Wednesday night at dinner with JG, SC, and Don Cardi, one of the subjects that came up was how lousy Weingardner's The Godfather Returns was, and how any one of us could have written a better sequel.

Don Cardi also mentioned that he had once written about ten pages of a sequel, told from the POV of the Tattaglia Family, which I thought was a rather interesting idea.

Anyway, I decided to put the "any one of us can do better" theory to the test.

What I've written here is the beginning of a sequel. Maybe it'll wind up being a novel (I doubt that very much. I have 2,000 words here; I'll need about 200,000 to fill an entire book. Besides, after Weingardner's bomb, who'd publish it or buy it?), maybe a "longish" short story (more likely), or perhaps (most likely), this will be as far as I go with it.

I've tried to do a few things here besides introduce the characters and give some backround to the story: This is intended as a sequel to both the original novel and the first two films of the trilogy. If completed, it will span at least some of the time period between the end of GF II and the beginning of GF III. I also wanted to tie up some of the loose ends and inconsistencies left over from both the book and films, and also capture the writing style of Mario Puzo, to the extent that such a thing is possible.

So, here 'ya go. Like anyone else, I love praise, but constructive criticism will also be appreciated (I know I may have some problems with the timeline, for example).

-----

Rocco Lampone lay in his hospital bed, his bullet-ridden body close to death.

Out side the door, waiting to question him, were agents of the F.B.I., anxious to learn the details of his participation in the assassination plot against the gangster, Hyman Roth, at Miami’s International Airport that morning, and hoping that Lampone would live long enough to make a statement implicating Michael Corleone, the head of the American Cosa Nostra, about which, at that time, very little was known.

Attached to intravenous feeding tubes with the huge doses of morphine he was receiving made almost unnecessary by his lapses in and out of consciousness, the doctors had held out little hope for Lampone’s survival. But Lampone was the highest ranking member of the Corleone family ever to be taken into custody – of higher rank, even, than the Underboss Frankie Pentangeli, who had cut his wrists in his bathtub one evening that very same week and quietly bled to death while his guards innocently played hearts outside the bathroom door – and the agents waiting outside his hospital room were under strict orders from no less than J. Edgar Hoover himself to attempt to obtain a statement from Lampone in the unlikely event that it should become possible to do so.

And so the F.B.I. agents, duty-bound and following the strict orders given them only hours before, waited hopefully for Rocco Lampone to regain consciousness. If and when he did, when the questioning was over and Lampone, loyal to the very end, had told the emissaries of Hoover nothing, he would learn that he had but one regret: That because of his personal misfortune despite his success in the murder of Hyman Roth, his confinement to his hospital bed had caused him to miss the funeral of Fredo Corleone.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Michael Corleone stood at the window, watching as Albert Neri expertly maneuvered the small motorboat, docking it just outside the boathouse of the Corleone estate on Lake Tahoe, Nevada.

He watched as Neri climbed from the boat onto the dock, taking with him the fishing gear belonging to both himself and Fredo Corleone. Standing on the dock, Neri looked towards the boathouse and saw the familiar figure of Michael Corleone standing impassively at the window, watching to make sure that only he, Neri, had returned.

Slowly, almost sadly, he walked to the boathouse to report on the details of the act of murder he had just committed: That of Michael’s older and only remaining brother.

Michael turned from the window before Neri entered the boathouse.

"It was something that had to be done, Al. "
“I know, Michael. I’ve never questioned your judgment.”
“Are you prepared to speak to Connie?” Michael asked. “She’ll want the details”.
“Just as we talked about” Neri replied. “That Fredo stood up in the boat, lost his balance, and fell in the lake. How I jumped in to try and save him, and how he almost drowned us both by holding on and almost pulling me down with him. Connie knows he didn’t know how to swim.”
“She won’t believe it at first, you know” Michael said. “She’ll see right through that story. But she’ll make herself believe it, she’ll want to believe it. She’ll have no choice. Without me, she has nothing.”
“I know” said Neri. “You have everything figured perfectly, just as you always do.”

Michael seemed to pay no attention to Neri’s last remark, as he thought it gratuitous. This was business, and he considered such compliments to be unnecessary.

“Remember the rest of the plan”. Michael was all seriousness, as he always was now. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed, or even smiled. Sometimes it seemed as though it had been years.

“Go change your clothes. Make sure that what you’re wearing now gets good and wet when you take your shower. Not even Tom knows what really just happened out on the lake, so be prepared for him to be surprised, too, when he gets back from Las Vegas. We’ll wait for Tom, and after you’re dressed the three of us will go and talk to my sister together. I think I’ll let her make all of the arrangements for the funeral.”

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

It was late afternoon when Tom Hagen returned to his rooms in The Tropicalla Hotel in Las Vegas.

Hagen’s suite was small, and although well appointed, bore no resemblance to some of the better accommodations in the hotel. The Tropicalla was the most luxurious of the four Corleone Family-owned properties in Las Vegas, and the better suites were reserved mostly for the “High Rollers”, those casino customers who thought nothing of betting thousands of dollars at a blackjack table on the turn of a single card or on one roll of the dice at a craps table.

Although in his role as the Corleone Family attorney Hagen was rarely involved in the gambling end of the business, he was still amazed at the mentality of the gambler. How they were willing to go against the odds and percentages that always favored the house, and so willingly lost huge sums of money, almost as if they desired and wished to do so.

Hagen slowly removed his tie, then his jacket. He was more tired than hungry, and decided to order dinner from room service. Today had been a full day: Visiting the counting rooms – rooms in which technically he should not have been permitted to enter – of all four casinos in the morning, and then appearing that afternoon at a hearing before the Licensing Commission to represent a family-sponsored applicant for an important management position at one of the casinos who had brought in especially from Cuba at great expense and who happened to have a criminal record in the United States.

He placed his room service order, and then walked out onto the terrace of his suite. In front of him lay the city of Las Vegas, already one of the fastest growing in the entire country. In addition to the four hotels they already owned, the Corleone Family had an interest in the construction of at least five more, already begun or still in their planning stages.

It was a time of unsurpassed prosperity and success, financial and otherwise, for the family. In a final meeting before leaving for Las Vegas, Hagen had discussed with Michael Corleone, Rocco Lampone, and Al Neri, the elimination of Michael’s last remaining real enemy, the ancient Hyman Roth. Indeed, he had read in the newspaper that very morning how Roth had been killed in Miami’s airport by "an as yet unidentified gunman". He didn’t need to know the details. It was enough to know that Rocco Lampone was behind it. And Hagen himself had been instrumental in convincing Frankie Pentangeli that suicide was the honorable way out, just as it had been in the times of ancient Rome, when, as he had put it, “a plot against the emperor failed.”

Hagen should have been happy. He should have been at peace with himself. He had his wife, he had his children, he had his mistress. The Corleone Family was moving slowly towards total legitimacy in the casino and real estate business in Nevada.

He should have been happy, but he wasn’t. His instincts told him that something was happening – perhaps that very day – that was wrong. He wasn’t sure what it was, or that he even wanted to know yet. But he knew that it was something terrible. He just didn’t know what it was.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Lucy Mancini sat in her living room in a residential section of the growing city, wrestling with the same problem that had been bothering her more than ever for the past three months, ever since she had agreed to marry Dr. Jules Segal.

It was the same problem that she had been unable to resolve since moving to Las Vegas some seven years before, at the behest of the Corleone Family, after the murder of her married lover, Sonny Corleone, the oldest son of Don Vito Corleone.

Her problem was a simple one, the solution, however, not so: How to tell her fiancée about her illegitimate son Vincent, and how to tell her benefactor and protector, Michael Corleone, about the nephew he had never met.

It had been easy at the beginning. Lucy’s family was from Chicago, and she had come east to go to college, where she had met and become best friends with Connie Corleone, Michael's younger sister. She knew she was pregnant before Sonny’s death, but Sonny had wanted her to have the baby. Knowing the dangers in the life he lived, Sonny had secretly made provisions for her in his will, and after his murder she told the Corleones that she needed to go back to Chicago to be with her family.

She stayed with them for more than a year, giving birth to a boy who she named Vincent, and had planned to stay longer, when she received a message from Tom Hagen, offering her the opportunity to relocate to Las Vegas and begin her life anew.

Lucy had always found the weather in Chicago to be disagreeable, and when she received the offer from Hagen she was torn between staying in Chicago and raising the baby who no one in the Corleone family knew about, and moving out west. It was her older sister Theresa who finally provided the solution to her problem. Theresa, married for several years but unable to conceive a child of her own, offered, along with her husband, to raise Vincent as their son until such time that he was old enough to be told and understand the conditions of his birth. Under no circumstances, they assured her, would it ever be kept from Vincent who is mother and father really were.

Finally she decided to leave Vincent in the care of her sister and brother-in-law, and move to Las Vegas. She started there by managing the gift shop in one of the Corleone hotels, and now, seven years later, was responsible for all of the shops in all four hotels. Two or three times a year she visited her family in Chicago and saw Vincent, and her problem was compounded further by the fact that Vincent, now eight years old, was rapidly approaching the age at which he had to be told the truth. From the time he was a toddler, Vincent had been told that it was “Aunt Lucy” who was really his mother, but all he had been told about his father was that he had died shortly before Vincent was born.

Now, with her wedding only three weeks away, Lucy felt that the time had come to make a clean breast of things and expose the secret she had been keeping inside for all of these years. Certainly, Jules must be told that she had a son. And Michael certainly should be told as well.

And Vincent, of course, who even at the young age of eight was already showing the signs of the murderous temper he had inherited from his father, needed to be told that his father was none other than the legendary gangster from the 1940s, Santino Corleone.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #


Willi Cicci was in his hotel room packing. It was amazing, he thought, how meager his possessions were. A life of crime spanning nearly twenty of his forty years, and now everything he owned could be fit into one suitcase.

Cicci had started out as a soldier in the Corleone family in the regime of the Capo , Peter Clemenza. He had quickly risen through the ranks, making a name and reputation for himself during the Five Families War which had begun in 1946 and culminated in total victory for Michael Corleone. By the war’s end, he was a trusted member of the family, and had even been selected to carry out the murder of the trusted, but ultimately traitorous, Sal Tessio.

