mp.godfather-第17部分

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an；　the　scandal　of　his　big　star　exposed　as　a　user　of　heroin？　Again　the　answer　was　yes。　But　again　this　was　not　what　the　Don　meant。　Finally　Hagen　translated　the　question　properly　in　his　mind。　Did　Jack　Woltz　have　the　balls　to　risk　everything；　to　run　the　chance　of　losing　all　on　a　matter　of　principle；　on　a　matter　of　honor；　for　revenge？
　
　Hagen　smiled。　He　did　it　rarely　but　now　he　could　not　resist　jesting　with　the　Don。　〃You're　asking　if　he　is　a　Sicilian。〃　The　Don　nodded　his　head　pleasantly；　acknowledging　the　flattering　witticism　and　its　truth。　〃No；〃　Hagen　said。
　
　That　had　been　all。　The　Don　had　pondered　the　question　until　the　next　day。　On　Wednesday　afternoon　he　had　called　Hagen　to　his　home　and　given　him　his　instructions。　The　instructions　had　consumed　the　rest　of　Hagen's　working　day　and　left　him　dazed　with　admiration。　There　was　no　question　in　his　mind　that　the　Don　had　solved　the　problem；　that　Woltz　would　call　him　this　morning　with　the　news　that　Johnny　Fontane　had　the　starring　part　in　his　new　war　movie。
　
　At　that　moment　the　phone　did　ring　but　it　was　Amerigo　Bonasera。　The　undertaker's　voice　was　trembling　with　gratitude。　He　wanted　Hagen　to　convey　to　the　Don　his　undying　friendship。　The　Don　had　only　to　call　on　him。　He；　Amerigo　Bonasera；　would　lay　down　his　life　for　the　blessed　Godfather。　Hagen　assured　him　that　the　Don　would　be　told。
　
　The　Daily　News　had　carried　a　middle…page　spread　of　Jerry　Wagner　and　Kevin　Moonan　lying　in　the　street。　The　photos　were　expertly　gruesome；　they　seemed　to　be　pulps　of　human　beings。　Miraculously；　said　the　News；　they　were　both　still　alive　though　they　would　both　be　in　the　hospital　for　months　and　would　require　plastic　surgery。　Hagen　made　a　note　to　tell　Clemenza　that　something　should　be　done　for　Paulie　Gatto。　He　seemed　to　know　his　job。
　
　Hagen　worked　quickly　and　efficiently　for　the　next　three　hours　consolidating　earning　reports　from　the　Don's　real　estate　pany；　his　olive　oil　importing　business　and　his　construction　firm。　None　of　them　were　doing　well　but　with　the　war　over　they　should　all　bee　rich　producers。　He　had　almost　forgotten　the　Johnny　Fontane　problem　when　his　secretary　told　him　California　was　calling。　He　felt　a　little　thrill　of　anticipation　as　he　picked　up　the　phone　and　said；　〃Hagen　here。〃
　
　The　voice　that　came　over　the　phone　was　unrecognizable　with　hate　and　passion。　〃You　fucking　bastard；〃　Woltz　screamed。　〃I'll　have　you　all　in　jail　for　a　hundred　years。　I'll　spend　every　penny　I　have　to　get　you。　I'll　get　that　Johnny　Fontane's　balls　cut　off；　do　you　hear　me；　you　guinea　fuck？〃
　
　Hagen　said　kindly；　〃I'm　German…Irish。〃　There　was　a　long　pause　and　then　a　click　of　the　phone　being　hung　up。　Hagen　smiled。　Not　once　had　Woltz　uttered　a　threat　against　Don　Corleone　himself。　Genius　had　its　rewards。
　
　**********
　
　Jack　Woltz　always　slept　alone。　He　had　a　bed　big　enough　for　ten　people　and　a　bedroom　large　enough　for　a　movie　ballroom　scene；　but　he　had　slept　alone　since　the　death　of　his　first　wife　ten　years　before。　This　did　not　mean　he　no　longer　used　women。　He　was　physically　a　vigorous　man　despite　his　age；　but　he　could　be　aroused　now　only　by　very　young　girls　and　had　learned　that　a　few　hours　in　the　evening　were　all　the　youth　his　body　and　his　patience　could　tolerate。
　
　On　this　Thursday　morning；　for　some　reason；　he　awoke　early。　The　light　of　dawn　made　his　huge　bedroom　as　misty　as　a　foggy　meadowland。　Far　down　at　the　foot　of　his　bed　was　a　familiar　shape　and　Woltz　struggled　up　on　his　elbows　to　get　a　clearer　look。　It　had　the　shape　of　a　horse's　head。　Still　groggy；　Woltz　reached　and　flicked　on　the　night　table　lamp。
　
　The　shock　of　what　he　saw　made　him　physically　ill。　It　seemed　as　if　a　great　sledgehammer　had　struck　him　on　the　chest；　his　heartbeat　jumped　erratically　and　he　became　nauseous。　His　vomit　spluttered　on　the　thick　bear　rug。
　
