The Family Corleone

18.

In the dream, someone, a man, is floating away from Sonny on a raft. Sonny is in a tunnel or a cave, the light eerie and shimmering, the way it gets before a storm. He’s in a riverbed up to his knees. He splashes through water. He’s definitely in a cave; water drips like rain from the darkness over his head as rough stone walls sweat and release little waterfalls into the river. He can just make out a man’s shape in the distance, moving swiftly, perched atop the raft as a fast-moving current pulls it around a bend. The cave is in a jungle full of monkey chatter and bird squawks under the rhythmic chanting and drumbeat of natives who are hidden among trees. One second Sonny is splashing through water in patent leather shoes and a three-piece suit trying to catch up to the raft, and the next he’s looking up into Eileen’s eyes as she leans over him and touches his cheek with the palm of her hand. They’re in Eileen’s bed. Outside a low rumble of thunder growled as it rolled through the streets and built toward a window-shaking boom followed by a violent gust of wind that rattled the venetian blinds and sent a pair of sheer white curtains flying back at right angles to the wall. Eileen slammed the window down and then sat up beside Sonny and brushed hair off his forehead. “What were you dreaming?” she asked. “You were moaning and thrashing.”

Sonny propped a second pillow under his head and pulled himself up out of his dream. He laughed a little and said, “Tarzan the Ape Man. I saw it last Saturday at the Rialto.”

Eileen slid down beside him, under a faded green blanket. She held a silvery cigarette lighter and a pack of Wings as she craned her neck and watched the window. A sudden downpour beat against the glass and filled the room with the sound of rain and wind. “This is nice,” she said, and she tapped two cigarettes out of the pack and handed one to Sonny.

Sonny took the lighter from her and looked it over. He had to fiddle with it a bit before he figured out how it worked, and then he squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger and the top popped up, unleashing a blue flame. He lit Eileen’s cigarette and then his own.

Eileen found an ashtray on the night table beside the bed and settled it on the blanket over her knees. “And who were you in this dream, then,” she asked, “Johnny Weissmuller?”

The dream had already faded from Sonny’s memory. “I was in the jungle, I think.”

“With Maureen O’Sullivan, I don’t doubt. Now, she’s a great Irish beauty, don’t you think?”

Sonny inhaled a lungful of smoke and waited a second before he answered. He liked the light golden brown of Eileen’s eyes and how they seemed as though they were somehow lighted up in contrast to the fairness of her skin framed by her hair, which was tousled a little in a way that made her look like a kid. “I think you’re a great Irish beauty,” he said. He found her hand under the covers and entwined his fingers with hers.

Eileen laughed and said, “Aren’t you the Casanova, Sonny Corleone?”

Sonny let go of her hand and sat up straight.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Nah,” Sonny answered. “Only I don’t like it, the Casanova remark.”

“And why’s that?” Eileen found his hand again and held it. “I didn’t mean anything.”

“I know…” Sonny took a moment to gather his thoughts. “My father,” he said, “that’s what he thinks of me. I’m a sciupafemmine, a playboy. Take my word for it: It’s not a compliment.”

“Ah, Sonny…” Eileen’s tone suggested that Sonny’s father had a point.

“I’m young,” Sonny said. “This is America, not some village in Sicily.”

“True enough,” Eileen said. “Anyway, I thought Italians were expected to be great lovers.”

“Why? Rudy Valentino?” Sonny stubbed out his cigarette. “Chasing around after women is not considered manly among Italians. It’s a sign of a weak character.”

“And this is what your father thinks of you, that you have a weak character?”

“Jesus Christ,” Sonny said, and he threw up his hands in frustration. “I don’t know what my father thinks of me. I can’t do anything right. He treats me like I’m some giamope, him and Clemenza, too. Both of them.”

“Giamope?”

“Jerk.”

“This is because you run around after women?”

“It don’t help.”

“And does it matter to you, Sonny?” Eileen asked. She laid a hand on his thigh. “Is it important to you, what your father thinks?”

“Jeez,” Sonny said. “Sure. Sure it’s important to me.”

Eileen slid away from him. She found a slip on the floor beside the bed and pulled it on over her head. “Forgive me, Sonny…” she said, not looking at him. Then she was quiet a second, the patter of the rain the only sound in the bedroom. “Ah, Sonny,” she went on, “your father’s a gangster, now, isn’t he?”

Sonny answered with a shrug. He threw his legs over the side of the bed and looked around for his underwear.

“What do you have to do to gain the approval of a gangster,” Eileen asked, a sudden touch of anger in her voice, “kill somebody?”

“Wouldn’t hurt, if it was the right person.”

“Jesus Christ,” Eileen said. She sounded furious. An instant later she laughed, as if she had just remembered that this wasn’t any of her business. “Sonny Corleone,” she said, and she watched his back as he pulled on his pants. “All this will get you is heartache.”

“All what will get me?”

Eileen crawled across the bed and wrapped her arms around him. She kissed him on the neck. “You’re a beautiful boy.”

Sonny reached behind him to pat her leg. “I’m no boy.”

“I forgot,” Eileen said, “you’re eighteen now.”

“Don’t make fun of me.” Sonny went about putting on his shoes with Eileen hanging on his back.

“If you don’t want your father to think of you as a sciupafemmine,” Eileen said, mimicking Sonny’s pronunciation of the word exactly, “then marry your sixteen-year-old beauty—”

“Seventeen now,” Sonny said, and he tied his shoelace in a neat bow.

“So marry her,” Eileen repeated, “or get engaged—and then keep that sausage in your pants, or at least be discreet.”

“Be what?”

“Don’t get caught.”

Sonny stopped what he was doing and spun around in Eileen’s arms so that he was facing her. “How do you know when you’re in love with someone?”

“If you have to ask,” she said, and kissed him on the forehead, “you’re not.” She held his cheeks, kissed him again, and then was off the bed and out of the room.

When Sonny finished dressing, he found her at the sink, washing dishes. With the light of the kitchen window behind her, he could see her body’s outline beneath the white cotton slip hanging loosely from her shoulders. She may have been ten years older than Sonny, and she may have been Caitlin’s mother—but hell if he could tell by looking at her. After watching her for only a few seconds, he knew what he really wanted was to get her back in the bedroom.

“What are you staring at?” Eileen asked, without looking up from the pot she was scrubbing. When Sonny didn’t answer, she turned to him, saw the grin on his face, and then looked to the window and down at her slip. “Getting a show, are you?” She rinsed off the dish and placed it in the tub next to the sink.

Sonny came up behind her and kissed her on the back of the neck. “What if I’m in love with you?” he asked.

“You’re not in love with me,” Eileen said. She spun around, wrapped her arms around his waist, and kissed him. “I’m the floozy you’re sowing your wild oats with. You don’t marry a woman like me. You have some fun with her is all.”

“You’re no floozy.” Sonny took her hands in his.

“If I’m not a floozy,” she said, “then what am I doing bedding my little brother’s best friend—or ex–best friend.” She added, as if it were a question she’d been meaning to ask, “And what’s the story between you two?”

“You haven’t been bedding your little brother’s best friend for a long time now, for the record,” Sonny said, “and me and Cork—That’s why I came over here, to try to straighten things out between us.”

“You can’t be coming here by yourself anymore, Sonny.” Eileen squeezed out from between him and the sink and went to get his hat from the shelf beside the front door. “This was sweet,” she said, “but unless you’re with Cork, don’t come here again, please.”

“Che cazzo!” Sonny said. “I only came here after I went to Cork’s place and he wasn’t there!”

“Be that as it may,” Eileen said, holding his fedora over her chest, “you can’t be coming here alone, Sonny Corleone. It won’t do.”

“Doll face,” Sonny said, approaching her, “you’re the one dragged me into bed. I was only looking for Cork.”

“I don’t recall doing much dragging,” Eileen answered. She handed him his hat.

“Okay, so I admit,” Sonny said, and he tossed his hat up onto his head, “you didn’t have to do much dragging. But still, I came here looking for Cork.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I’m glad things worked out the way they did, though.”

“I’m sure you are,” Eileen said, and then, as if she just remembered, she returned to her earlier question. “What’s the story with you and Cork?” she asked. “He won’t tell me a thing, but he’s moping around all the time like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.”

“We parted company,” Sonny said, “business-wise. He’s mad at me about that.”

Eileen cocked her head. “Are you saying he’s not running with you at all anymore?”

“No more,” Sonny said. “We parted ways.”

“How’d that come to pass?”

“Long story.” Sonny adjusted his hat. “Tell Cork I want to see him, though. This not talking, it’s—We should talk, me and him. Tell him I came looking for him to tell him that.”

Eileen watched Sonny. “Are you saying,” she asked, “that Cork is no longer in the same business as you?”

“I don’t know what business Cork’s in now.” Sonny reached around her for the door. “But whatever it is, we’re not in it together. We’ve gone our separate ways.”

“It’s one surprise after another today, isn’t it?” Eileen held Sonny by the waist, stood on her toes, and gave him a good-bye kiss. “This was sweet,” she said, “but it won’t ever happen again, Sonny. Just so you know.”

“That’s too bad,” Sonny said. He leaned toward her, as if to kiss her good-bye. When she took a step back, he said, “Okay, don’t forget to tell Cork,” and he left, pulling the door closed gently behind him.

Out on the street, the thunderstorm had passed, leaving the sidewalks washed clean of trash and dirt. The railroad tracks gleamed. Sonny looked at his wristwatch, trying to figure out what to do next—and he remembered, like a cartoon lightbulb turning on in his empty head, that he was supposed to be at a meeting in the Hester Street warehouse in a couple of minutes. “V’fancul’,” he said aloud, doing the quick calculations of distance and traffic and figuring, if he was lucky, he’d be about ten minutes late. He slapped himself on the forehead and then sprinted around the corner to his car.

Vito moved away from the desk and turned his back on Sonny when he came through the office door sputtering excuses. He fixed his eyes on his fedora and jacket hanging off the metal hall tree and waited for Sonny to shut up, which didn’t happen until Clemenza told him to sit down and be quiet. When he turned around and looked out over the office again, Vito sighed in Sonny’s direction, making his displeasure obvious. Sonny straddled a chair by the door, his arms wrapped around the backrest. He looked eagerly at Vito, over the heads of Genco and Tessio. Clemenza was sitting on the file cabinet, and he shrugged when he met Vito’s eyes, as if to say about Sonny showing up late for the meeting, What are you gonna do? Outside, a thunderclap quickly followed a crack of lightning as another in a line of spring storms passed over the city. Vito spoke as he took off his cuff links and rolled up his sleeves. “Mariposa has summoned all the families in New York and New Jersey to a meeting,” he said, looking at Sonny, making it clear that he was repeating himself for his benefit. “To show his pure intentions, he’s holding this meeting on Sunday afternoon, at Saint Francis in midtown.” Finished rolling up his sleeves, Vito paused and loosened his tie. “It’s a good move on his part, bringing us to Saint Francis on a Sunday. He’s showing he doesn’t intend any dirty business. But,” Vito added, looking to Tessio and Clemenza, “men have been killed in church before, so I want your boys close by, all over the neighborhood, on the streets, in the restaurants, anywhere they can be reached quickly if we need them.”

“Sure,” Tessio said, his tone no more glum or somber than usual.

“That’s easy,” Clemenza said. “That won’t be no problem, Vito.”

“At this meeting,” Vito continued, turning to Sonny, “I’m taking Luca Brasi as my bodyguard. And I want you there as Genco’s bodyguard.”

“Sure, Pop,” Sonny answered, tilting his chair forward. “Sure thing.”

Clemenza’s face reddened at Sonny’s response.

“All you do is stand behind Genco and say nothing,” Vito said, speaking each word precisely, as if Sonny were a little stupid and he needed to speak slowly for his benefit. “Do you understand?” he asked. “They know you’re in the business already. Now I want them to know that you’re close to me. That’s why you’ll be at this meeting.”

Sonny said, “I got it, Pop. Sure.”

“V’fancul’!” Clemenza shouted, raising a fist to Sonny. “How many times I gotta tell you not to call your father ‘Pop’ when we’re doing business? When we’re doing business, just nod your head, like I told you. Capisc’?”

“Clemenza and Tessio,” Vito said, not giving Sonny a chance to open his mouth, “you’ll be close by outside the church, in case we need you. I’m sure these precautions are not necessary, but I’m a cautious man by nature.”

Vito turned again to Sonny, as if he had something more to say to him. Instead he looked to Genco. “Consigliere,” he said, “do you have any ideas about this meeting, any guesses about what Mariposa will say?”

Genco juggled his hands in his lap, as if he were tossing around ideas. “As you know,” he said, turning slightly in his chair to address everyone in the room, “we had no advance word from anyone about this meeting, not even our friend, who wasn’t told until we were. Our friend has no knowledge himself of the purpose of the meeting.” He stopped and pulled at his cheek, mulling over his words. “Mariposa has smoothed out the last of the problems with the LaConti organization,” he said, “and now all that used to be LaConti’s is his. This makes his far and away the most powerful family.” Genco opened his hands, as if holding a basketball. “I think he’s bringing us together to let us know who’ll be calling the shots from now on. Given his strengths, that’s reasonable. Whether or not we can go along, that depends on what shots he wants to call.”

“And you think we’re going to find out at the meeting?” Tessio asked.

“That would be my guess,” Genco answered.

Vito pushed a stack of papers aside and leaned back on his desk. “Giuseppe is greedy,” he said. “Now that whiskey is legal, he’ll cry out how poor he is—and he’ll want money from all of us in some way. Maybe a tax, I don’t know. But he’ll want a piece of our earnings. This is what we all saw coming when he went after LaConti. Now the time is here, and that’s what this meeting will be about.”

“He’s strong now,” Tessio said. “We won’t have any choice but to go along, even if he asks more than we like.”

“Pop,” Sonny said, and then immediately corrected himself. “Don,” he said, but the word obviously felt wrong to him and he stood up, exasperated. “Listen!” he said, “everybody knows Mariposa’s got it in for us. I say, why don’t we blast him, right there, in the church, when he won’t be expecting it. Bada boom, bada bing!” he yelled, slapping his hands together. “Mariposa’s out of the picture and everybody knows what happens if you go up against the Corleones!”

Vito looked at Sonny with an utterly blank face as the sound of voices in the room was replaced with rainfall on the warehouse roof and wind gusting at the window. Vito’s capos watched the floor. Clemenza pressed his hands over his temples as if to keep his head from flying apart.

Vito said, calmly, “Gentlemen, let me have a moment alone with my son, per favore,” and the room quickly emptied.

When they were alone, Vito waited in the quiet and stared at Sonny as if he was truly puzzled. “You want us to kill Giuseppe Mariposa,” he said, finally, “in church, on a Sunday, in the midst of a meeting like this one, between all the families?”

Sonny, wavering under his father’s gaze, took his seat again. Softly, he said, “It seems to me—”

“It seems to you!” Vito said, cutting him off. “It seems to you,” he repeated. “What things seem like to you is of no interest to me, Sonny. You’re a bambino. In the future I don’t want to hear what things seem like to you, Santino,” he said. “Do you understand?”

“Sure, Pop,” Sonny answered, quieted by his father’s anger.

“We’re not animals, Sonny. That’s first of all. Next,” he said, raising his finger, “what you’re proposing, it would turn all the families against us, which, Sonny, would ensure our doom.”

“Pop—”

“Sta’zitt’!” Vito pulled a chair up next to Sonny. “Listen to me,” he said, and he put a hand on Sonny’s knee. “There’s going to be trouble now. Serious trouble, not a child’s game. There’s going to be blood spilled. Sonny, do you understand?”

“Sure, Pop. I understand.”

Vito said, “I don’t think you do.” He looked away and ran his knuckles along his jaw. “I’ve got to be thinking about everyone, Santino. About Tessio and Clemenza and their men, and all their families. I’m responsible,” he said, and then paused, looking for the right words. “I’m responsible for everyone,” he said, “for our whole organization, for everybody.”

“Sure,” Sonny said, and he scratched his head, wishing he could come up with a way to make his father believe that he understood him.

“What I’m saying,” Vito said, and he yanked at his ear, “you have to learn to listen not just to what’s said but to what’s meant. I’m telling you I’m responsible for everyone, Santino. For everyone.”

Sonny nodded and for the first time realized that he perhaps didn’t understand what his father was trying to tell him.

“I need you to do what you’re told,” Vito said, again articulating each word as if talking to a child. “I need you to do what you’re told and only what you’re told. I can’t be worried about what hotheaded thing you’re going to do or say, Sonny. Here you are now,” he said, “a part of my business—and I’m telling you, Santino, you are to do nothing or say nothing, unless you’re told by me, or Tessio, or Clemenza. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Sonny said, and he gave himself another second to consider it. “You don’t want me getting in the way. You’re telling me you got important business to concentrate on, and you can’t be worrying about me doing something stupid.”

“Ah,” Vito said, and he pantomimed clapping.

“But, Pop,” Sonny said, leaning toward his father. “I could—”

Vito clasped a fist roughly around Sonny’s jaw and held him tight. “You’re a bambino,” he said. “You know nothing. And when you come to understand how little you know, then, maybe, maybe you’ll finally start listening.” He let go of Sonny and tugged at his own ear. “Listen,” he said. “That’s the beginning.”

Sonny got up and turned his back to Vito. His face was red, and if another man had been so unlucky as to be standing in front of him, he’d have broken his jaw. “I’m going now,” he said to his father without looking at him. Behind him, Vito nodded. Sonny, as if he somehow saw his father’s gesture, nodded in return and left the room.

Under the streetlamp on the corner of Paddy’s, Pete Murray executed an elaborate bow, including a twisting flourish with his extended left arm. A stout older woman in an ankle-length dress put her hands on her hips, threw her head back, and laughed before she sauntered off haughtily, turned to throw a glance at Pete, and said something that made him bellow with laughter. Cork watched this scene unfold as he parked across the street, behind a knife-sharpener’s wagon, the big grinding wheel bolted to the wagon bed. It was midmorning still, the day awash in bright spring sunlight. All through the city, people were digging their lightweight jackets out of the back of the closet and storing away winter clothes. Cork stepped out of the car and yelled to Pete as he hurried to the corner.

Pete greeted Cork with a smile. “Glad you decided to join us,” he said, and he clapped a burly arm around Cork’s shoulder.

“Sure,” Cork said. “When Pete Murray asks me to have a beer, you know I don’t think twice.”

“Attaboy. How’s Eileen and the little girl?”

“They’re doing good,” Cork said. “The bakery’s thriving.”

“Folks will always find a few pennies for a sweet,” Pete said, “even in a depression.” He turned to Cork with an expression full of sympathy. “Cryin’ shame about Jimmy. He was a good lad, and a smart one, too.” As if he didn’t want to linger on that bit of sadness, he added, “But your whole family’s like that, isn’t it?” He good-naturedly shook Cork by the shoulder. “You’ve got the brains in the neighborhood.”

“I don’t know about that.” They were a couple of doors down from Paddy’s, and Cork touched Pete’s arm to stop him. On the street, a green and white police car slowed down and a copper stared out the window at Cork, as if making a mental note of his face. Pete tipped his hat to him, the copper nodded, and the car rolled on down the block. “Say, Pete,” Cork asked, once the police car passed by, “would you mind telling me what this is about? It’s not every day I’m asked to have a beer with Pete Murray—and at eleven in the morning! I’ll admit to being curious.”

“Ah, will you?” Pete said. He put his hand on Cork’s back and directed him to Paddy’s. “Let’s say I’d like to make you an invitation.”

“An invitation to what?”

“You’ll see in a minute.” As they neared the entrance to Paddy’s, Pete stopped and said, “You’re not runnin’ with Sonny Corleone and his boys anymore; that’s right, isn’t it?” When Cork didn’t deny it, he said, “I hear they tossed you out like a bum while the rest of the boys are pullin’ in big dough with the Corleones.”

“What’s all that got to do with anything?”

“In a minute,” Pete said, and he pushed open the door to Paddy’s.

Except for five men sitting around the bar, Paddy’s was empty, the chairs all upside down on tables, the floor swept clean. Daylight through a block-glass window that looked out onto a side street and bright sunlight seeping into the barroom around the edges of pulled green curtains provided the only illumination. The space was still chilly from the night’s cold. As always, it smelled of beer. The men at the bar all turned to look at Cork as he entered the room, though no one called out his name. Cork knew them all at a glance: the Donnelly brothers, Rick and Billy, seated side by side, Corr Gibson at the front of the bar, next to Sean O’Rourke, and Stevie Dwyer, by himself at the corner.

With his back turned to the men, in the process of locking the door, Pete said, “You all know Bobby Corcoran.” He put his arm around Cork’s shoulder, led him to a seat at the bar, and pulled up a stool beside him. With the others watching and waiting, he reached for a couple of beer mugs and poured beers for himself and Cork. He was wearing a pale green shirt, blousy and loose-fitting over his gut, but tight around his chest and the bulging muscles of his arms. “Let me get straight to the point!” he boomed, once he slid Cork his beer. He slapped his big hands down on the bar for an extra jolt of emphasis and looked from face to face as if assuring himself he had everyone’s undivided attention. “The Rosato brothers have made us a proposition—”

“The Rosato brothers!” Stevie Dwyer yelled. He sat with his arms crossed on the bar, lifting himself up in an effort to make himself a little taller. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and then was quiet as Pete and everyone else glared at him.

“The Rosato brothers have made us a proposition,” Pete repeated. “They want us to work for them—”

“Ah, Jesus,” Stevie murmured.

“Stevie,” Pete said, “will you let me speak, for Christ’s sake?”

Stevie lifted a beer mug to his mouth and was quiet by way of an answer.

Pete undid a button at his collar and looked down into his beer, as if having to gather his thoughts again after being interrupted. “All the businesses we used to run in our neighborhoods,” he said, “we’ll be running them again, though of course kicking up a share of the profits, as is only to be expected.”

