[Chapter 41: Almost Turned Into a Comedic Villain]
"Thank you!" Charlie adjusted his collar, his face serious as he expressed his gratitude. At this moment, he put away his usually reckless and carefree nature -- a personality shaped by years of having no one to keep him in check -- and became solemn and earnest. It gave him the appearance of a mature, reliable figure, fitting the common image people had of a seasoned leader.
Officers like Augustin and Gert couldn't help but glance at him with surprise, each having their own thoughts. Charlie paid no mind to them, nor did he beat around the bush or converse further with Gert. He figured those who needed to know, already knew. At least, there was nothing more to gain from Augustin.
His mind raced, analyzing the resources he could mobilize. With very little intel in hand, Charlie relied on his years of complex competitive thinking and sharp sixth sense to guess. It seemed he'd unknowingly gotten pulled right into the intense rivalry's eye of the storm. That was troublesome! People caught in such situations often met brutal ends, even worse than cannon fodder caught between two forces. His luck sure was rotten to run into this. When he met the chief later, he had to hang on to this slim chance, figure out the situation, and find a solution fast.
The more he thought, the grimmer his expression became. This kind of situation was extremely rare in his two lives. Unfortunately, his readiness and mental preparation were wasted efforts.
...
After entering the police station, Augustin led Charlie and Gert to an office. With a few clerks as witnesses, they proceeded with routine questions:
"Where were you last night?"
"Who were you with?"
Before leaving, Augustin politely said, "Mr. Corleone, we will have more questions for you later. Please wait here. If you need anything -- meals or otherwise -- we can arrange it and cover the cost."
Charlie was stunned as the door closed behind them. Gert sat down, whispering in disbelief, "Boss, what's going on?"
Charlie crossed his legs, covering his face pretending to massage a headache, his voice calm, "Relax, I have a rough idea. I need to make a few calls."
"Okay!" Gert breathed out. Had he paid closer attention, he would have seen Charlie's ears flush visibly red.
Charlie felt embarrassed. He wished he could crawl into a hole right then. Luckily, no one knew his inner turmoil. Damn it, he thought to himself -- Charlie Corleone, smart as he was, had almost made a huge blunder, almost becoming the laughing stock villain in a movie.
Taking a deep breath, he glanced at Gert, and at their eye contact, immediately pulled out his phone and quickly called Ophir and Colombo.
...
Inside the station, Augustin knocked on the chief's office door and entered, reporting the mission details. The chief, with silver hair and a scruffy beard, chuckled softly, "Interesting kid. Seems a bit clever."
He waved off the staff, grabbed his private phone, and dialed a number.
"Hey buddy, it's me. We've got a temporary handle on things. The kid's cooperative -- he seems aware of his predicament. What's the next move? Should we use him as bait, or do you have intel to cut off the 'Breakfast' remnants directly?"
On the other end, in a high-rise office in Washington, a lean middle-aged man laughed heartily, "Royle, I think we overreacted. The latest shows our worries were unnecessary."
"Oh?"
"The kid there dying won't make much difference. Those guys picked the wrong target. Corleone's background is interesting -- his grandfather's father had ties to the Italian Mafia."
Royale responded swiftly, "That wild guy?"
"Exactly!" the man said with a smile. "The Breakfast crew just thought the other was a celebrity, assuming his grandfather was a Texas redneck. They're stuck in the same old foolishness."
"I see," Royale shook his head with a smile, "For a moment, I thought they were back from the dead. So, the hip-hop clowns aren't involved."
"Right. Those rap fools usually hype each other up, but this time it got out of hand. Some stupid thug fan killed someone."
"Yeah, idiots like that aren't rare. I remember back in the day..." Royale sneered.
The two bosses relaxed, even chatting idly, gossiping about crazed fans like Jodie Foster's and John Lennon's assassination.
Soon, Royale asked, "Need me to do anything else?"
"The hip-hop idiot has been dealt with. The other party provided clues and the FBI is taking action. Don't worry about that little guy."
"Alright, or should I try using him as bait?"
"Not much use. There are plenty of leads. The Breakfast folks probably don't have the energy. But if you're bored, go ahead," said the lean man casually.
To these individuals, Charlie was as good as invisible.
...
Meanwhile, at the Bad Boys Records company in New York, the boss waved his hands angrily, cursing, "Idiots, they actually killed someone. How are we supposed to make money with tensions this high? Now I have to clean up this mess."
In the conference room, other flashy-dressed African-American slackers sat around. The boss glared at the tallest, heaviest guy, barking, "Listen, BIG. I've arranged with the middleman on the death row inmate -- fifty million to settle this. We'll both divert attention to that damn Godfather. This money comes out of your record budget, and you'll do interviews expressing mourning."
"Why?" Wallace shouted aggressively.
"Because if you don't want to die, you need to cool things down! I busted my ass -- even dealing with the, uh, you know... So if you want to keep making money and stay famous, cooperate. Also, later, we need to find a way to hype up the dead inmate into the next Tupac."
Wallace was displeased, swearing, but powerless to change the boss's mind.
...
At Death Row Records in Beverly Hills, from Suge Knight down to the guy changing water coolers, everyone was even angrier, smashing up the meeting room. But Suge still looked grim, saying, "That's how it is. In a few years, I'll take out Wallace to avenge Tupac. But now, we need to make money, wait..."
He took a call in a corner, "Yes, thanks for your support, but we're under close watch. You have to handle this yourselves. Our cooperation ends here!"
...
On the other end, in a rundown factory basement in Oakland, a scruffy old black man slammed the table and crushed his phone. Looking at the group, he said grimly, "They're all a bunch of wimps. We have to rely on ourselves. Torturing and killing that filmmaker will awaken the Panthers' fear of being hunted. Time's short. Let's hurry! And tomorrow, friends, there will be a hearty breakfast."
The group shouted in unison, "Everyone deserves a hearty breakfast!"
...
[A/N: I made up both sides' reactions based on my logic, even though I think reality may be absurd and emotions irrational. The "Breakfast" codeword refers to the Panthers, just something I invented since Panthers are associated with the start of breakfast.
Don't worry, these are just small troubles for Charlie. He'll still be able to seize opportunities from crises to grow faster. The main story still centers on entertainment and film business with these being just side elements, so no worries about divertions.
All these setups are long-prepared, to help the protagonist build networks and better reflect the chaotic critiques of America.
The mental digressions in this chapter add some comic relief to a heavy plot, which I felt was off character for him, but I did my best. If you feel the same, please pardon me.]
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