For Mary, the visit to Michael's apartment was a continuation of their reconciliation. When she was eight she was spending a weekend with Michael, who took her to the wedding of Clemenza's grandaughter, which he had quietly paid for in memory of his his father's Capo, and in the ways of being "made" his mentor. Clemenza's widow had been long dead, and his only daughter, herself widowed after he husband, a low level bookie failed to pay some shylock from another family money he owed. The poor woman had asked Michael to intervene and obtain justice, but he had refused. First, the hit had nothing to do with the Corleone business, and the debt this man incurred was somethinghe had done on his own, and without the knowledge of his wife, who would have gone to Michael for financial help in any case. Second, Michael was hardly in a positioin to get himself directly or even indirectly involved in some turf war that was of no concern to him for anybody. He was inching closer and closer to the legitimate world, and such a move would have been a stupid one no matter how you looked at it. Nevertheless, Michael always helped Clemenza's daughter out financially, and he was pleased to see that his granddaughter who had obtained a nursing license was marrying a middle class youn man of Italian descent, who had just passed his exams and had been hired by a large firm as a CPA. He could not help but think how proud Clemenza would have been to see the flesh of his flesh being fully absorbed into the American culture, and totally in the legitimate world. What Michael lacked in humor or compassion, he made up for in loyalty. Many of the old family retainers still counted on him for help, and he never refused. Enzo the baker's son had done well in high school, and when the time came Michael made a generous contribution to Brown University, where the boy was accepted on a full scholarship.
Likewise when a nephew of Frank Pentangeli ran into some trouble on a background check a major airline had done while considering hiring him as a pilot, Michael made sure that a few calls were made to the right people which resulted in his getting the job and a good living. He never asked for returns of favors such as this, he simply saw it as an extension of his father's generousity to those who had shown their loyalty over the years.
This wedding was going splendidly, and Michael took real joy in seeing Mary tasting, for maybe the first time, the foods and deserts he had grown up with, hearing the music he had heard so often at the old Corleone family parties, and otherwise being among old school paisan who were slowly but surely realizing the American Dream. It was ironic, he thought, that the mere passage of time had allowed the descendants of so many footsoldiers to become "legitimate" yet how difficult it was for him to make the same leap. The diaspora caused by Michael's taking out the heads of all the families became a blessing to many of their relatives, and Michael was well aware that names like Tattaglia, Cuneo, Barzini, even Brasi now graced the letterheads of law firms, stock brokerages and medical practices.
These thoughts were interupted when Michael heard the girlish squeals of Mary and several other pre-teens as they were drawn to a lone fifteen year old who had suddenly appeared at the wedding party. Mary didn't know who this young man was, and she didn't even really understand the feeling she had when she saw him, and perhaps if Michael had a window into Mary's soul on that day, he would have taken better care to insure that she would not have met him nor talked to him that day or any other.
After all Michael knew very well who this handsome young tough was. He went by the name Vincent Mancini.
Later that evening Mary had gone to bed, and Michael was in his study, shuffling papers on his desk, and procrastinating doing what he dreaded the most...trying to get some sleep. The telephone rang, he answered it and he heard the news from a low level associate in a real estate firm in Vegas. The sale of the Tropicala had not gone through. A group of investors whose identities were thenn unknown had bankrolled the erstwhile buyer to purchase a rival hotel with the promise that it would be remodeled and "put the Tropicala to shame." It left Michael the owner of what would soon be a second rate casino. Johnny Fontaine and his associates were no longer the draw they used to be, and Michael's aloofness had kept him from widening his circle of friends in the entertainment business, or for that matter any business.
It was almost ninety degrees in the middle of December 1972 in West Palm Beach, where B.J. Harrison, Esq. was tanning himself when a butler brought and plugged in a telephone near thje chaise lounge where he was lying. "For you sir. I believe its the call you'd been expecting." Harrison waved off the servant and picked up the phone. On the other end, Santo Trafficante, from Tampa, was nervously telling Harrison about a "rat" whom he believed was someplace "out west," and who was talking too much about what Trafficante simply called "The Dallas Thing."
To the world, B.J. Harrison had burnished his image as a brilliant criminal defense lawyer, a playboy, a socialite, and overall publicity hound. His picture regularly appeared in GQ, Esquire, W and various tabloids either standing outside some courthouse with his newly minted "Not Guilty verdict" or entering high society fundraisers donning a tailor made tux, with this starlet or that model draped on his arm like some trophy he'd just been awarded.
This was the public B.J. Harrison. In truth the personna of B.J. Harrison was a complete fiction. His birth name Benjamin Jacob Horrowitz had disappeared from all public records, the work of his grandfather the late Hyman Roth. Raised by Roth's nephew in Hollywood, Florida, B.J. attended catholic schools, often driven back and forth by none other than Jimmy Blue Eyes, an older hit man in the Roth family. The back story they created was largely based on the true story of how Tom Hagen came into the Corleone family, was generally accepted, and as he grew older more embellishments, and changes to his background both in public records and through articles in the press, not to mention from his own mouth had created a public figure, who, like Poe's purloined letter, allowed his true identity to remain hidden the more the spotlights shone upon him. The creation of "Harrison" had been Roth's idea. Believing that no Jew could gain full acceptance into American society, Roth had decided to raise the brightest of his eight grandchildren to become one of the "goyim" while all the time having intintimate knowledge and command over his operations. After his death, the family was shattered, but they continued with the plan.