After that day, his position in the family was assured. He served faithfully under Clemenza, heading his own crew of ferocious killers and reporting directly to Clemenza’s Underboss, Frankie Pentangeli. When Clemenza was found dead in his driveway one morning, in front of the very same house that once belonged to Don Vito Corleone himself and was now his, Cicci suspected foul play. Although the autopsy ruling was a heart attack, and although there were no bullet wounds or blood, Cicci knew that somehow, in some way, Clemenza’s enemies, the Rosato brothers, were behind it. Payoffs had been made, doctors had been bought, and, as Willi was fond of saying, “That was no heart attack.”

With Clemenza’s death, Pentangeli had taken over the New York operations of the Corleone Family, and Cicci had risen to the position of consigliere. The old man Pentangeli liked Willi – he reminded him of an old-timer from the good old days, and despite his outward appearance and demeanor, that of a brutish man possesssed of limited intelligence, Willi Cicci and Frankie Pentangeli had always shared the private joke that between the two of them, Willi was really the one with the brains.

It had always been assumed that it would be Willi Cicci who would take over the New York operations of the Corleone Family upon the death of Pentangeli, and Cicci was patient and happy in the knowledge that his future was assured, until the day of the shootout with the Rosatos outside Richie’s Bar. Taken into custody by New York City detectives, and with his Padrone Frankie Pentangeli murdered, or so he thought, on the orders of Michael Corleone, Cicci saw no way out of a life of imprisonment except by accepting the deal that was now offered to him by the United States Government:

Agree to testify against Michael Corleone at a Senate hearing investigating organized crime in America, and, in exchange, receive immunity from all prosecution along with a new identity and relocation in the government’s newly-formed Witness Protection Program.

Now in Washington, D.C., his testimony completed, Willi Cicci was packing his lone suitcase and preparing, under escort by the two F.B.I agents who had been his constant companions for the past several months, for a final meeting at The United States Justice Department at which he would learn his new name.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

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Pretty impressive. More interesting than Weingardner's entire book. I'm not sure that's saying much though.

plaw -

I've told you a few times that you could've been a successful author and this proves it. Your writing style is easy to follow and it seems you have a story to tell.

Keeping in mind that one should write about what he knows best, I suspect you'd go into great detail and length about the gamblers in Vegas if you were to continue.

Personally, I would not go "into" Michael killing Fredo. Some things are better left unsaid, and I wouldn't give any possibility of Michael explaining why he did it.

I'm a little surprised you didn't mention that Rocco Lampone once ate Chinese food with the Family leaders.

You did a good job here, plaw!

I thought of exactly that, just as Puzo threw in his extensive knowledge of the inner workings of Hollywood and (yuck) female anatomy. I don't want to go into too much detail here, especially since I haven't really worked out the details myself yet, but I was thinking of introducing a new character, a high roller who breaks the bank at one of the casinos, and using that character to write about the ins and outs of casino operations and gambling.
I'm not sure I agree.

I always felt that Connie's line in GF III about "poor Fredo drowning" was a bit ridiculous, but since I intend to remain as true as possible to the storylines of both the book and all three films, I see no harm in a scene where Michael tells her about the "accident".

Also, I plan to possibly use Fredo's funeral (either that or the Lucy-Jules wedding) as the big "party/family gathering" scene, which would be roughly akin to those scenes which opened all three films.

************************************


Anthony Corleone sat on the edge of his bed not knowing if he should be happy that he would finally be spending some time with his father, or be dissapointed that he could not spend the day fishing with his uncle Freddie. He had grown rather fond of his uncle. Ever since nonna Corleone had passed away, he and uncle Freddie had become rather close. Uncle Freddie had become like a big brother to Anthony, doing the many things with him that his own father never seemed to have the time to do. Why was it that his father was always away on a business trip? He once asked Michael this question, during one of the rare times that they were able to spend together, and his father's response to him was "I'm doing this for you, and your sister. Someday, when you are older, when this is all yours, and you have a son of your own, you'll understand." Understand what? Anthony had silently thought to himself. He wouldn't dare talk back to his father. Understand that his father never had the time to spend with his children? That his mother could only visit he and his sister in secret? What was there to understand? It was clear to him now that his father was not a "normal" father, like the other kids fathers were. So many times he and his classmates would be sitting at lunch, mostly boys, and they would exchange stories of how they had gone camping with their fathers, or played a game of catch. Anthony always refrained from joining in on the stories that the other boys shared. What stories did he have to share with the other boys? That his father had thrown his mother out? That one night some bad men came and shot up his house? How every night since then Anthony would have nightmares and wake up shaking? How he wouldn't dare go to his father for comfort out of fear that his father would consider him a coward? No, Anthony would quietly sit there listening to all the other boys, envying them, secretly wishing that his own father could be a "normal" father like the others. But now he had his uncle Freddie. At least now he could go to school and tell his friends how he had spent the day fishing on the lake, having fun. Maybe now he would "fit in" with the others. It was all he could think about as he was about to get into the boat with uncle Freddie. That was until aunt Connie called him back to the house. His father had decided that they would be going to Reno together. Uncle Freddie had a look of dissapointment on his face. But he and Anthony both knew that there would be no choice in the matter. They both knew that when Michael decided something, there was no refuting it. So Anthony unwillingly walked back to the house and prepared himself to make the trip to Reno with his father.

*****************************

Pretty good, there, DC.

I didn't realize that this was gonna be a joint project, though .

J/K..... You kind of captured the same Puzo-like flavor that I was going for. The only thing you need to do is answer an unanswered question about Anthony (I guess maybe you did that by going into how he felt about his father and uncle), but, more importantly, raise a new one that will hold the reader's interest and make them want to know what will happen with Anthony next (Something not as obvious as he's gonna go beserk with hostility when he finds out his uncle is dead, and maybe even be wracked with guilt that he wasn't along to try and help save him).

"The Godfather, the Untold Story"

By P. Lawrence & D. Cardi

with a forward by SC and Turnbull

Dedicated to Don Malta

In memory Of Mark Weingardner's The Godfather Returns!




Don Cardi

*********************************

Maury Dalowitz made his way across the casino floor. The deal was done. The 2 million dollars borrowed from the United Federation of Truckers pension fund would be in his account by noon the next day. He would finally have majority control over the Moondust hotel. He had come a long way from his days with the Lakeville Road Boys, when he was known only as "Moe."

He planned on expanding the casino, adding more rooms to the hotel and wanted to provide more entertainment for the guests. This would all be done as soon as he took majority control over the Moondust. But there was only one hurdle left to get over. That hurdle was Hyman Roth and his sicilian mesenger boy Johnny Ola. Roth had become extremely selfish and bitter in his old age. Ever since Roth's childhood friend, Moe Green had been murdered, Roth decided that he should have an interest in every deal that went down in Las Vegas. It was true that there was a time that Roth made money for all of his associates and partners, but times were changing. Las Vegas was turning into a different kind of town. Legitimacy, on the surface, would be more profitable. There was no longer any room for the likes of a Moe Green in this town. Too much unneeded attention. This is why when Moe Green was found murdered in the spa of his hotel, the Las Vegas Underworld felt a sense of relief. But Roth, on the other hand, became bitter about the murder of his childhood friend.

Now Roth was having his own legal problems and Dalowitz realized that in order for him to appear somewhat legitamite, he needed to severe all ties to Hyman Roth. Hopefully through the intercession of The Corleone family, the Moondust Hotel would be Dalowitz's hotel, without any interference from Roth.

Dalowitz looked down at his watch. He had another hour before his appointement over at the Tropacala to meet with Michael Corleone's attorney Tom Hagen. Just enough time for a late afternoon lunch.


**********************************

Why do I have a feeling that he's not gonna get past the fruit cocktail, and this is gonna be a short chapter?

Plaw keep writing!!!!

C'mon Plaw, how about some more?


Don Cardi

I'm working on it.

Although maybe I should leave everyone hanging for a coupla days.

Here's another installment for you, DC.

Say hello to our old friend, Don Altobello.

...............

Don Nicholas Altobello, deciding whether to bring with him a dark blue necktie, or one of charcoal gray, had always been a close friend and ally of Vito Corleone.

It was Nicholas Altobello who, in 1937 and barely thirty years old, had seen the wisdom in Vito Corleone’s plan to pacify the New York underworld, and so even at such a young age already one of the top lieutenants and bodyguards of Salvatore Maranzano, had almost cheerfully led him to a Brooklyn restaurant, ostensibly for a meeting to make the peace with Don Vito Corleone, but in reality to be trapped and murdered by the gunmen of a secret Corleone regime, led by Sal Tessio.

For performing this act of treachery against his boss, Nicholas Altobello was rewarded by being named as the head of the family, which he then promptly and vainly proceeded to name The Altobello Family after himself, and he assumed his place as the youngest head of one of the six New York Families, along with the other five Dons, Vito Corleone, Emilio Barzini, Phillip Tattaglia, Victor Stracchi, and Otellio Cuneo.

While sometimes held at arms length by the latter four, who thought of his act as one of treachery to be regarded with suspicion, he was secretly embraced by Vito Corleone, who considered him a man of diplomacy and, most of all, common sense.

The two Dons became the closest of friends over the years, confiding in each other, and helping each other in their business dealings whenever possible. But, in fact, had Don Corleone not asked Don Altobello to stand as Godfather to his youngest child, his daughter Constanza, most observers of the underworld, from both outside and within, would not have even begun to realize the depth of the friendship that the two shared.

When the wily Turk, Virgil Sollozzo, proposed his business of drugs, first to Don Tattaglia and Don Barzini, and later to the heads of the other three families for their approval, it was Don Altobello who secretly approached Vito Corleone with the details of what Sollozzo would be requesting of him.