Before Pete could continue, Billy Donnelly jumped in. “And how would the Rosato brothers be delivering on that malarkey, Pete, given it’s the Corleones in charge around here now?”

“Ah, well,” Pete said, “now, that’s the real point of this little get-together, isn’t it?”

“So that’s it, is it?” Corr said, one hand tight around the knot of his shillelagh. “The Rosatos are moving on the Corleones.”

“The Rosatos aren’t doing a blessed thing on their own,” Rick Donnelly said. “If the Rosatos are coming to us, they’re talking for Mariposa.”

“Of course,” Pete said, raising his voice in annoyance, and dismissing Rick’s addition to the conversation as a waste of time repeating the obvious.

“Ah, for the love of God.” Sean O’Rourke slid his beer away from him. He sounded disgusted and heartsick. In the silence that followed his outburst, Cork noticed how much Sean had changed since the last time he’d seen him. Much of his youth and handsomeness seemed to have been drained away, leaving him looking older and angrier, his face drawn and tight around narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw. “My brother Willie dead and in his grave,” Sean said to the men at the bar. “My sister Kelly…” He shook his head, as if unable to find words. “And Donnie blinded,” he said, “good as dead.” He looked to Pete directly for the first time. “And now you’re talking about going to work for these murderin’ guinea bastards.”

“Sean—” Pete said.

“You can count me out, no matter what!” Stevie yelled, his mug of beer in his hand. “I hate these fuckin’ wops and I’m not workin’ for them!”

“And what is it they want from us anyway in return for this largesse?” Corr Gibson asked.

“Gentlemen,” Pete said. He looked up to the ceiling as if praying for patience. “If you’d all just for the love of God give me a chance to finish.” When a moment of silence followed, he went on. “Sean,” he said, reaching a hand out toward him, “Corr and I promised Willie we’d take care of Luca Brasi. We asked him to wait until the time was right.”

“Time will never be right for Willie anymore,” Sean said, and he pulled his beer back to him.

“And that weighs on our hearts,” Pete said.

Corr tapped his shillelagh on the floor in agreement.

“But now,” Pete went on, “now may be the time.”

“You’re not saying they want us to go up against the Corleones, are you, now, Pete?” Rick Donnelly pushed his stool back from the bar and looked at Pete as if he might be insane. “That would be nothing but suicide for sure.”

“They haven’t asked us to do anything yet, Rick.” Pete tilted his beer back and drained half of it, as if he’d come to the point where he needed a drink to keep from losing his temper. “They’ve made us a proposition: Come to work for them and we’ll get our neighborhoods back. They’re figuring we’re smart enough to know that means they’ll be taking the business away from the Corleones and Brasi, and that we’ll be a part of whatever has to be done to accomplish that.”

“And that means a bloody war,” Rick said.

“We don’t know what that means,” Pete said. “But I did tell the Rosatos that we wouldn’t ever work with the likes of Luca Brasi. I made it clear in fact that we wanted to see Luca Brasi dead and burning in hell.”

“And?” Sean asked, his interest suddenly piqued.

“And he said, quote, if you hate Luca Brasi, it would behoove you to come to work for us.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Cork asked, speaking up for the first time. The men all looked at him as if they’d forgotten he was there. “Luca is part of the Corleone family now. You can’t go against Luca without going against the Corleones, so we’re back where we started. Like Rick said, a war with the Corleones would be suicide for sure.”

“If it’s to be a war,” Corr Gibson said, “Rick and young Bobby here are right: We’re no match for the Corleones. And if Mariposa’s men are in on the fighting, then why would they need us? They’ve got all the goons they need to do the job themselves.”

“Gentlemen,” Pete said, and then laughed in a way that suggested a potent mixture of amusement and frustration. “Gentlemen,” he repeated, and he lifted his beer mug as if proposing a toast. “I am not privy to the inner workings of the Rosato brothers, or Jumpin’ Joe Mariposa, or any other dago operation. I’m here to tell you the proposition as it was put to me. We go to work for them; we get our neighborhoods back. Part of the deal is that this is all on the Q.T. If they need something from us, we’ll hear from them. That’s the deal. We can take it or leave it.” He finished the last of his beer and clapped the mug down on the bar.

“For sure they need something from us,” Corr said, as if speaking to himself, though his eyes moved from face to face. To Pete he said, “I say if Luca Brasi winds up dead and buried and we wind up running the show in our own neighborhoods, then that’s a deal we can’t turn down.”

“I’m in agreement,” Pete said. “We don’t have to like the wop bastards to work with them.”

Sean said, without looking up from his beer, “If I get to be the one puts a bullet in Luca Brasi, I’m with you.”

“Jaysus,” Cork said. “No matter how you cut it, you’re talking about going up against the Corleones.”

“Do you have a problem with that?” Pete Murray asked.

“I do,” Cork said. “I’ve known Sonny and his family since I was in diapers.”

Stevie Dwyer leaned over the bar in Cork’s direction. “You might as well be a guinea yourself, Corcoran,” he shouted. To the others he said, “I told you he don’t belong with us. He’s been sucking Sonny Corleone’s dick since—”

Dwyer hadn’t gotten the last word out of his mouth before Cork’s beer mug, hurled across the bar, caught him square on the forehead and broke neatly in half along a seam in the glass. Stevie was partly knocked off his stool and partly he jumped back, his hand flying up to his forehead, where a stream of blood gushed from a wide gash. Before he could regain his balance, Cork was on top of him, throwing punches, one of which, a wicked uppercut that caught him under the jaw, rendered him senseless. He went down rubbery legged and wound up sitting against the barroom wall, his head dangling over his chest and blood spilling onto his pants legs. The bar was quiet as Cork stepped back and away from Stevie, and when he looked around he found the others unmoved from their places. Corr Gibson said, “Ah, the Irish. We’re a hopeless lot.”

“Someone was bound to crack open that moron’s head at some point,” Pete said, sliding off his stool. He went to Bobby, put a hand on his back, and led him out of the bar. On the street, standing out in the sunlight in front of Paddy’s, with the bright-green shades over the bar’s windows as backdrop, Pete tapped a cigarette out of a pack of Camels. He stared down at the image of a camel in the desert, and when he looked up he lit the cigarette with his eyes on Bobby. He took a drag, exhaled, and let his arm drop to his side. Finally, he asked, “Can we trust you to keep your mouth shut, Bobby?”

“Sure,” Cork said, and he glanced down at his knuckles, which suddenly hurt like hell. He saw that they were bloody and swollen. “This is none of my business,” he added. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around the knuckles of his right hand. “Sonny and I have gone our own ways, but I won’t have any part of a war against him and his family.”

“All right,” Pete said, and he put one of his big mitts on the back of Cork’s neck and gave him a friendly shake. “Get out of here, then, and go about finding some other manner of making a living, something that doesn’t have anything to do with our business. Stay out of our way and out of our businesses and we’ll be fine. Do you understand me, Bobby?”

“Sure,” Cork said, and offered Pete Murray his hand. “I understand,” he said as they shook hands.

Pete Murray smiled, as if pleased with Bobby. “Now, let me go deal with these knuckleheads,” he said, and he went back into Paddy’s.

19.

Vito waited in the backseat of the Essex, a raincoat folded over his lap, his fedora on top of the raincoat, his hands clasped in front of the fedora. Luca Brasi, seated alongside him, stared out the front window, past Sonny in the passenger seat, out onto Sixth Avenue, where two young women were hurrying through the rain, each with a child in one hand and an open umbrella in the other. The umbrellas were bright red, in contrast to the day, which was gray and rainy. The men in the car were silent, Sonny in the front seat with his fedora tilted over his eyes, Luca in the back with his twisted face unreadable and blank. Vito had sent their driver, Richie Gatto, out to take a stroll around the neighborhood. Genco, to walk off his nerves, had chosen to join him. They were in the garment district, parked on the corner of Sixth Avenue and Thirtieth. Above a shuttered newsstand on the corner, the side of a building had been turned into a massive billboard that pictured two blind children looking up to the words Your Money makes the Helpless Blind able to help themselves. Beyond the blind children, over the tops of the surrounding roofs, the steeple of Saint Francis rose up to a low ceiling of clouds, a bright cross at its pinnacle.

Sonny checked his wristwatch, tilted his hat back off his forehead, and twisted around slightly, as if he wanted to say something to his father about the time. Instead, he sank back into his seat and pulled his hat down over his eyes again.

Vito said, “It’s good to be a little late for a thing like this,” just as Richie and Genco came around the corner of Seventh Avenue and started toward the car. Richie wore a fedora pulled down low and the collar of his overcoat turned up against the rain, while Genco walked under a black umbrella. Both men looked from building to building as they walked, their eyes scouring entranceways and alleys. Genco, next to the bulk of Richie Gatto, looked as skinny as a stick figure.

“Nothing to worry about,” Richie said as he slid into the driver’s seat and started the car.

“Clemenza and Tessio?” Vito asked.

“They’re in their places,” Genco said. He got into the backseat as Vito slid closer to Luca. “If there’s a commotion of any kind…” Genco cocked his head, a gesture that suggested Clemenza and Tessio might see the commotion, but he questioned whether or not it would do any good.

“They’ve got their boys with them,” Richie said, dismissing Genco’s worry. “If there’s trouble, we’re in good shape.”

“There won’t be any trouble,” Vito said. “This is just a precaution.” He glanced alongside him to Luca, who remained distant and removed, lost in whatever thoughts were left to him. In the front seat, Sonny straightened out his tie, the look on his face something between anger and annoyance. He hadn’t said two words all morning. “Sonny,” Vito said, “you walk behind Genco and keep your eyes open. Everybody will be sizing up everybody else at this meeting. What we say, what we do, how we appear—this is important. Understand?”

“Sure,” Sonny said. “You want me to keep my mouth shut, Pop. I got it.”

Luca Brasi, without any movement or change in the blank expression of his face, said, “Mouth shut—eyes open.”

Sonny glanced back at Luca. Alongside them on the street, a line of cars and trucks were stopped at a red light. The rain slowed to a misty drizzle. Once the light turned green and the traffic started moving, Richie waited for an opening and pulled out onto Sixth. A minute later he was pulling up behind a black Buick, on the street outside the courtyard of Saint Francis. A tall fat man stuffed into a bright-blue three-piece suit waited at the wheel of the Buick, an elbow sticking out the window. In the courtyard garden, Carmine Rosato and Ettore Barzini were chatting with a couple of beat cops. One of the cops said something that made the other three men laugh, and then Carmine escorted them out of the courtyard, walking between them, a hand on each cop’s elbow. Richie, who had come around to open the back door of the Essex for Genco, waved to Carmine and called out his name. The cops paused, watched Genco and Vito exit the car onto the sidewalk, and then moved on down the block, only to stop again, suddenly, at the sight of Luca Brasi exiting the car. Ettore, who had followed Carmine out of the courtyard, clapped a hand on the shoulder of one of the cops and moved them along. Carmine joined Richie, Genco, and Vito on the sidewalk. Inside the courtyard, a couple of Emilio Barzini’s men approached the gate and watched as Luca and Sonny joined the other men in a cluster beside the Essex. Barzini’s men looked at each other and then disappeared along the path to the church.

Carmine stepped closer to Richie. “You bringing Luca Brasi in there?” he asked, as if Luca weren’t standing right behind him.

“Yeah,” Richie said, all smiles. “What do you think he’s here for?”

“V’fancul’!” Carmine put a hand over his forehead and looked down at the sidewalk.

Sonny took an angry step forward, as if about to say something to Carmine, and then caught himself and backed up. He fixed his hat, adjusting the brim.

“We’re getting wet,” Vito said, and Genco hurried to open his umbrella and hold it over Vito’s head.

Carmine Rosato turned to Vito and said, “In a church?” meaning Luca Brasi had no business being inside a place of worship.

Vito started for the courtyard. Behind him, he heard Carmine say, “Richie, mi’ amico, Tomasino’s in there. He’s gonna go crazy.” Alongside Vito, Luca’s expression remained unchanged, his face as impassive as the gray sky.

Once inside the courtyard, Vito admired the arrangement of the gardens surrounding a concrete walkway to the church entrance. He paused by a four-tiered fountain a dozen feet in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary with her hands held out, in her traditional pose, as if welcoming all who approached her, her grief-filled eyes still, somehow, loving. When Genco came up beside him, Vito proceeded to the church with his consigliere by his side, Luca and Sonny following.

Behind the glass entranceway doors, in a small foyer, Emilio Barzini waited with his hands clasped at his waist. He shook hands with Vito and Genco and ignored Luca and Sonny. “This way,” he said, and led them through a second pair of glass doors that opened onto a wide corridor. “This is the Shrine of Saint Anthony,” he added, as if he were there to give them a guided tour of the church. Vito and the others gazed through a central portal into a long, low-ceilinged room with lines of brightly polished pews on either side of a tiled aisle leading to a marble altar. Vito crossed himself, as did all the others, when they passed the altar, before continuing along the hushed corridor, following Emilio.

“They’re waiting for you,” Emilio said. He stood aside and opened a heavy wooden door, beyond which five men sat at a long conference table. Vito identified all the men at a glance. At the head of the table, sitting in an ornate chair that looked comically like a throne with its plush red velvet stuffed back and armrests, Giuseppe Mariposa stared straight ahead, at nothing, showing his annoyance at Vito’s late entry to the meeting. He was dressed immaculately, a tailored suit fitted to his still athletic body, his white hair parted neatly in the center. Facing Vito, on the far side of the table, were Anthony Stracci of Staten Island and Ottilio Cuneo, who ran all of upstate. On the near side of the table, next to Giuseppe and beside an empty chair obviously meant for Vito, Mike DiMeo, the balding, heavy-set boss of New Jersey’s DiMeo family, fidgeted in his seat, his torso twisting this way and that, as if he couldn’t get comfortable. At the opposite end of the table from Giuseppe, Phillip Tattaglia tapped the ash off his cigarette as he looked up to Vito and Genco. A bodyguard stood against the wall behind each of the men. Giuseppe’s bodyguard, Tomasino Cinquemani, red-faced and breathing hard, was half-turned away from the table, showing his back to Vito.

“Forgive me,” Vito said. He looked around the room again, as if to assure himself of what he was seeing. Portraits of saints and priests decorated the walls, and five empty chairs were lined up against the wainscoting. At the back of the room, there was a second doorway. “It was my understanding,” he said, “that our consiglieri were to be a part of this meeting.”

“You must have misunderstood,” Giuseppe said, finally turning to look at him. He checked his wristwatch. “You got the time wrong too.”

“Vito,” Genco said, softly. He stepped close and began to speak quickly, in Italian, trying to explain that there had not been a mistake. He noted the five empty chairs and guessed that Mariposa had sent out the rest of the consiglieri.

“Luca Brasi!” Giuseppe barked, the name coming out like a curse. “Escort Genco into the back room.” He gestured toward the second doorway. “You can wait for us there with the others.”

Luca, standing directly behind Vito, gave no hint that he had heard Giuseppe. He waited comfortably, his hands dangling at his sides, his eyes on a bowl of fruit in the center of the long table.

Behind Giuseppe, Tomasino turned and faced Luca. There were two discolorations of skin that ran in jagged lines under his eye where Luca had pistol-whipped him. The scars burned red in comparison to the weathered olive skin surrounding them.

Luca lifted his eyes from the bowl of fruit to meet Tomasino’s eyes, and his face, for the first time, was animated slightly by the hint of a smile.

Vito touched Luca and Genco each on the elbow. “Andate,” he said, in a whisper that could still be heard throughout the room. “Go. I’ll have Santino with me.”

Sonny, who had been standing with his back to the door, his face red but otherwise expressionless, moved closer to his father.

Vito took his seat next to Mike DiMeo.

When the door had closed behind Genco and Luca, Giuseppe straightened out his shirtsleeves, tugged at the cuffs, and then pushed his chair back and stood up. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’ve asked you all to come here today so that we might avoid trouble in the future.” The words came out stiff and rehearsed. He coughed and then went on, sounding a little more natural. “Listen,” he said, “there’s a lot of money to be made if we all keep our heads and cooperate with each other like businessmen. Not like animals,” he added, and he looked to the back door, where Luca had just walked out. “You all have your territories,” he went on, “and you’re all bosses. Between us we control New York and New Jersey—except for certain Jews and certain Irish, a bunch of mad-dog fuckin’ idiots who think they can do whatever they want and go wherever they please.” He leaned closer to his audience. “But we’ll settle their hash later on,” he said. Between the bosses and the bodyguards there wasn’t a sound. Everyone in the room looked bored, with the exception of Phillip Tattaglia, who seemed to be hanging on Giuseppe’s every word. “Now,” Giuseppe continued, “there’s been too much killing. Some of it had to be,” he said, and then, looking at Vito, added, “And some of it didn’t. That kid Nicky Crea in Central Park…” He shook his head. “It makes the cops and politicians angry, and then it makes trouble for all of us. Now, I say, you’re all bosses of your families. You make the decisions. But I say when there’s a death sentence for one of our own people—I say, there should be a court of bosses to approve such a thing. That’s one of the reasons I’ve called you together here. To see if you would all agree to that.”

Giuseppe stepped back from the table and crossed his arms over his chest, signaling that he was waiting. When there wasn’t an immediate response, when the men at the table continued to stare at him with blank faces, he looked first to Tomasino standing beside him, and then back to the bosses. “You know what?” he said. “To tell you the truth, I’m not really asking. I’m planning for this to be a very short meeting, followed by the good food I have waiting for you in the next room.” He continued, his face lighting up, “That is, if your consiglieri don’t eat it all before we get there!” Tattaglia laughed loudly, and Stracci and Cuneo offered up a pair of slight smiles. “Good,” Giuseppe said. “So, I’m saying, this is how it’s going to be. Before anyone gets pushed, all the bosses have to approve. But if anyone disagrees and would like to argue to the contrary, now is the time to speak up.” He sat down again and pulled his chair in closer to the table, the scraping sound of the chair legs muted against the tiled floor.

Mike DiMeo, burly and uncomfortable in his seat, ran his hand over the few strands of hair remaining on the very top of his head. When he spoke, his voice was gentle and refined, in startling contrast to the raw bulk of his body. “Don Mariposa,” he said, standing in his place, “I respect your great strength in New York, especially now that the LaConti family businesses have been folded into your own. But New York,” he added, his eyes lingering on Giuseppe’s, “New York, of course, is not New Jersey. Still,” he said, “anything that keeps us from killing each other like a bunch of madmen, that I support.” He paused and then tapped a finger twice on the table. “And if I support it,” he said, “you can count on the rest of New Jersey to support it.”

DiMeo sat down to a round of polite applause from all the bosses but Vito, who nonetheless seemed to be pleased by the New Jersey boss’s speech.

“Then, it’s done,” Giuseppe said, as if the applause were an official vote and the matter was resolved. “Now I have one more problem, and then we can go and eat.” He sat back in his seat. “I’ve lost a lot of income with the repeal of Prohibition,” he said. “My family has lost a lot of money—and the men complain.” He looked around the table. “I’m here to speak plainly to you and to tell you the truth. My men want war. They want to expand our businesses into your territories, all of your territories. My men, they tell me we have grown so strong, we would win such a war. They tell me it would only be a matter of time, and we could be running all of New York, downstate and up, and,” he said, looking at Mike DiMeo, “New Jersey. And then there would be money to replace the money we’ve lost to repeal.” He paused again to pull his chair in closer to the table. “There are many voices in my family that argue for this—but I say no. I don’t want this war. I say I would have the blood of too many people on my hands, the blood of friends, of some people I hold in great respect, and a few people I love. I say again, I don’t want this war—but you’re all bosses and you know how it is. If I try to go against the will of so many of my people, I won’t be boss for long. And it is because of that, also, that I have asked you here.” He stretched his open hands out over the tabletop. “I’m saying let us avoid the bloodshed and come to an agreement. You are all your own bosses, but with my strength—which I do not wish to use—I think I should be acknowledged as boss of all bosses. For that, I will be the one to judge all your disputes, and to resolve them, with force if need be.” He stared across the table at Vito. “And for that,” he said, “I should be paid. I will take a little something from all your enterprises,” he said, almost as if he were talking to Vito alone. “I will expect a percentage of all your earnings,” he said, and then turned away from Vito to the others. “A very small percentage, but from all of you. This will help me keep my people happy, and so we will avoid bloodshed.” Finished saying his piece, Giuseppe leaned back in his chair and once again folded his arms over his chest. When several tense moments passed without a word, he nodded to Tattaglia. “Phillip,” he said. “Why don’t you speak first.”

Tattaglia slapped both hands down on the table and stood to speak. “I welcome the protection of Don Mariposa,” he said. “It makes good business sense. We pay a small percentage and save the cost of fighting a war—and who could ask for a better judge in our disputes than Don Mariposa?” Dressed in a flashy pale-blue suit with a bright-yellow tie, Tattaglia tugged at his jacket, straightening it out. “I say this is a reasonable offer,” he said, and took his seat again. “I think we should be grateful to avoid this war,” he added, “a war which might have, God forbid, cost some of us our lives.”

Around the table, the bosses looked to each other, watching for reactions. Not a face at the table gave away a thing, though Anthony Stracci of Staten Island could not have been said to look happy, and Ottileo Cuneo looked slightly pained, as if some physical discomfort were bothering him.

Mariposa, at the head of the table, pointed to Vito. “Corleone,” he asked, “what do you say?”

Vito said, “What is the percentage?”

“I have a small beak,” Mariposa answered. “I ask only to wet it a little.”

“Excuse me, Signor Mariposa,” Vito said, “but I would like a little more detail. Exactly what percentage are you requiring from all of the bosses here at this table?”

