Authors: Zev Chafets
Spadafore watched Sesti greet Gordon on a closed-circuit television screen. The journalist was dressed in a sport jacket and slacks, and a blue shirt open at the collar, an informality that, to the Don, implied disrespect. In his left hand Gordon held a bottle of wine.
“I wish you had told me you were dressing for dinner,” he heard Gordon say to Sesti. “I would have worn a tie.”
“Not at all,” said Sesti smoothly, taking the bottle and guiding Gordon into the sitting room, where he introduced the journalist to Mario and Pietro. Sesti did not thank Gordon for the wine; as host, that would be Don Spadafore’s prerogative.
The Don watched Gordon take a seat and cross his right leg over
his left. He seemed to be at ease. Spadafore saw a strong resemblance between the journalist and his father, a vulgar man for whom he had scant regard. Of the uncle he saw nothing.
“Do you get dressed up like this every night?” Gordon asked, genuinely curious. Mario, who had no conversation, grunted. Pietro looked petulant and remained silent. It fell to Sesti to answer. “This is a special occasion for all of us,” he said in his British accent. “It isn’t often that we are visited by such an illustrious figure as yourself.”
Gordon ignored the compliment. “Is it all right if I smoke?” he asked. He already had the Winstons out.
“Of course,” said Sesti, producing a gold Dunhill lighter. Spadafore smiled. Sesti did not smoke; he carried the lighter for others. It was the kind of attention to small detail that the Don appreciated and that made the consigliere so valuable.
Spadafore hauled his bulk out of the padded chair, smoothed his hair in the mirror and entered the sitting room. All four men rose. Spadafore opened his arms to Gordon in a gesture of welcome.
“Mr. Spadafore, this is Mr. William Gordon,” said Sesti, doing the honors. “Mr. Gordon, Luigi Spadafore.”
“You grace my home with your presence,” said Spadafore formally, taking the younger man’s hand in his. “Please accept my condolences on the death of your uncle.”
“Good to meet you, Mr. Spadafore,” said Gordon lightly. “I should be offering you my condolences. You were much closer to my uncle than I was.”
“Yes, your uncle Max was my brother,” said Spadafore.
“In that case, perhaps I should call you Uncle Luigi,” said Gordon with a smile. For a moment there was a shocked silence at the lèse-majesté; Mario and Pietro exchanged looks, and even Sesti seemed taken aback. Spadafore regarded the reporter gravely, and then laughed. “Uncle Luigi? Yes, and I will call you Velvel.”
Gordon laughed too. “How’d you know about that?” he asked.
“Max spoke of you often,” said Spadafore. “And he always referred to you as Velvel.”
“A nickname?” asked Sesti brightly, relieved that the tense moment had passed.
“Yiddish,” said Gordon.
“A fine Jewish name for a fine Jewish boy,” said Spadafore in fluent, Russian-accented Yiddish.
Gordon’s eyes widened in surprise. “You speak Yiddish?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Spadafore, still speaking in Yiddish. “Where I grew up, it was a common language. Your uncle and I sometimes spoke it together.”
“I’m afraid you lost me,” said Gordon in English. “I really don’t know very much Yiddish.”
“That’s a pity,” Spadafore said. “Such an expressive language. Mamma-loshen.”
Gordon reached for the bottle of Barolo that was sitting on the end table next to the couch. “I hope you like it,” he said, handing it to Spadafore. “I brought it back with me from a trip to Sicily.”
“You have excellent taste in wine,” said Spadafore. “May I ask what you were doing in Sicily?”
“I was there working on a piece about NATO’s naval preparedness in the Mediterranean,” said Gordon. “It was last year, I think, or the year before. I can’t really remember. It didn’t turn out to be much of a story.”
“Please, tell us about Sicily,” said Spadafore, taking Gordon’s arm and moving him in the direction of the dining room. “It has been almost ten years since my last visit.” The Don seated Gordon to his right, and took his place at the head of the table. Like a headwaiter, Sesti helped the old man into his chair, and then seated himself across from Gordon. The two sons sat at the foot of the table, opposite each other.
The serving girl, Marianna, appeared with an antipasto of smoked beef, artichoke hearts and white beans in olive oil. She handed Sesti a corkscrew, and he effortlessly opened Gordon’s bottle, pouring the red liquid into shining crystal goblets.
