The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
47
The horse inside the stall was, even to Hagen’s inexperienced eyes, a beautiful animal. 
Khartoum’s skin was jet black except for a diamond-shaped white patch on his huge 
forehead. The great brown eyes glinted like golden apples, the black skin over the taut 
body was silk. Woltz said with childish pride, “The greatest racehorse in the world. I 
bought him in England last year for six hundred grand. I bet even the Russian Czars 
never paid that much for a single horse. But I’m not going to race him, I’m going to put 
him to stud. I’m going to build the greatest racing stable this country has ever known.” 
He stroked the horse’s mane and called out softly, “Khartoum, Khartoum.” There was 
real love in his voice and the animal responded. Woltz said to Hagen, “I’m a good 
horseman, you know, and the first time I ever rode I was fifty years old.” He laughed. 
“Maybe one of my grandmothers in Russia got raped by a Cossack and I got his blood.” 
He tickled Khartoum’s belly and said with sincere admiration, “Look at that cock on him. 
I should have such a cock.” 
They went back to the mansion to have dinner. It was served by three waiters under the 
command of a butler, the table linen and ware were all gold thread and silver, but Hagen 
found the food mediocre. Woltz obviously lived alone, and just as obviously was not a 
man who cared about food. Hagen waited until they had both lit up huge Havana cigars 
before he asked Woltz, “Does Johnny get it or not?” 
“I can’t,” Woltz said. “I can’t put Johnny into that picture even if I wanted to. The 
contracts are all signed for all the performers and the cameras roll next week. There’s 
no way I can swing it.” 
Hagen said impatiently, “Mr. Woltz, the big advantage of dealing with a man at the top is 
that such an excuse is not valid. You can do anything you want to do.” He puffed on his 
cigar. “Don’t you believe my client can keep his promises?” 
Woltz said dryly, “I believe that I’m going to have labor trouble. Goff called me up on 
that, the son of a bitch, and the way he talked to me you’d never guess I pay him a 
hundred grand a year under the table. And I believe you can get that fag he-man star of 
mine off heroin. But I don’t care about that and I can finance my own pictures. Because I 
hate that bastard Fontane. Tell your boss this is one favor I can’t give but that he should 
try me again on anything else. Anything at all.” 
Hagen thought, you sneaky bastard, then why the hell did you bring me all the way out 
here? The producer had something on his mind. Hagen said coldly, “I don’t think you 
understand the situation. Mr. Corleone is Johnny Fontane’s godfather. That is a very 

---