“Fifteen percent,” Giuseppe said to Vito. To the others he said, “I’m asking as a man of honor and a man of business that you pay me fifteen percent of all your operations.” Turning back to Vito, he said, “I get fifteen percent of your gambling operations, of your monopoly in the olive oil business, and of all your union business, just as Tattaglia,” he said, looking to the others, “has agreed to pay fifteen percent of his woman business and his laundries.” Back to Vito, he said, “Now, is that clear enough for you, Corleone?”

“Sì,” Vito said. He folded his hands on the table and leaned toward Giuseppe. “Yes,” he repeated. “Thank you, Don Mariposa. That is very clear and I think very reasonable.” He looked to the others. “Without war,” he said to them, “without bloodshed, we will all benefit. What we save in money and men’s lives,” he added, looking to Giuseppe, “will be well worth the fifteen percent we offer to you.” To the men at the table, he said, “I think we should all agree to this, and I think we should thank Don Mariposa for solving our problems at such a small price.” Behind him, Vito heard Sonny cough and clear his throat. The men at the table looked from Vito to each other.

“Then it’s settled,” Giuseppe said, sounding more surprised than assertive. He caught his own uncertain tone quickly and recovered by barking a demand posed as a question to the rest of the bosses. “Unless someone has an objection.”

When no one spoke, Vito stood and said, “You will all forgive us for not joining you in the feast Don Mariposa has promised—but one of my sons,” he added, and put his hand over his heart, “he has to finish up a big report about our great Neapolitan mayor, the man who’s going to clean up New York and rid it of sin and corruption.” This brought a round of laughter from all the bosses but Mariposa. “I promised to help him with his report,” Vito said. He turned to Sonny and nodded toward the back door, and while Sonny went to get the door for him, Vito approached Mariposa and offered him his hand.

Giuseppe looked at Vito’s hand with suspicion, and then shook it.

“Thank you, Don Mariposa,” Vito said. “Together,” he added, looking over the table, “we will all grow rich.”

As he finished speaking, the bosses all rose from their seats and joined Vito and Mariposa to shake hands. Vito looked to Sonny, who was holding the back door open, and from Sonny’s face to Genco’s in the next room, where he was standing with a dozen others around a banquet table piled high with food and drink. Genco seemed to read something in Vito’s face. He turned to Luca, signaling with a nod that they were leaving. With Sonny, the men formed a little circle by the door and waited for Vito as he finished shaking hands and exchanging a few polite words with the rest of the bosses. Standing against the wall with his hands clasped in front of him like all the other bodyguards, Tomasino Cinquemani stared at Luca, his face growing red and the scars under his eye redder before he turned away and calmed a little, his gaze resting on one of the portraits of the saints that lined the walls.

In the backseat of the Essex, as Richie Gatto drove through Manhattan’s streets under a steady rain, Vito placed his hat on the window shelf behind him and undid the top button on his shirt. The car was loud with an anticipatory silence, as if all the men, Sonny in the front with Richie, and Vito in the back with Genco and Luca, were waiting for someone to speak first. Vito stroked his throat and closed his eyes. He appeared troubled. When he opened his eyes again, he turned to Luca, who at that moment turned to him. Though Genco sat between them, he might as well have been invisible as the two men looked at each other, each seeming to read something in the other’s eyes.

Sonny, who had been staring out the window at the rain, spoke first. He shouted, “Ah, for Christ’s sake!” startling everyone in the car but Luca, who alone didn’t flinch. “Pop!” he said, and he twisted around so that he was kneeling as he looked into the back of the car. “I can’t believe we took that crap from Mariposa! That fuckin’ ciucc’! We’re paying him fifteen percent?”

“Santino,” Vito said, and he laughed slightly. It was as if Sonny’s outburst had dispelled the ominous mood that had settled over everyone. “Sonny,” he said, “sit still and be quiet. Unless someone asks you to speak, you have no voice here.”

Sonny let his head drop dramatically to his chest. He clasped his hands behind his neck.

Genco said, “You don’t understand these things yet, Sonny.” When Sonny nodded without looking up, Genco said to Vito, “Joe wants fifteen percent?”

“He’s to take fifteen percent of everyone’s business, and for this,” Vito said to Genco, “he promises us there will be no war.”

Genco pressed his hands together, palm to palm. “What was the look on their faces,” he asked, “when Joe told them what they had to pay?”

“They don’t like it,” Vito said, as if that was of course how they’d respond, “but they know it’s cheaper than a war.”

“They’re scared,” Luca said, with disgust for all the bosses that had been gathered together in that room.

“But still they don’t like it,” Genco said, “and that’s good for us.”

Vito smacked Sonny lightly on the head, telling him to straighten up and pay attention. Sonny lifted his head, looked into the back of the car, and then folded his arms over his chest and was quiet, mimicking Luca.

“Mariposa is greedy,” Vito said to everyone. “That, all the bosses know. When he comes after us, they’ll know it’s only a matter of time before he goes after them.”

“I agree,” Genco said, “and this too is in our favor.”

“For now,” Vito said, “we’ll pay the fifteen percent.” He looked out the front window, over Sonny’s head. “In the meantime,” he went on, “we continue to get ready. We can still use more politicians and cops on the payroll.”

“Mannagg’!” Genco said. “Vito. We’re already paying too many people. Some state senator asked me for three grand last week. I told him no! Three grand! V’fancul’!”

“Call him back,” Vito said, softly, as if he was suddenly tired, “and tell him yes. Tell him Vito Corleone insisted we show our friendship.”

“But, Vito,” Genco said, and then was silenced when Vito raised his hand, ending the discussion.

“The more cops and judges we have on our payroll, the stronger we are, and I’m willing to show friendship first.”

“Madon’!” Genco said, giving up the argument, “half of what we take in we pay out again.”

“In the long run,” Vito said, “trust me, Genco, that will be our greatest strength.” When Genco only sighed and then was silent, Vito turned to Sonny. “We agreed to pay the fifteen percent,” he said, going all the way back in the conversation to Sonny’s initial objection, “because it doesn’t matter, Santino. Mariposa called this meeting hoping I would object. He wanted me to refuse. Then, when he comes after us, the rest of the families will get the message.” Vito spoke as if he were Mariposa, giving him a whiny voice, “I had no choice! The Corleones wouldn’t go along!”

Genco added, joining Vito, speaking as if he was Mariposa talking to the other bosses, “Pay the fifteen percent or we’ll wipe you out, like the Corleone family.”

“But I don’t get it,” Sonny said. “Why doesn’t it matter if we go along or not?”

“Because whether or not we pay or we don’t pay,” Genco said, “Joe’s still coming after us. We’re making a lot of money now, our family. We were never dependent on liquor money. Mariposa looks at us, Sonny, and he sees easy pickings.”

Sonny opened his hands and said, “I still don’t get it.”

Luca Brasi, without looking at Sonny, said, “Don Corleone is a—brilliant man, Santino. You should—listen more closely.”

Sonny seemed taken aback by Luca’s tone, which was somehow ominous. He tried to catch Brasi’s eye, but Luca appeared to have drifted away again into his own thoughts.

Vito said, “We’re buying time, Santino. We need more time to get ready.”

“Plus,” Genco said to Sonny, “now that your father has agreed to pay the percentage, when Mariposa comes at us, after making this agreement with us, he loses respect. He’s seen as a man whose word can’t be trusted. These things are important, Sonny,” Genco added. “You’ll learn.”

Sonny spun around and dropped down in his seat. He said, looking out the front window at the rain, “Can I ask one more question, Consigliere?” When Genco didn’t say no, Sonny asked, his frustration evident, “Again, how do we know for sure that Mariposa is coming after us whether or not we pay up?”

Behind him, out of Sonny’s sight, Genco looked to Vito and shook his head.

Vito said, “Here’s a lesson for you, Sonny: Don’t write if you can talk, don’t talk if you can nod your head, don’t nod your head if you don’t have to.”

In the backseat, Genco looked at Vito with a smile.

Sonny, in the front seat, shrugged and was quiet.

Cork lay on his back in the fading light of a rainy spring day with Caitlin stretched out on top of him asleep, her head pressed into his neck, her feet resting on his hips. He had one arm folded under the back of his head and the other resting on the child’s shoulder, where he had patted her to sleep after reading to her, for the hundredth time, the story of Connla and the Fairy Maiden, a tale out of one of his father’s old books, a leather-bound, gilt-edged collection of stories that lay beside him now on Caitlin’s narrow bed. Carefully, he turned on his side and slid Caitlin onto the sheets, her head, surrounded by a nimbus of sandy blond hair, resting on a lumpy pillow. Outside, a key turned in the lock and the kitchen door opened just as he pulled a checkered quilt of farm animals over Caitlin’s shoulders. He waited beside his sleeping niece for a minute in the darkening room and listened to Eileen as she moved about the kitchen.

Cork had been a child himself in this apartment. He’d been so young when the flu took both his parents that he had few memories of them—but he remembered clearly the excitement of moving into these rooms with Eileen. He had his seventh birthday in the kitchen. Eileen, who must have then been about his age now, strung red and yellow crepe-paper banners across the ceiling and invited every kid on the block. She had just taken the bakery job with Mrs. McConaughey, who seemed ancient to him even then. He remembered Eileen shouting A three-bedroom with a living room and kitchen! and thinking to himself that they were moving into a palace—which the apartment was compared to the cramped rooms they’d been sharing in the houses of distant relatives while Eileen finished high school, to the displeasure of at least a few of those relatives. He’d grown up in this apartment and moved out himself only when he finished high school and started pulling jobs with Sonny. Now that was over, and Murray’d told him to stay clear of the Irish. Cork looked around his old bedroom and found the feel of the place comforting—the familiar street sounds beyond the window, the pleasant noise of Eileen puttering through the rooms. From the floor beside Caitlin’s bed, he picked up Boo, her poor tattered giraffe, and placed it in her arms.

He found Eileen at the sink finishing up a few dishes. “I was just thinking about old Mrs. McConaughey,” he said, and he pulled up a seat at the table. “Is she still going?”

“Is she still alive?” Eileen said, as if surprised by the question. She turned around, drying her hands on a bright-green dish towel. “Sure,” she said, “doesn’t she still send me cards twice a year on Easter and Christmas? She’s a saint, the woman is.”

“She was funny,” Cork said. “She always had a riddle for me.” He paused, remembering the old woman, and then added, “You think I might get a cup of coffee as reimbursement for my babysitting services?”

“You might,” Eileen said, and went about putting up the coffee.

“I remember the big party we had for her here,” Cork said, returning to the subject of Mrs. McConaughey.

“Are you feeling nostalgic, then?” Eileen asked, with her back to him. “I can’t recall you ever mentioning Mrs. McConaughey before.”

“I suppose I am,” Cork said. “A little anyway.” He took in the kitchen ceiling, remembering the bright crepe-paper banners of his seventh birthday. The party for Mrs. McConaughey had been to celebrate her retirement and her impending return home, to Ireland. Eileen and Jimmy had just bought the bakery from her. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, “with all the babysitting I do for Caitlin, I might as well be living here again.”

“You mean you’re not living here?” Eileen said. She faced him, her hands on her hips. “How come I see you every time I turn around, morning and night? Except of course when I’m in the shop, workin’ like a slave to keep food on the table. Then, God knows where you are and what you’re doing.”

“Nothin’ much,” Cork said. “Not recently anyway.” He looked away from Eileen and then down at his own hand, where it lay on the table.

“Bobby,” Eileen asked, “is there something the matter?” She pulled up a seat and placed her hand over his.

For a while the only sound was the simmer of coffee heating up in the pot, and then Cork said, “I was thinking, what if I moved back in and went to work with you in the bakery?” Cork knew this was something that Eileen dearly wanted, that she had pushed for since long before he’d finished high school, but he posed the question as if it were a new idea, a possibility that had just occurred to him.

“Are you serious?” Eileen asked, and she yanked her hand away from him, as if something about the question had frightened her.

“I am,” Cork said. “I have some money saved. I could help out.”

Eileen got up to attend the coffee, which had just started perking. “You’re serious,” she said, as if she was having trouble believing him. “What brought this on?”

Cork didn’t answer. He went and stood behind her at the stove. “So is it all right, then?” he asked. “I could move my things in tomorrow and take the back room. I don’t have much.”

“You’re done with all the other stuff?” she said—and it came out both as a question and a demand.

“Done with it,” Cork said. “So can I move back in?”

“Sure,” Eileen said, hunched over the coffeepot, keeping her back to her brother. She dragged her arm over her eyes and said, “Ah, Lord,” because she was obviously crying and gave up on trying to hide it.

“Quit it,” Cork said, and he put his hands on her shoulders.

“Quit it yourself,” she said. She turned and wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face into his chest.

“Come on, quit it,” Cork said again, but gently, and he held Eileen in his arms and let her cry.

20.

Sonny walked beside Sandra past the bakeries and delicatessens of Arthur Avenue. On the street, cars and trucks zipped around peddlers’ carts as kids in knickers and short-sleeved shirts ran along the sidewalk and through traffic fearlessly, the summery spring day drawing children and adults alike outdoors. Sonny had parked his car in front of Sandra’s building and walked with her to Coluccio’s butcher shop, and now they were walking back, a string of sausage wrapped in heavy white paper and tied with cord dangling from Sonny’s fingertips. Sandra wore a floppy green hat with a white band over dark hair that came down to her shoulders. The hat was new and too fancy for her plain white dress, but Sonny had complimented her a dozen times already in their short walk to pick up sausage for her grandmother. “You know who you look like?” he said with a big smile as he turned to walk backward in front of her. “You look like Kay Francis in Trouble in Paradise.”

“I do not,” Sandra said. She shoved him, the flat of her hand hitting his shoulder.

“Only much prettier,” Sonny added. “Kay Francis can’t hold a candle to you.”

Sandra crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her head as she appraised Sonny’s looks. He had on gray pin-striped slacks, a dark shirt, and a black and gray striped tie. “Nobody else looks like you,” she said, and then, blushing, added, “You’re better-looking than all those guys in the movies.”

Sonny threw back his head and laughed, and then turned around again to walk beside her. On the corner in front of them, an organ grinder was setting up to play, and already a throng of kids surrounded him. A stout, short man in a bowler hat with a bright-red bandanna around his neck, the organ grinder looked like he was newly landed in America, with his thick mustache and wings of gray hair flying out from under his hat band. His organ was old and battered, held together with tattered belts. Prancing atop it on a blue pad and ringing a tiny silver bell was a small monkey dressed in pants and a leathery jacket, a bright, thin chain looped from its neck to the organ grinder’s wrist. “Do you want to stop a minute?” Sonny asked.

Sandra shook her head and looked at her feet.

“You’re worried about your grandmother,” Sonny said. “Listen,” he added, and then hesitated as a great cloud of sparrows swooped low and came together over the rooftops before soaring up the avenue. “Listen,” he repeated, and suddenly his voice caught a little as if he were nervous. “Johnny and Nino are playing at a fancy supper club tonight. I’d like to take you out to eat there, and then afterward we could go dancing. What if I could get your grandmother to let you go?”

“You know she won’t.”

“What if I could convince her?”

“That’d be the day,” Sandra said. “And anyway,” she added, “I don’t have the proper clothes. You’d be ashamed of me.”

“That couldn’t be,” Sonny said, “but anyway, I already considered this.”

“Considered what?” Sandra asked. They turned the corner off Arthur Avenue and onto her block.

“That you’d need some fancy clothes.”

Sandra looked at Sonny with confusion.

“Hey,” Sonny said. “Look at that.” He hurried past Sandra and onto the street, where a bright-blue convertible Cord with its long hood and white-walled tires was already attracting a crowd.

“Fancy car,” Sandra said, coming up alongside him.

“It’s got front-wheel drive,” Sonny said.

“Uh-huh,” Sandra answered, clearly having no idea what Sonny was talking about.

“Do you think you’d like to have a car like this?” Sonny asked.

“You’re funny today,” Sandra said, and she tugged him by the arm back onto the sidewalk.

Sonny said, “I don’t mean to be funny, Sandra.” They were near her building now, where his Packard was parked on the street. “I think we should have dinner together tonight where Johnny and Nino are playing, and then go out dancing after.”

Mrs. Columbo, leaning out her window, yelled down to Sandra, “Eh! What took you so long?”

Sonny waved to Mrs. Columbo, handed the sausage to Sandra, and then leaned through the open passenger window of his car and pulled out a bulky brown paper package tied up with white string.

“What’s this?” Sandra asked.

“A fancy dress and shoes and other stuff, for you.” He handed her the package.

Sandra looked up to her grandmother, who was peering down at her and Sonny with her hands on her chin.

“Open it,” Sonny said.

Sandra took a seat on her stoop. She placed the package in her lap, untied the string, and peeled open the brown paper only enough to see the shimmering silk fabric of an evening gown before she slapped it closed and looked up to her grandmother.

“Sandra!” Mrs. Columbo called, looking worried, “you come up here right now!”

“We’re coming,” Sandra called back. To Sonny she whispered, “Have you gone mad, Santino?” She stood and handed him back the package. “It looks so expensive,” she said. “Grandma will faint if she sees it.”

“I don’t think so,” Sonny said.

“You don’t think so?”

“Come on.” Sonny put his hand on Sandra’s back and directed her up the stairs.

At the door, Sandra said again worriedly, “It looks so expensive, Sonny.”

Sonny said, “I get a good salary now.”

“Working in a garage?” She opened the door and waited for Sonny to answer before stepping into the dim foyer.

“I don’t work in a garage anymore,” Sonny said. “I’m working for my father now. I’m in sales. I go to all the stores and I convince them that Genco Pura is the only olive oil they need to stock.”

“How do you do that?” Sandra stepped into the building and held the door open for Sonny.

“I make them offers any reasonable man would accept,” Sonny said, and he joined her, closing the door behind him.

“And you earn enough money now,” Sandra whispered in the quiet of the building, “to afford a dress like this?”

“Come on,” Sonny said, and he started for the stairs. “I’m going to show you what a great salesman I am. I’m going to convince your grandmother to let me take you out dancing tonight.”

First Sandra looked stunned, and then she laughed. “Okay,” she said. “You’ll have to be the best salesman in the world.”

At the foot of the stairs, Sonny stopped. “Tell me one thing,” he said. “Do you love me, Sandra?”

Sandra, without hesitating, said, “Yes, I do.”

Sonny pulled her close and kissed her.

From the top of the stairwell, Mrs. Columbo’s voice came tumbling down the steps. “How long does it take to walk up a few flights of stairs?” she yelled. “Eh! Sandra!”

“We’re coming, Grandma,” Sandra called back, and she started up the stairs hand in hand with Sonny.

Giuseppe Mariposa gazed out the curved corner window of an apartment on the top floor of a building on Twenty-Fifth Street in Manhattan. In the late afternoon light he saw his own reflection and beyond it, at the intersection of Broadway and Fifth Avenue, the towering triangle of the Flatiron Building. Against a dark sky, the white limestone surface of the Flatiron’s topmost floors looked like an arrow soaring over the traffic and the trolleys and the Fifth Avenue double-deckers bustling through Madison Square. The day’s weather had been erratic, with quick, powerful thunderstorms flashing through the city, leaving behind bright sunshine and glistening streets. Now it was cloudy again, an edgy, electric cloudiness that promised another storm. Behind Giuseppe, a spacious five-bedroom apartment was bare, a maze of rooms with bright hardwood floors and freshly painted white walls through which the Rosatos and the Barzinis and Frankie Pentangeli and a few of their boys wandered around, looking things over, the noise of their conversations and the creak of their footsteps bouncing through the hallways and the empty rooms.

At the sight of Frankie’s reflection in the window, Giuseppe spun around. “Frankie?” he said. “Where the hell’s the goddamned furniture? This is no good if we got to hole up here. What are you thinking?”

Frankie squinted at Giuseppe, as if he couldn’t quite see him clearly. “What?” he said. Emilio Barzini appeared in the doorway, his boy Tits at his side. Tits was a good-looking kid, not yet twenty-one, but pudgy, with a big circle of a face and a flabby chest that got him his nickname. He dressed in the same three-piece suits as Emilio, whom he’d been working for in one capacity or another since he was twelve, but the same suits that looked crisp and snappy on Emilio looked baggy and rumpled on Tits. Awkward as the kid looked, he was serious and smart, and Emilio kept him close. “Hey, Giuseppe,” Frankie said, when Mariposa stared at him and said nothing, his hands on his hips, “you said, ‘Find a place, rent the top floor.’ That’s what I did.”

“What did you think I’d rent a place like this for, Frankie?”

“How do I know, Joe? You didn’t say anything about holing up here. Are you telling me we’re going to war?”

“Did I say we’re going to war?”

“Eh, Joe,” Frankie said. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and stood his ground. “Don’t treat me like a stronz’.”

Before Giuseppe could speak, Emilio took a few steps into the room. “Frankie,” he said, “don’t go getting your feelings hurt.” He moved between Frankie and Giuseppe, who were squared off, facing each other. “Sometimes, the fewer people know things, the better. That’s all. Right, Joe?”

When Mariposa nodded, Frankie said, “Fine.” To Emilio he said, “Hey, I don’t need to know everything.” To Giuseppe he said, “You want me to fix the place up like we’re going to war, get food, get some furniture in here, bring in some mattresses, do all that? Just tell me. I’ll have my boys take care of it.” He paused and added, “But be reasonable. You got to tell me. I can’t read minds.”

Giuseppe looked first to Tits and Emilio and then to Frankie. All the other rooms had gone quiet, and he imagined the Rosatos and the rest of the boys listening. When he turned to Frankie, he said, “Have your boys fix up the place like we might be going to war.”

“Sure,” Frankie said, his voice shooting up high. “I’ll get on it right away.”