The shooting of Roth, and the subsequent expropriation of his vast gambling interests in Havana by Fidel Castro had left the family nearly broke. Filling the vacuum was Trafficante, who restored Roth's nephew, Jake Horrowitz, married to Roth's daughter, and a brilliant accountant in his own right, to a reasonably high position of power, but at a heavy price. Terms of peace between the Roths and the Corleones was a deal breaker. It has been a bitter pill for his "father" to swallow, but for him Hyman Roth was nothing more than a shadowy memory who meant nothing. If he had to do business with the Corleones, so be it.
"I think I know who dropped the ball here, B.J., and I think you need to talk to Michael Corleone to make sure this thing doesnt get out of control." "I'll see what I can do ." Harrison said and he hung up the phone. Harrison pushed a button and almost instantly the butler reappeared. Speaking as if he was asking for a glass of water Harrison instructed, "Check the weather in New York, pack me bags for a three day stay. The usual suite at the Waldorf, call my pilot and tell him to have the plane ready in an hour. Book my regular table at 21 for 10 tonight, and put a call into whats-her name -- you know the blonde on Park Avenue, let her know I'll be in town. The butler acknowledged his charge, and Harrison picked up th telephone, this time to call Franlkin Dewhurst, the senior partner in one of New York's most oldest and most prestigious firms, Dewhurst, Dunlop and Lohan ("DD&L"). Harrison handled all of their clients' white collar crime cases. D&L would never soil its hands with criminals, at least not directly. No one knew that in exchange for this exclusive relationship Harrison kicked back 15% of his exhorbitant fees to DD&L. DD&L's impeccable reputation as the premier WASP firm in New York not only opened any door DD&L wanted opened, it also had on its client list the names of those who so badly wished to be a real part of DD&L's world -- its highest paying client being one Michael Corleone.
It was not yet noon,, and Tom Hagen was pouring his fourth scotch. His son, with whom he was never close had gone to live in a seminary, he and his wife had a loveless marriage once she found out about his mistress, and his relatioinship with Michael had almost become nonexistent since Michael had moved back to New York. Still up until recently Hagen had remained a major player, operating as a negotiator among the various cna changing circles of power in the underworld, serving as the Corleone's attorney in Vegas" and sitting on two or three boards of directors, along with holding a majority interest in a State Chartered Bank. In '62 and '63 Michael had dispatched Tom to Tampa to "make some arrangements" with Santo Trafficante. Specifically Michael had told him "do what he asks, but I dont want to know about it. The Corleones must have no part in what he is doing, but we need him to keep the peace with the Roths, and he is useful to me in some other ventures." Tom had done as he wasa ordered, but in late '63 when he returned to Vegas the contacts with Michael were fewer and farther between. The only assignment on his plate was to unload the Tropicala for a decent profit, and now he'd blown that. When he learned about how he'd been out maneuvered he threw back a fifth of scotch, and was in no condition to call Michael with the news. When he awoke the following morning with a searing hangover, he drank more to steady himself, and make the inevitable call, but now it was Tom's phone that was ringing.
"Tom why do I have to hear about your fuck ups from real estate agents?" It was a familiar and unwelcomed tone of voice. "Mikey I was just going to call you." "Are you drinking Tom?" "No Mike, ...well just one before I was going to call you." "Tom I want you to get it back on track. I dont care how you do it, but you make this sale go through. After that, Tom I want you here. I want you in a hospital, and I want you to dry out." These were not suggestions, they were orders. "Mikey it was one screw up...one...after all these years, please Mike youve gotta understand." "Ahhhh one mistake. You want to tell me one mistake Tom? You want to talk about Sonny, or Kay's abortion, or Geary? You want to talk about how I almost went to prison because you didnt figure out they had Pentangeli?" There would be no argument this time. Tom knew he had failed Mike for the last time. "Tom you will always be my brother. I want you to close out this deal and come back east where you can get some help. Sell what you have out there and bring Teresa here. You'll have a good life in New York, and whatever else because of what we've been through you are still the only one I can talk to freely."
Tom felt somewhat better, and became determined to get it together and do what Mike asked. Perhaps a move back east and an easier lifestyle was what he needed.
Mike put the telephone down. He was sorry for Tom, but still he was angry that he had screwed up this deal. It wasnt so much that he'd lose money, that bothered him it was that ownership of the casino was holding him back from realizing his plan to go completely legitimate. A moment later the phone rang again. It was the doorman of the building telling him a courier had a private message at the frint desk. "Send someone up with it."
When the elevator opened, and the envelope was handed to him Michael thanked the man and went back to his study where he examined the embossed DD&L Logo on the fine paper which also bore his name in perfect palmer method script. He opened it and read the brief handwritten letter. Dear Michael, Our mutual acquaintance B. J. Harrison will be in town for the next three days, and he requests about an hour of your time. You may contact me to make arrangements, or you may call him at the Waldorf any time after the start of business tomorrow as wyou wish. Cordially, Franklin Dewhrst."
