"That was an afternoon thirty years ago. I boarded a train bound for San Diego to discuss business with some Mexicans. On the train, an Italian approached me. He said his name was Richie and that he came from Sicily. We talked for a while on the train..."
In the study at Falcone Estate, the Old Godfather's voice sounded like a faded record. Sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains into the room, turning dim and yellowed. Schiller was not seated opposite him, but on a sofa to one side, clipping a cigar with a cutter.
The cigar smoke was as thick as layered waves of clouds along the horizon at sunset. Shapes that invited endless imagination drifted amid the billowing haze, like a realistic oil painting unique to a bygone era.
To the clatter of the train rolling over the tracks and the long wail of its whistle, a dark-brown-haired man sat in a carriage reading the newspaper.
With a click, the compartment door opened. Another man in a long trench coat took off his hat and held it against his chest. He bowed his head to one side in greeting and said in Italian, "Good day, Mr. Falcone. My name is Richie. I come from Sicily."
Young Falcone lowered his newspaper and looked at Richie as he entered the compartment. He replied in Italian as well, "Hello, Richie. You came looking for me?"
Falcone's Italian accent was entirely different from Richie's. The ends of his sentences always dropped, the only thing he had taken with him from his hometown of Rome. It made his tone sound somewhat cold.
But Richie did not care. He walked over and sat across from Falcone. "I heard you came from Gotham and intended to travel to California. I boarded this train specifically to