　Severed　from　its　body；　the　black　silky　head　of　the　great　horse　Khartoum　was　stuck　fast　in　a　thick　cake　of　blood。　White；　reedy　tendons　showed。　Froth　covered　the　muzzle　and　those　apple…sized　eyes　that　had　glinted　like　gold；　were　mottled　the　color　of　rotting　fruit　with　dead；　hemorrhaged　blood。　Woltz　was　struck　by　a　purely　animal　terror　and　out　of　that　terror　he　screamed　for　his　servants　and　out　of　that　terror　he　called　Hagen　to　make　his　uncontrolled　threats。　His　maniacal　raving　alarmed　the　butler；　who　called　Woltz's　personal　physician　and　his　second　in　mand　at　the　studio。　But　Woltz　regained　his　senses　before　they　arrived。
　
　He　had　been　profoundly　shocked。　What　kind　of　man　could　destroy　an　animal　worth　six　hundred　thousand　dollars？　Without　a　word　of　warning。　Without　any　negotiation　to　have　the　act；　its　order；　countermanded。　The　ruthlessness；　the　sheer　disregard　for　any　values；　implied　a　man　who　considered　himself　pletely　his　own　law；　even　his　own　God。　And　a　man　who　backed　up　this　kind　of　will　with　the　power　and　cunning　that　held　his　own　stable　security　force　of　no　account。　For　by　this　time　Woltz　had　learned　that　the　horse's　body　had　obviously　been　heavily　drugged　before　someone　leisurely　hacked　the　huge　triangular　head　off　with　an　ax。　The　men　on　night　duty　claimed　that　they　had　heard　nothing。　To　Woltz　this　seemed　impossible。　They　could　be　made　to　talk。　They　had　been　bought　off　and　they　could　be　made　to　tell　who　had　done　the　buying。
　
　Woltz　was　not　a　stupid　man；　be　was　merely　a　supremely　egotistical　one。　He　had　mistaken　the　power　he　wielded　in　his　world　to　be　more　potent　than　the　power　of　Don　Corleone。　He　had　merely　needed　some　proof　that　this　was　not　true。　He　understood　this　message。　That　despite　all　his　wealth；　despite　all　his　contacts　with　the　President　of　the　United　States；　despite　all　his　claims　of　friendship　with　the　director　of　the　FBI；　an　obscure　importer　of　Italian　olive　oil　would　have　him　killed。　Would　actually　have　him　killed！　Because　he　wouldn't　give　Johnny　Fontane　a　movie　part　he　wanted。　It　was　incredible。　People　didn't　have　any　right　to　act　that　way。　There　couldn't　be　any　kind　of　world　if　people　acted　that　way。　It　was　insane。　It　meant　you　couldn't　do　what　you　wanted　with　your　own　money；　with　the　panies　you　owned；　the　power　you　had　to　give　orders。　It　was　ten　times　worse　than　munism。　It　had　to　be　smashed。　It　must　never　be　allowed。
　
　Woltz　let　the　doctor　give　him　a　very　mild　sedation。　It　helped　him　calm　down　again　and　to　think　sensibly。　What　really　shocked　him　was　the　casualness　with　which　this　man　Corleone　had　ordered　the　destruction　of　a　world…famous　horse　worth　six　hundred　thousand　dollars。　Six　hundred　thousand　dollars！　And　that　was　just　for　openers。　Woltz　shuddered。　He　thought　of　this　life　he　had　built　up。　He　was　rich。　He　could　have　the　most　beautiful　women　in　the　world　by　cooking　his　finger　and　promising　a　contract。　He　was　received　by　kings　and　queens。　He　lived　a　life　as　perfect　as　money　and　power　could　make　it。　It　was　crazy　to　risk　all　this　because　of　a　whim。　Maybe　he　could　get　to　Corleone。　What　was　the　legal　penalty　for　killing　a　racehorse？　He　laughed　wildly　and　his　doctor　and　servants　watched　him　with　nervous　anxiety。　Another　thought　occurred　to　him。　He　would　be　the　laughingstock　of　California　merely　because　someone　had　contemptuously　defied　his　power　in　such　arrogant　fashion。　That　decided　him。　That　and　the　thought　that　maybe；　maybe　they　wouldn't　kill　him。　That　they　had　something　much　more　clever　and　painful　in　reserve。
　
　Woltz　gave　the　necessary　orders。　His　personal　confidential　staff　swung　into　action。　The　servants　and　the　doctor　were　sworn　to　secrecy　on　pain　of　incurring　the　studio's　and　Woltz's　undying　enmity。　Word　was　given　to　the　press　that　the　racehorse　Khartoum　had　died　of　an　illness　contracted　during　his　shipment　from　England。　Orders　were　given　to　bury　the　remains　in　a　secret　place　on　the　estate。
　
　Six　hours　later　Johnny　Fontane　received　a　phone　call　from　the　executive　producer　of　the　film　telling　him　to　report　for　work　the　following　Monday。
　
　**********
　
　That　evening；　Hagen　went　to　the　Don's　house　to　prepare　him　for　the　important　meeting　the　next　day　with　Virgil　Sollozzo。　The　Don　had　summoned　his　eldest　son　to　attend；　and　Sonny　Corleone；　his　heavy　Cupid…shaped　face　drawn　with　fatigue；　was　sipping　at　a　glass　of　water。　He　must　still　be　humping　that　maid　of　honor；　Hagen　thought。　Another　worry。
　
　Don　Corleone