Michael quickly wrote a note to Harrison and summoned a courrier. "Take this to Mr. Harrison at the Waldorf." The courrier obliged, and went immediately to fulfill his task notwithstanding the hour. The note read " My apartment, 10:00 am tomorrow, -- Michael Corleone."
Harrison may be a big time lawyer,but Michael Corleone wasn't going to meet him or anyone like him on any turf but his own. Dutifully Harrison appeared at the appointed time and place. After exchanging pleasantries they went into Michael's office to talk.

"Mr. Corleone I know what happened in Vegas. The Molinari family on the coast along with some associates in Detroit along with some investors from Mexico bankrolled a Nevada Corporation which essentially forced your hand to keep the Tropicala."

"Whats their motive?" Michael asked.
"They want you in gambling, and they want you in the business you are in. With all due respect Mr. Corleone, Tom Hagen made it easy for them to pull this one off."

Michael sat silent.

"Now I have a plan, Mr. Corleone, that will get you out of the casino business altogether, and which will allow you to start on the path to legitimacy."

"Why would you care about this?"
"Sir, its this simple. I have accomplished everything I ever set out to do in the legal world. I have fame, and I have reapect. Besides, I don't intend to work for you for nothing. "

Nearly three thousand miles away it was quarter past seven. Hagen stumbled from his bed, and Teresa barely moved. He put on a bathrobe, and went to the basement where he unlocked a cabinet.

He withdrew a 12 gauge shotgun from the rack, loaded it, put both barrels in his mouth, and using his toe, squeezed the trigger.

Within a half hour Michael got the news. Harrison had just left, but his proposal to replace Hagen struck him as ill timed. Something was not right about this "suicide." He picked up the phone and dialed Al Neri's house. "Al, Mike...Tom Hagen is dead. Theyre calling it a suicide, but I dunno. I want you to go to Vegas and see what you can find out. Give Teresa whatever assurances you need to...tell her the family won't forget her or their son, and find out what happened.

It was late in the afternoon Las Vegas time when Neri got to the Hagen household. Teresa seemed oddly unemotional when she showed him in. "Michael Corleoe sends his condolences, and wishes for you to know that if there is anything you need, he will provide it."
"Thank you Al, that is generous of him given what's happened with Tom over these years."
"Why did he do it? Was it because of the Tropicala thing?"
"He has been drinking heavily for years now, and I just don't know what drove him to it."
"Is there anything .... a letter or a diary that might shed some light on this?"
"He kept his papers very private, and I never really looked. They are in his study, go have a look."
Neri excused himself and went to the study. Papers were piled all over the desk in such a disorganized way it was no wonderHagen, sober or not could accomplish anything. An envelope caught his eye. The return address was that of a well known publishing house in New York and shoved into it was a letter.
"Dear Mr. Hagen:
Thank you for your recent submission of your novel "The Consigliere." While we read it with great interest, we do not feel a first person account of the lawyer for a crime family responsible for the major events you describe is something in which this firm has interest. We encourage you to try with another publisher."

Neri carefully folded the leter and put it in his pocket.
He stayed on in Vegas for a few days, helped with funeral arrangements, Tom was to be cremated, and his ashes placed near Vito Corleone's grave (Momma's ashes had been interred there years earlier after the family funeral ceremony in Tahoe and Michael saw placing Tom in such hallowed ground would earn the loyalty of an un and coming priest whose help he might need some day. With some help, Neri got the Hagen house sold, and made arrangements for Teresa to move back to New York, where she had family, and where she would be closer to her son who was finishing a Doctorate in Church History at Georgetown, and who was then scheduled to be ordained.

It didnt' take more than two days for Michael to get his hands on the book Hagen had submitted to the publisher, and he was incredulous that Hagen would so casually break the oath of Omerta, even under the guise of fiction. He rationalized that it was the booze, but the fact remained that now two of his "brothers" had tried to betray him. He caled Harrison, who by then was back in Florida.

