The Godfather returns

This evening was the valedictory to the peace. Hagen had been the point man for it all, but at its culminating moment, where did he find himself? On a bench, across the boardwalk, outside looking in. He’d never even set foot inside Convention Hall. It housed the world’s largest pipe organ, he’d been told. Every year, it hosted the Miss America pageant, which Hagen had seen, on TV. No doubt the only difference between Miss Alabama ’s positions on opportunity (it’s knocking!), children (they’re the future!), education (for it!), the keys to a good life (hard work! churchgoing! family!), and world peace (possible in our lifetime!) and those of Governor Shea was that Shea didn’t have to say it in high heels and a bathing suit.

What the hell. Why should Hagen care?

Hagen walked to the hotel where the Ambassador had rented the main ballroom, figuring that he’d be early but with any luck he’d be able to grab a drink. A blue velvet ba

Hagen knew that some of these people were plants, paid to talk up Shea’s speech, no matter how he’d done. He also knew that Shea’s war heroism, while genuine, had been exaggerated in the public’s mind by the amount and nature of the news coverage it had received at the time, coverage Hagen had personally orchestrated. And he also knew, even in his brief time in Washington, that the “dull scold from Ohio ” was an honorable and formidable man. What being young and attractive had to do with being president, Hagen had no idea. Hagen got a double scotch and water and sca

“My congressman!” said Fredo Corleone, wearing a white di

Hagen put his mouth by Fredo’s ear. “What are you doing here? How’s Ma?”

Fredo was drunk. He jerked a thumb toward the doors.

It had not been Shea who entered, as Hagen had presumed, but Joh

“I came with Joh

“And Ma?” Two weeks ago Carmela Corleone had been rushed to the hospital for what had turned out to be a blood clot in her brain. At first, she hadn’t been expected to make it, but she’d rallied. The last time Hagen had been there, Fredo had assured him he’d stay in New York and oversee things, but here he was: here.

“She’s fine,” Fredo said. “She’s home.”

“I know she’s home. Why aren’t you home with her?”

“Believe me, I’m just in the way up there.”

Hagen doubted that. Co

Hagen nodded toward the back of Fontane’s entourage-Gussie Cic-ero, a club owner in L.A. and an associate of Jackie Ping-Pong, and two men from the Chicago outfit. “So what are they doing here?”

“They came with Joh

“Come again?”

“Gussie was married to Margot Ashton before Joh

Fredo had credentials to the convention? “You saw it?”

“On TV. We were up in the penthouse where Gussie and Joh

He hadn’t been invited, hadn’t had any idea. “Jimmy and Da

“Who we talking about? Of course Jimmy and Da

Hagen knew he should have this conversation later. After all the bad publicity right after his appointment, being seen in public, here, saying anything more than hello, couldn’t be good.

“Where are you staying?”

“So are those the biggest you’ve ever seen, or what?” Fredo nodded toward A

“I should go, Fredo.”

“You ever meet her?”

“Once,” Hagen said. “She wouldn’t remember me.”

Finally Jimmy Shea made his entrance, flanked by his father and brother. The room exploded in applause and a recorded version of “Into the Wild Blue Yonder.”

“Shea and Hagen in 1960!” Fredo yelled.

As far as Hagen could tell, Fredo was drowned out.

Hagen slipped away. By now the room was packed. He tried to shake hands with the right people, but it was tough. He did what he could, but there were more than a few times he extended his hand toward someone he thought he recognized as a senator or congressman or top aide and got a blank stare in return. He tried to find members of the Nevada delegation-the only people, presumably, who’d have noticed he wasn’t there. The only one he saw was a schoolteacher from Beatty, wherever that was.

“Gateway to Death Valley,” she said, shouting over the din.

“Oh, right,” he said. They brag about that in Beatty?

“Mines,” she said, “that’s what we have there. Though several have closed.”

“That’s why we need to vote the bastards out,” Hagen blurted out.

She frowned. Maybe it was the word bastards, maybe because he was one of the bastards she’d like to vote out, but before he could apologize, her face brightened. “You’re wonderful!” she screamed in obvious delight.

It took Hagen a second to realize that behind him Governor Shea was drawing near, using his big smile like a snowplow. Shea directed the smile at the teacher, gave her a thumbs-up, said, “Thank you, good to see you,” and patted her on the shoulder. Then the governor shook Hagen ’s hand-they’d never met-and before his grip even eased he was moving his eyes to the next person in the crowd. That was it. But the postcoital look on the schoolteacher’s face gave Hagen an immediate lesson about politics. Being young and attractive had nothing to do with being president but a lot to do with getting elected.

Hagen leaned toward her ear. “So I take it you saw Governor Shea’s speech?”

“One hears a speech,” she said, frowning again.

“Right,” he said.

She put her mouth next to Hagen ’s ear. “Allow me to save you some time, sir,” she said. “I’ve never crossed party lines in my life, but I’m doing so in November, to vote against you.”

She pulled back from him, batting her eyes to underscore the sarcasm.

What was he supposed to say, Lady, my opponent’s dead? “Well, okay,” he said, patting her on the shoulder, unconsciously mimicking Shea. “Good to see you.”

Hagen slithered through the crowd. Packed as the ballroom was, there was hardly anyone in line at the bar. Nearly everyone was gawking at the many celebrities.

Fontane, Shea, and A