Nearly Don Corleone’s equal in Sicilian cunning as well as having the politician’s flair for diplomacy along with the rare ability to straddle both sides of a fence while making no enemies and keeping those on both sides happy, it was explained to Vito Corleone that while he, Nicholas Altobello, must publicly side with the other Dons in support of the Sollozzo proposition, he was secretly against it and it would be to the benefit of both of them to have, in effect, a spy in the other camp.

But because of their distrust of the other Dons in general, and Don Altobello in particular, the assassination plot against Vito Corleone was kept secret by both Barzini and Tattaglia, and so when Don Corleone had been shot five times in the winter of 1945 and nearly killed, Don Nicholas Altobello had been as surprised as anyone.

When Don Corleone recovered from his wounds and sued for peace in order that he might bring his son Michael home from his exile in Sicily, Don Altobello was advised to not attend the meeting, lest he be forced to publicly state his support for Vito Corleone, thus earning the further distrust and enmity of the heads of the other four families.

And he had done so, feigning illness and, as a widower, spending several days at the newly built Staten Island home of his recently married daughter, his only child, where he sat in the backyard, drinking wine and taking his leisure while playing with his toddler grandson.

And now, some twelve years later, Nicholas Altobello, the last of the six original New York Dons although still relatively young at age fifty-one, was still the loyal soldier, still loyal to the Corleone Family and its head, Michael Corleone.

Ever the diplomat, ever the man who could find comfort on either side of the fence, Don Altobello was on this day preparing to attend the funeral in Miami of his old friend Hyman Roth.

He knew, of course, that Roth had been an enemy of Michael Corleone. That Roth had tried to assassinate Michael Corleone, first at his home in Lake Tahoe, and later in Cuba. But he also knew that as the diplomat he was regarded as being, he must attend the funeral, as there would be representatives of various families from across the United States, and his failure to attend might be seen as an act of disrespect by those unfamiliar with his relationship with the Corleone Family.

Finally, after deciding on the dark blue necktie, Don Altobello closed his bag and summoned his driver and personal bodyguard, Joey Zasa, who was waiting for him in the next room.

Zasa, only twenty-three years old and with a young man’s penchant for fancy clothes and beautiful woman, was already regarded by Altobello as the most important man in his organization. The Altobello Family was small but powerful in its own way, and despite the presence of a titular Consigliere, Don Altobello had immediately and shrewdly noticed something he liked about Joey Zasa, removed him from the crew with which he worked, and taken him under his personal wing, treating him almost like the son he had never had. He now regarded the young Zasa as his most important advisor, believing that because of his youth and intelligence he was more in step with the changing times, thus making his advice that much more valuable.

“Take the bag, Joey” he said when Zasa entered the room. “It's time to leave for the airport.”

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Pl, it reads well, I like the different characters weaving in and out. It reminds me of the opening of The Godfather, when we are introduced to Nazorine, Bonasera, and so on. I think that you were true to continuity and to the characters. I especially loved the section about Tom. And I appreciate the way you introduced Vincent - quite plausible.

The only part I had a bit of difficulty with was the conversation between Al and Michael. Not that I didn't find the exchange interesting, or even illuminating, but I found the dialogue a bit stilted. Perhaps it's because we can't picture Al saying that much! I did like the part about Connie doubting Fredo's cause of death, but coming to accept it eventually because she will prefer to turn a blind eye to it.

I do a great deal of "business" writing in my work, but as far as prose/fiction goes, I've always had problems with

1- Coming up with a decent plot (every time I see a movie I like, or read a book with a good plot, I say to myself "How come I couldn't come up with that?"), and

2- Writing dialogue, which is even more difficult, I think. That's probably why there's so little of it here so far.

As far as introducing the characters one by one goes, that, obviously, is a deliberate attaempt to emulate Puzo's style in writing a novel as well as the style in which he wrote.

Altho I respect the fact that Weingardner is a professional author with a style his own, I felt that one of the major weaknesses of TGFR was his failure to capture Puzo's style, which I always thought was very readable.

Both installments were excellent, Plaw. I find them way more interesting, and readable than Winegardner's effort. Plus, there is way more insight into Don Altobello's early career and alliance with Don Corleone. It also had characters we actually know about, and had insight into what was going on with them. Keep 'em coming!

[QUOTE]Originally posted by plawrence:
[QB] 2- Writing dialogue, which is even more difficult, I think. That's probably why there's so little of it here so far.

As far as introducing the characters one by one goes, that, obviously, is a deliberate attaempt to emulate Puzo's style in writing a novel as well as the style in which he wrote.


Plaw this is really good! Keep writing. For dialogue, just say it out loud. Try to "role play" and just speak as though you were the characters....even use a tape recorder...that may help.

Hey, dontomasso is back!!

Seriously Plaw. All Kidding aside. I think that your writing abilities are just superb. You definaltely captured the essence of Puzo.

I sincerely think that you should take this into serious consideration and really write a book about this. Go for it my friend! What have you got to lose? As we've said many times, Winegardner really had no clue when it came to writing about The Godfather characters. On the other hand you have fantastic insight when it comes to The Godfather and it's characters and that is exactly why I feel that you should follow through and write this book.

Chu can do it mang!


Don Cardi

I'll tell you what, Don C.....

I'll write it, and then sell you the rights for, let's say, $5000.

Then you can try and sell it, and any money you make off of it is yours to keep.

Still want me to keep writing?

Here's the final installment for now, guys, the beginning of Chapter 2. I'm taking the rest of the weekend off.
...........

CHAPTER 2

The room service dinner that Tom Hagen ordered hadn’t arrived yet when his telephone rang.

“Tom, it’s Michael” said the voice at the other end of the line. “I need you back here as soon as possible – tonight, actually.”
“Why? Is everything O.K.?” Tom asked.
There was an almost imperceptible pause before Michael answered. “There’s been an accident, Tom. Fredo is dead.”
“God, Mikey……What the hell happened?” Tom said softly.
“Fredo went out fishing with Al Neri” Michael began. “Somehow, I don’t know, somehow he fell overboard. Neri tried to save him, but Fredo almost drowned them both”. For the first time since he could remember, Tom heard a tinge of emotion in Michael’s voice. And then, as quickly as ithe emotion was there, it was gone, as Michael’s tone switched to his usual businesslike voice.
“The family plane is waiting for you right now at the airport” Michael said. “There’s a car waiting downstairs to get you there. I expect you back in less than three hours. I haven’t told Connie yet, and I want you there when I do.”
“Sure, Mike, I’ll leave right away. Anything else I can do?” Hagen asked.
“No. Just get back here as soon as you can” Michael said, before abruptly hanging up the phone without waiting to hear if Tom Hagen had anything else to say.

# # ## # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

It had been nearly a year since Connie Corleone had had confronted her brother Michael, and in an act of defiance in which she had failed to follow his wishes had run off and married Merle Johnson.

It was only after their honeymoon, paid for by Connie by pawning her jewelry, after they had set up housekeeping in Merle’s squalid Reno apartment, the irony lost on her that the city in which he lived was known at the time as a common residence for rich women of the east while waiting out the residency requirement for a Nevada divorce, and after she learned that he had absolutely no visible means of support other than the anticipation of her allowance from the Corleone family that Michael had now cut off, that she decided to leave him.

It then that she learned of his four previous marriages, all of them to rich divorcees, and all of which had ended with Merle Johnson receiving generous settlements from each of his ex-wives, and of his many infidelities, two of which had taken place during the brief few months that they had been together, almost as if he were planning who his next victim in the crime of marriage would be.

Michael was right, of course, as he almost always had been, when he said about Merle Johnson in his uniquely icy way, “I don’t know who this man is, and I don’t know what he does for a living. Now tell him you don’t want to see him anymore. I’m sure he’ll understand.” Just as he had been right in ordering the killing of her husband, Carlo Rizzi, who she now knew had set-up her brother Sonny to be murdered.

Her initial reaction to the disappearance of her husband had been worry. And two days later, when his body turned up in the marshlands of New Jersey, anger. Anger at Michael, when she put things together and realized that Carlo’s death was somehow related to the murders of the heads of four of the five New York crime families that very same week. Anger at Michael for taking her husband away from her, who, as badly as he treated her, was still the father of her children.

Even after she realized that she no longer cared about his death, that Carlo was responsible for the murder of her oldest brother, a brother who had always protected her and who she realized she loved even more than her husband, Carlo’s death had sent her into a depression and downward spiral that had lasted until only two months before, with the death of her mother.

It was then that she finally forgave Michael, in the process forgiving herself, and reconciled with her older brother.

She knew that for some reason – she was unsure of exactly what the reason was, but suspected that it had something to do with the embarrassment that Fredo’s ex-wife had caused Michael at Anthony’s communion party – that Michael was terribly angry with Fredo, and she begged Michael to make up with him on the very first day of their mother’s wake. And she promised Michael that she would change, that she wanted to stay close to the family now, and that she would take care of him, not as a wife but in the way in which an older sister might care for a baby brother, even though she was the younger of the two.

And Connie Corleone had found happiness and contentment in her new way of life. Her husband had been a gambler and a chaser of other women, and she found a satisfyingly tranquil chord of domesticity in caring for Michael, and Fredo as well, that she had never been able to strike while married to Carlo Rizzi.

# # # # # # ## # # # # # # # # # # # #

Because of the many trips made by Tom Hagen in his role as family attorney, Al Neri, acting as Security Director of the family hotels, and Michael himself, between the Corleone’s Lake Tahoe estate and Las Vegas, Reno, and the state capital in Carson City, the family owned a small twin-engine airplane that seated four comfortably. Michael had even undertaken the considerable expense of clearing several acres of woodland on the property, and built a private airstrip, complete with a hangar and a small cottage, shared by the pilot, a much decorated Korean War veteran on 24-hour call, and an expert airplane mechanic.

Now, flying over Lake Tahoe at dusk, Hagen could see the entire estate in front of him. As many times as he had seen it, the beauty of the lake and the surrounding mountains never failed to impress him as surely being one of the most beautiful places in the world, especially when he compared it to the grime and grit of New York City.

