The Godfather

For the first time Woltz seemed to take the whole thing seriously. He studied Hagen’s card. “I never heard of you,” he said. “I know most of the big lawyers in New York, but just who the hell are you?”

“I have one of those dignified corporate practices,” Hagen said dryly. “I just handle this one account.” He rose. “I won’t take up any more of your time.” He held out his hand, Woltz shook it. Hagen took a few steps toward the door and turned to face Woltz again. “I understand you have to deal with a lot of people who try to seem more important than they are. In my case the reverse is true. Why don’t you check me out with our mutual friend? If you reconsider, call me at my hotel.” He paused. “This may be sacrilege to you, but my client can do things for you that even Mr. Hoover might find out of his range.” He saw the movie producer’s eyes narrowing. Woltz was finally getting the message. “By the way, I admire your pictures very much,” Hagen said in the most fawning voice he could manage. “I hope you can keep up the good work. Our country needs it.”

Late that afternoon Hagen received a call from the producer’s secretary that a car would pick him up within the hour to take him out to Mr. Woltz’s country home for dinner. She told him it would be about a three-hour drive but that the car was equipped with a bar and some hors d’oeuvres. Hagen knew that Woltz made the trip in his private plane and wondered why he hadn’t been invited to make the trip by air. The secretary’s voice was adding politely, “Mr. Woltz suggested you bring an overnight bag and he’ll get you to the airport in the morning.”

“I’ll do that,” Hagen said. That was another thing to wonder about. How did Woltz know he was taking the morning plane back to New York? He thought about it for a moment. The most likely explanation was that Woltz had set private detectives on his trail to get all possible information. Then Woltz certainly knew he represented the Don, which meant that he knew something about the Don, which in turn meant that he was now ready to take the whole matter seriously. Something might be done after all, Hagen thought. And maybe Woltz was smarter than he had appeared this morning.

* * *

The home of Jack Woltz looked like an implausible movie set. There was a plantation-type mansion, huge grounds girdled by a rich black-dirt bridle path, stables and pasture for a herd of horses. The hedges, flower beds and grasses were as carefully manicured as a movie star’s nails.

Woltz greeted Hagen on a glass-paneled air-conditioned porch. The producer was informally dressed in blue silk shirt open at the neck, mustard-colored slacks, soft leather sandals. Framed in all this color and rich fabric his seamed, tough face was startling. He handed Hagen an outsized martini glass and took one for himself from the prepared tray. He seemed more friendly than he had been earlier in the day. He put his arm over Hagen’s shoulder and said, “We have a little time before dinner, let’s go look at my horses.” As they walked toward the stables he said, “I checked you out, Tom; you should have told me your boss is Corleone. I thought you were just some third-rate hustler Johnny was running in to bluff me. And I don’t bluff. Not that I want to make enemies, I never believed in that. But let’s just enjoy ourselves now. We can talk business after dinner.”

Surprisingly Woltz proved to be a truly considerate host. He explained his new methods, innovations that he hoped would make his stable the most successful in America. The stables were all fire-proofed, sanitized to the highest degree, and guarded by a special security detail of private detectives. Finally Woltz led him to a stall which had a huge bronze plaque attached to its outside wall. On the plaque was the name “Khartoum.”

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.”