The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
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written document proving his ownership of the shares, to preclude any treachery. Don 
Corleone had been horrified. “I would trust you with my whole fortune,” he told the 
president. “I would trust you with my life and the welfare of my children. It is 
inconceivable to me that you would ever trick me or otherwise betray me. My whole 
world, all my faith in my judgment of human character would collapse. Of course I have 
my own written records so that if something should happen to me my heirs would know 
that you hold something in trust for them. But I know that even if I were not here in this 
world to guard the interests of my children, you would be faithful to their needs.” 
The president of the bank, though not Sicilian, was a man of tender sensibilities. He 
understood the Don perfectly. Now the Godfather’s request was the president’s 
command and so on a Saturday afternoon, the executive suite of the bank, the inference 
room with its deep leather chairs, its absolute privacy, was made available to the 
Families. 
Security at the bank was taken over by a small army of handpicked men wearing bank 
guard uniforms. At ten o’clock on a Saturday morning the conference room began to fill 
up. Besides the Five Families of New York, there were representatives from ten other 
Families across the country, with the exception of Chicago, that black sheep of their 
world. They had given up trying to civilize Chicago, and they saw no point in including 
those mad dogs in this important conference. 
A bar had been set up and a small buffet. Each representative to the conference had 
been allowed one aide. Most of the Dons had brought their Consiglieres as aides so 
there were comparatively few young men in the room. Tom Hagen was one of those 
young men and the only one who was not Sicilian. He was an object of curiosity, a freak. 
Hagen knew his manners. He did not speak, he did not smile. He waited on his boss, 
Don Corleone, with all the respect of a favorite earl waiting on his king; bringing him a 
cold drink, lighting his cigar, positioning his ashtray; with respect but no 
obsequiousness. 
Hagen was the only one in that room who knew the identity of the portraits hanging on 
the dark paneled walls. They were mostly portraits of fabulous financial figures done in 
rich oils. One was of Secretary of the Treasury Hamilton. Hagen could not help thinking 
that Hamilton might have approved of this peace meeting being held in a banking 
institution. Nothing was more calming, more conducive to pure reason, than the 
atmosphere of money. 

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