Spadafore lifted his glass and the others fell silent. “I wish to propose a toast,” he said. “To the memory of my friend Max Grossman, who was my brother for fifty years. And to his nephew, William Gordon, who, I hope, will be a part of our Family for the next fifty years to come.” He sipped the wine and smacked his lips appreciatively.
Gordon held his glass in front of him, untouched. “That’s something we’re going to have to talk about,” he said.
“Yes, but later,” said Spadafore blandly. “First, let us eat. And drink.” His eyes fell on Gordon’s glass, still poised in midair. The journalist looked at him steadily for a moment and then sipped the wine.
During dinner Spadafore said little, allowing Sesti to carry the conversation. The consigliere asked Gordon about various foreign trouble spots, expressing extravagant praise for his insights and knowledge and, from time to time, sending significant glances in the direction of the Don, who concentrated on the perfectly prepared scaloppini. To his annoyance, Gordon found himself playing to the old man, trying to capture his attention. Only once did the Don ask a question, inquiring about the stability of the Colombian regime. Colombia was one of the few countries in Latin America that Gordon had never visited, and he confined himself to the kind of general remarks that any reader of
Time
magazine could have made. Spadafore nodded politely, but his expression made it plain that he hadn’t learned anything new.
Mario and Pietro ate in silence. Spadafore seemed barely to notice them, and when the meal was finished he dismissed them with a nonchalance that surprised Gordon. “Pietro has an appointment,” he said with a slightly sardonic smile. “And Mario always wants to get home early.” The younger brother looked relieved, but Mario was clearly disappointed at being excluded. He stood heavily, emitted a small fart, waved his hand in the air, looked at his palm and then extended it to Gordon, who shook it with what he hoped was not evident reluctance.
When the two sons had departed, Spadafore led the way into his study. He seated Gordon in an easy chair next to his own. Sesti gave them DeNobli cigars from a cedar humidor, and lit them with his Dunhill. Then he poured each man some cognac in a large snifter. Spadafore accepted these ministrations in silence. The consigliere’s every gesture bespoke a profound respect and a sure grasp of the protocol that sustained his world. The Don stole a glance at Gordon, unable to tell if the journalist was impressed.
Spadafore raised his snifter. “We have business to discuss tonight,”
he said in a soft voice, “but before we do, I wish to say a few personal words to you about your uncle.”
“Go ahead,” said Gordon. From the look on Spadafore’s face he realized immediately that his permission had been superfluous.
“When I said earlier that your uncle and I were like brothers, you may have taken it as the flowery sentiment of an old man. Perhaps you were even offended, since your father is Max’s true brother. But, as much as any two men of different blood can be, Max and I were brothers. We grew up together, prospered together and, yes, we sometimes fought together against those who would take what we had. My enemies were his, his enemies were mine. For fifty years we conducted business together without a written document or a single disagreement about money.
“You know stories about me,” he continued. “Some have been written in your newspaper. I will not dishonor you by pretending that I am what is known as a law-abiding citizen. I am not, and Max was not. And yet, I consider your uncle to have been a moral man. Crime is not the same as sin; it is a concept relative to time and place, like beauty. When we were young men we sold liquor and it was illegal; today, you can buy liquor anywhere. The same is true of the numbers. Once it was against the law; now the government runs the lottery. In New Jersey, until only a few years ago, games of chance were forbidden; today, casinos advertise on the television. Even drugs, which are so unpopular, will someday become legal, and people will no longer think of them as immoral. That is the way of the world.”
The Don paused to sip his cognac, sighed deeply, and then continued. “There are, of course, certain things that are sinful. Murder is one. Murder, I say, which is not to be confused with self-defense. But to take an innocent life is an infamy. So, too, are crimes against the poor, or children, or helpless women. Of these things Max was never guilty, nor was I.” Spadafore saw with satisfaction that Gordon was nodding in agreement. His message was getting through.
“Earlier you referred to me as Uncle Luigi. I know it was a jest, but I was, I will admit, warmed by the phrase. Although you have never, until now, entered our world, Max spoke of you often. I have
followed your career with pleasure and pride. And so, I am taking the liberty tonight to speak to you as an uncle.
