The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
44
asked. There was just a trace of condescension in his voice. 
Hagen ignored the condescension. He explained. “You’ve got some labor trouble 
coming up. My friend can absolutely guarantee to make that trouble disappear. You 
have a top male star who makes a lot of money for your studio but he just graduated 
from marijuana to heroin. My friend will guarantee that your male star won’t be able to 
get any more heroin. And if some other little things come up over the years a phone call 
to me can solve your problems.” 
Jack Woltz listened to this as if he were hearing the boasting of a child. Then he said 
harshly, his voice deliberately all East Side, “You trying to put muscle on me?” 
Hagen said coolly, “Absolutely not. I’ve come to ask a service for a friend. I’ve tried to 
explain that you won’t lose anything by it.” 
Almost as if he willed it, Woltz made his face a mask of anger. The mouth curled, his 
heavy brows, dyed black, contracted to form a thick line over his glinting eyes. He 
leaned over the desk toward Hagen. “All right, you smooth son of a bitch, let me lay it on 
the line for you and your boss, whoever he is. Johnny Fontane never gets that movie. I 
don’t care how many guinea Mafia goombahs come out of the woodwork.” He leaned 
back. “A word of advice to you, my friend. J. Edgar Hoover, I assume you’ve heard of 
him”– Woltz smiled sardonically– “is a personal friend of mine. If I let him know I’m being 
pressured, you guys will never know what hit you.” 
Hagen listened patiently. He had expected better from a man of Woltz’s stature. Was it 
possible that a man who acted this stupidly could rise to the head of a company worth 
hundreds of millions? That was something to think about since the Don was looking for 
new things to put money into, and if the top brains of this industry were so dumb, movies 
might be the thing. The abuse itself bothered him not at all. Hagen had learned the art of 
negotiation from the Don himself. “Never get angry,” the Don had instructed. “Never 
make a threat. Reason with people.” The word “reason” sounded so much better in 
Italian, ragione, to rejoin. The art of this was to ignore all insults, all threats; to turn the 
other cheek. Hagen had seen the Don sit at a negotiating table for eight hours, 
swallowing insults, trying to persuade a notorious and megalomaniac strong-arm man to 
mend his ways. At the end of the eight hours Don Corleone had thrown up his hands in 
a helpless gesture and said to the other men at the table, “But no one can reason with 
this fellow,” and had stalked out of the meeting room. The strong-arm man had turned 
white with fear. Emissaries were sent to bring the Don back into the room. An 

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