The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
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some sort on your vocal cords, in your larynx. If you stay here the next few hours, we 
can nail it down, whether it’s malignant or nonmalignant. We can make a decision for 
surgery or treatment. I can give you the whole story. I can give you the name of a top 
specialist in America and we can have him out here on the plane tonight, with your 
money that is, and if I think it necessary. But you can walk out of here and see your 
quack buddy or sweat while you decide to see another doctor, or get referred to 
somebody incompetent. Then if it’s malignant and gets big enough they’ll cut out your 
whole larynx or you’ll die. Or you can just sweat. Stick here with me and we can get it all 
squared away in a few hours. You got anything more important to do?” 
Valenti said, “Let’s stick around, Johnny, what the hell. I’ll go down the hall and call the 
studio. I won’t tell them anything, just that we’re held up. Then I’ll come back here and 
keep you company.” 
It proved to be a very long afternoon but a rewarding one. The diagnosis of the staff 
throat man was perfectly sound as far as Jules could see after the X rays and swab 
analysis. Halfway through, Johnny Fontane, his mouth soaked with iodine, retching over 
the roll of gauze stuck in his mouth, tried to gait. Nino Valenti grabbed him by the 
shoulders and slammed him back into a chair. When it was all over Jules grinned at 
Fontane and said, “Warts.” 
Fontane didn’t grasp it. Jules said again. “Just some warts. We’ll slice them right off like 
skin off baloney. In a few months you’ll be OK.” 
Valenti let out a yell but Fontane was still frowning. “How about singing afterward, how 
will it affect my singing?” 
Jules shrugged. “On that there’s no guarantee. But since you can’t sing now what’s the 
difference?” 
Fontane looked at him with distaste. “Kid, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking 
about. You act like you’re giving me good news when what you’re telling me is maybe I 
won’t sing anymore. Is that right, maybe I won’t sing anymore?” 
Finally Jules was disgusted. He’d operated as a real doctor and it had been a pleasure. 
He had done this bastard a real favor and he was acting as if he’d been done dirt. Jules 
said coldly, “Listen, Mr. Fontane, I’m a doctor of medicine and you can call me Doctor, 
not kid. And I did give you very good news. When I brought you down here I was certain 
that you had a malignant growth in your larynx which would entail cutting out your whole 
voice box. Or which could kill you. I was worried that I might have to tell you that you 

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