Nicolo Mephistophelio senior (“Old Nick”) nervously fingered his neatly trimmed, gray, Beelzebub-type chin whiskers as he dropped into his luxurious easy chair at the head of the mahogany conference table. It was just 9 a.m. but he had been up some four hours already in order that he might tend to his religious duties, a daily practice with Nicolo from as far back as he could remember—from his childhood in Sicily, a long time ago since he was now in his 70s. He had breakfasted on his way home from mass and was free to relax for a brief spell before plunging into his busy, secular routine.
He was alone, for the moment, in this front room of his mansion atop the hill just inside the southern limits of the City in a swank neighborhood populated mainly by Yankee tycoons from the world of high finance. Nicolo relished the knowledge, gained from his bookish son Nicolo jr., a Senior at Harvard Business School, that these aristocratic neighbors—like himself—were descended from a line of highly questionable characters—in their cases slave traders. It made him, a Mafia Godfather, feel comfortable to be living—as he would jokingly put it to his close business associates—among his professional colleagues.
The spacious front room in which he sat, ostentatiously furnished and decorated with a mixture of modern American business slogans: GO GETTEM!, DO IT NOW!, etc., and pictures of American and Sicilian scenes and dignitaries, served as the head office of the Mephistophelio Family operations—an extensive network of legal, borderline, and strictly illegal businesses running from the processing and purveying of olive oil to the production and distribution of drugs-licit and illicit. His staff was by now in place in the various offices that were scattered throughout the mansion but no meetings were scheduled that morning in the conference room—none but the private session he awaited with his son, “Young Nick”. Nicolo jr. was so-dubbed by those who knew him well because of his being thought of as a carbon copy of his father in the fiendishness of his business acumen. The strategy involved in the selection of Harvard Business School for this scion of the Mephistophelio Family was a polishing job that would add a distinguishable and brand new touch of suavity and respectability to this ancient Sicilian clan.
But “Old Nick”, usually outwardly calm and collected, seemed greatly upset on this particular morning. He had been alternating his gaze between the pictures, charts, and business-oriented slogans on the walls and the breathtaking sweep of woodland park surrounding his mansion, a park that afforded him temporary escape from his business cares, astride his Arabian horse or putting golf balls on his private links. Finally, he might be seen—had anyone suddenly entered the room—arms on table cradling his head, in an attitude of fatigue—or dejection.
Whatever it was that bothered Nicolo’s thoughts on this morning would not seem to have been related to his health. He appeared, for a man of his years, to be in fine shape. His rugged, five foot eleven inch frame and clear eyes almost suggested a much younger man—a man of this late 20th century, sophisticated, variety. Considering the dangers involved in the life of a Mafia Godfather—the threats against life and limb—”Old Nick” might well have been forgiven had he begun to reflect that the life of a Mafioso capitalist was no bed of roses, that it was time he retired to some Mediterranean island or other. But the racketeering way of life was bred in his bones and now he had a terrible worry eating at his vitals— the worry about his son’s future, for he had begun to suspect, strongly, that something was going wrong with the Harvard strategy. Was his son who had been destined to take over control of the Mephistophelio empire planning on abandoning the ship—going legit?
Yes! It was ironical, he thought. He, the father, had been so proud that his son had been accepted into Harvard Business School and was on the verge of graduating. He had been trained by the cream of the legit economist crop and “Old Nick” had firmly believed that this fact would be of invaluable importance to the fortunes of the Mephistophelio operations. But now, as “Old Nick” awaited this meeting with his son, he just knew in his heart that he would get the message—and that it would be bad news for him. “Young Nick”, influenced by his professors and by his society buddies at Harvard, would announce his official rejection of the Mafioso way of doing business. He would have been sold that bill of goods—that the Harvard way is the pinnacle of proper enterprise while the rackets were nothing but bad business. The liberal fraternity of Harvard must have gotten to him, perverted his way of thinking!
He heard his son’s entrance and cheery “hello” and he snapped into alertness. The moment had arrived. “Old Nick” straightened his shoulders, resolved to summon every argument he could remember in defense of his heritage. He would concede nothing other than that aura of sophisticated respectability attached to Harvard; something he had already conceded when he had encouraged his son to enrol there. He was ready.
“Young Nick” was an athletically-built, dark featured, handsome enough fellow attired now in riding breeches, spurs, red blazer, cocked and plumed hat, and carrying a whip. He sat in a chair facing his father. “Yes, Papa,” he spoke in a tone suggesting reverence, although not necessarily deference. “Young Nick” had arrived at an age at which he was certain that he knew much more than did his father about how society and the world were put together. And he was about to demonstrate to his own satisfaction, at least, that he certainly did. “Sorry about my delay” he said apologetically. “I was dressing for a chukker of polo—I’ve just been admitted to the Society at School. But I had something else on my mind so it took me a bit longer than I’d figured.”