Coming in for a landing, Hagen could already make out the figure of Michael Corleone, standing alone about twenty yards from the end of the runway. Although there was a road which led from the small airstrip to the compound, which was nearly half of a mile away, Hagen saw no car, which meant that he and Michael would be walking back to the compound, giving them about 10-20 minutes of absolute privacy, depending on their pace, to talk.

Tom had once thought that Michael sometimes chose to walk because he appreciated the natural beauty of the surroundings and enjoyed a rare few minutes when he had the opportunity to communicate with nature, but he soon learned otherwise shortly after the airstrip was completed, when he realized that the only time he and Michael walked from the airstrip were those times when Michael wanted to discuss something in absolute privacy and did not wish to risk the chance of being overheard by his driver.

As the plane taxied to a stop, Michael was there at the door to open it for Tom and greet him with an embrace as soon as Hagen’s feet touched the ground. Then, silently, with Michael’s arm draped across Tom’s shoulder in a rare display of emotion, they began to make their way towards the compound.

They walked quietly for a minute or two. Finally, it was Tom who broke the silence.

“Mikey…..I don’t know what to say…..”
“Don’t say anything, Tom” Michael said. “I want you to just listen.” The emotion that Hagen expected to hear in the voice of a man talking about the death of a brother just hours before was missing, and Hagen, not sure of what he was about to hear next yet somehow knowing that he wasn’t going to like it, braced himself for what Michael was about to tell him.
“Fredo didn’t drown” Michael said in his flat and emotionless way. “He and Neri went out in the boat, and Neri shot him and dumped his body in the lake.”
“But why, Mike?” Hagen’s voice cracked, and he felt tears welling up in his eyes. “Fredo was no threat anymore. You even said yourself that you knew that Ola and Roth misled him.”
“Fredo was misled” Michael said “But not the way you think he was. We have about a ten minute walk back to the house. I want you to listen while I tell you the whole story of what really happened the night that Hyman Roth and my brother Fredo tried to have me killed.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Now the price to the book rights is less than $1,000 dollars, am I right?

Now why would I ever consider paying more than that?

Uh, Plaw -- you can have my answer now if you like. My offer is this -- nothing. Not even the fee for the book rights, which I would appreciate if you would put up personally.


That last installment was excellent Plaw! Bravo! But don't forget to have Hagen cancel his meeting with Maury Dalowitz before heading back to Tahoe.

Someone needs to forward this to Mark Winegardner so he can see for himslef how a true GF affecinato properly writes a GF book!


Don Cardi

Plaw, I just finished reading this, and I must say, fabulous work!

I've never read Godfather Returns, but I'm sure you put Winegardner to shame! I really enjoyed reading every bit of it, and I hope you'll continue to write.

Firstly: anyone who attempts to chronicle the events between GFII and GFIII makes a brave and worthy attempt, and in this case it has been done in a bold, informed, intelligent and detailed manner.

Secondly: I'm relatively new here and plawrence is an established member of these boards... also I'm not very popular, and I'm fully aware that my opinions may well be dismissed summarily.

Nevertheless, plawrence has submitted his work for criticism and I will venture it, understanding that I may be hated, flamed or ignored. I hope my observations are taken in the productive way in which they are intended.

1. Too many lines from the films.

This was GFIII's failing... gratutious and obvious insertions of film quotes. Be your own man.

2. Unrealistic dialogue.

This is the worst example. Why does Mike tell Tom? And "tears welling up"!? Ah, come on!

3. Inaccuracies

Frequent references to Pantangelli as an underboss, when he was a caporegime. Or, if this is intended to reflect an error in the famous FBI chart, some indication that that chart was wrong and that Frankie was an underboss. [Debatable]

Connie actually thinking that Fredo drowned. Something about the way she said "poor Fredo drowned" in GFIII didn't ring true... she sounded more like a witch from MacBeth than a concerned sibling... she knew that Mike had killed him and was glossing it over for the sake of old Mike and his health. Plus at this stage, Connie was pretty ruthless herself.


Having said all that: the introduction to Altobello and Saza is great. But I just don't find your style as captivating as Puzo's - it's not engaging or stylish, although the underlying ideas are fantastic.

My (limited) attempts at criticism have aimed to be constructive, and I certainly don't represent that I could do anywhere near as well. I think a lot could be built on this... and needless to say, it far surpasses GF Returns. Hope my remarks will be taken in this vein.

Not bad Plaw. But I don't see Michael opening up like that to anyone. I don't see Michael incurring liability like that. Michael is still the master manipulator.

It is believable to me. If he was worried about liability, then he never would have had Tom, Neri and Rocco all together when planning the attack on Roth.

If Michael were to open up to ANYONE, it WOULD be Tom.

" You're the only one that I can trust."

Remember that line from GFII?


Don Cardi

The beauty of Michael is that he never opens up to anyone or tells anyone anything without a reason - he's inherited Vito's pointed calculation, as we all know very well. Without the rest of Plaw's treatment on the Michael/Tom conversation, we do not know if he is just opening up just to open up or if he's telling Tom the "real" story for a reason. I suspect it will be more the latter than the former.

Bravo, plaw. You're doing a great job. You certainly have me hooked.

plaw, you're wonderful! (And good writer, too. This is already so much better than that Weingartner abomination.)
My advice would be to not do as many "update biographies" at the very beginning. The focus needs to be on Michael--how he deals with Fredo's death and Kay's departure. I think a strong focus should be on how he develops his relationships with his children--why Anthony rebels and Mary sticks with him. Another aspect: the Gaming Commission puts him in the "Black Book," and he has to deal with out-of-town Dons.
Too bad Weingartner poisoned the well here.

Admitting that he murdered their sibling is completely different from planning an attack on another organized crime figure.

Yes, Michael doesn't do anything without an angle. That's why I said he was the master manipulator. He's telling Tom about Fredo to serve a particular purpose that has nothing to do with salvation.

Plaw, you could be on the right track with his dialogue with Tom, but I would not have him admit to murder.

Sorry your book was such a big flop, Mr. Weingardner.

BTW, If I PM you with my address, will you send me my $26.95 back?

There is no reason for you to be flamed or ignored. One of the great things about this forum is that we are able to exchange different ideas and points of view in a civilized and mature manner.

Hated? Maybe, you dirty sunovabitch

Keep in mind that this is a sequel, and, as such, must necessarily be derivative and connect to the original to a great extent.

Also, the quotes from the film are offered as exactly that: Quotes. They all appear in quotation marks, and no pretense is made to offer them as original.

The reality, I think, is that in the highly unlikely event that this is ever published, except for screwballs like us the average Godfather reader/fan has probably only read the book or seen the films maybe once or twice, and probably wouldn't even remember the source of these quotes.

And I think that those who do would appreciate them for what they are, while at the seem time enjoying the fact that they got the "inside jokes"

As far as that being a failing of GF III, I would disagree. The use of quotes and references from the first two films was one of the things that made the film stronger rather than weaker.

But that's strictly a matter of opinion, I guess.

As I said, writing dialogue is not my strong suit. If it were, I might be writing bestsellers for a living.

As far as your "Why does Mike tell Tom?" criticism goes, I think that one might be a bit premature, considering that you don't yet know either the plot or the theme that I'm planning to develop.

"tears welling up".....Yeah, I'll give you that that's a bit trite.
Now that's debatable.

In fact, it has been the subject in the past of some discussion here.

Did Connie know the truth about Fredo's death or not? Was she in denial about the truth? Did she play along with the fiction for the sake of Michael's failing health?

The last of those points may be an original idea on your part, BTW, for which you have my compliments, and if so is a valid point on which to reopen this particular discussion in a thread of its own.

That said, I think that your criticism about Connie's belief or disbelief in the drowning scenario is one that is more properly directed at GF III, especially since you don't yet know how I plan to treat her reaction to Michael telling her about Fredo's "accident".

No, that's an error on my part. I'll change that when I get around to it

I consider it a huge compliment rather than a criticism to have my writing style compared to that of Mario Puzo.

If I were able to write as well as he did, you'd probably be paying to read my work rather than getting it for free on an internet message board.

As far as the underlying ideas go, we've had any number of suggestions, treatments, plot outlines, and scripts for possible GF sequels or Part IV films over the years. Just browse through the GF IV Forum to get an idea.

Some of them were better ideas than mine, some of them probably worse. I just went into a little more detail than most, and used a book format, rather than one for a film, as most of the others did.

All of that said, keep in mind that this was done as a lark, inspired by a dinner conversation, and written on a day when I had nothing to do.

I make no representations that I am in any way, shape, or form a competent author of fiction, and since I think that the commercial value of this project is nil, I probably won't ever finish it.

Don Cardi, Don Cardi, Don Cardi.....What did I ever do to make you treat me so disrespectfully?

Funny stuff, DC. I was rolling

Well, we have to consider the handful of readers who may have missed the original.

Besides, writing these "updates" and getting to play God by putting to rest some of the unanswered questions with my personal opinions is the fun (and easy) part.

And finally, I'm just putting off the inevitable (and much more difficult):

Having to actually come up with an original plot.

Great job, but watch those run on sentences. Some are long and windy. I wonder why.

Way better then I thought it would be.
I enjoyed even this ruff draft.

Spend less time on Baseball and do more writing.
Outline your work first.

and most important, don't let your head get big.
You may just be penning a very popular piece of work!

A compliment from you, FS, is worth more than a thousand compliments from lawyers with their briefcases.

Run on sentences? I doubt it, but I'll go back and check. But imagine..... you correcting my writing.

And me with a big head? Sure. Why do you think I wrote the dam(n) thing in the first place?

The only place that this has a chance to be a "popular piece of work", though, is here.

As I've said already, with 5,000 words down, 195,000 to go, and no commercial possibilities, there's practically no chance that I'll ever finish this thing.

Plaw, this reminded me of a web site, Fan Fiction , where people submit stories such as yours. I found a section for the Godfather movie, here , but the book section didn't have Godfather. To be honest, I haven't even looked at any of the pieces on the site, so I'm not sure what level these people are writing at, but perhaps you'd be interested in posting your story there. There are probably better fan fiction sites out there, and I'm not sure how safe this one would be....I'm sure someone could easily claim your work as their own...but I thought you might at least like a look at it.