“Good,” Giuseppe answered. “Get it done today. I want the mattresses at least and some food in here by tonight.” He turned back to the corner window, where the sky had grown darker, turning the glass into a mirror. Behind him he watched Frankie leave the room. He saw the perfunctory nod he gave to Emilio, and he saw the way Tits turned his head away, as if afraid to meet Frankie’s eyes. In the other rooms, the conversation resumed, and then Emilio and Tits walked off down the hallway, leaving him alone as the rain started, the white arrow of the Flatiron Building hovering in a gray sky.

Mrs. Columbo sipped from her cup of black coffee and watched Sonny warily as he finished off another of her sugar cookies and chattered about those two boys from the neighborhood, Johnny Fontane and Nino Valenti, going on about how Johnny was a great singer and Nino could play the mandolin like an angel. Occasionally she nodded or grunted, but mostly she seemed alternatingly bored and suspicious as she sipped her coffee and looked out the rain-streaked kitchen window of her apartment, which was small and cramped and full of the sugary-sweet smell of baking cookies. Sandra, who held a glass of water in both hands across the kitchen table from Sonny, hadn’t spoken a dozen words in the past half hour while Sonny talked to her grandmother, who now and then slipped in a few sentences of her own.

“Mrs. Columbo,” Sonny said, and then paused as he placed his cup down on the table and crossed his arms over his chest, announcing that he was about to say something of significance. “How come you don’t trust a good Italian boy like me?”

“What?” Mrs. Columbo appeared to be taken aback by the abrupt shift in conversation. She looked to the bowl of twist cookies in the center of the table as if something about her baking might be the cause of Sonny’s question.

“I would like to take your granddaughter out to dinner tonight where Johnny and Nino are performing. Sandra feels that this is out of the question, that you would never allow me to take her out to dinner—and so I ask, respectfully, why is it you don’t trust a good Italian boy like me, someone whose family you know and count among your friends?”

“Ah!” Mrs. Columbo slapped her cup down, sloshing a wave of coffee over the brim and onto the table. She looked as though she was more than willing to have this discussion with Sonny. “You ask me why I don’t trust a good Italian boy like you?” She waved a single outstretched finger at Sonny’s nose. “Because I know all about men, Santino Corleone! I know what men want,” she said, spitting out the words and leaning over the table, “especially young men, but, eh, all of you. You’re all the same—and Sandra and me, we have no good family man to protect us!”

“Mrs. Columbo…” Sonny cocked his head, suggesting that he took her point and understood her concern. He reached for one of the delicious twists of golden dough in the center of the table. “All I want,” he said, placing the cookie on a plate next to his cup, his voice eminently reasonable, “is to take Sandra out to a supper club, so she can hear Johnny and Nino. They’re local boys! You know them. It’s a very fancy place, Mrs. Columbo.”

“Why do you want to go out to dinner?” Mrs. Columbo asked. “Our house is not good enough for you? You get better food here than some fancy restaurant—and it doesn’t cost you your hard-earned money!”

“That I don’t argue,” Sonny said. “No restaurant can equal your cooking.”

“So?” Mrs. Columbo turned to look at Sandra for the first time, as if she had just remembered she was at the table and she wanted her support. “Why does he want to spend his money at some restaurant?” she asked Sandra.

Sandra looked to Sonny.

“Listen, Mrs. Columbo…” Sonny’s face paled as he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small package that he kept hidden in his closed fist. “This is for your Sandra,” he said, opening his hand, revealing a small black box. “I planned on surprising her with it tonight at dinner, but since we can’t have that dinner until we have your approval…” He moved the box closer to Mrs. Columbo without looking at Sandra, who had covered her mouth with her hands.

“What is this foolishness?” Mrs. Columbo snatched the box out of Sonny’s hand and opened it to reveal a diamond ring.

“This is our engagement ring.” Sonny looked across the table at Sandra. “Sandra and me are getting married,” he said. When Sandra nodded eagerly at him, a smile blossomed on his face and he added, dramatically, looking at Mrs. Columbo, “But only if you let me take her out to hear Johnny and Nino, where I can propose the question to her properly!”

“If this is trickery,” Mrs. Columbo said, waving her finger again, “I’ll go to your father!”

Sonny put his hand over his heart. “When I marry your Sandrinella,” he said, getting up from his seat, “you’ll have a man in your family to protect you.” He grasped Mrs. Columbo by the shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.

Mrs. Columbo raised a hand to Sonny’s chin and held him still while she looked into his eyes. Then she said, as if angry, “Eh! She’s the one you should be kissing!” and pointed his face at Sandra. “Have her home before ten o’clock,” she said on her way out of the room, “or I’ll go to your father!” She turned before she left the room and raised a finger as if she might have one more thing to say, but instead she only nodded and left Sonny and Sandra alone.

Ettore Barzini followed Giuseppe as he inspected the roof, holding an umbrella over his head, while Tits did the same for Emilio. The rest of the boys were still downstairs, in the empty apartment, where someone had brought in sandwiches and a case of Coca-Cola. Giuseppe walked to the edge of the roof and looked down over the ledge to the street. Crowds of pedestrians hurried along the avenue, hidden under the multicolored circles of their umbrellas. The rain was light but steady, and an occasional pale flash of distant lightning showed through the clouds, followed by a low rumble of thunder. Giuseppe pointed to the black loops of a fire-escape ladder. To Emilio he said, “Have your boys loosen the bolts, make sure no one can climb up from the street.”

“Sure,” Emilio said. A gust of wind ruffled his hair. With the palm of his hand he pushed back a few loose strands that had fallen over his forehead. “Tell you the truth, Joe,” he said, “we take care of Clemenza and Genco tonight, I think Vito comes to us tomorrow with his tail between his legs.”

Giuseppe pulled his jacket tight and turned his back to the wind. At each corner of the roof, the hunched shape of a gargoyle peered down over the city streets. He was silent a moment, thinking, and then he said, “I’d like to see that, Vito Corleone coming to me with his tail between his legs. You know what I’d do?” he asked, perking up, “I’d kill him anyway—but first I’d let him try some of his big talk on me.” He smiled, his eyes bright. “Oh, yeah?” he said, mimicking talking to Vito. “Oh, really? That’s interesting, Vito.” He raised his hand as if holding a gun and pointed it at Emilio’s head. “Pop! I’d blow his brains all over the wall. I’d tell him, That’s how I talk, Vito. What do you think of that?” He looked to Tits and Ettore, as if he had just remembered that they were there and now he wanted their response. Both young men smiled as if they had immensely enjoyed his story.

Emilio didn’t smile. “He’s a smart guy, Vito Corleone,” he said. “I don’t like him either, Joe, but he’s not all talk. What I’m saying, we take care of Clemenza and Genco, he’s crippled and he’ll be the first to know it.” He paused and moved closer to Tits. He yanked the kid’s hand down a few inches, bringing the umbrella closer. “He’ll be the first to know he’s crippled,” Emilio repeated, “and then, I think, he’ll give us what we want. His only other choice will be a war that he knows he’ll lose—and he’s not a hothead. He’s not crazy. We can bank on him doing what’s best for him and his family.”

A lightning flash, brighter than the others, lit up the dark clouds for an instant. Giuseppe waited for the thunder, which came several seconds later, a muted distant boom. “So I don’t push him right away, you’re saying?”

“I don’t think he’ll give you the chance.” Emilio put his arm around Giuseppe’s shoulders and guided him back to the roof door as the rain started to come down harder. “Vito’s not stupid,” he continued, “but soon enough…” He opened his hand in front of him, a gesture that suggested he was showing Mariposa the future. “We make sure he keeps getting weaker, and then—Then we take care of him.”

“Only thing that worries me,” Giuseppe said, “is Luca Brasi. I don’t like it.”

Tits opened the roof door and stepped aside. “I don’t like it either,” Emilio said, waiting alongside Tits, “but what can you do? We have to take care of Luca, we’ll take care of him.”

“Tommy wants to rip Brasi’s heart out,” Giuseppe said, and he stepped out of the rain and into a well-lit area at the head of a flight of stairs. “What about Vito’s boy, Sonny?” Giuseppe asked Emilio. “Is he a problem?”

“Sonny?” Emilio said. “He’s a bambino. But, probably, when we get to Vito we’ll have to take care of him, too.”

“Too many sons in this business,” Joe said, thinking of the LaContis. At the top of the stairs he stopped and watched Tits pull the roof door closed and lock it with a key that Emilio handed to him. “Did you make sure about the newspaper guys?” he asked Emilio.

“They’ll be at the club with the photographers.”

“Good. It’s always smart to have an alibi.” Giuseppe started down the stairs and then turned around again. “You reserved us a table by the stage, right?”

“Joe, we got it all taken care of.” Emilio joined Giuseppe on the stairs, put his hand on the back of his arm, and guided him down the steps. “What about Frankie?” he asked. “He should be there with us.”

Giuseppe shook his head. “I don’t trust him. I don’t want him to know anything more than he has to know.”

“Say, Joe,” Emilio said, “is Frankie with us or not?”

“I don’t know,” Giuseppe said. “Let’s see how things go.” At the bottom of the flight of stairs, Carmine Rosato waited. “You trust these guys, the two Anthonys?” Joe asked Emilio.

“They’re good,” Emilio said. “I’ve used them before.”

“I don’t know.” Giuseppe stopped at the bottom of the flight and stood beside Carmine. “These Cleveland guys,” he said, “they’re buffoons, Forlenza and all the rest of them.”

“They’ve gotten the job done for me before,” Emilio said. “They’re good boys.”

“And we’re sure Clemenza and Genco will be there?” Joe asked. “I never heard of this Angelo’s.”

Emilio nodded to Carmine.

“It’s a little family place,” Carmine said, “a hole in the wall on the East Side. A kid who works there, he’s the son of one of our guys. The way it is, Clemenza and Abbandando, they eat there all the time. They make the reservations under phony names, but this Angelo, he hears them calling each other by their real names—so when the reservation comes in, he tells the kid, ‘reservation for Pete and Genco.’ The kid’s light goes on—Pete Clemenza, Genco Abbandando. He tells his dad…”

“Luck,” Emilio said. “We caught a break.”

Mariposa smiled at the notion of luck being on his side. “Make sure they’ve got everything they need, these Cleveland mugs.” To Tits he said, “You know where they’re staying?” When Tits said he did, Giuseppe pulled a roll of bills out of his pocket and peeled off a twenty. “Go get them a couple of fresh carnations,” he said. “Tell them I said they should look good when they rub out these two pricks.”

“Sure,” Tits said, taking the twenty. “When? Right now?”

“No, yesterday,” Giuseppe said, and slapped Tits playfully on the side of the head. He laughed and pushed Tits toward the steps. “Yeah, go on,” he said. “Go do what I said.”

“Take my car.” Emilio handed Tits the keys. “And come right back.”

“Sure,” Tits said. He glanced once quickly to Emilio, and then hurried down the stairs, leaving the others behind him, where he heard them pick up their conversation once he was out of sight.

Out of the building, Tits scanned the street for parked cars. He saw Emilio’s and walked toward it and then past it, to the corner of Twenty-Fourth, where he again scanned both sides of the street. In the middle of the block, toward Sixth Avenue, he spotted Frankie’s black De Soto and approached it casually, glancing back now and then over his shoulder. When he reached the car he bent down to the street-side window, which was open.

“Get in,” Frankie said. “I been watchin’ the street. It’s okay.”

The kid got in the car and then slouched down so that his knees were up on the dashboard and his head was hidden by the seat back.

Frankie Pentangeli looked down at Tits and laughed. “I told you,” he said, “there’s nobody out here.”

“I don’t want to have to explain to anybody what I was doing in your car.”

“What are you doing in my car?” Frankie asked, still amused at the sight of Tits scrunched up in a ball. “What do you got for me?”

“It’s tonight,” Tits said. “Emilio brought in the two Anthonys from Cleveland.”

“Anthony Bocatelli and Anthony Firenza,” Frankie said, all the amusement rapidly going out of him. “You sure no one else?”

“Just Fio Inzana,” Tits said. “He’s the driver. Everybody else will be at the Stork Club getting their pictures taken.”

“Everybody but me,” Frankie said. He took an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Tits.

Tits pushed the envelope away. “I don’t want money,” he said. “Makes me feel like a Judas.”

“Kid…,” Frankie said, meaning he should take the money.

“Just don’t forget me,” Tits said, “if somehow you come out on top in all this.” He looked up at Frankie. “I hate Jumpin’ Joe, il bastardo.”

“You and everybody else,” Frankie said, and he put the envelope back in his pocket. “I won’t forget,” he added. “Meanwhile, keep your mouth shut, so if I don’t come out on top, you’ll still be okay. Understand? Not a word to anyone.”

“Sure,” Tits said, “but you need me, you tell me.” He popped his head over the back of the seat and looked up and down the block. “Okay, Frankie,” he said, getting out of the car, “see you in the funny pages.”

Frankie watched Tits walk back up the block toward Broadway. Once the kid turned the corner and disappeared, he started the car. To himself he said, “V’fancul’,” and then he pulled out into the traffic.

On the stage, which was a platform at the back of a long, narrow room that resembled a railroad car, Johnny leaned over the mike he held in his left hand and sang a particularly moody version of “I Cover the Waterfront,” his right hand open at his waist, palm turned out to the crowd, as if imploring them to listen. For the most part, the dozens of patrons ignored him as they ate meals at tables so crammed into the available space that the waiters had to turn sideways as they navigated the maze with trays of food held high over their heads. Some of the women, though, were watching and listening, and they all seemed to share the same absorbed, wistful expression while they turned sideways in their seats, their eyes on the skinny, bow-tied singer while their boyfriends or husbands went about digging into their food and drinking their wine or liquor. There was no possible room to dance. Even a trip to the restrooms involved a delicate ballet of twists and turns. Still, the place, as Johnny had promised, was swanky. The women were dressed in gowns and pearls and glittery diamond jewelry, and the men looked like bankers and politicians in tailored suits and patent leather shoes that caught the light and glistened when they crossed the room.

“He sings beautifully, don’t you think?” Sandra asked. She held her wineglass by the stem with her right hand while her left hand rested, only slightly awkwardly, on her knee. She had on the dress Sonny had bought for her, a long lavender gown, tight around her waist and thighs and billowing out over her calves where it swept the floor when she walked.

“Nothing’s as beautiful as you tonight,” Sonny said, and then smiled to see that he had made her blush yet again. He sipped his whiskey and his eyes dropped to Sandra’s breasts, which were covered entirely by a high neckline but were revealed still by the way the silky fabric clung to them.

“What are you looking at?” Sandra asked, and then Sonny blushed, embarrassed, before he caught himself and laughed at her boldness.

“You’re full of surprises,” he said. “I didn’t know that about you.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Sandra said. “A girl should surprise her guy now and then.”

Sonny propped his head on his hands and grinned as he looked at Sandra appraisingly. “That salesgirl who helped me pick out your dress,” he said, “she knew her stuff.”

Sandra let go of her wineglass and reached across the table to take Sonny’s hand. “I’m so happy, Santino,” she said, and gazed up at him.

When the silence felt a little awkward, Sonny looked across the room to the stage. “He’s a little crazy, that Johnny,” he said. “My father got him a good job as a riveter in the shipyards, but he wants to be a singer.” Sonny made a face that said he didn’t understand Johnny. “He’s got some voice though, huh?” When Sandra only nodded, he added, “His mother’s a pip. Madon’!”

“What about his mother?” Sandra asked. She lifted the wineglass to her lips and took a healthy sip.

“Nothing, really,” Sonny said. “She’s a little nutty, that’s all. I guess that’s where Johnny gets it from. His father’s a fire chief,” he said. “Good friend of the family.”

Sandra listened as Johnny finished up the song accompanied by Nino. “They look like good boys,” she said.

“They’re swell,” Sonny said. “Tell me about Sicily,” he added. “What was it like growing up there?”

“A lot of my family,” she said, “they died in the earthquake.”

“Oh,” Sonny said. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“It was before I was born,” she said, as if to excuse Sonny from having to feel bad for her. “My relatives that survived, they all left Messina and came to America, and then some of them, later, they went back to Messina and started up their lives again—so, for me, I’m from Sicily, true, but I grew up hearing about the wonderful America, about what a great country, America.”

“So why’d they go back?”

“I don’t know,” Sandra said. “Sicily’s beautiful,” she added, after thinking about it. “I miss the beaches and the mountains, especially Lipari, where we used to go for vacations.”

“How come I never hear you speaking Italian?” Sonny asked. “Even with your grandmother.”

“I grew up, my parents talked English around me, my relatives talked English. They sent me to school to improve my English… I speak English better than I speak Italian!”

Sonny laughed at that, and an echoing burst of laughter came from the back of the room, from the tables surrounding the stage, where Nino was goofing around with Johnny.

“The food…,” Sandra whispered, as if to warn Sonny of their waiter’s approach. A tall, handsome, middle-aged man who spoke with a French accent appeared alongside the table. He placed two covered dishes in front of them and dramatically announced the meals as he removed each silver-plated cover. “Chicken cordon bleu,” he said to Sandra. “And a porterhouse steak, rare, for the gentleman,” he said, though it sounded more like “pewterhose steak” to Sonny’s ear. When he was finished, the waiter hesitated, as if to see if the diners had any requests. When neither spoke, he bowed briskly from the waist and left.

“Did he think we forgot what we ordered?” Sonny asked, and he mimicked the waiter’s accent, “Pewterhose steak!”

“Look,” Sandra said, and she turned toward the back of the room, where Johnny had just stepped off the stage to polite applause and was making his way to their table.

Sonny stood to greet Johnny. They embraced, slapping each other on the back. “Oh!” Johnny said, glancing at the bloody steak on Sonny’s plate. “You sure that thing’s dead?”

“Johnny,” Sonny said, ignoring the joke. “I want you to meet my future wife.” He gestured to Sandra.

Johnny took a step back and looked at Sonny, as if waiting for a punch line. “You’re on the level?” he asked, and then he looked down at the table as Sandra placed her hand on the tablecloth beside her plate, displaying the diamond on her finger. “Well, will you look at that,” he said, and he shook Sonny’s hand. “Congratulations, Santino.” He extended his hand to Sandra. When she took his awkwardly, without getting up from her seat, he bent to her, lifted her hand, and kissed it. “We’re family now,” he said. “Sonny’s father’s my godfather. I hope you’ll think of me like a brother.”

“Yeah, a brother,” Sonny said, and he shoved Johnny. To Sandra he said, “You gotta watch this guy.”

“And of course I’ll be singing at your wedding,” he said to Sandra. To Sonny he said, “And I won’t even charge you too much.”

“Where’s Nino?” Sonny asked.

“Ah, he’s mad at me again.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothin’! He’s always getting mad at me about something.” Johnny shrugged, as if there was no understanding Nino. “I have to go back to work,” he said. He lowered his voice. “This place is nothin’ but squares. I got some mug up there keeps asking me to sing ‘Inka Dinka Doo.’ I look like Jimmy Durante to you? Don’t answer that!” he said, before Sonny could jump on the opening.

Just as Johnny started to leave, Sandra said, “You sing beautifully, Johnny.”

Johnny’s expression changed at the compliment, turned unguarded and almost innocent. He seemed stuck for how to reply, and then finally said, “Thank you,” and went back up to the stage, where Nino was waiting for him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Johnny said to the audience, “I’d like to dedicate this next song to my dear friend, Santino, Sonny Corleone, and the beautiful young woman in the lavender gown”—he pointed across the room, and Sonny, in turn, pointed to Sandra—“who is obviously much too beautiful for a palooka like Sonny, but for reasons incomprehensible to mere mortals, has apparently just agreed to marry him.” The crowd applauded politely. Nino nearly dropped his mandolin before he stood up and opened his arms to Sonny and Sandra. “This is a new Harold Arlen number,” Johnny said, “and I gotta think it’s exactly what my friend Sonny is feeling right now.” He turned and whispered something to Nino, and then he leaned over the mike and started singing “I’ve Got the World on a String.”

Across from Sonny, Sandra ignored her food as she watched the stage intently. Sonny reached over the table and took her hand, and then they both sat quietly, along with everyone else in the room, and listened to Johnny sing.

At Angelo’s, the waiter had just delivered a covered tray to the table where Clemenza and Genco were talking casually to each other, a squat, straw-wrapped bottle of Chianti between them on a red tablecloth. Genco’s elbows rested on either side of his plate, his hands pressed together palm to palm in front of his face, his two index fingers squeezing the tip of his nose. He nodded now and then as he listened to Clemenza, who was doing most of the talking. They both looked to be absorbed in their conversation, and neither of them seemed interested in the tray that had just been delivered. The restaurant was tiny, with only six tables, all of them close together. Clemenza’s back was to the kitchen, near a set of leather-encased swinging doors with porthole windows through which Genco could see Angelo at his stove beside a stainless steel counter. The four other diners in the room were at tables across from each other, against opposite walls, making a small triangle, their two tables at the base and Clemenza and Genco at the tip. The place was quiet, filled only with the muted sounds of three conversations and the occasional clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen.

To enter Angelo’s from the street, the two Anthonys had to climb down three steps and pull open a heavy door with the name of the restaurant on a brass plate under a small rectangular window. That brass plate was the only indication there was a restaurant in a place that otherwise looked like a basement apartment, no windows looking out onto the street, only a red brick wall and those three steps to a heavy wooden door. Anthony Firenza glanced back to the black Chrysler four-door parked on the street in front of the restaurant, Fio Inzana, a kid with peach-fuzz on his face, at the wheel. The kid looked like he couldn’t be more than sixteen. Firenza didn’t like having a bambino as his wheelman. It made him nervous. Beside him at the door, Bocatelli, the other Anthony, peered into the restaurant through a clouded pane of glass. He was the bigger of the two Anthonys, though in stature and age they were roughly the same, both pushing fifty, both a little over five-ten. They’d known each other since they were boys growing up on the same block in Cleveland Heights. They’d started getting in trouble together as teenagers and by the time they were in their twenties they were known by everybody as the two Anthonys.