"I've thought about your offer. I'd like to talk some more."
Harrison was pleased and he was eager to please. "I can tell you something about Hagen," he said, "He was peddling some kind of tell all book, and our friend in Tampa found out about it."
"I know all of it already," Michael said, even though the final piece of the puzzle was news to him.

So there it was. Someone had blackmailed Hagen with his book, forced him to allow the Tropicala deal to tank, and literally drove him to his death. It was information Michael would keep to himself for a very long time.

______________
SICILY 1981
______________


After Mary's funeral in New York, Michael returned to Sicily with the intention of never returning to the United States. In short order he let go of Hasrrison, and on his own he negotiated the sale of all his interests in Immobiliare and invested it conservatively in Mutual Funds, in Europe and the United States. He remained a wealthy man, but he was more aloof than ever. Connie would commute between New York and Sicily, and when she wasn't there Michael lived with a cook, a gardner, and a medical aide who took care of his diabetes. He had few visitors. Occasionally Don Tomassino's widow would invite him for supper, but he always declined. Still, from time to time she would send him trays of food, for which he always thanked her in writing. Andrew Hagen, now a Monsignor assigned to one of the more powerful Cardinals in the Curia came to visit for a week, but it gave Michael little cheer. Never one who had any hobbies or interests outside his work, Michael spent his days gazing out over the landscape, sometimes walking to the local village to buy fruit, bread or wine, and then meandering back home.

He read the International Herald Tribune, the Times of London, the Economist, and Opera News, to follow his son's careeer. After taking off almost a year, Anthony mounted a comeback, but he was really going no where. He did not get into the companies of the Met or La Scala, and the best he could do was play minor characters at second tier opera houses in the U.S. and Europe.

Against Michael's advice, and Michael's telling him the promise he would never lift a finger to help him, Vincent Mancini returned to New York to carve out a niche for himself living "the life." He was reasonably successful with numbers and prostitution, but with the advent of State Lotteries, and the sexual revolution still in full swing, sex and gambling things were no longer forbidden by society as they had been in his grandfather's day, and so, to continue making a living he succumbed to dealing drugs. Even that was doubly dangerous because not only did he have to watch out for law enforcement, but he had to hold his ground against the ever powerful emerging cartels from Colombia and Mexico.
He would send Michael greetings for his birthday and for Christmas but Michael had not written him back.

On a brisk November afternoon, Michael was coming home from one of his walks when he encountered the local postman approaching his house.

"Don Corleone, ecc' una littera per voi"
Michael took the envelope and thanked the postman.
He rubbed his thumb over the fine grade of paper and he noticed the perfect Palmer cursive address. He had not seen this handwriting since 1979.

He tore the envelope open:

Dear Michael:
I really don't know where to begin. The things I said to you after Mary died are inexcusable, and if you never speak to me again I understand. I was in so much pain then that I never took into account how this affected you, but a week ago Connie called, we had lunch and she told me you had become a recluse.

You may have heard -- I don't know -- Douglas died of a massive heart attack about a year ago. He left me with a handsome life insurance policy, and with the money I got from our divorce, I am doing well financially, but like you, basically I am alone.
My parents are gone, and Anthony travels so much I rarely get to see him.

I have gone back to teaching part time just to fill the hours of the day, but in the evenings, when it is supper time, I feel so alone, and I am sure for you it is even worse. I try to keep active by doing volnteer work, and I go to Church events, but nothing fills the hole in your heart that the death of a child leaves. I have spent much time in counseling, and it has been of some help, and I do know this: tearing yourself apart for such a tragedy does no good whatsoever.

Connie says you refuse to leave Sicily, you rarely see anyone and
you hardly ever respond to anything outside your world. You know, Michael in spite of everything I still care for you, and I want you to to do something to restore yourself. You have a brilliant mind, and for all the bad you did, your foundations and your other endeavors to be legitimate showed us all of your capabilities and talent.

I know that neither COnnie nor I want you to wither away, but more important, I tell you that this is not the way Mary would want you to act. So please, Michael, if for nothing else but for Mary's sake, re-join the world and try to get back what you can of what you lost.
Love,
Kay.

For the first time in his life Michael Corleone doubled over sobbing and weeping.