“Several days ago, Carlo here came to me with a proposal. You already know its details, there is no reason to mention them now. My first reaction was to say no, not out of disrespect for Carlo, for whom I have great admiration, but out of respect for you and your uncle.”
Spadafore paused and held out his glass. Sesti sprang with an athletic ease from his chair, poured three fingers of the clear liquor for the old man, and refilled Gordon’s glass as well. The Don sipped his drink and expelled a huge cloud of DeNobli smoke before continuing.
“Let me explain my reasoning,” he said. “First, you are a famous journalist. I thought that you might consider a proposal that you abandon a field in which you have distinguished yourself to be in some sense insulting. Also, I knew from your uncle that you displayed little interest in his affairs. This I took as a sign of disapproval.”
Gordon cleared his throat to protest, but Spadafore held up a thick, powerful hand. “Please, it is not important if I was correct; I am merely explaining my reasoning. I also feared a disrespect to Max. It was not, I thought, my place to make a proposal to you that your uncle himself had refrained from making during his lifetime.
“Those, as I say, were my thoughts. But I am an old man, and Carlo, who belongs to your generation, thought differently. He pointed out that you are a worldly man, not likely to be shocked by any proposal, or unaware of the relative nature of criminal justice. He also said that, as the nephew of Max Grossman, you could be trusted, whatever your decision, to be discreet. Finally, he pointed out that a great deal of money is involved, and you must, out of respect, be made the offer. You are not, after all, an innocent child; you are a grown man, capable of deciding your own future.” Spadafore noted that this last thrust had made Gordon flush with pleasure. Knowing Albert Grossman, it was not difficult to guess the reason for the young man’s gratified response.
“Let me say that all of this was persuasive, but I still remained unsure. Carlo,” he said, turning to the consigliere, “this is a dangerous conversation. You are learning how easily I am influenced by you.” Sesti smiled at the compliment, and bowed his head graciously.
“What finally convinced me that I should allow Carlo to go ahead was a question I put to myself: What would my friend Max want me to do? As I have said, Max was not ashamed of our profession. And I knew of his, ah, legacy to you—”
“I was wondering when you were going to get around to that,” said Gordon. “If you really want to know what my uncle wanted, I think his will made it pretty clear.” He looked at Spadafore evenly, and the Don averted his eyes. Sesti smiled inwardly; it was an old trick, calculated to make Gordon overestimate the force of his own personality.
“William, let me ask you a question,” said the Don. “Suppose the owner of your newspaper died, and left it to his nephew. And, suppose that this nephew had never written for a newspaper, never displayed any interest in newspapers, in fact had never even read a newspaper. Further suppose that a single mistake by this nephew could ruin the entire newspaper, cause thousands of people to become unemployed. Would you consider that a prudent step?”
“No, but it’s not exactly—”
“Please, allow me to finish,” said the Don, once again raising his hand, palm up, toward Gordon. “You perhaps believe that you understand my world, the world of your uncle Max. That is a common enough illusion these days, shared by the writers of novels, the producers of films and many officers of the law. But you do not. It is more complex, more subtle—and more dangerous—than it is imagined to be. To function in this world, at this level, requires a lifetime of experience. Even the most brilliant novice would flounder; and in our world, floundering would be disastrous, not only for you, but for all of us.”
Gordon looked at the Don, considering the logic of this last statement. Spadafore saw it in his eyes. He is a reasonable man, he thought—a terrible handicap in any negotiation.
The Don leaned toward Gordon and placed an avuncular hand on the younger man’s arm. “For these reasons, I decided to allow Carlo to approach you with his proposal. I insisted only that you be given an alternative—to accept a cash settlement. Our business is no longer as violent as it once was; the day of the gangster is, thank God, gone forever. But there are still risks, particularly with the law. And I do not want you to feel compelled to take such risks if you are
not …” The Don let the phrase dangle. He had seen enough of Gordon to be able to guess how he would fill it in. “—man enough.”
“Exactly how big a risk are we talking about?” asked Gordon. Spadafore shrugged. “We would do nothing to intentionally expose you to trouble,” he said. “After all, your greatest value lies in your associations, and should you be compromised, they would soon disappear. And of course you would choose your own activities; it would be up to you to decide which countries and which officials can be safely approached. Still, nothing in our world can be guaranteed one hundred percent; in this, we are like the rest of humanity.”