Bocatelli shrugged and said, “I can’t see much. You ready?”

Firenza looked through the window. He could make out the rough outline of a few tables. “Only looks like a few people in there,” he said. “We shouldn’t have any trouble spotting them.”

“But you know them, right?” Bocatelli said.

“Been a few years, but, yeah, I know Pete,” he said. “You ready?”

The Anthonys were both wearing black trench coats over snappy three-piece suits with white tab collars and gold collar bars, matching bright white carnations pinned to their lapels. Under Firenza’s trench coat, a double-barreled, sawed-off shotgun was holstered at his waist. Bocatelli was lightly armed in comparison, with a Colt .45 in his pocket.

Firenza said, “I kind of like Pete. He’s a funny guy.”

“We’ll send him a nice wreath,” Bocatelli said. “The family will appreciate it.”

Firenza took a step back and Bocatelli opened the door for him.

Clemenza recognized him right away, and Firenza acted surprised at seeing him. “Eh, Pete,” he said. He started to pull open his trench coat, Bocatelli coming up alongside him as they approached Clemenza’s table. Genco twisted around in his chair just as Bocatelli reached into his pocket—and then the kitchen doors swung open and a monster of a man stepped through them, his arms dangling at his sides, his face twisted grotesquely. The guy was tall enough that he had to stoop as he passed through the doors. He took a few steps into the room and stood at ease behind Clemenza. Firenza had already reached under his trench coat, about to pull the shotgun from its holster, and Bocatelli alongside him had his hand in his coat pocket—but both men froze at the sight of that bestia coming through the kitchen doors. Luca and the two Anthonys stared at each other over the heads of Pete and Genco, everyone frozen in place until two gunshots from the street broke the tableau. Bocatelli turned his head slightly, as if he had considered looking behind him in the direction of the gunshots, before he jumped, mimicking the movement of Firenza beside him, Bocatelli bringing the Colt out of his pocket and Firenza pulling out the shotgun. They appeared to have been confused by the huge, unarmed man at the table behind Clemenza before they realized what was going on and went for their weapons—and by that time, it was too late. The four men slightly in front of them at the wall tables already had their guns in hand. They lifted them from under red cloth napkins and fired a dozen shots seemingly all at once.

Clemenza lifted a glass of wine to his lips. Two of his men came out of the kitchen once the shooting was over, one of them carrying sheets of plastic, the other with a wash bucket and mop, and a minute later the two Anthonys were being hauled through the kitchen door and out of sight. All that was left behind were slick wet spots where their blood had been cleaned up. Richie Gatto and Eddie Veltri, two of the four who had done the shooting, approached Clemenza as Luca Brasi without a word followed the others and disappeared through the kitchen. “Put the bodies in the car with the driver and take them down to the river,” Clemenza said.

Richie looked through the portholes, as if to assure himself no one was listening. “That Brasi’s got some balls,” he said to Clemenza. “No gun, no nothin’. He just stood there.”

Genco said to Clemenza, “Did you see the Anthonys stop in their tracks soon as he came through the door?”

Clemenza acted unimpressed. To Richie and Eddie he said, “Andate!” and as they started to leave, he twisted in his seat and called into the kitchen. “Frankie! What are you doing back there?”

Frankie Pentangeli came out of the kitchen while the doors were still swinging from Richie and Eddie’s departure.

“Come here!” Clemenza said, his mood suddenly jovial. “Sit down!” He pulled a chair out from the table. “Look at this!” He removed the cover from the silver plate in the center of the table and revealed a baked lamb’s head, cloven in two, the milky eyeballs still in place.

“Capozzell’,” Genco said. “Angelo makes the best.”

“Capozzell’ d’angell’,” Frankie said in his gravelly voice, as if talking to himself, laughing a little. “My brother in Catania, he makes this,” he said. “He loves the brains.”

“Oh! That’s what I like, the brains!” Clemenza said. “Sit down!” He slapped the table. “Mangia!”

“Sure,” Frankie said. He clasped Genco’s shoulder by way of a greeting and took a seat.

“Angelo!” Clemenza called to the kitchen. “Bring another plate!” To Frankie he said again, “Mangia!”

“We should talk business,” Frankie said, as Genco took a wineglass from another table and poured Frankie some Chianti.

“Not now,” Clemenza said. “You did good. We’ll talk later, with Vito. Now,” he said, shaking Frankie’s wrist, “now we eat.”

“If I squint my eyes,” Sandra said, “it’s like we’re flying.” She leaned against the door and looked out the car window as the upper stories of apartment buildings rushed by, most of the windows brightly lit, sometimes with a quick blur of people going about their private lives, oblivious to the traffic sailing past them.

Sonny had taken the West Side Highway out of the city and was about to exit on the way back to Arthur Avenue and the Bronx. “They used to call this Death Avenue,” he said, “before they elevated it like this. When all the traffic was down on the street with the trains, they’d crash all the time, the trains and the cars.”

Sandra appeared not to hear him. Then she said, “I don’t want to think about crashes tonight, Sonny. Tonight is like a dream.” She squinted her eyes and looked out the window to the buildings and the skyline. When Sonny took the exit ramp and descended to the street, she sat up, slid across the seat, and rested her head on his shoulder. “I love you, Santino,” she said. “I’m so happy.”

Sonny shifted into second gear and put his arm around her. When she nuzzled closer to him, he pulled the Packard over to the curb, cut the engine, and wrapped her up in his arms, kissing her and letting his hands wander over her body for the first time. When he held her breasts and she didn’t resist, when she instead made a sound like a cat purring and ran her fingers through his hair, he pulled away from her and started the car.

“What is it?” Sandra asked. “Sonny…”

Sonny didn’t answer. He made a face like he was struggling to find words and turned onto Tremont Avenue, where he nearly ran into the back of a horse-drawn wagon.

Sandra asked, “Did I do something wrong?” She folded her hands in her lap and stared out the front window as if she were afraid to look at Sonny, afraid of what he might say.

“It’s nothin’ about you,” Sonny said. “You’re beautiful,” he added as he slowed the car to a crawl, following the junk wagon. “I want to do everything right with you,” he said, turning to look at her. “So it’s all special, the way it should be.”

“Oh,” Sandra said, the single syllable full of disappointment.

“When we get married,” he said, “we can have a honeymoon. We can go someplace like Niagara Falls.” He turned to look at her again. “We can make it be like it’s supposed to when you get married.” He was quiet, and then he laughed.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Me,” Sonny said. “I think I might be going crazy.”

Sandra slid close to him again and hooked her arms around his. “Have you told your family yet?”

“Not yet.” He gave her a quick kiss. “I wanted to be sure you’d say yes.”

“You knew I’d say yes,” she said. “I’m crazy about you.”

“What’s this?” Sonny had just turned onto Sandra’s street, and the first thing he saw was his father’s big Essex parked in front of her building.

“What?” Sandra looked to her building and then up to her grandmother’s window.

“That’s my father’s car,” Sonny said. He pulled up to the curb, in front of the Essex, and hopped out to the street just as Clemenza was stepping out onto the sidewalk, followed by Tessio. In the front seat, Richie Gatto lifted his fingers from the steering wheel, acknowledging Sonny. Al Hats sat alongside him with his arms crossed over his chest, a black homburg circling his head.

“What’s going on?” Sonny asked, his face red.

“Calm down,” Clemenza said, and he clapped a meaty hand around Sonny’s forearm.

Tessio, standing next to Clemenza, said, “Everything’s all right, Sonny.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“You must be Sandra.” Clemenza stepped around Sonny and offered Sandra his hand.

Sandra hesitated, looked to Sonny, and when he nodded she took Clemenza’s hand. “We’re going to steal Sonny away from you,” Clemenza said. “He’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Che cazzo!” Sonny started toward Clemenza and was stopped abruptly when Tessio slapped his arm around his shoulder and pulled him close.

“Everything’s okay, honey,” Tessio said to Sandra in his typical monotone, a voice that always sounded like it was in mourning.

“Santino,” Sandra said, frightened, turning Sonny’s name into a question.

Sonny pulled loose from Tessio. “I’ll see her to the door,” he said to Clemenza. To Sandra he said, leading her up the stairs, “These are close friends of my family.” He added, “There must be some kind of a problem. I’ll tell you soon as I know.”

At the door, Sandra asked, “Is everything all right, though, Sonny?” and the words came out more like a plea than a question.

“Yeah, of course!” Sonny kissed her on the cheek. “It’s something to do with the family business.” He opened the door for her. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Are you sure?” Sandra looked past him, to Clemenza and Tessio, where they stood on either side of the big Essex, like sentries.

“Of course I’m sure,” Sonny said. He nudged her inside the door. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, I promise.” He closed the door behind her after a quick kiss on the lips and trotted down the steps. When he was in the backseat of the car, between Clemenza and Tessio, he looked from one to the other and said, calmly, “What’s going on?”

Richie started the car and Al thrust his open hand at Sonny.

Tessio said, “Give him your car keys. You’re coming with us.”

Sonny looked at Tessio as if he was on the verge of punching him, but he handed Al his keys.

Hats said, “Meet you at the offices,” and got out of the car.

Clemenza said, “Mariposa came after me and Genco tonight.”

“Genco?” Sonny said, his voice suddenly thick with worry.

“No, Genco’s fine,” Clemenza said, and he put a hand on Sonny’s shoulder, as if to calm him.

“What happened?”

Richie made a careful three-point turn and headed back to Hughes Avenue with Al following in the Packard.

“Mariposa brought in a couple of torpedoes from Cleveland,” Clemenza said, “to push me and Genco.” He shrugged. “We found out in time. Now they’re in the river seeing if they can swim back to Cleveland underwater.”

“And we got a war,” Tessio added.

Sonny looked to Clemenza. “We gonna kill that son of a bitch now?”

Tessio said, “You’re coming back with us to the offices, where we’re meeting with your father. If you’re smart, you’ll shut up, listen, and do what you’re told.”

“That bastard,” Sonny said, thinking of Mariposa. “We should blow his brains out. That’d put an end to things pretty quick.”

Clemenza sighed. “You should take Tessio’s advice, Sonny, and keep your mouth shut.”

“’Fancul’,” Sonny said, to no one in particular, “and I just asked Sandra to marry me.”

The car went quiet at Sonny’s announcement, as Clemenza and Tessio stared at him, and even Richie, behind the wheel, turned around to throw a quick glance into the backseat.

“Does your father know about this?” Clemenza asked.

“Nah, not yet.”

“And you’re telling us first?” Clemenza yelled. He slapped Sonny on the back of the head. “Mammalucc’!” he said. “Something like this, you tell your father first. Come here.” He leaned into Sonny, put an arm around him, and pulled him close. “Congratulations,” he said, “maybe you’ll grow up now.”

When Clemenza let him loose, Tessio gave Sonny a hug and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re eighteen,” he said, “right? That’s how old I was when I married my Lucille. Smartest thing I ever did.”

“Big day today,” Clemenza said, “love and war.”

From the front seat, Richie said, “Congratulations, Sonny. She’s a beauty.”

“Jesus,” Sonny said, “a war…,” as if the import of what he’d been told was just dawning on him.

On Hester Street, Richie Gatto pulled up behind the warehouse, where two of Tessio’s men were standing on either side of the entrance to the alley. The weather had turned chilly and damp, and a breeze through the alley fluttered the canvas tarps on a line of delivery trucks. Two shadowy figures stood by the back door to the warehouse, where a cat meowed at their feet, and then stood up on its back legs before one of the figures bent to it and picked it up, silencing it by scratching its neck. In the sky, a sliver of a sickle moon was visible through a break in the clouds.

Sonny quickly made his way down the alley. When he neared the back entrance, where Clemenza and Tessio had just disappeared into the warehouse, he saw that the shadowy figures at the door were the Romero twins. They were both wearing trench coats, under which Sonny could see the shape of a pair of choppers. “Boys,” Sonny said, and he stopped to shake hands with them, while Richie Gatto waited behind him. “Looks like there’s finally gonna be some action.”

“Couldn’t tell it from around here.” Vinnie tossed the cat he was holding onto the back of one of the delivery trucks, where it quickly jumped down and disappeared into the shadows.

“Everything’s quiet here,” Angelo said, echoing his brother. He adjusted his hat, a brown derby with a small red and white feather in the brim.

Sonny snatched the hat off Angelo’s head and looked it over, and then, grinning, nodded toward Vinnie’s black felt fedora. “They’re making you wear different hats now,” he said, “to tell you apart. Right?”

Vinnie gestured to his brother. “He’s got to wear that thing with a pretty little feather.”

“Mannaggia la miseria,” Angelo said. “It makes me look like a mick.”

“Hey, boys,” Richie said, and he put a hand on the back of Sonny’s arm. “We got business to take care of.”

“I’ll talk with you later.” Sonny reached for the door, but Angelo stepped in front of him and pulled it open first. “You guys making good money?” Sonny asked with one foot in the doorway and the other in the alley. The twins nodded and Vinnie patted Sonny on the shoulder, and then Sonny made his way into the warehouse.

“There may not be anything going on right now,” Richie said to the twins, “but that don’t mean nothing for five minutes from now. You guys understand what I’m saying?” The twins said “Yeah, sure,” and Richie added, “Keep your mind on the job.”

Sonny opened the door to his father’s office while Frankie Pentangeli was in the middle of a sentence. Frankie stopped and the room went quiet as everybody turned to Sonny and then Richie Gatto in the doorway. Vito was seated behind his desk, leaning back in his office chair. Tessio and Genco were seated in front of the desk, while Clemenza sat on the big file cabinet and Luca Brasi stood with his back to the wall, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes vacant, looking at nothing but the space immediately in front of him. Frankie straddled a folding chair beside Tessio and Genco, his arms crossed over the backrest. Vito gestured for Sonny and Richie to come into the office. To Frankie he said, “You know my son Santino.”

“Sure,” Frankie said. He flashed a smile at Vito. “They grow up fast!”

Vito shrugged as if he wasn’t sure about that. “Go on,” he said, “please.”

Richie and Sonny found a couple of folding chairs at the back of the room. Richie flipped his open and took a seat close to Clemenza. Sonny carried his chair around to the side of the desk and sat close to his father.

Frankie’s eyes followed Santino, as if he was a little surprised to see the boy position himself so close to the don.

“Per favore,” Vito said, urging Frankie to continue.

“Yeah,” Frankie said. “Like I was saying. Mariposa is going crazy. He says he wants his boys to find the bodies of the Anthonys and bring ’em back to him just so’s he can piss on them.”

“Too bad,” Clemenza said, “because he ain’t gonna have any luck with that.”

“Buffóne,” Genco said, meaning Giuseppe.

“But he has friends,” Frankie said. “I got word he went to Capone, and Al’s sending two of his torpedoes to take care of you, Vito. I don’t know who they are yet, but that Chicago Outfit, they’re beasts.”

“Who’s that pig Capone sending?” Sonny yelled, leaning out of his chair toward Frankie. “That fat slob!” Sonny pointed at Frankie angrily, as if accusing him. “How’d you get word?” he demanded. “Who told you?”

“Sonny,” Vito said, before Frankie could respond. “Go stand outside the door. Make sure nobody comes in.”

“Pop—”

Sonny was cut off by Clemenza, who jumped up from his seat on the file cabinet, red faced. “Shut up and go stand outside the fuckin’ door like your don just told you to, Sonny, or I swear to God!” He raised his fist and took a step toward the desk.

“Cazzo.” Sonny looked surprised by Clemenza’s outburst.

Vito said again, still leaning back in his seat, “Sonny, go stand outside the door and make sure nobody comes in.”

“Pop,” Sonny said, containing himself, “there’s nobody out there.” When Vito only stared at him, Sonny threw up his hands in frustration and left the room, snapping the door closed behind him.

Loudly, so that Sonny had to hear, Vito said, “Frankie Pentangeli, please forgive my thickheaded son. He has a good heart, but unfortunately he’s also stupid and he doesn’t listen. Still, he’s my son, and so I try to teach him. But I ask you again, please forgive him. I’m sure he’ll apologize for speaking to you as he did.”

“Hey,” Frankie said, dismissing and forgiving Sonny’s behavior with a single syllable. “He’s young and he’s worried for his father.” He shrugged off the whole thing.

Vito offered Frankie the slightest nod, a gesture that said “thank you” with great if silent clarity. “Does Mariposa know you tipped us off?” he asked, getting back to business.

“He don’t know nothin’ for sure yet,” Frankie answered. He reached into his jacket pocket for a cigar. “All he knows, the Anthonys are dead and Genco and Clemenza aren’t.”

“But does he suspect you?” Vito asked.

“He don’t trust me,” Frankie said, holding the unlit cigar out in front of him. “He knows our families go way back.”

Vito looked to Clemenza and then Tessio, as if seeking confirmation for something, and the three men appeared to have a brief, wordless conversation. After another moment of thought, Vito said to Frankie, “I don’t want you to go back to Mariposa. It’s too dangerous. An animale like Giuseppe, he’ll kill you just out of suspicion.”

“But, Vito,” Genco said, imploring, “we need someone inside Joe’s organization. He’s too valuable to us.”

“I’ve got somebody close to Joe I can trust,” Frankie said. “Somebody hates him almost as much as I do.” To Vito he said, “I’m tired of working for that clown. I want to be part of your family, Don Corleone.”

“But with Frankie on the inside,” Genco argued to Vito, “we can get to Mariposa if that has to be, if that’s what we have to do.”

“No,” Vito said, raising a hand to Genco, ending the debate. “Frankie Pentangeli is a man close to our heart. We won’t let him risk his life for us any more than he already has.”

Frankie said, “Thank you, Don Corleone.” To Genco he added, “Don’t kid yourself about ‘if that has to be.’ You’re in a war now, and it won’t be over until Giuseppe Mariposa is dead.”

Luca Brasi, whose vacant stare had seemed to make him disappear, spoke up, startling everyone, seemingly, but Vito, who turned his head calmly to Luca, almost as if he’d been expecting him to speak. “Don Corleone,” Luca said, his voice and manner sounding especially slow-witted, “may I suggest that—you let me kill Giuseppe Mariposa. Give me the word—and I’ll give you—my word, Giuseppe Mariposa will—be a dead man—very soon.”

The men in the room all watched Luca while he spoke, and then turned to Vito, waiting for his reply. “Luca,” Vito said, “you’re too valuable to me now to let you risk your life, as I know you would, to kill Giuseppe. I have no doubt that you would either kill him or get yourself killed trying—and the time may yet come that I have no choice but to ask for your services in that regard.” He reached into the top drawer of his desk and came back with a cigar. “For now, though,” he continued, “you can serve me best by taking care of these two killers Capone is sending for me.”

Luca said, “That I will be happy—to do for you, Don Corleone.” He leaned back against the wall again and quickly drifted off into his blank stare.

“Frankie,” Vito asked, “will your man be able to help us with this Capone matter?”

Frankie nodded. “If it gets too hot for him, though, we’ll need to take him in. He’s a good kid, Vito. I wouldn’t want to see anything happen to him.”

“Of course,” Vito said. “You can bring him into your family with our blessing when the time comes.”

“Good. Soon as he finds out something, I’ll know about it.” Frankie found matches in his jacket pocket and lit the cigar he’d been toying with.

“What happened tonight at Angelo’s,” Genco said, “won’t look good for Mariposa with the rest of the families. By coming at us so soon after Saint Francis, he showed them all that his word is worth nothing.”

“Plus,” Tessio said, in a voice as lugubrious as always, “we outmaneuvered him, which won’t look good for Joe either.”

“My guys,” Frankie said, cigar in mouth, “small as we are, still, they’ll know my guys are with you.”

“All this is good,” Genco said, and he raised a hand palm out, as if to slow things down. “We’ve won the first battle, but Mariposa remains much stronger than we are.”

“Still,” Vito said, “we have our advantages.” He looked at the cigar he’d been holding and then placed it on the desk. “Giuseppe is stupid—”

“But his caporegimes aren’t,” Clemenza interrupted.

“Sì,” Vito said. “But Giuseppe calls the shots.” He rolled the cigar across the desk, as if flipping aside Clemenza’s objection. “With Tessio’s regime in reserve,” he went on, “we’re stronger than Giuseppe realizes—and we have more cops, judges, and politicians in our pocket than he dreams.” He touched the rim of an empty glass on his desk and then tapped it twice, as if calling the room to attention. “Most important of all,” he said, “we have the respect of the other families, which Giuseppe does not.” He looked over the men gathered around him. “The families know they can deal with us,” he said, tapping the glass again, “because our word is good. Mark what I say,” he added. “If we show enough strength in this war, the other families will come around to our side.”

“I agree with Vito,” Genco said, looking at Vito but speaking to the others. “I think we can win.”

Vito was quiet as he waited for any possible objections from Tessio or Clemenza. When neither man spoke, it was as if a vote had been taken and a decision to aggressively pursue a war with Giuseppe Mariposa had been reached. “Luca will be my bodyguard,” Vito said, moving on to details. “When he’s busy with other matters, Santino will take his place. You, Genco,” he said, gesturing to his caporegime, “you’ll be guarded by Clemenza’s men. Frankie,” he went on, giving orders, “you and your regime, I want you to hit Mariposa’s operations in gambling and the unions. We’ll drive him out of the unions completely. He should lose some of his key men—but not the Rosato brothers or the Barzini brothers. When we win this war, we’ll need them.”

“I know Joe’s gambling operations,” Frankie said. “That I can handle. For the unions, I need some help.”

“I can tell you what you need to know,” Tessio said.

“The gambling operation…” Frankie tilted his head as if already thinking through the details. “Some of our friends, they may object.”