Thanks, Gina.

I took a quick look, and there's not much GF stuff there, and most of what is there isn't very good, IMO.

They're all pretty short pieces, so if you want a few chuckles read the one about Mama Corleone's pregnancy

I hadn't been to that site in a long time, so I couldn't remember what kind of stuff was there, but I think that explains it...

Guess I should've taken a look, first...

Excellent. Plaw, if you ever published a book, I'd preorder it!

I have copy and pasted your writing, plawrence, I will read it later as I do not spend alot of time on-line. I have read the first few lines of CHAPTER I, about Rocco Lampone. It is very interesting. You are a very good writer and I suggest you continue to write.

Plaw, you are certainly much more qualified to write a sequel than Winegardner. Keep up the good work. One word of advice: do not spend any pages on Lucy's vagina or Johnny Fontane's penis. But I guess you are a man who knows that without being told.

I am waiting for Chapter 3.

I have just finished reading CHAPTER I and CHAPTER II. I have not read Mark Winegardner's The Godfather Returns, so I can't compare the two, but your sequel of The Godfather is very interesting to read. I am waiting for CHAPTER III also.

Thanks for all the kind words, guys.

Let's finish Chapter 2 first, before we start Chapter 3, Peter. Don't you want to know the whole story of what really happened the night that Hyman Roth and Fredo tried to have Michael killed?

Of course, I just excited about CHAPTER III.

Your writing has inspired me to write a sequel to The Godfather, too, plawrence.

I've been called a lot of names ... but Weingardner! That's a low blow

For my part, I'm thinking about writing a book in the style of Puzo, as a tribute to his great literary genius. I'm currently studying some detailed textbooks on female genital anatomy for this very purpose.

pl, I'm truly enjoying both your story and yuor style of writing. I am surprised at Michael opening up, but I agree that if it were to be with anyone, it would be Tom. He's really all that's left of the old days.

As for Connie accepting Michael's version of Fredo's death, I have to believe that she would have. She recently lost her mother and has agreed to dump the husband and come home. She has finally found peace as Michael's caretaker and surrogate mother to Mary and Anthony. She would have to turn her back on all that, and I find it difficult to believe that she would. I think that she would prefer to believe what she needs to believe in order to survive.

PLAW! WE WANT MORE

Meet Edwin Throop. I think you'll be able to guess what's gonna happen next......

Chaper 2 (continued)

Doctor and Professor Edwin Throop, Assistant Chairman of the Mathematics Department at Stanford University, had never been to Las Vegas before despite the proximity of the state of California to Nevada.

Thirty-six years old, short, thin, bespectacled, and as average looking as a man could possibly be, there was absolutely no chance that he could ever stand out in a crowd, which was exactly how he wanted it, considering his plan to break the bank at the Tropicalla Hotel and Casino.

All of his life Professor Throop had been fascinated by (and displayed nothing less than a genius for) numbers. By the time he had entered the first grade of the run-down public school in the rural California town in which he had grown up, he had memorized the multiplication tables and taught himself long division, while his classmates still wrestled with simple addition and subtraction. When he was eight years old and halfway through the third grade he had fully mastered both elementary and intermediate algebra, and in his freshman year of High School was invited to, and regularly attended, the faculty meetings of the Mathematics Department, where he explained to his own teachers some of the advanced concepts and original theories he was working on.

He cared little for physical activity or sports, and displayed no interest whatsoever in members of the opposite sex or in learning any of the social graces of his time, fully concentrating instead on his studies. With the help of a full scholarship, made necessary by the fact that his family had always been poor, he attended College and Graduate School at Stanford, completing both a Masters Degree and Doctorate in Mathematics in under two years, culminating in the publication of his doctoral thesis in the leading mathematics journal in the world and being translated into eleven languages.

He was then regarded, despite his youth, as one of the leading mathematicians in the world and was rewarded with an offer from Stanford to join the faculty and immediately assume the assistant chairmanship of the Mathematics Department.

Completely unprepared for a career in anything but the academic world, Dr. Throop gratefully accepted the offer, despite the fact that on the day he signed his contract he was faced with a harsh realization: A Mathematics Professor, even an Assistant Chairman of the department of a great and world-renowned university such as Stanford, made barely enough money to live.

Or to live, at least, in a style in which Throop had long ago decided that a man of his stature in the world was entitled to.

So Dr. Throop made a decision that would have a far reaching effect on the rest of his life: That he would begin to use his spare time to look for ways in which he could employ his great abilities and huge body of knowledge in the world of mathematics, translating them into two things that the world at large found to be considerably more valuable and useful: Dollars and cents.

And now, in a cheap hotel room located two blocks off Las Vegas Boulevard, already known as “The Strip”, Dr. Edwin Throop had reached the point where he had decided that his research and investigations had led him to one inevitable conclusion. He had decided that he, a Doctor and Professor of Mathematics, could use his considerable talents to make a huge amount of money as a professional player of the game of blackjack.

He had first studied the stock and markets, attempting to determine mathematically if there was a way in which the price movements of these various securities could be predicted with certainty, and he had decided that there weren’t. These markets were controlled by people, and people were just too unpredictable for his taste. Next, he had studied currency markets, trying to see if there was a way to make money from the minute fluctuations of the dollar as compared to various foreign currencies, and discovered that these fluctuations were often the result of outside events over which no one had any control.

And then he discovered gambling. It was impossible to win at roulette and craps, those games being the most popular at the time. Both were games in which the player had to bet on the outcome of either the roll of a pair of dice or the spin of a wooden wheel, and, when they guessed correctly, were paid at less than actual odds of the outcome which they were betting on. Also, he realized that both games were games of what he called “independent probability”, meaning that the dice themselves, or the wheel, had no memory. He learned that when the color black came up three times in a row in roulette, there were people who bet on black on the next spin, believing that black was now “hot”. And he wasn’t surprised to find out that there were an equal number of people anxious to bet on red, thinking that red was now “due”.

But the game of blackjack, or twenty-one, was different. It was a simple game. The player and the dealer each received two cards at the beginning of each hand. Each card had a point value, deuces through nines being worth two through nine points, tens and picture cards were worth ten points, and aces worth either one point or eleven, depending upon the wishes of the player.

The player received two cards, face up, at the start of each hand, and added together their point values. He could then choose take more cards, to “hit” as they called it in the casino, or not, to “stand”, stopping whenever he wished, the object of the game being to reach a total of twenty-one or less which was closer to twenty-one than the total of the dealer. But the game had two problems, which gave the dealer, or the “house”, an advantage:

First, while the player received his two cards face up, the dealer received one face down. So the player was forced to make their decisions without knowing the dealer’s total. And, if the player’s total ended up exceeding twenty-one, a “bust”, he lost automatically, regardless of the dealer’s total. It was this second factor that gave the house a small, but inexorable, built in advantage.

But Throop noticed something interesting about the game as he studied it further. Blackjack, was not a game of independent probability. As various cards were played from the deck and not used again until the deck was finished and re-shuffled, the odds of a player busting could change, and he could alter his decisions to hit or stand accordingly based on those cards remaining to be played

He realized, for example, that when the deck had been played halfway through and there were a disproportionate number of lower cards – twos, threes, and fours – remaining, the player could hit a total of, say, 15 or 16, with less of a chance of busting. And when there were more higher valued cards remaining – tens and picture cards – there were cases when it was better to stand on those totals of 15 or 16, leaving the higher valued cards for the dealer to possibly bust with.

Simply stated, Throop realized that all he had to do to beat the game of blackjack was to determine those situations in which the odds favored the player, and increase his bet from those times in which the odds favored the house.

Sure you still needed to be lucky. Having a four or 5% edge over the house was not very much good on a single bet, but over the long run – and Throop knew that the way a casino made their money was based on the long run – betting with the odds in your favor had to ultimately prove to be profitable.

He had proven his theories. First, developing a way in which to count the cars played and determining which ones were left in the deck to be played. Then, deciding in which situations he should bet more, and finally, with the help of five graduate students, the playing of tens of thousands of practice hands to test his reasoning nd methods.

Now he was ready. With a bankroll of $10,000, which represented his meager life savings of $5,000 as well as an additional $5,000 he had been able to borrow, Edwin Throop planned to make a fortune. He knew he’d have to start small, risking little at the beginning while he built his bankroll up, but in the long run he was convinced that the success of his plan was as certain as such a thing could be.

Leaving his room, he almost had a smile on his face as he began walking the three short blocks to the nearest casino.

Not sure if I like this section as much as the older ones. Your writing style seems a bit rushed. I also found that someone who was not interested in the opposite sex, etc., wouldn't necessarily be interested in financing an opulent lifestyle by counting cards.

It's still entertaining, and better than most of the books on today's best-seller list, but just not quite up to par with your first attempts.

Well, I have the guy figured as kind of a nerd; someone who figured that he couldn't form relationships with women on his own, but would need some "financial aid" to do it.

Anyway, here's more of Chapter 2, the long awaited scene in which Michael explains what really happened the night of the Tahoe assassination attempt, and who killed the shooters.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Michael and Tom began walking.

“Fredo never got over what happened the day that they tried to kill Pop.” Michael said.
“How he got out of the car and dropped his gun in panic while the shooters escaped. And then, when he was in Vegas, getting slapped around in public by that fucking Moe Greene. He wasn’t my equal and he knew it, and because he was my older brother, it always bothered him.”

“Enough to help try and have you killed?” Tom said. He was still having trouble with the idea that Fredo was anything more than a dupe in the Roth assassination plot.

“Yeah, enough even to try and have me killed” Michael replied quickly. “Let me tell you what really happened.

“Fredo met Johnny Ola in Beverly Hills.” Michael began. “It was no ‘accidental’ meeting; Roth set the whole thing up. I found out later that he knew Fredo was gonna be there from one of Moe Greene’s old pals who was somehow still working for us at the Tropicalla.”

