The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
58
Hagen said hopefully, “He’ll be here at ten in the morning.” Maybe the Don would go for 
it. 
“I’ll want you both here with me,” the Don said. He rose, stretching, and took his son by 
the arm. “Santino, get some sleep tonight, you look like the devil himself. Take care of 
yourself, you won’t be young forever.” 
Sonny, encouraged by this sign of fatherly concern, asked the question Hagen did not 
dare to ask. “Pop, what’s your answer going to be?” 
Don Corleone smiled. “How do I know until I hear the percentages and other details? 
Besides I have to have time to think over the advice given here tonight. After all, I’m not 
a man who does things rashly.” As he went out the door he said casually to Hagen, “Do 
you have in your notes that the Turk made his living from prostitution before the war? As 
the Tattaglia family does now. Write that down before you forget.” There was just a 
touch of derision in the Don’s voice and Hagen flushed. He had deliberately not 
mentioned it, legitimately so since it really had no bearing, but he had feared it might 
prejudice the Don’s decision. He was notoriously straitlaced in matters of sex. 
* * *
Virgil “the Turk” Sollozzo was a powerfully built, medium-sized man of dark complexion 
who could have been taken for a true Turk. He had a scimitar of a nose and cruel black 
eyes. He also had an impressive dignity. 
Sonny Corleone met him at the door and brought him into the office where Hagen and 
the Don waited. Hagen thought he had never seen a more dangerous-looking man 
except for Luca Brasi. 
There were polite handshakings all around. If the Don ever asks me if this man has 
balls, I would have to answer yes, Hagen thought. He had never seen such force in one 
man, not even the Don. In fact the Don appeared at his worst. He was being a little too 
simple, a little too peasantlike in his greeting. 
Sollozzo came to the point immediately. The business was narcotic. Everything was set 
up. Certain poppy fields in Turkey had pledged him certain amounts every year. He had 
a protected plant in France to convert into morphine. He had an absolutely secure plant 
in Sicily to process into heroin. Smuggling into both countries was as positively safe as 
such matters could be. Entry into the United States would entail about five percent 
losses since the FBI itself was incorruptible, as they both knew. But the profits would be 
enormous, the risk nonexistent. 

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