“That’s to be expected,” Vito said. “You know Giuseppe’s operations best, and so you know who can go and leave us with the least bad blood. Confirm everything with Genco,” Vito added, “but I’m inclined to trust your judgment in this matter.”

Genco patted Frankie’s wrist, as if to reassure him of his help and guidance.

“Tessio,” Vito said, moving on, “I want you to sound out the Tattaglia family. See if there are any weak links. Joe doesn’t go anywhere without making enemies. Also, sound out Carmine Rosato. At Saint Francis, he squeezed my hand a little too warmly for one of Giuseppe’s men.” Vito was quiet again, as if thinking back to the Saint Francis meeting. “Ah,” he said, dismissing his thoughts. “Let’s all think about how we can end this war as quickly as possible, and get back to our businesses and our families.”

“First,” Genco said. He shifted his chair closer to the desk and turned it around so that he was facing everyone. “First,” he repeated, “we need to take care of Capone’s torpedoes. Then,” he said, and he touched the tip of his nose before he spoke, as if he was trying to make a final decision about something. “Frankie’s right about this: We have to take care of Mariposa.” He shrugged, as if having to bump off Mariposa was a problem but necessary. “If we can do those two things soon as possible,” he added, “maybe the rest of the families will come around to join us.”

“They won’t be happy with Mariposa for going to Capone,” Clemenza said, shifting his weight on the file cabinet. “Calling in a Napolitan’ against a Sicilian…” He waved his finger. “They won’t like that.”

“Luca,” Genco said, “we’ll leave Capone’s men to you. Frankie,” he went on, “you give Luca everything you know.” He folded his arms over his chest as he sat back in his chair. “Let me say again, even though we’re outmanned, I think our chances are good. For now, though, and until things settle, we stay out of sight. I’ve already had some of our boys fix up rooms at the compound on Long Island. The houses aren’t finished, the wall isn’t completed, but it’s close. For right now, we, all of us and all of our key men, we’ll be living at the compound.”

Richie Gatto, who usually knew better than to speak at a meeting like this, said, “Right now? My wife needs—” He sounded as if he was about to explain the difficulty of having to go immediately to the compound before he caught himself.

“Richie!” Clemenza said. “What your wife doesn’t need is to be a widow, am I right?”

Vito got up from his desk seat and approached Richie. “I have complete faith in Genco Abbandando,” he said to everyone. “He’s a Sicilian, and who’s better than a Sicilian as a wartime consigliere?” Vito put an arm around Richie’s shoulder. “Your wife and children will be taken care of,” he said, and he gave Richie an affectionate squeeze as he led him to the door. “Your wife, Ursula, your son, Paulie, we’ll take care of them as if they were our own blood. On this, Richie, you have our word.”

“Thank you, Don Corleone.” Richie glanced at Clemenza.

“Go get the rest of the boys,” Clemenza said to Richie, and then he stood and joined Luca and the others as they filed out of the office. At the door, Clemenza embraced Vito, as had Tessio and Frankie before him.

Genco watched as Clemenza closed the door. “Vito,” he asked, “what should we do about the parade?”

“Ah,” Vito said, and tapped his forehead with a fingertip, as if jogging loose the details of the parade. “Councilman Fischer,” he said.

“Sì,” Genco said. “The mayor’s going to be there. Every pezzonovante in the city’s marching.”

Vito stroked his throat and looked up to the ceiling, stretching and thinking. “At an event like this,” he said, “where even our fat Napolitan’ mayor will be present… plus congressmen, cops, judges, the newspapers… No.” Vito looked to Genco. “Mariposa won’t do anything at an event of this nature. He would risk bringing all the families together against him, from all over the country. The cops would shut down all his businesses, and even his judges wouldn’t be able to help him. He’s stupid, but he’s not that stupid. No, we can go ahead with the parade.”

“I agree,” Genco said. “To be safe, though, we should have our men along the parade route, on the sidewalks.” When Vito nodded in agreement, Genco embraced him and then left the office.

Once Genco disappeared among the crates and shadows of the warehouse, Sonny stepped into the office and closed the door. “Pop,” he said, “I need to talk to you for a minute.”

Vito fell back into his office chair and looked up at Sonny. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “You talk to a man of honor like Pentangeli as if he’s a nobody? You raise your voice and point your finger at such a man?”

“I’m sorry, Pop. I lost my temper.”

“You lost your temper,” Vito repeated. He sighed and turned away from Sonny. He looked out over the office, at the empty folding chairs and bare walls. Somewhere outside, a truck rumbled by, the groan of its engine audible over the background murmur of traffic. In the warehouse, doors opened and closed, and the sound of voices and quick conversations floated in the air, muted and cryptic. Vito touched the knot of his tie and then loosened it a little. When he turned back to Sonny, he said, “You wanted to be in your father’s business? Now you’re in it.” He raised a finger in emphasis, signaling Sonny to pay attention. “You’re not to say another word in one of our meetings until I tell you otherwise, or unless I ask you to speak. Do you understand?”

“Jesus, Pop—”

Vito jumped up from his seat and grasped Sonny by the collar. “Don’t argue with me! I asked you, do you understand?”

“Jesus, yeah, sure, I understand.” Sonny stepped back out of his father’s grasp and straightened out his shirt.

“Go on,” Vito said, and he pointed to the door. “Go.”

Sonny hesitated, then went to the door and grasped the knob before he turned around again to find Vito glaring at him. “Pop,” he said, as if nothing had happened, as if in the time it took him to turn away from Vito and then back to face him, he had forgotten his father’s anger. “I wanted to tell you,” he said, “I’ve asked Sandra to marry me.”

In the long silence that followed Sonny’s announcement, Vito continued to stare at him, the glare slowly dissipating to be replaced by a look that was more curious than angry. Finally, he said, “So now you’ll have a wife to care for, and soon after, children.” Though he was addressing Sonny, Vito sounded like he was talking to himself. “Maybe a wife will teach you to listen,” he said. “Maybe children will teach you patience.”

“Who knows?” Sonny said, and laughed. “I guess anything’s possible.”

Vito looked Sonny over. “Come here,” he said, and he opened his arms to him.

Sonny embraced his father and then stepped back. “I’m still young,” he said, excusing himself for everything about him that angered Vito, “but I can learn, Pop. I can learn from you. And now that I’m getting married… I’ll have my own family…”

Vito grasped Sonny by the back of the head, taking a handful of his thick hair in his hand. “A war like this,” he said, “it’s what I wanted to protect you from.” He watched Sonny’s eyes and then pulled him close and kissed his forehead. “But at that I failed,” he said, “and I must accept it.” He turned Sonny loose with a gentle slap on the cheek. “With this good news,” he said, “at least I’ll have something to tell your mother that will balance her fear at the prospect of a war.”

“Does Mama have to know about the war?” Sonny asked. He went to the hall tree and brought back Vito’s hat, coat, and scarf.

Vito sighed at the thickheadedness of Sonny’s question. “We’ll be staying on Long Island with the rest of the men,” he said. “Take me home now, and we’ll get packed.”

“So, Pop,” Sonny said, after helping Vito into his coat and getting the door for him. “Do you still want me to shut up like you said, when there’s a meeting?”

“I don’t want to hear a word from you,” Vito said, and repeated his order, “until I tell you otherwise or unless I ask you to speak.”

“Okay, Pop.” Sonny opened his hands signaling that he accepted his father’s word. “If that’s what you want.”

Vito hesitated and watched Sonny, as if trying to see him anew. “Let’s go,” he said, and he put his arm around Sonny and led him out the door.

21.

Benny Amato said, “Little Carmine. I’ve known him since he was a kid.” He was talking to Joey Daniello, one of Frank Nitti’s boys. It was nine in the morning and they’d just gotten off the train from Chicago. They were walking along the platform, each carrying a suitcase, behind a dozen or so citizens all heading toward Grand Central’s main concourse.

“You sure you’re gonna reco’nize him?” Joey asked. He had asked Benny the same question a dozen times already. He was a skinny guy, looked like a bag of bones. He and Benny were both dressed like working stiffs in khaki slacks and cheap shirts under frayed Windbreakers. Both had on knit caps pulled down low on their foreheads.

“Sure I’ll recognize him. Didn’t I say I knew him since he was a kid?” Benny pulled off his cap, ran his fingers through his hair, and then yanked the cap back into place. He was also thin, but wiry and strong, with knots of muscles in his arms that showed through his shirtsleeves. Joey, on the other hand, looked like he’d shatter into a million pieces if someone punched him hard enough. “Anybody ever tell you you worry a lot, Joey?” Benny asked. He said it good-naturedly, but Joey didn’t laugh.

“The two Anthonys should’ve worried like me,” Joey said.

“Those Cleveland guys? They’re all amateurs over there. Jesus,” Benny said, “it’s fuckin’ Cleveland.”

In front of the two men, an archway led out onto the cavernous main concourse of Grand Central, where wide beams of sunlight spilled down from immense windows and splashed onto the floor. Scores of travelers moved toward ticket windows or the information booth or the street, but in the massiveness of the space they all looked lost. In the center of a shaft of sunlight toward the middle of the concourse, a pair of stout women with wash buckets and mops went about sloshing soapy water over the floor where a little girl had vomited. A young woman held the child in her arms while the women mopped, a cloying, minty smell rising up from their washing as Joey and Benny walked past.

“You got any kids?” Benny asked.

“Kids are nothin’ but trouble,” Joey said.

“Huh,” Benny said, “I like ’em,” and he continued beside Joey, heading for the Forty-Second Street exit as bits and pieces of conversations bounced off walls and floated up toward the constellations in an impossibly high ceiling.

“I got nothin’ against kids,” Joey said. “All it is, is, they’re trouble, is all.” He scratched the back of his neck as if something had just bitten him there. “He’s meeting us right outside, right? You sure you can still reco’nize him?”

“Yeah,” Benny said. “Known him since he was little.”

“He’s one of Mariposa’s boys? I gotta tell you,” Joey said, “I don’t like it this guy’s gotta call us in all the way from Chicago to take care of his business for him. Fuckin’ Sicilians. Bunch of farmers.”

“D’you tell Nitti that?”

“What? That Sicilians are a bunch of farmers?”

“No. That you don’t like it we’re coming from Chicago to take care of New York business.”

“No,” Joey said. “Did you tell Al?”

“Al’s currently unavailable.”

“This shouldn’t be no trouble,” Benny said. “From what I hear this Corleone is all talk, no muscle.”

“That’s probably what the Anthonys heard too,” Joey said, and he attacked the back of his neck again, scratching like he was trying to kill something.

Outside Grand Central, on the sidewalk in front of the Forty-Second Street exit, Carmine Loviero tossed a cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out with his toe. “Over here,” he called to Benny. “Eh!”

Benny was halfway into the motion of lifting his right arm to check his wristwatch when he froze at the sound of Carmine calling him. He looked over to the bulky figure in a pale-blue suit and observed him with obvious confusion before crossing the sidewalk. “Little Carmine!” he said finally. He put his suitcase down and embraced him. “Madre ’Dio! I didn’t recognize you! You must have put on twenty pounds!”

“More like forty since the last time I saw you,” Carmine said. “Jesus, what was I, fifteen years old?”

“Yeah, probably. Got to be ten years.” Benny looked over Carmine’s shoulder at the guy standing on the curb behind and to the left of him. “Who’s this?” he asked.

“This is my buddy JoJo,” Carmine said. “JoJo DiGiorgio. You guys never met?”

“Nah,” JoJo said. “Never had the pleasure.” He offered Benny his hand.

Joey Daniello had hung back from the meeting and was watching the three men from beside the entrance to Grand Central. As he leaned against the terminal’s outer wall, his foot resting on his suitcase, his right hand in his pocket, he massaged his forehead with his free hand. He looked like a man suffering from a headache.

Benny shook hands with JoJo and then turned and waved for Joey to join them. “Joey the Gyp,” he said under his breath to Carmine. “He don’t look like much, but, Madon’! Don’t get him mad. He’s a lunatic.” When Joey joined them, his hand still in his pocket, Benny said, “This is Little Carmine I was telling you about, and this here,” he said, “is JoJo DiGiorgio.”

Joey nodded to both men. “So is this a reunion,” he asked, “or do we have business needs taking care of?”

“Business,” JoJo said. To Carmine he said, “Get their suitcases, why don’t you?”

Carmine looked to JoJo as if he wasn’t sure what was being asked of him. Then he turned to Benny and Joey and said, “Yeah, let me get your suitcases for you.”

Once Carmine had both suitcases in hand, JoJo stepped out onto the street and waved as if he were calling a cab. He waved with his left hand, his right hand dangling by his jacket pocket, Carmine clear in his peripheral vision, standing there with the suitcases in hand. “Here we are,” JoJo said as a black Buick sedan pulled to the curb.

“Where we going?” Daniello asked.

“Mariposa wants to see you,” JoJo said, and he held the back door open for them. “Carmine,” he said, as Benny and Joey slid into the empty backseat, “put the suitcases in the trunk.” Carmine went behind the car to open the trunk as the street-side door opened and Luca Brasi, wrapped in a black trench coat, slid into the car brandishing a .38 Super, which he pushed into Benny’s gut. Vinnie Vaccarelli, in the driver’s seat, spun around and put a pistol in Joey’s face as he quickly frisked him. He pulled one gun out of Joey’s pocket and another out of an ankle holster. Luca yanked a big Colt .45 out from under Benny’s jacket and tossed it into the front seat with Joey’s guns. A second later JoJo was in the passenger seat beside Vinnie and they were weaving through midtown traffic.

Joey Daniello said to Benny, “Hey, where’s your good pal Little Carmine? Looks like he got lost.”

Benny, who was sweating, asked Luca in a shaky voice if he could get a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe his brow, and Luca nodded.

Joey was grinning. He looked like he was enjoying himself. “Hey, JoJo,” he said, and he leaned closer to the front seat, “how much you guys pay Benny’s good friend Little Carmine to set us up? I’m curious.”

“We didn’t pay him nothin’,” JoJo said. He took his hat off and dropped it over the guns on the seat between him and Vinnie. “We convinced him it’d be good for his health to do what we told him.”

“Oh,” Joey said, and he leaned back in his seat again, his eyes on Luca. To Benny he said, “Hey. At least your pal didn’t sell you out. That’s something.”

Benny’s face was pale and he appeared to be having trouble breathing. “Relax,” Luca said to him. “We’re not gonna—kill anybody.”

Joey Daniello laughed. It was a bitter little laugh that didn’t interrupt the stare he had fixed on Luca.

“Carmine’s on his way back to Jumpin’ Joe right now,” Vinnie said, looking into the rearview. “Maybe they’ll send the cavalry for you.”

Joey pointed a finger at Luca. “You know who you look like? Really,” he said, “you look like that fuckin’ Frankenstein that Boris Karloff plays in the movie. Did you see that?” He touched his eyebrows. “The way your forehead’s like that,” he said. “Like an ape, you know?” When Luca didn’t answer, he added, “What happened to your face? You have a stroke or something? My grandmother looked like that after she had a stroke.”

JoJo pointed his gun at Daniello. To Luca he said, “You want me to put a bullet in his face right here, boss?”

“Put it away,” Luca said.

“He don’t want you to shoot me in the car,” Joey said. “Why make a mess?” Looking at Luca again, he said, “You probably got a nice place all picked out for us.”

“Relax,” Luca said to Daniello. “I said we’re not gonna kill anybody.”

Joey laughed the same bitter laugh. He shook his head, as if disgusted by Luca lying to him. He looked out his window. “All these people on the street,” he said, sounding like he was talking to himself. “They all got things to do. They’re all going someplace.”

JoJo glanced at Luca, his face screwed up like Daniello might be a little crazy.

Benny said, “If you’re not killin’ us, what are you doing?”

JoJo looked to Luca again before he answered. “You’re bringing a message back to Capone and the Chicago Outfit. That’s all. We’re sending out messages today, like Western Union. Little Carmine’s bringing a message to Mariposa, and you’re bringing a message back to the Outfit.”

“Oh yeah?” Joey said, grinning. “Well, give us the message and you can let us out at the corner. We’ll grab a cab.” When no one answered, he said, “Yeah. A message.”

On the corner of West Houston and Mercer, Vinnie parked in a dirt alley between a line of warehouses and factories. It was a sunny morning and there were men on the street behind them in lightweight jackets and women in summery dresses. A vein of sunlight penetrated a few feet into the alley and washed over a grimy brick wall. Beyond that it was all shadow. There was no one moving, but a dirt path on the ground had been beaten into dust with foot traffic. “So we’re here,” Daniello said, as if he recognized the place.

Luca pulled Benny out of the car and then they all followed the shadowy alley until it ran into a second, wider alley that crossed the first like a T, where a line of shacks was propped up against a windowless brick wall. The shacks were made of cobbled-together scrap wood and junk, and they had stovepipes sticking out of their roofs. A cat lay on the ground outside the tarp doorway of one shack, beside a baby carriage and a soot-blackened metal garbage barrel with a cooking grate over the top of it. The alley was deserted at this time of the morning, when everyone was out looking for work.

“It’s here,” Vinnie said, and he led the group to a locked door between two of the shacks. He pulled a key from his pocket, struggled with the lock a minute, and then put his shoulder into the door and opened it onto the dank, empty space of what must have once been a factory but was now an echoey shell where pigeons roosted on high windows and spattered the floor with their droppings. The place smelled of mold and dust, and Benny covered his nose with his cap before Vinnie pushed him along toward a rectangular opening in the floor, where a single length of pipe remained from what was once a railing. “This way,” Vinnie said, pointing down the opening to a rickety flight of stairs that disappeared into darkness.

“I can’t even see nothing down there,” Benny said.

“Here,” JoJo said. He moved in front of Benny and started down the stairs with a silvery cigarette lighter held out in front of him. At the bottom of the steps, where it was too dark to see, he flipped open the lighter and the red glow of the flame illuminated a flickering red corridor. Every few feet along the hallway there were openings into small rooms with dirt floors and bare brick walls. The walls were damp and clammy, and water dripped from a low ceiling.

“This is perfect,” Daniello said. “It’s the fuckin’ catycombs down here.”

“The what?” Vinnie said.

“It’s this one.” JoJo led the others into one of the spaces.

“Yeah, what makes this one special?” Daniello asked.

“This,” JoJo said, and he lowered his cigarette lighter and placed it on an upright brick next to a coil of rope and a roll of black plastic.

Daniello laughed out loud. “Hey, Boris,” he said to Luca. “I thought you weren’t gonna kill us.”

Luca put a hand on Joey’s shoulder and said, “I’m not—going to kill you—Mr. Daniello.” He gestured to Vinnie and JoJo, and in the flickering red glow of the cigarette lighter they went about tying up Benny’s and Joey’s hands and feet with lengths of rope that Luca hacked off with a machete he’d pulled out from under his trench coat.

“A machete?” Joey said, sounding angry for the first time at the sight of the long blade. “What are you, fuckin’ savages?”

Once they were bound, Luca lifted first Benny and then Joey off the ground against opposite walls, facing each other, where he looped their bound hands over a pair of blackened hooks and left them dangling, their feet inches above the ground. When Luca picked up the machete again, which he had propped up against a wall, Benny said, “Mannaggia la miseria,” plaintively, through a sob.

“Hey, Benny,” Daniello asked, “how many men you killed?”

“A few,” Benny said, loud, trying to speak without sobbing.

“Then shut the fuck up.” To Luca, Joey said, “Hey, Boris,” and when Luca turned to him, he said, “It’s alive! It’s alive!” in the voice of Boris Karloff from the movie. He laughed wildly and tried to repeat the lines again but choked on his own laughter.

Vinnie said, “Jesus, Daniello. You’re one crazy bastard.”

Luca buttoned up his trench coat and turned up the collar. He motioned for Vinnie and JoJo to step back in the doorway. He swung the machete brutally and hacked off Benny’s feet, high above the ankles. Blood splashed across the room and poured out onto the floor. Luca stood back to look over his work, and when Benny’s yelps and screams seemed to annoy him, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and jammed it in down the kid’s throat.

“So—what?” Joey said, calmly, once Benny’s screams were muffled. “You really not gonna kill us? You’re just crippling us? That’s your message?”

“No,” Luca answered. “I’m—gonna kill—Benny. I don’t like him.” He swung the machete again and sliced off Benny’s hands at the wrists. When the kid’s body hit the ground and he tried to crawl away on his stumps, Luca stepped on his calf and pinned him to the floor. “Looks like—you’ll have to deliver our message—to the Outfit,” he said to Joey. Under his foot, the kid spit out the handkerchief and screamed for help, as if there were a chance someone would hear him in the basement of an abandoned factory, behind a deserted alley, as if it were possible that someone would come to his rescue. Luca leaned over the kid and, with both hands on the hilt, thrust the machete through his back and heart. When he pulled the blade out, there was blood everywhere, on the walls and the dirt floor, all over Luca’s trench coat, and on Joey Daniello still hanging from the wall, on his clothes and on his face. Luca kicked the kid’s body to a corner and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean white slip of paper. His bloody hands quickly threatened to render the handwritten note unreadable. He passed it to JoJo. “Read this to—Mr. Daniello,” he said. “This is the—message you’re to—deliver,” he said to Joey. “It’s from Don Corleone, and—it’s intended—for your bosses—in Chicago and—for Capone in Atlanta.” He nodded to JoJo.

JoJo carried the note across the room and bent down close to the flame of the cigarette lighter. “Dear Mr. Capone,” JoJo said, reading from the note, “now you know how I deal with my enemies.” He coughed, clearing his throat. “Why does a Neapolitan interfere in a quarrel between two Sicilians?” he continued, taking his time with each word. “If you wish me to consider you as a friend, I owe you a service which I will pay on demand.” He pulled the paper close to his face, trying to read through a blood smear. “A man like yourself,” he continued, “must know how much more profitable it is to have a friend who, instead of calling on you for help, takes care of his own affairs and stands ever ready to aid you in some future time of trouble.” He paused and tried to wipe away another blood smear over the last sentence. “If you do not want my friendship,” he read, “so be it. But then I must tell you that the climate in this city is damp, unhealthy for Neapolitans, and you are advised never to visit.” When he was finished, he stood and handed the note back to Luca, who folded it and slipped it into Joey Daniello’s jacket pocket.