“He worked my brother over real good, that Johnny Ola. He told Fredo that the family was losing respect, that the Rosatos were walking all over Pentangelli’s crew in New York and making us look bad. How Connie was embarrassing the family by the way she was acting, and how I couldn’t control her. And How Hyman Roth, one of Pop’s “old friends”, felt so badly for us.” Michael couldn’t resist letting a note of sarcasm drip into his voice.

“He told Fredo that of all of the friends of the family, all of the heads of the other families, felt everyone would be better off with me out of the picture.” Michael continued. “How I was nothing more than a ruthless killer who couldn’t be trusted. He told Fredo that the Commission had met secretly and decided that I had to go, and that afterwards they would all endorse Fredo as the new head of the family.”

“He said that we were being run out of New York, and that I was getting in over my head with the Vegas move…..that it was just a matter of time until we lost what little influence and power we had left. He told Fredo that that he was the only member of the family left who everyone felt that they could reason with, the only one with my father’s sense of fairness.”

“And Fredo bought that story?” Tom asked.

“All the way.” Michael answered. “He saw getting rid of me as a way to get the power that he’d always wanted and never had. He’d be even with Pop for ‘passing him over’, and even with me for being Pop’s choice even though I was his younger brother. So he agreed to Ola’s plan.”

“And the plan was….” Tom began.

“The plan was, of course, to assassinate me on the night of Anthony’s communion party. They figured that would be the perfect time to it. With all the guests around, and the governor’s security people, and the caterers and clean-up crew and everyone else, they thought it would be easy to sneak a couple of professionals onto the estate without anyone noticing.” Michael said.

“Somehow, Roth got to the guy who owned the company that supplied all the tables and linens for the party, and they had two extra guys with their weapons hidden inside their truck when they delivered all the stuff that morning. Must’ve cost that old bastard Roth plenty to set that up. Anyway, as soon as they had a chance, the two guys jumped out of the truck and hid in the woods until it was dark. Fredo had already given Ola a map of the property and a diagram of my house, and, of course, it was Fredo who snuck in and opened the drapes. As soon as they saw me inside, they opened fire. It was nothing but luck that prevented Kay and I from being killed.”

“One thing, though, Mike. Who killed the hit men?” Tom asked.

Michael chuckled. “That was the best part of the whole plan, and you’re not gonna believe it. The two guys we found in the ditch weren’t the hit men. They were two fresh dead bodies, smuggled onto the property in the truck with the hit men. Apparently they had been killed a day before the party, and kept on ice inside the linen truck. By the time the truck got onto the estate, they were almost frozen stiff, and would need ten or twelve hours to thaw out, perfect timing for when we were supposed to find them. I swear, I almost had to laugh when I heard this part. The two hit men dragged them into the woods, and when it came time for the shooting to start, they dragged them back and dumped them in the ditch first. Then, when the shooting stopped, they went back into the woods and walked along the shoreline of the lake for about two miles to a spot where Roth had a boat waiting for them. Of course, when we found the bodies in the ditch, we assumed that they were the shooters, and we stopped looking for anyone else. That made it very easy for the real shooters to escape.”

Tom whistled softly. “You’re right, Mikey. That story is unbelievable.

“Yeah” Michael said. “Fredo knew all along that it was supposed to be a hit. Roth was smart. He figured that the only way Fredo would go along with the plan was if it ended with me being killed. Fredo wouldn’t have played along any other way – he would’ve always been afraid that somehow I would find out what happened if I were left alive.”

“True enough” Tom Hagen said. "You left out one part, though, Mike. How did you figure all of this out?”

“I didn’t figure it out” Michael replied. “Fredo told the whole story himself. Last week. When he begged me to kill him because he didn’t have the nerve to do it himself.”

Hmmmmmm Plaw, I dunno.

You are not going to please the "Fredo didn't know" crowd (if you know what I mean."

And as for the bodies on ice, wouldn't Tom have had access to those bodies since that was the instant when Michael left him in charge?

Your idea is a good one, and picking it apart is what we do best, whether its Puzo, FFC or you. But keep it up!

I'm not sure I understand your question, DT.

When they found the bodies, they were all thawed out and everyone assumed that they were the hitmen. What's your question about Tom's access to the bodies?

As far as the Fredo didn't know" crowd goes, there are those who think he knew and those who think he didn't, so I'm not gonna be able to please everyone.

Interestingly, I was always part of the "didn't know" crowd, but I thought the revelation that he did know, and had asked Mike to kill him was actually quite dramatic, if I do say so myself.

Please feel free to pick it apart as much as you wish. I certainly don't want to be thought of as the second coming of Weingardner.

Plaw, I just meant that Tom would have had the chance to inspect the bodies, but you are right he would not have known they were thawed out. I like the whole idea of Fredo begging for his life, and the Johnny Ola meeting is pure genius.

You mean begging Mike to end his life.

i think it sounds plausible. i really can't find any reason as to why that story couldn't be true at all. it shows that fredo wasn't a complete idiot like he's made out to be sometimes, but it also shows that he wasn't really that smart either, which i think is the perfect description of fredo. it gives fredo a ruthlessness to kill his own brother, which some might say he didn't have, but it is possible given the
"i was passed over" scene. one thing that struck me was michael's swearing. that doesn't really seem to fit his cold, calculating character to me. but i have never read the novel, so if there michael uses language like that in the novel that doesn't show up on screen, then i apologize. i know you've admitted that writing dialogue isn't one of your strengths, so i don't mean to beat a dead horse. i certainly enjoy reading it and think you're doing a great job.

Note: If you've begun Chapter 2, I've made a small but significant change in the section about Edwin Throop.

Rather than have him begin playing at the Tropicalla, he starts off at a different, un-named casino. I'm gonna save the Tropicalla for later.

I'm sure everyone has a pretty good idea of what's coming, anyway .

I am enjoying these installments. You have to figure that Roth must've paid off someone to get on the estate, but I can't see him trusting Fredo to smuggle them in. One of the people hired for the day is far more plausible.

I like the fact that Tom is the only one he trusts. Just one continuity question, and I apologize if I'm mistaken, but aren't the Senate hearings long after the attempted hit?

Yeah.....Did I imply otherwise somewhere?

>>“He told Fredo that of all of the friends of the family, all of the heads of the other families, felt everyone would be better off with me out of the picture.” Michael continued. “How I was nothing more than a ruthless killer who couldn’t be trusted, and how I was hated for bringing all that heat down on everyone with the Senate hearings. He told Fredo that the Commission had met secretly and decided that I had to go, and that afterwards they would all endorse Fredo as the new head of the family.”<<

PL, That's what I was referring to. Italics are mine, btw.

My mistake, SB. Nice catch. Thanks.

Don Tomasso PMed me with a few more ideas about how Ola convinced Fredo, so I'm gonna redo part of that section.

You know, if Weingardner had vetted his book with a few of us, he would have had a better book.

Wait, let me rephrase that.

If Weingardner had vetted his book with a few of us, his book would not have been as bad as it was.

One of the advantages of working for an anal-retentive micro-manager for 8 years is that I'm a heck of a proof-reader!!

OK, I made some minor changes to the Tom/Michael "Walk & Talk" scene, incorporating some of Don Tomasso's suggestions and the timeline mistake that Sicilian Babe caught.

Thanks again, guys.

Here's another installment:

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #
Willi Cicci was seated in the office of Bradley Pennington, Assistant Attorney General of the United States.

Even seated behind his desk, Pennington was a handsome and imposing, if rather youngish looking, figure. Six feet, four inches tall with blonde hair and blue eyes and only thirty-two years of age, his rise through the ranks of the Justice Department had been meteoric.

After graduating from Yale University, where he had played three sports and starred at forward on a basketball team that had won the Ivy League championship, he stayed at Yale for Law School, editing the school’s law review, and being offered, upon graduation, a position clerking for a noted Supreme Court Justice, for whom he had written the bulk of the majority opinion in an important case involving school desegregation in the south.

Upon completion of his clerkship, he was recommended by that grateful justice for a government position, which he eagerly accepted, thinking that a few years working for the Justice Department would enable him to make the contacts necessary for an entry into either a lurative private practice or politics.

“First of all, the government would like to thank you once again for your cooperation, Mr. Cicci” Pennington said. “Even though Michael Corleone was able to ‘escape our clutches’ so to speak, we think we gave him and his cohorts – his associates – in organized crime something to think about.”

Willi Cicci knew exactly what a “cohort” was. It always amused him, he thought, how people perceived him as someone lacking in intelligence. He had used that perception to his advantage many times in the past, and he thought about the time that he had made Senator Questadt explain to him what a “buffer” was.

“Also, Mr. Cicci, I have here the details and necessary paperwork and such for your new identity. You’ll also find your plane ticket inside, and all the information that you’ll need to get started with, ah, your ‘new life’, so to speak.” He handed an envelope across the desk to Willi.

Cicci took the envelope, but did not open it. He waited to see if Pennington was going to say anything else.

Pennington was the first to break the silence. “Your new name will be Dominick Abruzzio. You’re being relocated to Houston, Texas. As our agreement stipulates, you will receive a lump sum of $2000 to help you get settled, and a $400 monthly stipend from the government for the next two years. But you’re expected to find employment and become self sufficient within that time period.

Cicci knew exactly what the terms of his agreement with the government were, and he didn’t need Pennington to explain them to him for what seemed like the twentieth time since he had made the deal to testify four months go. He sat there and continued to stare at Pennington. He still hadn’t said a word.

“Well, Mr. Cicci, if you don’t have any questions….” Pennington was clearly becoming uneasy in the presence of a career criminal and murderer. “If there’s nothing else, you’ll have to excuse me, please.” He rose.

“Agents Ross and Wilson are waiting for you outside. They will escort you back to your hotel, and then to the airport this evening to make sure you get on your plane all right. I would advise you, by the way, to cut your hair and shave your mustache once you are no longer under the direct protection of the FBI.” He paused for a moment. “Let me thank you once again for your invaluable help and cooperation, and take this opportunity to wish you the very best of luck.’ He tentatively held out his hand, and Cicci, just as tentatively, shook it.