Ah yes! Something else on his mind, thought “Old Nick”, but he managed a smile: “That’s OK, Nicolo.” He looked his son over approvingly. Although there was that fearsome worry attached, he felt a vicarious thrill at the acceptance of his son by High Society—and how much higher could one get in Society than Harvard Business School? His son was truly, now, in the same league as his aristocratic Yankee neighbours. True, some of the professors—he had been warned by Father Bulloni over at the Cathedral—were liberal do-gooders, even Communists or Communist dupes—to use an expression of his late hero, Senator Joseph McCarthy. There was that fellow Galbraith, for example: an advocate of socialism, Bolloni maintained and he, “Old Nick”, had in fact listened to some of those TV and radio debates between Galbraith and Bill Buckley, the beloved defender of the Faith and of the American Way—which was not necessarily “Old Nick'”s way but which was certainly better than “Galbraith’s socialism”. But “Old Nick” had not imagined that his son would waste his time listening to the arguments of offbeat political reformers: not until recently had he suspected this. And the old man was now even beginning to fear that a type of mental illness that had afflicted his late wife some years back was beginning to disturb her son. He had even been compelled to have her incarcerated, for a time, where she had undergone electric shock treatment. He shot an anxious glance at “Young Nick”‘s eyes as the memory gripped him momentarily. He recalled that it had not been easy to distinguish many of the inmates—when on visits to his wife—from mentally sound visitors.
He snapped out of his momentary reverie and reached for a parodi, an action that caused “Young Nick” to brace himself. The aroma from a previous, partially smoked stogie hung in the air and the son, knowing his father’s infrequent smoking habit, sensed the old man’s inward agitation. He had a strongly educated guess as to why this sudden session had been called; he knew that the time had come for a showdown, and he wasted no time in collecting his thoughts in order to be able to present his case as forcefully—yet with gentleness—as possible.
“Old Nick” lit up, blew a smoke ring or two, then looked his son squarely in the eye. “Yes, Nicolo, he said. “Polo is wonderful and there is no reason why you should not indulge in it although you should also spend time at the boccie games among our countrymen in the North End. We must not divorce ourselves altogether from our Old Culture in our social life. But now I want to talk to you about something much more important. You must realize, of course, that I want you to become the Numero Uno of all of my enterprises and you can take over immediately after your graduation—that will be your graduation present. Of course it will take some time before you really catch on to how everything should be done but I will still be around to help you and to give you good advice. I’ll be in the backghround, like those old retired professors at your college—those emeritus people, you call them don’t you? And everybody will know and will give you the respect and the honor that they should give you. With your college background and your financial power you can even make it big in politics some day!”
The die was finally cast! The old man had gotten it out and now he sat silently, puffing on his parodi, awaiting his son’s response with ill-concealed tenseness.
“Young Nick” was silent for a moment, mentally polishing his approach. Finally, “Papa,” he said respectfully, speaking slowly and with just a trace of nervousness showing, “I, too, have wanted to discuss my future with you for some time now. I’ve been putting it off but now it is time to tell you about my plans. I’m going to establish my own business and it is going to be a strictly legit operation. I’m going into food processing—from antipastos to spumoni with every known variety of pasta and sauce—maybe even some that are not known, entirely new ones. I’m going to make the Mephistophelio name famous instead of infamous. I’m going to be regarded as a public benefactor because I’m going to provide plenty of jobs at wages—I’ll be thought of as a pillar of society and of the Church . . .”
It had come; his fears were well taken; the respectable do-gooders had gotten to his son. “Old Nick” was out of his chair in a flash, one hand raised with index finger wagging. “Look here, my boy, I too am a pillar of society and of the Church and a public benefactor. I provide plenty of jobs at wages, I make generous donations to the Church and to all sorts of Charities …” He was flushed and “Young Nick” became nervous.
“Papa, your blood pressure. Remember your doctor warned you to keep away from tense situations. Relax, please, and let me explain why I think the rackets make no sense.” The old man sat down and tried to calm down, resolving to hear his son out but with a mixture of puzzlement and worry in his expression. “Go ahead, Nicolo, explain to me why the empire that I and my father and grandfather built makes no sense, why all of this” he waved his hand to indicate the mansion and the estate, in general, “why all of this makes no sense.”
“Young Nick” was by now forced into making a fast mental decision. His father’s few words spoken thus far underlined the importance to the economy of Organized Crime and even the wide social acceptance, by respectable elements, of prominent and powerful crime figures such as his father. How could he forget the extravagant parties that his father had sponsored, on occasion, at which many of the most prominent and influential representatives from the world of politics, entertainment and Society were honoured to attend? He must scrap that part of his argument and get down to the meat—the substance.
“Papa,” he said, “the fact is that the rackets make no sense because legit operation gives you everything you can make actually gratis—at least in the long run. And the most beautiful part of it all is that the very people who are producing all of this legit wealth for you and making you a present of it—these same employees regard you as a public benefactor because you are giving them the chance to do this for you. All they ask is that you pay them enough to make a living. . .”