“That’s it?” Joey said. “Just deliver this note?”

“Can I trust—you to deliver it?” Luca asked.

“Sure,” Daniello said. “I can deliver your message for you. Sure I can.”

“Good,” Luca said. He picked up the machete and started for the door. “You know what?” he said, pausing in the doorway. “You know what?” he repeated, approaching Joey. “I’m not so sure—I can trust you.”

“Yeah, you can trust me,” Daniello said, the words shooting out quick and hurried. “Why wouldn’t I deliver your boss’s message? You can trust me, sure you can.”

Luca seemed to think about it. “You know that—Frankenstein monster—you were—jabberin’ about? I saw that movie.” He pursed his lips, as if to say he didn’t know what all the fuss was about. “Not much—of a monster—if you ask me.”

Joey said, “What the hell’s that got to do with anything?”

Luca turned his back on Daniello, took a step toward the door, and then spun around with the machete like Mel Ott swinging a bat and beheaded Daniello with a quick series of three blows. Daniello’s head rolled across the floor and into the wall under a spray of blood. To JoJo, Luca said, on his way out the door, “Let them—bleed out—wrap up the bodies—get rid of them.” He went back, pulled Don Corleone’s note out of Daniello’s pocket, and handed it to Vinnie. “Put this in—a suitcase with—the kid’s hands—make sure it gets—delivered—to Frank Nitti.” He tossed the machete into the blood-reddened dirt and walked out into the darkness of the corridor.

22.

One of Tony Rosato’s men leaned over a sink full of sudsy water in the Twenty-Fifth Street apartment and scrubbed his shirt on a washboard. He was a short, squat kid in his twenties, wearing a sleeveless white undershirt and wrinkled dress pants, his thick head of hair a rumpled mop. Giuseppe had been up for an hour already. From the look of the sunlight through the kitchen windows, it was after ten in the morning. The kid was intent on dragging his shirt over a washboard, a sheet of opaque, corrugated glass in a wood frame, splashing suds over the side of the porcelain sink and onto the linoleum. Giuseppe glanced up and down the hallway outside the kitchen and saw no one moving. After ten o’clock and every one of the idiots working for him was still sleeping, except this idiota washing his shirt in the kitchen sink. Giuseppe looked at the front page of the New York Times, which he had just picked up a moment earlier outside the front door, where he’d found both of Tomasino’s guards asleep in their chairs. He’d picked up the newspaper, closed the door, and come back down the hall to the kitchen, and he hadn’t roused anyone’s attention, not even this moron washing his shirt in the sink. What balls! Washing his shirt in the kitchen where everybody else eats.

Albert Einstein was on the front page of the Times looking like some ciucc’ in a good suit with a wing collar and a silk tie—and he couldn’t comb his fuckin’ hair.

“Hey, stupido,” Giuseppe said.

The kid at the sink jumped, splashing water onto the floor. “Don Mariposa!” He looked at Giuseppe, saw his expression, and held up his shirt. “I spilled wine all over my good shirt,” he said. “The boys was all up late last night playing—”

“Mezzofinocch’!” Giuseppe said. “I catch you again washing your clothes where the rest of us eat, I’ll put a bullet in your ass. Okay?”

“Sure,” the kid said, like the idiota he was. He reached into the soapy water and pulled out a rubber stopper. “It won’t happen again, Don Mariposa,” he said, the water draining fast out of the sink, a whirlpool parting the suds.

“I’m going up on the roof. Get Emilo and tell him I want to see him, and tell him to bring Tits with him.”

“Sure,” the kid said.

“Then get this place cleaned up, put on some coffee, and get everybody else out of bed. You think you can handle all that?”

“Sure,” the kid said, and he leaned against the sink, soaking the back of his pants.

Giuseppe glared at the kid and then went back to the master bedroom, where the sheets and covers to his bed were bunched up at the footboard. He tossed and thrashed most nights, fighting with his bedding. He groaned too. Sometimes loud enough that he could be heard in the next apartment. On the other side of the open bathroom door, a mirror over the sink was still fogged with steam from the shower. He always took a shower as soon as he got out of bed. Unlike that stronz’, his father, long dead and good riddance, or his mother, the two of them, a pair of worthless drunks, them and their beloved fuckin’ Sicily. They stunk to high heaven half the time. Giuseppe got up, got showered, got dressed, first thing, always, ever since he was a young man. Always wore a suit: Even when he didn’t have two nickels to rub together, he found a way to get hold of a decent suit. Out of bed, dressed, and at his business. That’s why he was where he was and the rest of these nobodies were working for him.

He looked over the bedroom, at all the furnishings, the mahogany sleigh bed and the night tables and the matching dresser and mirror, everything brand-new. He liked the place and thought maybe he’d keep it for one of his girls after all this bullshit with Corleone was over. His jacket was hanging on the back of the bathroom door, and under it, his shoulder holster. He put the jacket on and left the holster. He opened a dresser drawer and chose a tiny derringer from a clutter of pistols. He put the gun in his jacket pocket and went up to the roof, smacking each of the sleeping guards on the head as he passed them, waking them and walking away without a word.

It was gorgeous on the roof, the sun heating up the tar paper, warming the stone cornice. He guessed the temperature was in the seventies, a sunny spring morning, almost summery. Giuseppe liked being outside, in the fresh air. It made him feel clean. He went to the edge of the roof, put a hand on the back of a gargoyle’s head, and looked out over the city, which was already bustling with people and traffic rushing along the avenues. Nearby, the white arrow of the Flatiron Building gleamed in the sunlight. When he was still coming up, he worked awhile for Bill Dwyer in Chicago. That was where he met Capone. Whenever Bill asked him to do something, didn’t he jump to it? He did. He jumped, and then they started calling him Jumpin’ Joe, which he made a big deal of not liking, but he didn’t mind it. Goddamn right he jumped. He jumped all his life. Something needed doing, he jumped to it. That’s why he rose up the way he did.

When the roof door opened behind him, Giuseppe reluctantly turned away from the warmth of the sun on his face and glanced back to Emilio, who was dressed casually in dark slacks and a blowsy pale-yellow shirt opened a couple of buttons down at the neck, revealing a gold link chain. Emilio was a sharp dresser, which was one of the things Giuseppe liked about him. What he didn’t like was seeing him in casual clothes. It wasn’t professional.

“Joe,” Emilio said as he came up alongside him. “You wanted to talk to me?”

“I get up this morning,” Giuseppe said, turning around fully to face Emilio, “I find two of your boys sleeping outside the door, everybody inside fast asleep, except one of Tony’s boys, some moron, washing his clothes in the kitchen sink.” He opened his hands, asking Emilio how to explain such bullshit.

“They’re just getting settled,” Emilio said. “The boys were up till dawn playing poker and drinking.”

“And so what? That makes a difference if Clemenza sends some of his men up here? They won’t blow our brains out because the boys were up late playing poker?”

Emilio put up his hands in submission. “It won’t happen again, Joe. I give you my word.”

“Good,” Giuseppe said. He took a seat on the stone cornice, resting his arm on the gargoyle, and motioned for Emilio to sit alongside him. “Tell me again,” he said, “we’re absolutely certain it was Frankie Pentangeli’s boys?”

“Yeah,” Emilio said. He sat alongside Giuseppe and tapped a cigarette out of his pack. “Carmine Rosato was there. He says it was Fausto and Fat Larry and a couple of boys he didn’t know. They shot up the place. We’re out ten grand, easy.”

“And the union offices?” Giuseppe motioned for Emilio to give him a cigarette.

“Had to be Frankie. We got a war now, Joe. Frankie’s with the Corleones.”

Giuseppe took the cigarette Emilio offered and tapped it against the stone cornice. Emilio handed him a lighter. “And us?” Giuseppe said. “We still pullin’ our puds?”

“They’ve moved or shut down their banks and most of their gambling places, so they’re losing money. That’s one thing. The guys,” Emilio said, “all their big guys are out at that place on Long Island. It’s like a fortress out there. You gotta risk your life just to get a peek. To get inside? You’d have to lay siege to the place, like in medieval times.”

“What times?” Giuseppe asked. He handed the lighter back to Emilio.

“Castle times,” Emilio said. “Like castles and moats and such.”

“Ah,” Emilio said, and then he was quiet as he looked up at a blue, cloudless sky. “So now we know for sure,” he said, not looking at Emilio. “It was Frankie tipped them off about the Anthonys.” He turned a grim face to Emilio. “See, I never trusted Frankie,” he said. “He didn’t like me. He smiled, he said the right things—but I could tell. He never liked me. Only thing I’m sorry is I didn’t just put a bullet in him like I should’ve.” He stubbed out his cigarette and tossed it off the roof. “You stood up for him, Emilio. You said hold on, don’t rub him out, wait and see, he’s a good guy.”

“Hey, Joe,” Emilio said. “How could I have known?”

Joe tapped a finger against his heart. “Instinct,” he said. “I didn’t know, but I suspected. I should’ve gone with my gut and killed him.”

When the roof door opened and Ettore Barzini came out of the shadowy doorway with Tits following, Giuseppe said to Emilio, slipping in a final word before the others joined them, “This thing with the Irish better work, Emilio. Do you hear me?”

“Yeah, sure,” Emilio said. “I hear you, Joe.”

Giuseppe and Emilio stood up as Ettore and Tits approached. “Emilio and I were just talking about that scumbag traitor, Frankie Pentangeli,” Giuseppe said.

“Son of a bitch,” Ettore said. He was wearing a smoky gray suit with a black shirt and no tie, the collar open. “I can hardly believe it, Joe.”

“But the thing is,” Giuseppe said, looking at Tits, “the thing that’s got me confused is, we didn’t tell Frankie about the Anthonys. And Frankie didn’t know about Capone’s men. So how’d he find out?” He took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled, his eyes on Tits. “How’d he know about Angelo’s? How’d he know about the guys the Outfit sent over? Somebody had to tip him off. Tits,” he said, “you got any ideas?”

“Don Mariposa,” Tits said. The kid’s face, his plump cheeks and ready smile that made him look childish, turned uncharacteristically hard, almost angry. “How could I tip off Frankie?” he said. “I’m not one of his guys. I have no dealings with him at all. When would I even see him to tip him off? Please. Don Mariposa, I had nothing to do with this.”

“Joe,” Ettore said, “I’ll vouch for Tits. Why would he tip off Frankie? What’s in it for him?”

“Shut up, Ettore,” Joe said, looking at Emilio. “Do you vouch for him too?” he asked Emilio.

“Sure I do,” Emilio said. “The kid’s been with me since he was a boy. He wouldn’t turn on me. It’s not him, Joe.”

“Of course he wouldn’t turn on you. You’re like a father to him. He ain’t gonna turn on you.” Giuseppe shook his head, disgusted with the whole question. He motioned for the others to follow him as he started toward the roof door. “You know how this makes me look to the other families now? To my friend Al Capone? To the Outfit? Do you know how this makes me look?”

Tits bolted in front of the others to open the roof door for Giuseppe.

Giuseppe said to Tits, “You don’t like me much, do you?

Tits said, “I like you fine, Don Mariposa.”

“Don Mariposa, Don Mariposa,” Giuseppe said to Emilio as he stepped into the shadows of a foyer-like space above a flight of steps. “Now all of a sudden your boy’s full of respect.”

Tits pulled the door closed behind him and the four men stood in a small circle at the head of the stairs.

Giuseppe shook his head again, as if responding to an argument that the others couldn’t hear. “You know what?” he said to Tits. “I don’t know if you tipped off Frankie or the Corleones or what the fuck. But other than my captains, you’re the only one who knew all the details, so—”

“That’s not true, Don!” the kid shouted. “We all know everything.”

“I don’t keep things from my men,” Emilio said, stepping a little closer to Giuseppe. “I gotta trust them, and they all knew Frankie was cut out. None of my men said squat to him.”

Giuseppe looked into Emilio’s eyes before he turned back to the kid. “Still,” he said, “I don’t trust you, Tits. You’re a punk and I got my suspicions, so—” He took a quick step, closing the gap between himself and Tits. With his left hand he held the kid behind the neck and with his right hand he pushed the derringer into his heart and fired. He stepped back and watched the kid crumple to the floor.

Ettore turned around and looked away. Emilio didn’t move. He looked at Giuseppe in silence.

“Don’t ever question me again,” Giuseppe said to Emilio. “If I hadn’t listened to you, Frankie would have been in the ground and none of this would have come about. This should have all been over quickly, and now I got a real fuckin’ war to worry about.”

Emilio seemed hardly to have heard Giuseppe. He looked down at Tits. A little river of blood was already flowing out from under the body. “He was a good kid,” he said.

“Well, now he’s a dead kid,” Giuseppe said, and he started down the stairs. “Get rid of him.” At the bottom of the flight, he turned and looked up. “Somebody talk to the Irish,” he said. “Make sure they keep their mouths shut.” He disappeared down another flight of stairs.

When Giuseppe’s footsteps faded and Ettore was certain he wouldn’t be overheard, he turned to his brother. “The son of a bitch was probably right, though,” he said. “Tits probably did tip off Frankie. He hated Joe.”

“We don’t know that,” Emilio said. He started down the stairs with Ettore behind him. “Get a couple of the boys and bring him over to that mortuary in Greenpoint, near his family.”

Ettore said, “You think Joe—”

“Fuck Joe,” Emilio said. “Do what I told you.”

23.

Cork pulled the bakery’s green window shade halfway down against the blaze of morning sunlight coming in off the street. Eileen had just delivered a steaming tray of sweet sticky buns and the shop smelled of cinnamon and fresh-baked bread. The early morning rush of customers had already come and gone, and now Eileen had disappeared upstairs with Caitlin and left him to straighten out the display cases and get the shop in order. Cork didn’t mind working in the bakery. He was getting to like it, though he could do without the white apron and cap Eileen made him wear. He liked chatting with the customers, who were almost exclusively women. He enjoyed telling stories with the married women and flirting with the unmarried ones. Eileen swore that business had picked up the day after he’d started working the counter.

As soon as the shade was set, a long black dress appeared in the bottom of the window, and a moment later the bell rang over the door as Mrs. O’Rourke came into the shop toting a brown paper bag. She was a narrow wisp of a woman with graying hair and a scrunched-up face that looked like it was wincing even when at ease.

“Ah, Mrs. O’Rourke,” Cork said, a note of sympathy in his tone.

“Bobby Corcoran,” Mrs. O’Rourke said. She was dressed in mourning black and she carried the smell of beer and cigarettes into the bakery with her. She ran the fingers of her free hand through her thinning hair as if straightening herself out in the presence of a man. “It was you I came here looking for,” she said. “I heard you were working behind the counter.”

“That I am,” Cork said. He started to offer his condolences but didn’t get past the mention of Kelly’s name before the old woman interrupted him.

“I never had a daughter,” she said. “No daughter of mine would bed a murdering wop like Luca Brasi, the filthy guinea bastard.”

Cork said, “I understand how you must feel, Mrs. O’Rourke.”

“Do you?” she said, and her face twisted with disgust as she clasped the brown paper bag to her chest and took a couple of unsteady steps toward the counter. “Sean tells me you had a big fallin’ out with your friend Sonny Corleone. Is that the truth?”

“It is,” Cork said, and he countered his repugnance at the approach of the old lady by leaning over the display case and offering her a slight smile. “We don’t see eye to eye anymore.”

“That’s good,” Mrs. O’Rourke said, and she clutched the brown paper bag tighter to her chest. She looked like she was torn between speaking and remaining silent.

“Is there something I can do for you this morning?” Cork asked.

“That’s good,” Mrs. O’Rourke repeated, as if Cork hadn’t said a word. She took another step toward the display case and then leaned toward Cork. Though he was still several feet away, she looked as though she were talking to him face-to-face. She lowered her voice. “That Sonny will get his,” she said, “him and Luca Brasi and all those miserable dagos.” She brushed her hair back, pleased with herself. “They’ve got a nice Irish surprise coming to them.”

“What’s that you’re talkin’ about, Mrs. O’Rourke?” Cork asked, offering a little laugh along with the question. “I’m not making you out.”

“You will,” Mrs. O’Rourke said, and she added a little laugh of her own. At the door, before she stepped out into the sunlight, she turned back to Cork and said, “God loves a parade,” and she laughed again, bitterly, and then disappeared onto the street, letting the door swing closed behind her.

Cork watched the door as if the meaning of the old lady’s words might suddenly appear in the shafts of sun coming through the fanlight. He’d seen a story in the morning paper about a parade. In the back room, he found the New York American open to the comics, and he flipped through the pages until he found the story, which was a single column on page three. A parade was scheduled for Manhattan in the afternoon, along Broadway, something about civic responsibility. It looked like some political foolishness to Cork, and he couldn’t imagine what Sonny and his family would have to do with it. He tossed the paper down and went back to straightening out the display cases, but his thoughts were stuck on Mrs. O’Rourke saying “God loves a parade” and “Sonny will get his,” and after a minute or two of fiddling with the pastries, he flipped the Closed sign on the front door, turned the lock, and hurried up the back stairs.

He found Eileen in the living room stretched out on the sofa, holding a giggling Caitlin over her head. The child had her arms spread like wings and was pretending to fly. “Who’s minding the shop?” Eileen said at the sight of him.

“Uncle Bobby!” Caitlin squealed. “Look! I’m flying like a bird!”

Bobby picked up Caitlin, threw her over his shoulder, and spun her around once before putting her down and patting her butt. “Go play with your toys a minute, sweetheart,” he said. “I need to talk some grown-up things with your mom.”

Caitlin looked to her mom. When Eileen pointed to the doorway, she pouted dramatically, then put her hands on her hips and went off to her room in a playful pretence of indignation.

“Did you at least lock the door?” Eileen said, pulling herself upright on the couch.

“And put up the Closed sign,” Bobby said. “It’ll be slow until lunch anyway.” He took a seat beside Eileen on the couch and explained what had just gone on with Mrs. O’Rourke.

“She was probably drunk and ravin’ like a lunatic,” Eileen said. “What time is the parade supposed to start?”

Cork looked at his wristwatch. “In about an hour.”

“So,” Eileen said. She paused, took another second to think things over. “Go find Sonny and tell him what happened. He probably won’t know a thing about any of it, and that’ll be that.”

“And I’ll feel like an idiot.”

“You’re a pair of idiots, the two of you,” Eileen said. She yanked Bobby to her and kissed him on the side of his head. “Go find Sonny and talk to him. It’s time you two buried the hatchet.”

“What about Caitlin? Will you be okay runnin’ the shop?”

Eileen rolled her eyes. “Now you’re indispensable, are you?” She got to her feet, squeezing Bobby’s knee in the process. “Don’t take too long,” she said, on her way to the bedrooms. In the doorway, she turned and waved him toward the kitchen and out the door. “Go on, go on,” she said, and went off to get Caitlin.

Vito handed Fredo a handkerchief. They were on Sixth Avenue, between Thirty-Second and Thirty-Third Street, waiting with hundreds of others for the start of the parade. Fredo had gotten out of bed coughing but insisted on joining the rest of the family for the parade, and now Carmella was standing behind him, holding the palm of her hand over his forehead and frowning at Vito. The day was intermittently cloudy and sunny and promised to warm up, but at that moment, in the shadow of Gimbels Department Store, it was chilly and Fredo was shivering. Vito held Connie by the hand as he looked over Fredo. Behind Carmella, Santino and Tom pretend-boxed with Michael, who was excited about the parade and played along, slipping punches in under Sonny’s arms and throwing a shoulder into Tom’s gut. At the other end of the street, Councilman Fischer was surrounded by a dozen big shots, including the chief of police, all dressed up in his starched uniform with ribbons and medals pinned to his chest. Vito and his family had walked right by the group without so much as a nod from the councilman.

“You’re sick,” Vito said to Fredo. “You’re shivering.”

“No, I’m not,” Fredo said. He peeled his mother’s hand off his forehead. “I just got a little chill. That’s all, Pop.”

Vito raised his finger to Fredo and called to Al Hats, who was looking over the crowd with Richie Gatto and the Romero twins. On the other side of the block, Luca Brasi and his boys were mingling with the crowd. When Al approached Vito with a cigarette dangling from his lips and his fedora tilted low on his forehead, Vito yanked the cigarette out of his mouth and stubbed it out with his toe. He straightened the fedora. “Take Fredo home,” he said. “He’s got a fever.”

“Sorry,” Al said to Vito, meaning he was sorry for walking around with a cigarette dangling from his lips, looking like a caricature of a thug. He straightened out his tie, which was dark gray over a maroon shirt. To Fredo he said, “Come on, kid. We’ll stop at a soda fountain and get you a milkshake.”

“Yeah?” Fredo said, looking to his mother.

“Sure,” Carmella said. “It’s good for your fever.”

“Hey, you guys,” Fredo called to his brothers, “I gotta go ’cause I’m sick.”

The boys quit horsing around and joined Fredo and their parents. There were people all around them, many Italians, but Poles and Irish, too, and a group of Hasidim in black robes and black fedoras. “Sorry you have to go,” Michael said to Fredo. “You want me to get you the mayor’s autograph if we see him?”

“Why would I want that fat jerk’s autograph?” Fredo said, and he shoved Michael.

“Cut it out,” Sonny said, and he grabbed Michael by the collar before he could shove Fredo back.

Vito looked at his boys and sighed. He motioned to Hats, who took Fredo by the arm and led him away.