Dominick Abruzzio of Houston, Texas. He’d blend in nicely there, Willi thought, fighting hard to suppress a smile. He’d go to Houston, he thought. He might even stay a while and get settled. But he also had some ideas of his own. Like a visit to Nevada, where he planned to say “Hello” to an old friend and former employer.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Nice. I like Pennington. And love Cicci being deeper than the peeks we've been allowed in the movies. You figure he had to be intelligent and ruthless if the Corleones were willing to trust him with Tessio's execution.

PS Me being slightly anal again. In the conversation between Tom and Michael, you should capitalize Pop.

sb, if you think you're anal retentive, you're not alone. plaw, i was going back and rereading all the stories again to see the changes you've made, and i noticed in the first installment that it states frankie killed himself while the fbi agents played pinochle, but weren't they playing hearts? completely irrelevant, i know, but i just thought i'd ask so my children aren't pointing out the continuity errors of the greatest selling book of all time on some message board someday. but if i'm wrong, just tell me to get a life.

I changed it, but according to MS Word spellcheck, it should be lower case. I'll have to look into that further. Yup, it was hearts, and I changed it.

Thank you both.

Right on, Plaw!

So let me get this straight...Pennington ghost wrote Brown v. Board of Education and then is reduced to talking to the likes of Willi Cicci, all in the name of political ambition!

OR

You are being VERY subtle in your foreshadowings and your sense of irony. Remember that Pentangeli (Cicii's Don) was furious that the Rosatos recruited "spicks and niggahs." Ultimately the whole operation was integrated thanks to Joey Zasa. Thus without the visionary opinion Pennington wrote, the whole direction of what happened to the Corleone operation in New York would never have happened.

I'd like to say that I am being "very subtle in (my) foreshadowings and sense of irony", but unfortunately I'm not that good.

I really didn't have anything more in mind for Pennington, but since Sicilian Babe likes him maybe I'll keep him around.

Sure you are Plaw. You don't really think FFC and Puzo thought out all the things we on these boards have extrapolated from the novel and the movies do you? Great artists never really know what they are creating.

I like that

I had that in mind when I started; recall that the last line in the first section about Rocco mentions "The funeral of Fredo Corleone", but I guess I got sidetracked introducing all of the characters.

But when he makes the movie version, I'll change it around in the screenplay so FFC can open with a big 20 minute funeral mass scene.

Gee, a character just for me?? I'm touched. Well, you know that FFC always loved to have Anglos to kick around (Bonasera's court experience, McCluskey, the Ellis Island workers, Geary), so I think that Pennington should stick around, if only to serve that purpose.

As for the Pop, wouldn't you capitalize Dad or Daddy? It is a proper noun. The same rule should apply to Pop, since that's what they called their father.

Oh Yeah, That is for sure. Like Tom said, that story is unbelievable.

You better do some more research on bodies if you want to use anything like this! Because this story line is surely unbelievable. Even Weingardner wouldn't miss this one.

Sorry, these last few don't come close to the stuff you first started with.

This is the kind of feedback and fact checking I need. Obviously, I thought the story was a bit unbelievable, hence Mike's comment to Tom.

I tried like hell to come up with a theory for the age-old and oft discussed question of "Who killed the Tahoe asassin?" that fit all of he facts as we knew them, and if I do say so myself, this one a least was unique and fit the facts.

I figured that unless the bodies were frozen and thawed out, rigor mortis would have set in long before they were dumped in the ditch, which would have been noticed when they were "fished out".

So permit me, if I may, to ask an expert on the subject:

Would the bodies need longer to thaw out? How long does it take before RM would set in? Or, what's a scenario I could use that would permit the substitution of the bodies without anyone knowing that they had been dead for maybe 16-18 hours?

The end of Chapter 2.....Don Altobello and Joey Zasa take an airplane ride, and Michael tells his sister that Fredo is dead. But does she believe his story?

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Don Nicholas Altobello disliked the idea of traveling on an airplane. In fact, he considered the airplane to be a wholly unreliable means of transportation, although if asked why he was unable to offer anything other than his inability to understand how a machine made of metal and weighing several tons when fully loaded with passengers could possibly stay in the air, ascending and descending only because of the operation of its controls by a pilot, who seemed to be able to do so with no more difficulty than it took one to drive an automobile.

The unexpected assassination of Hyman Roth, however, had forced this airplane trip. Roth’s wife, in accordance with Jewish law which required burial as soon as possible, had scheduled his funeral for the day following his death, and Altobello, after consulting various train schedules, had determined that it would not be possible for him to attend unless he made the trip to Miami by air.

Sleeping in the first class seat next to him, Joey Zasa had no such problems. Dozing even before the plane left the runway of New York’s LaGuardia Airport, Zasa awoke only when he found his face a few inches away from the backside of the pretty young stewardess who was bending over to serve dinner to the passenger in the seat across the aisle.

Altobello watched with amusement. “Ah, Joey, you have an eye for the pretty young girls.” He said.

“What can I tell ‘ya, Nicky. I’ve been chasing girls since I was four.” His New York accent made it sound like “flaw", only without the letter “L”.
“It’s gonna get you in trouble one day” Altobello said. “You wait and see.”

“Nicky, don’t worry about it” Zasa looked at his wristwatch, diamond encrusted and custom-made by the most famous watchmaker in Switzerland. “We should be landing in about fifteen minutes.”

“The sooner the better, Joey” replied Altobello. “You know how I hate riding in these things.”

“What are you worried about?” asked Zasa. “You’re safer in an airplane than you are in your own bathtub.”

“Especially in our business” Altobello laughed out loud at his own joke.

Below them now was icy looking clear blue water, and the coastline of Florida had become off to their right, drawing closer.

“Joey, you know I’m a religious man” Altobello said. “If God had wanted us to fly, he would have given us wings.”

“That’s silly, Nick.” Joey Zasa smiled at what he thought was the simple-mindedness of this powerful Don. He wondered again, for perhaps the hundredth time, how a man such as Nicholas Altobello could have become so powerful, and decided again that for now it would have to remain a mystery to him. “That’s the same as saying ‘if God wanted us to drive, he would have given us wheels instead of legs’ “.

“Joey, always with the wisecracks, Joey. That’s one of the things that I love about you.” Altobello said. “Look, we’re coming in for a landing.”

Their airplane landed and taxied to a hangar, where a metal stairway was rolled out and placed against the body of the plane. As if he could no longer wait, the moment the doors were opened the first person out to feel the intense Florida heat was Don Nicholas Altobello, head of one of the most powerful Mafia families in the country.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # ## # #


Although the members of the Corleone family referred to their home on Lake Tahoe as an estate, it was really much more like a high security compound. Extending in every direction from the lake for several hundred wooded acres, it was completely surrounded, both at its furthest perimeter and again in the inner area which included the airstrip and various buildings, by a fence of barbed wire which could be electrified by the mere flipping of a switch.

Within the second fence were was the huge lawn on which Anthony Corleone’s First Communion party had been held, nearly two acres square in size, leading from the edge of the lake and its large dock, and then the boathouse, used mostly by Michael as his personal office and private sanctuary. Beyond the boathouse stood the main house in which Michael lived; two smaller houses, those of Tom Hagen and his family and Connie Corleone and her children; and four two-bedroom cottages, one occupied by Al Neri, one the home of Rocco Lampone, and two more available for the occasional overnight visitors, almost all of whom came to Lake Tahoe for the purposes of business.

Michael and Ton emerged from the woods on the path leading from the airstrip. “Let’s get Neri first, then go and talk to my sister” Michael said.

The two men walked to Al Neri’s house, and Tom waited a few feet away when Michael knocked on the door. Neri opened it, saw Michael and Tom waiting for him, and after he and Hagen exchanged barely perceptible nods, the three of them cut across the huge lawn and began walking towards the house occupied by Connie Corleone.

“You understand that I’m going to tell Connie it was an accident” Michael said. Hagen and Neri were both silent.

“She wouldn’t understand the truth” Michael added. It was almost as if he were still trying to justify to himself the act of murdering his own brother.

Michael knocked on the door, and Connie opened it. Seeing the looks on the faces of the three man, Connie instinctively knew that something was wrong.

“Michael” she said. “What is it?”
“Can we come in?” Michael asked.

Connie stepped aside, and the three men entered the house.

“Where are the children?” Michael said, looking around the room.
“Victor is outside somewhere” Connie replied. “Michael is upstairs taking a nap.”

Hagen and Neri were still standing in the entranceway, flanking either side of the door. “Sit down, Connie” Michael said.

Connie sat down on the sofa, and Michael took a dining room chair, turned it around, and sat down facing his sister less than three feet away, facing her with his arms resting on the back of the chair.

“Fredo’s dead, Connie” Michael said. He waited for her response, a question, or even an indication that she had heard him.

Connie said nothing. “He drowned” Michael said. “When he went fishing this afternoon with Al”.

Connie stared straight ahead, past Michael, into some unknown space. “I knew something was wrong when you said that you weren’t going to Reno after all” she said. “After Fredo and Al had already left.” She looked at Al Neri, standing in the doorway, but strangely he was staring through the window at something unseen outside.

“Did it have to happen, Michael?” she said.

Michael was unsure if she saw through his story, or was simply questioning the action of fate, so he said nothing.

Connie was fighting to hold back her tears. “I accept it, Michael” she said simply. ‘Whatever happened was meant to be.” She reached out and embraced her brother, who hugged her tightly while he continued to wonder whether or not she embraced the story of Fredo’s death as well.

# # # # # ## # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Part: Here's what I was thinking motivated Connie to act the way she did in this scene--

She's accepts her role and Michael's role in the family. She accepts Fredo's death as something that had to happen, whether by Michael's hand or by fate. She herself is not sure if she belives Mike's story or not, but realizes that either way "what's done is done", and so she accepts it, knowing that there is nothing she can do about it anyway.

I think that Connie reacted as Connie would have. She knew that, at this point, Michael is all she has left. Taking care of Michael is all she's got, as her children are pretty well grown. Also, her own kids were screwed up. She could see being a surrogate mother to Michael's children as a way to redeem herself as a mother.

