even to Hagen, it seemed that Woltz had correctly assessed his position. He was impregnable to the Don if he was willing to take the losses the labor struggle would cost. There was only one thing wrong with the whole equation. Don Corleone had promised his godson he would get the part and Don Corleone had never, to Hagen’s knowledge, broken his word in such matters.
Hagen said quietly, “You are deliberately misunderstanding me. You are trying to make me an accomplice to extortion. Mr. Corleone promises only to speak in your favor on this labor trouble as a matter of friendship in return for your speaking in behalf of his client. A friendly exchange of influence, nothing more. But I can see you don’t take me seriously. Personally, I think that is a mistake.”
Woltz, as if he had been waiting for such a moment, let himself get angry. “I understood perfectly,” he said. “That’s the Mafia style, isn’t is? All olive oil and sweet talk when what you’re really doing is making threats. So let me lay it on the line. Johnny Fonfane will never get that part and he’s perfect for it. It would make him a great star. But he never will be because I hate that pinko punk and I’m going to run him out of the movies. And I’ll tell you why. He ruined one of my most valuable protegees. For five years I had this girl under training, singing, dancing, acting lessons, I spent hundreds of thousands of dollars. I was going to make her a star. I’ll be even more frank, just to show you that I’m not a hard-hearted man, that it wasn’t all dollars and cents. That girl was beautiful and she was the greatest piece of ass I’ve ever had and I’ve had them all over the world. She could suck you out like a water pump. Then Johnny comes along with that olive-oil voice and guinea charm and she runs off. She threw it all away just to make me ridiculous. A man in my position, Mr. Hagen, can’t afford to look ridiculous. I have to pay Johnny off.”
For the first time, Woltz succeeded in astounding Hagen. He found it inconceivable that a grown man of substance would let such trivialities affect his judgment in an affair of business, and one of such importance. In Hagen’s world, the Corleones’ world, the physical beauty, the sexual power of women, carried not the slightest weight in worldly matters. It was a private affair, except, of course, in matters of marriage and family disgrace. Hagen decided to make one last try.
“You are absolutely right, Mr. Woltz,” Hagen said. “But are your grievances that major? I don’t think you’ve understood how important this very small favor is to my client. Mr. Corleone held the infant Johnny in his arms when he was baptized. When Johnny’s father died, Mr. Corleone assumed the duties of parenthood, indeed he is called ‘Godfather’ by many, many people who wish to show their respect and gratitude for the help he has given them. Mr. Corleone never lets his friends down.”
Woltz stood up abruptly. “I’ve listened to about enough. Thugs don’t give me orders, I give them orders. If I pick up this phone, you’ll spend the night in jail. And if that Mafia goombah tries any rough stuff, he’ll find out I’m not a band leader. Yeah, I heard that story too. Listen, your Mr. Corleone will never know what hit him. Even if I have to use my influence at the White House.”
The stupid, stupid son of a bitch. How the hell did he get to be a pezzonovante, Hagen wondered. Advisor to the President, head of the biggest movie studio in the world. Definitely the Don should get into the movie business. And the guy was taking his words at their sentimental face value. He was not getting the message.
“Thank you for the dinner and a pleasant evening,” Hagen said. “Could you give me transportation to the airport? I don’t think I’ll spend the night.” He smiled coldly at Woltz. “Mr. Corleone is a man who insists on hearing bad news at once.”
While waiting in the floodlit colonnade of the mansion for his car, Hagen saw two women about to enter a long limousine already parked in the driveway. They were the beautiful twelve-year-old blond girl and her mother he had seen in Woltz’s office that morning. But now the girl’s exquisitely cut mouth seemed to have smeared into a thick, pink mass. Her sea-blue eyes were filmed over and when she walked down the steps toward the open car her long legs tottered like a crippled foal’s. Her mother supported the child, helping her into the car, hissing commands into her ear. The mother’s head turned for a quick furtive look at Hagen and he saw in her eyes a burning, hawklike triumph. Then she too disappeared into the limousine.
