The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
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Johnny Fontane it seemed impossible that he would take a girl away from a close friend 
like Nino. And why was Nino saying he wasn’t jealous a year after it happened? The 
same thought crossed both their minds, that Nino was drinking himself to death 
romantically because a girl had left him to go with Johnny Fontane. 
Jules checked Nino again. “I’ll get a nurse to be in the room with you tonight,” Jules 
said. “You really have to stay in bed for a couple of days. No kidding.” 
Nino smiled. “OK, Doc, just don’t make the nurse too pretty.” 
Jules made a call for the nurse and then he and Lucy left. Johnny sat in a chair near the 
bed to wait for the nurse. Nino was falling asleep again, an exhausted took on his face. 
Johnny thought about what he had said, about not being jealous about what had 
happened over a year ago with those two broads down in Palm Springs. The thought 
had never entered his head that Nino might be jealous. 
* * *
A year ago Johnny Fontane had sat in his plush office, the office of the movie company 
he headed, and felt as lousy as he had ever felt in his life. Which was surprising 
because the first movie he had produced, with himself as star and Nino in a featured 
part, was making tons of money. Everything had worked. Everybody had done their job. 
The picture was brought in under budget. Everybody was going to make a fortune out of 
it and Jack Woltz was losing ten years of his life. Now Johnny had two more pictures in 
production, one starring himself, one starring Nino. Nino was great on the screen as one 
of those charming, dopey lover-boys that women loved to shove between their tits. Little 
boy lost. Everything he touched made money, it was rolling in. The Godfather was 
getting his percentage through the bank, and that made Johnny feel really good. He had 
justified his Godfather’s faith. But today that wasn’t helping much. 
And now that he was a successful independent movie producer he had as much power, 
maybe more, than he had ever had as a singer. Beautiful broads felt all over him just 
like before, though for a more commercial reason. He had his own plane, he lived more 
lavishly even, with the special tax benefits a businessman had that artists didn’t get. 
Then what the hell was bothering him? 
He knew what it was. The front of his head hurt, his nasal passages hurt, his throat 
itched. The only way he could scratch and relieve that itch was by singing and he was 
afraid to even try. He had called Jules Segal about it, when it would be safe to try to sing 
and Jules had said anytime he felt like it. So he’d tried and sounded so hoarse and 

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