Anyway, the only thing that I might change about her reaction is that instead of fighting back the tears, perhaps they could stream silently, that they made their way down her face in spite of the fact that she struggled against them, as if the old, emotional Connie still lives below the new calm surface.

I do like Joey, especially the nice touch with the watch. What I didn't understand was "four" and "floor". Aren't they supposed to rhyme, or is it because I'm from NY?

According to Peter Biskind's The Godafther Companion, Connie's oldest, Victor, was born in 1949, which doesn't jibe with Michael's comment to Connie about him being picked up in Reno for petty theft, since my story is set in the late 50's.

I decided to go with the younger Victor, since the 1949 birthdate had more credibility, since his baptism scene is depicted in the film and corresponds with that date.

Also, again according to Briskind, her second son, Michael, was born in 1955, presumably the offspring of Connie's second marriage.

That's why I had one of them "outside somewhere (playing?)", and the other napping.


Yup, it's the Noo Yawk accent that Joey had. "Four" without pronouncing the "R".

But looking at it now, I realize that we don't pronounce the "R" in "floor" either, so that was a bad example. I'm gonna go back and change it to "flaw".

I assume it is Victor that Connie is carrying when she is beaten by Carlo, who is then beaten by Sonny. It is Michael Rizzi's baptism at the end of The Godfather. If Victor is born around the time of Sonny's death, and Michael Corleone has time to meet, marry and bury Appollonia, return to America, live with his parents for at least a year before going to see Kay where he promises to legitimize the family in five years, then seven years goes by and he's dancing with Kay at the party, Victor easily could be a young teen at beginning of GF2.

Timeline and continuity problems have been much discussed here, of course.

If and when I ever finish this thing, I'll have to edit out any references to the characters that could leave me open to the nitpickers.

Seriously, I appreciate the feedback. Now, if FS would only tell me how long I need to thaw out a frozen body......

Also, the Fredo funeral scene will be taking place without a body. Anybody know how a Roman Catholic funeral would be handled under those circumstances?

We're waiting!! We want more, we want more, we want more!!

I believe a closed coffin would be used with something from the person's personal possesions inside. Unlike the jewish religion, the catholic religion does not require a body. I'm pretty sure of that.

In reality you could always have it that Michael requested a closed coffin becasue his brothers body was too deformed from being in the water for so long. So even if there really was no body, the family would not know that and they would think that Fredo's body WAS inside. It is not uncommon to have a closed coffin for someone who drowned.


Don Cardi

Not sure if this will help, but it was interesting.

Catholic Funeral Guidelines

Okay, Plaw, it is the All-Star break, so I'm going to try my best to catch up; I copy/pasted all the parts into Microsoft Word to have them all together. I think I've forgotten what I'd already read, as it's been a while, but maybe it'll be better to read everything at once, anyway. I don't think I'll be able to read it tonight, but I'll try to get started on it as soon as possible...after all, baseball will be back before you know it!

By popular demand, Chapter 3 begins.

Say hello to the annoying (to some) Kay Corleone, and yet another lawyer

Chapter 3

Kay Corleone had briefly considered dropping the “Corleone” from her name and reverting back to her maiden name of Adams, and, in fact, had even done so for a short time, until she realized the she received much better service and was treated with considerably more deference when people learned that her name was Corleone, even in situations when they weren’t certain that she was one of those Corleones.

Sitting across the desk from her newest attorney, Douglas Michelson, Kay wondered if she were not on a mission of futility. The divorce proceedings in the Nevada courtroom that had not only terminated her marriage to Michael Corleone but awarded him custody of their two children, Anthony and Mary, had been, in her mind, a sham. The judge, it seemed to her, had been far from impartial, and even her own lawyer had appeared at times to be working against her.

After losing the custody battle, Kay had moved to Carson City in order to be close enough to the Corleone Tahoe estate to be able to visit Anthony and Mary on the alternate weekends which were permitted by the court. Her former sister-in-law, Connie, and Tom Hagen, had remained friendly, and, to an extent, even sympathetic to her and the difficulty of her plight, but the children seemed to be growing more and more distant from her in the months following their separation.

Finally, unable to bear the pain of seeing her children so infrequently, unable to handle the accompanying guilt, and unable to deal any longer with the anger she felt against the father of her children who she had once loved, Kay Corleone began to make inquiries in Carson City, hoping to find an attorney who could re-open her case.

Douglas Michelson had come to her attention through several sources. He had practiced in Nevada capitol for more than ten years, having moved there from California following the war, in which he had served with distinction in the Judge Advocates Generals Corps. Setting up a private practice, he had become well connected politically over the years and developed a reputation as a man who could “get things done”. He was friends with the Governor and State Senator Geary, two of the most powerful men in the state, and was even acquainted with some of the lesser known, though equally influential men in Nevada, men such as Tom Hagen and the recently deceased Hyman Roth.

Although he had no particular love, or even liking, for those who he considered part of the “gangster element” who were populating Nevada in increasing numbers, he was practical enough to understand that gambling, more than the clean air and beautiful scenery, was responsible for the state’s economic growth, and pragmatic enough to be willing to look the other way at the activities of the gamblers and casino owners, understanding that they were, at least for now, an integral part of the process.

He had earned a considerable amount of money over the years arguing for the casino licensing of men that the Gaming Commission had initially turned down, and for the exclusion of others from the famed Las Vegas “Black Book”, a listing of those individuals who were considered to be “undesirable” and had been barred from entering the casinos.

In fact, Michelson had thought at times, he would not have had very much of a practice had it not been for his work with various individuals who he knew without doubt were associated in some way with organized crime, and he had no desire to jeopardize his relationship with them.

Still, he felt sorry for the woman now sitting across from him. Clearly, she had not been treated fairly by the Nevada courts. She had lost the custody fight for her children for another reason that he could see than the identity of her former husband. Obviously, the judge had been afraid of who and what her husband was and the influence he wielded in the state. He had been presented to the court as a legitimate businessman and casino owner, with no mention made of his position as head of the most powerful organized crime family in the United States. It was argued that it was he who would best be able to provide for the children, who, under his guardianship, would live on an estate, attend the best private schools, and be supervised at all times by a professional governess. Her own attorney, it had appeared to Michelson, had been incompetent, yet he was not surprised to learn that just a few short weeks after representing Kay Corleone, that very same attorney had been appointed a Judge of the Nevada Appellate Court.

He had listened to Kay Corleone’s story with interest, and felt that he could help her. The question in his mind was whether or not he wanted to.

“I believe that we do have good grounds for reopening your case, Mrs. Corleone” he began. “It would appear that there were certain facts about your ex-husband which were not brought out at the original custody hearing. You were married to him for ten years, and there is quite a bit that you could testify to regarding his criminal activities, but, unfortunately, without a corroborating witness I’m afraid that your testimony would not carry very much weight.”

“I know, Mr. Michelson” Kay said. “That’s always been the problem. Getting someone to testify against Michael.

“Perhaps his sister” Michaelson said. “Surely, as a woman, she must realize that the children would be better off with you.”

“No chance” said Kay. “Connie would never go against her brother.”

Kay was beginning to feel helpless again. Yet somehow, for some reason, she felt an attraction to this man and believed that he would be the one who could finally help her.

“Well, Mrs. Corleone” he said “Without someone to help us, I’m afraid that we don’t have very much of a chance.”

“Please call me ‘Kay’ ” she said. She wasn’t sure why she wanted to get to know this man any better than she already did, except for the feeling that he could he help.

“I’d be happy to call you ‘Kay’ “ he replied. “But only if you begin to call me ‘Douglas’. Perhaps you would like to join me for dinner this evening, Kay” Michelson said. “We can discuss your case further” he added, with a slight smile and a twinkle in his eye.

“Why, that would be very nice, Douglas” Kay answered. “I think I would like that very much.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

YAY!! More!! I think that Kay is properly grief-stricken about the loss of her children in your description of her, but I don't know if she comes across that way in her conversation. However, I still crave more, so you must be doing something right!!

A LAWYER hitting on his client? Say it aint so!

Douglas is Kay's future husband, so that makes it OK.

Gotta have a little romance in there, don't we?

Plus, it will gave me a chance to try my hand at writing some, um, "love scenes".

How's this:

His hand reached around and down her belly until he felt the touch of her moist, warm, and turgid flesh.

or this:

Instinctively she wrapped her fingers around his hard and throbbing manhood.

Turgid?? You gotta love a word like turgid. Also, you could try and work sultry in there. There's something about that word, too. And don't forget to have Kay tremble at some point. That's VERY important. And at some point, they need to sigh. In unison. Perhaps after they quake and tremble. In unison.

And then you can have that Italian model with the long hair (what IS his name???) be on the cover.

Yeah, there's a million examples of unison orgasms IN LITERATURE!

dunno. What Italian model? You possibly mean Monica Bellucci?

No, he was a model for romance novel covers and he was very muscular and had long blond hair. I cannot remember his name.

Well it had better be protected sex cause we dont want any more abortions.

He felt her hot breath on his neck as he pleasured her wet clitoris with his finger.
"Oh Douglas, its been so long," she said as he pressed his hard granite-hard member against her pulsating thigh. Expertly he unbuttoned her blouse and unhooked her bra, revealing her heaving mounds....supple yet firm, her nipples erect.

Feeling him up against her, her mind was racing, inexplicably the term "hung like a horse entered her mind, and suddenly she was distracted because her mind flashed to a story she had heard about a horse named Khartoum.

"Whats wrong Kay?"
"Its nothing...its about..."
"That part of your life...that nighmare is over, Kay, he said stroking her hair and nibbling at her earlobes."

What happened to the nice mafia story that was being told?


Don Cardi

We do seem to have drifted. Perhaps we need to get back to poor Fredo's funeral...

Yes. A sexual scene with Kay just doesn't do it for me.


Don Cardi

Wake up people!

Put those cheap dime store sex novels back under your desks!


You all think you are masters in the sex department. The truth being you are really "Fredo" when it comes to the real thing.