“Old Nick” was really visibly shaken by now. He noted the crafty glint in his son’s eye but mistook it for incipient insanity. “Nicolo,” he said soothingly, “you’ve been studying too hard lately—hitting the books, like you call it. I know that too much of that college stuff, crammed into your head, can be bad for you mentally.” In fact, “Old Nick” had even heard of cases of college students committing suicide because of pressure of their studies and he became genuinely worried. “Nicolo,” he urged, pleadingly, “you’d better take a few days off before those final exams—forget the books, relax completely. Why don’t you take some of those society sweethearts of yours up to the mountains?”
“Young Nick” smiled broadly. “Papa, I know that I must sound to you like I’m losing my marbles. But please hear me out. You know as much about legit enterprise as the average business man—after all, you do run all sorts of respectable businesses along with the racketeering. But like just about all businessmen you think that your profits come from your ability to take advantage of your competitors and the people you buy your merchandise from and those you sell it to. That helps, of course, but it really doesn’t explain anything because those people, those other business people you deal with are taking it away from you as fast as you take it from them—or, if not from you, then from others. All that is happening is a continual redistribution of all of that wealth that is out there. . .”
“Old Nick” shrugged his shoulders, leaned back in his chair and watched his son with narrowing eyes. He would hear him out before coming to any decision on what to try to do with him. He could not restrain himself, however, from blurting out one question that was now eating at his vitals: “Do you mean to tell me that they are teaching you that kind of Communist garbage at Harvard Business School? Am I giving them my good dough to fill your head with that nonsense?”
“Young Nick” laughed. “Of course not, Papa. You can’t run businesses on that brand of economics. They don’t even make too much out of it in the Communist countries although it doesn’t seem to hurt any that some of the top executives may very well understand the process. No. I didn’t get my understanding from Harvard. I got it on my own by studying the kind of texts my professors either put down or mention only in passing.” He paused for a moment to make certain that the old man was reasonably calm—in a mood to pay attention to what he was about to say. “Old Nick” was not smiling but he did wave his son on.
“Go ahead, Nicolo,” he said, “explain how the legit operators get everything gratis; how their raw materials, plant space, machinery, taxes, insurances, cost them zilch. And the wages we pay out. How can you say that is not a cost to us?”
“Look, Papa,” “Young Nick” spoke slowly, stressing his words, “of course you have to lay out dough for wages. But that money comes from a fund provided by the sale of what your workers have already produced. It’s a continuous process once the operation has been founded and the workers are actually producing the money that you use to pay them the wages that you pay them.They’ve got to or you wouldn’t keep them long, would you?” He looked sharply at his father’s expression and he seemed to detect an alteration in it—a glimmer of understanding, he hoped.
“And not only that, Papa,” “Young Nick” went on, “neither you nor any other business man is in business simply because most people must have jobs at wages in order to live. Of course if it wasn’t for that fact you couldn’t be in business, to begin with but your object can’t be simply to provide jobs for working people. You have to pay all of your expenses of operation and you have go have a good margin left over to enjoy life, too. So those workers of yours have to produce a value far greater than what they get from their wages. . .”
The old man shifted uneasily in his chair. “And you mean to tell me, Nicolo, that my brains and abilities have nothing to do with it? That all those long hours that I put in are of no importance?”
“Of course what you do is important,” “Young Nick” assured him. “But what you do has to do with protecting your interests, not in creating your wealth. And anyway, you’re big enough now to be able to hire the best brains that Harvard turns out to look after your interests. The point that I’m trying to make though, is that the rackets make no sense because all those people out there who work jobs at wages in order to live and raise their families are making you an offer that you just can’t sensibly refuse.”
The old man sat silent, obviously mulling it all over. “Young Nick” then administered his coup de grace: “Look, Papa,” he said, “let me give you an analogy. Supposing we were to make an offer like this to any of those workers nervousness you or who will work for me. Let’s say that we offer to take his shiny, new car to use in our business. We use it for eight hours each working day, we provide the gas, oil, and maintenance to keep it operating efficiently for us; letting its owner have it after working hours, even giving him enough to run it during his leisure hours. You know that he wouldn’t go for a deal like that. Not with his car you can be sure. But he does it with himself and he’s convinced that there’s nothing else he could do and that this is how it’s supposed to be. . . With all of the talk about socialism and communism in more than half of the world that’s the way things operate in those countries, too. The goverments might be the legal owners but the basics are the same the world over. The legit operators—private like here or bureaucratic wheeler-dealers like in the Communiutst countries—have it made. It just doesn’t make sense to get involved with the rackets when you’ve got a deal like that. It’s an offer I can’t refuse.”
He had been watching his old man’s face carefully while he was making his pitch. He could see the conflicting emotions as “Old Nick” seemed to be assimilating the message; he could almost see the wheels in his father’s head turning. “Young Nick” sensed that he had made a sale. “Old Nick” smiled his most devilish smile. He stood up and seized his son’s hand. “Nicolo,” he boomed: “You’re on! I’m going to go all-out legit. You want a partner in your Mephistophelio Pasta Company?”
Harry Morrison
(WSPUS)