Michael said, “Sorry, Pop,” and quickly added, “But do you think we’ll see the mayor? Do you think I can get his autograph?”

Vito lifted Connie to his chest and pulled her blue dress down over her knees, straightening it out. “Your sister’s being an angel,” he said to Michael.

“Sorry, Pop, really,” Michael said. “I’m sorry for fightin’ with Fredo.”

Vito looked at Michael sternly before he put his arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. “If you want the mayor’s autograph, I’ll see that you get it.”

“Really, Pop?” Michael said. “You can do that?”

Tom said, “Hey, Michael. Pop can get you any autograph you want, kid.”

“You should be asking for Pop’s autograph,” Sonny said, and slapped Michael playfully on the forehead.

“Sonny!” Carmella said. “Always so rough!” She brushed a hand over Michael’s forehead, as if to cure the sting of Sonny’s slap.

From someplace nearby but out of sight, the rude belch of a tuba sounded, followed by a discordant array of musical instruments squealing and howling as a marching band warmed up. “Here we go,” Vito said, and he gathered his family around him. A moment later, a parade marshal appeared and began directing groups out onto the street and shouting directions. Across Sixth Avenue, Luca Brasi stood as motionless as a building, his eyes on Vito.

Vito nodded to Luca and led his family out onto the avenue.

Cork pulled his Nash to the sidewalk in front of Sonny’s building when he saw Hats approaching the steps with a hand on Fredo’s shoulder. Fat Bobby and Johnny LaSala, who had been standing at Sonny’s door like a pair of sentries, started quickly down the steps, each with a hand in his jacket pocket. Cork slid across the seat and popped his head out the window.

“Cork!” Fredo yelled and trotted over to the car.

“Hey, Fredo!” Cork said, and nodded to Hats. On the stoop, the two sentries returned to their post. “I’m lookin for Sonny,” Cork said to Fredo. “He’s not at his place, and I thought he might be with you guys.”

“Nah, he’s at the parade,” Fredo said. “I was just with him, but I’m sick so I gotta come home.”

“Ah, too bad,” Cork said. “He’s at a parade? Sonny?”

“Yeah, everybody’s there,” Fredo said, “ ’Cept me now.”

“A parade?” Cork asked again.

“What’s the matter, Cork?” Hats said. “You hard of hearing now?”

“All the big shots are there,” Fredo said. “Even the mayor.”

“No kiddin’?” Cork pulled his cap off and scratched his head as if he was still finding it hard to believe that Sonny was at a parade. “So where is this parade?” he asked Fredo.

Hats pulled Fredo back from the car and said, “What are you asking so many questions for?”

“ ’Cause I’m lookin’ for Sonny,” Cork said.

“Well, look for him another time,” Hats said. “He’s busy today.”

“They’re by Gimbels in the city,” Fredo said. “The whole family’s there: Sonny, Tom, everybody.” When Hats gave him a murderous look, Fredo yelled, “He’s Sonny’s best friend!”

Cork said to Fredo, “Take care of yourself, kid. You’ll be feeling better in no time.” He nodded to Hats again, and then slid back over to the driver’s seat.

In Manhattan, the cops had Herald Square blocked off with yellow barricades, though the streets were hardly lined with throngs of parade goers. The pedestrian traffic looked like about what you’d expect for any day of the week, maybe a little heavier. Cork navigated around barricades and parked in the shadow of the Empire State Building. Before he got out of the car, he took a Smith & Wesson from the glove compartment and put it in his jacket pocket. On the street, he found a subway entrance and hustled out of the sunlight and into the chilly air of the tunnels, amid the rumbling clatter of trains. He’d been shopping before at Gimbels, with Eileen and Caitlin, and he figured he could navigate the tunnels that led directly into the store. Once underground, he didn’t have any trouble finding his way: He followed the signs and the crowds into the bargain basement of the huge department store, where shopgirls worked a labyrinth of display cases and counters. From Gimbels, he followed the signs until he was out on the street, and he made his way to Sixth Avenue and then to Broadway, where a line of majorettes in white uniforms were twirling and tossing batons to the music of a marching band.

Parade watchers lined up two and three deep along the curb, leaving plenty of room on the sidewalk for the ordinary foot traffic of the city. Cork squeezed his way out to the street in time to see Mayor LaGuardia waving to the crowd from atop a slow-moving flatbed truck. The mayor was surrounded by cops dressed up like generals and a crowd of officials in suits and uniforms, but his portly shape and the energetic way he waved his hat at the crowd made him unmistakable. A mob of police surrounded him and his contingent, and the parade stretched out in front of them as far as Cork could see along Broadway. Behind the mayor’s truck, two cops on horseback followed like slow-moving place markers separating the city officials from the majorettes and the marching band’s clash of drums and cymbals and horns blaring “The Stars and Stripes Forever.”

Cork moved along the sidewalk in the opposite direction of the parade, past the marching band, looking for Sonny. Overhead, a line of gray clouds drifted past buildings, blocking the sun and creating a patchwork of light and shadow that seemed to move along the avenue as if following the procession. Once the marching band had passed, all that remained of the parade were clusters of people walking down the center of the street. One group of a dozen men, women, and children carried a banner that read Walter’s Stationery, 1355 Broadway. Beyond them, a well-dressed couple walked hand in hand, waving to the crowd. At the same moment that Cork spotted Luca Brasi on the other side of the street, Angelo Romero stepped in front of him, cutting him off. Cork backed up and then saw that it was his friend grinning at him.

“What the hell are you doing here, Cork?” Angelo took him by the shoulders and gave him a shake.

“Angelo,” Cork said, “what’s going on?”

Angelo glanced at the street and then back to Cork. “It’s a parade,” he said. “What do you think?”

“Thanks,” Cork said. He grabbed Angelo’s derby off his head and flicked at the red and white feather. “I’ve got an uncle from the old country wears a hat like this.”

Angelo snatched the hat back. “So what are you doing here?” he asked again.

“I was shopping at Gimbels,” Cork said. “Eileen sent me. What are you doing here?” He gestured across the street. “And Luca?”

“The Corleones are in the parade. We’re looking out, making sure there’s no trouble.”

“Where are they?” Cork said, scanning the street again. “I don’t see them.”

“They’re a couple of blocks back,” Angelo said. “Come on. You want to come with us?”

“Nah,” Cork said. He spotted two of Luca’s guys, Tony Coli and Paulie Attardi, mingling with the crowd. Tony had a limp, from where he’d been shot in the leg by Willie O’Rourke. “Do you have Luca’s whole gang here?” Cork asked.

“Yeah,” Angelo said. “Luca and his boys, me and Vinnie, and Richie Gatto.”

“Where’s Nico?” Cork asked. “No Greeks allowed?”

“You didn’t hear about Nico?” Angelo said. “The Corleones got him a job on the docks.”

“Oh yeah,” Cork said. “I forgot. Italians only in their crowd.”

“Nah, they ain’t like that,” Angelo said, and then he seemed to rethink the question. “Well, yeah, sure, a little,” he said. “Tom Hagen’s not Italian.”

“I always wondered about that,” Cork said. “It don’t add up.”

“Forget it,” Angelo said. “Come on back with me. Sonny’ll be happy to see you. You know he never liked it, the way things worked out.”

“Nah,” Cork said, and he took a step back from Angelo. “I got to finish my chores for Eileen. I’m a working stiff now. Besides, it doesn’t look like you need any more manpower.” He gestured to Luca. “Jeez,” he said, “he’s even uglier than he was before.”

“Yeah,” Angelo said. “He don’t smell too good either.”

Cork looked up and down Broadway one more time. All he saw were people watching a parade, and Luca and his boys watching the people. “All right,” he said, and he gave Angelo a shove. “Tell Sonny I’ll see him real soon.”

“That’s good,” Angelo said. “I’ll tell him that. And, hey, Vinnie says hello too. He says you ought to start coming by again. I think the dumb mug misses you hanging around.” He stuck out his hand, awkwardly.

Cork shook Angelo’s hand, smacked him on the shoulder, and then started back for Gimbels. Someone had dropped a copy of the Daily News on the street, and he bent to pick it up as a breeze riffled through its pages. He looked up to the clouds, thinking rain suddenly felt like a possibility, and then back down to the paper and a picture of ten-year-old Gloria Vanderbilt under the headline “Poor Little Gloria.” When he spotted a waste bin on the corner of Thirty-Second, he started for it and then stopped abruptly at the sight of Pete Murray behind the wheel of a black Chrysler four-door, with Rick Donnelly alongside him and Billy Donnelly in the backseat. The car was parked at the curb midway down the block. Instead of throwing out the newspaper, he opened it and held it out in front of his face as he backed into the entrance of a toy store. Pete and the Donnellys were wearing trench coats, and at the first sight of them, Old Lady O’Rourke’s threat against Sonny and his family came back as clearly as if someone had just shouted it in his ear: They’ve got a nice Irish surprise coming to them. Cork watched the car from the store entrance until the men stepped out onto the street, each of them with one arm thrust under his trench coat. He waited until he rounded the corner of Thirty-Second and the Chrysler was out of sight before he broke into a run.

Two blocks later, he spotted Sonny and his family in the center of the avenue. Vito Corleone, with Connie in his arms, between his wife and his son Michael, marched in front of Sonny and Tom, who were chatting with each other as if oblivious to everything going on around them. When Cork saw them, he bolted out into the street but didn’t manage more than a few steps before he ran into Luca Brasi and bounced off him as if he’d hit a wall.

Luca met Cork’s eyes and then jerked his head toward the street as Sean O’Rourke leapt over a yellow barricade screaming his name.

“Luca Brasi!” Sean was in the air, having leapt the barricade like a hurdler, a black pistol the size of a small cannon in his outstretched hand. His face twisted into ugliness, he hit the ground shooting, firing wildly. All around him, people scattered. Women grabbed their children and ran screaming. Luca’s men crouched and pulled guns from under their jackets as Sean stopped abruptly in the center of the street and aimed carefully at Luca. Brasi couldn’t have been more than six feet in front of Sean, and yet Sean stopped and held his gun with two hands and seemed to take a breath and let it out halfway, as if he was following instructions on how to aim and fire. When he squeezed off a shot, it hit Luca squarely in the chest, over his heart, and Luca’s huge body flew back and fell like a downed tree. His head hit the center of a barricade and knocked it over before smacking into the edge of the slate curb. He jerked once and then was still.

Sean watched Luca fall as he advanced on him, gun in hand, as if he were alone in a room with Luca and not in the middle of a parade. When the first bullet hit him in the chest, he spun around, surprised. He looked like he was waking from a dream—and then the next bullet hit him in the head and the dream was over. He crumpled to the ground, the black monster of a gun falling out of his hand.

Cork was still in the street, near the curb, when Sean fell—and after that it started raining bullets and bodies. It was like a sudden downpour, getting caught in a sudden downpour of crackling gunfire and hysterical shouting and bodies hitting the ground like raindrops, a storm of movement and noise. Screaming parade watchers ran in every direction, some of them crawling on all fours, some of them slithering along the ground like snakes, all of them looking for the protection of doorways or storefronts.

Cork bolted for cover, and no sooner had he made it into a doorway than the plate glass alongside him shattered, hit by the Fourth of July fireworks of guns going off everywhere, from every direction. Sean O’Rourke lay dead in the street, half his head blown away. Luca’s men were crouched over him, guns out, shooting. Vito Corleone was sprawled over his wife, who held Connie and Michael in her arms, clutching them close to her. Vito was shouting something, his body spread over his family, his head up like a turtle. He seemed to be shouting to Sonny, who held Tom Hagen down by the back of the neck with one hand and wielded a gun with his free hand, shooting at someone. Cork scanned the sidewalk in the direction Sonny was firing and found a doorway with shattered windowpanes, and then Corr Gibson popped up with a gun in each hand, the pistols jerking with each shot, spitting bursts of white flame. Tony Coli got off a couple of shots at Gibson and then fell face forward, his pistol skittering over the street.

It was almost quiet then for a heartbeat. The gunfire stopped and there was only the sound of men shouting to each other. Richie Gatto appeared on the street with a gun in each hand. He tossed one to Vito, who caught it at the same moment the calm ended and the shooting started again. Cork looked in the direction of the renewed gunfire and saw the Donnellys and Pete Murray charging along the street, three abreast, Pete Murray in the middle of the avenue with a tommy gun, the Donnellys on either side of him with pistols. They advanced in a crouch behind a fusillade of fire, and Richie Gatto went down in front of Vito. Vito caught him in his arms, so that Richie’s body shielded Vito and Vito’s family behind them. Vito aimed carefully and squeezed off a shot, and Pete Murray went down, his chopper flying into the air out of his brawny arms, stray bullets shattering windows. Vito dropped to his knees in front of his wife and continued firing, squeezing off shots one at a time, so that it appeared he alone was moving with care and precision while everything around him blazed and rattled.

Sonny dragged Tom to Carmella, who managed to free a hand and pull him down to her. Tom wrapped his arms around her and Michael, with Connie whimpering between them. Sonny picked up Gatto’s gun and stood over his father, firing wildly in comparison to his father’s deliberate shooting.

All this happened in a matter of seconds—and then an army of cops swooped down on the scene, their green and white squad cars with sirens screaming appearing out of the side streets. The Donnellys were still shooting, as was Corr Gibson from the protection of his doorway. Among Luca’s gang, JoJo, Paulie, and Vinnie were returning fire at Gibson and the Donnellys. Among the Corleones, the Romero brothers, side by side, stretched out flat on the street near the curb, were firing at the Donnellys, who had each scurried to cover in storefronts. The cops shouted from behind the protection of their cars. On the curb, Luca Brasi stirred and sat up, rubbing at the back of his head, as if he had a splitting headache. It seemed to Cork that the shooting couldn’t go on much longer, not with sirens yowling and still more police cars arriving and blocking off the avenues. Sonny and his family appeared unscathed, and at the same moment that thought occurred to him, Cork saw Stevie Dwyer emerge from a doorway behind Sonny and Vito. With everyone’s attention on the Donnellys and Gibson in front of them, Stevie walked unmolested into the street and toward Vito, gun in hand.

Cork jumped out to the sidewalk and shouted to Sonny. He should have yelled “Look behind you!” or “Stevie’s behind you!” but instead he shouted only Sonny’s name.

Sonny turned and spotted Cork, while at the same moment Stevie lifted his gun and aimed for Vito.

Cork was acutely aware of his vulnerability, standing as he was out in the open amid the staccato rattle of gunfire. He crouched slightly, as if the constriction of his muscles and the slightly lowered posture might somehow protect him. Deep within him something powerful was urging him to run and hide—but Stevie Dwyer was standing behind Vito, less than two car lengths behind him, his gun raised and aimed, about to shoot Sonny’s father, and so Cork tore his gun from his pocket, aimed as best he could, and fired at Stevie an instant before Stevie fired at Vito.

Cork’s shot missed Stevie and hit Vito in the shoulder. When Cork realized what he had done, the gun fell from his hand and he staggered backward as if he himself had just been shot.

Vito dropped to the ground and Stevie’s shot missed him altogether.

Cork stumbled back to the storefront.

Luca Brasi, arisen from the dead, fired at Stevie, hitting him in the head—and then again it was like a downpour of movement and sound, gunfire everywhere again, Cork pressed against a brick wall, the Donnellys and Corr Gibson and the cops and everyone shooting at everyone.

Amid the chaos of the moment, Cork’s only thought was that he had to explain himself to Sonny, explain what had just happened, that he had been aiming for Stevie and hit Vito by accident—but Sonny was lost in a crush of bodies attending to Vito.

Cork shouted to Vinnie and Angelo. He stuck his head out and waved for them to come to him. The twins cast quick glances toward him as they turned away from the Donnellys. They appeared to argue between themselves, and then Vinnie jumped up and bolted for the sidewalk—and no sooner was he fully erect than a rattle of gunfire caught him in the neck and head, and pieces of his face exploded in a pink haze around him. He wavered on his feet, most of his face already gone, and then fell straight down, like a building imploding. Cork looked from Vinnie to Angelo, who was looking at his brother with amazement. On the street behind him, Luca Brasi had picked up Vito and was carrying him to safety, while Vito reached out for his family, still huddled on the ground. Then everyone seemed to realize at once that the gunfire coming from the Donnellys and Gibson had stopped, and that the storefronts and doorways where they had been taking cover were empty. When they understood that they were escaping, JoJo, Vinnie, and Paulie disappeared into the buildings, giving chase, and again, a moment of calm descended on the street, where Richie Gatto, Tony Coli, and Vinnie Romero lay dead, along with Pete Murray and Stevie Dwyer and Sean O’Rourke. As Cork looked over the dead, he saw that there were more bodies, and that they had to be parade watchers, people who had taken a break from their work or their shopping, and who would never do either again. Among them, he spotted the body of a child—a dark-haired boy who looked to be about Caitlin’s age.

Somehow, everyone’s attention seemed to fall on the child at the same instant. To Cork, it appeared that everyone was looking at the same small body sprawled out on the sidewalk, one tiny arm dangling over the curb. There was still much shouting, now mostly from the cops, who were swarming everywhere, but it seemed to Cork that the street had suddenly gone silent. He stood in the doorway and looked behind him into what appeared to be a women’s clothing store. A dozen people who had been curled up in corners and hidden behind doors and counters were standing and moving toward him and the shattered window, wanting to get a look at the mayhem. When Cork turned back to the street he found waves of cops in uniform shouting orders and arresting everyone in sight. Sonny, with his hands cuffed behind him, was staring back at Cork, as was Angelo, in the arms of two brawny coppers. When another pair of uniforms started for the storefront, Cork slipped into the crowd, and then into the back rooms, where he found an exit to an alley. For a while he stood among the garbage pails and clutter. When he couldn’t imagine what to do next, he started toward Gimbels and the underground tunnels that would lead him back to his waiting car.

24.

Vito watched from his study window as the last of the reporters—a couple of fat men in cheap suits, with press credentials stuck in their hat bands—disappeared into an old Buick and drove off slowly down Hughes Avenue. Behind them, a trio of detectives were bantering with Hubbell and Mitzner, two Ivy League–educated lawyers in his employ. For hours his home had been crowded with cops and lawyers, while out on the street a mob of wire service and radio reporters harassed everyone who came near his building, including his neighbors. Now, alone in his darkened study, standing unseen at the window as evening approached, his arm in a sling, Vito waited for the last of the strangers to leave. Downstairs, his men also waited. They were in the kitchen with Clemenza, who had cooked a meal of spaghetti and meatballs for everyone, while Carmella went back and forth between the children’s bedrooms, comforting them. Vito ran the fingers of his good hand through his hair again and again, sometimes watching the street, sometimes looking at his own reflection in the dark glass of the window, his thoughts skittering back to the parade and the police and the hospital, to his children sprawled on the street with bullets flying around them, to Santino at his side wielding a gun, and, again and again, to the moment he first spotted the dead child on the sidewalk, blood spilling over the curb and pooling on the street.

About the child, he could do nothing. He would find a way to help the family, but he knew that was nothing, that only somehow undoing what had been done would be meaningful, and because he understood the limits of what was possible, he knew he would have to put the child out of mind—but for now he let himself see the image again. He let himself see the dead child on the sidewalk, bleeding into the street. He let himself remember Richie Gatto falling into his arms, and he let himself recall the indignities he suffered at the hands of the police, being handcuffed and carried away in a paddy wagon when he should have been taken directly to a hospital. He’d been shot in the shoulder. He’d been told the boy, Santino’s friend Bobby Corcoran, had shot him, though he hadn’t seen it happen. He had, though, seen the look in the eyes of the police who dragged him away. He’d seen their disgust at the sight of him, as if they were dealing with a savage. He’d said to one of the cops, “I was marching in a parade with my family,” as if to explain himself, and then he blushed at the disgrace of explaining himself to some buffóne, and was quiet and suffered the pain in his shoulder until Mitzner showed up and had him taken to Columbia Presbyterian, where they pulled a bullet out of him, wrapped his chest in gauze, put his arm in a sling, and sent him home to be pressed and mobbed by reporters before he could escape into his house and the quiet of his study.

In the window glass, he saw that he had made a mess of his hair and he wondered at the strangeness of the image looking back at him: a middle-aged man in an unbuttoned dress shirt, his chest wrapped in gauze, his hair a mess, his left arm in a sling. He straightened out his hair as best he could. He buttoned up his shirt. His own children, he thought, his own children on the street in the midst of a gun battle. His wife sprawled on the ground trying to protect her children from men with guns. “Infamitá,” he whispered, and the single word seemed to fill up his study. “Infamitá,” he said again, and only when he was aware of his heart pounding and blood rushing to his face did he close his eyes and empty his head until he felt the return of a familiar calm. He didn’t say it. He didn’t even think it. But he knew it in his bones and in his blood: He would do whatever had to be done. He would do it to the best of his abilities. And he would trust that God understood the things that men were forced to do, for themselves and for their families, in the world He had created.

By the time Clemenza knocked twice before opening the study door, Vito was himself again. He turned on the lamp and took his seat behind the desk as Sonny, Tessio, and Genco followed Clemenza into the room and pulled up chairs around him. At a glance, Vito saw that Genco and Tessio were shaken. Clemenza looked no different now—after a massacre that had left a child and three of their own men dead—than he did after a Sunday dinner with friends. But in Tessio’s and Genco’s faces, Vito saw tightness and distress and something more, a subtle deepening of their features. In Santino, Vito found a mixture of solemnity and anger that he couldn’t read, and he wondered if he might be more Clemenza’s son than his own. “Are they all gone?” he asked. “The detectives, the reporters?”

“Pack of jackals,” Clemenza said, “the whole lot of them.” He fussed with a red gravy stain on his tie and then loosened the knot. “They should all go to hell.”

Genco said, “This is the biggest story since the Lindbergh kidnapping. That dead kid…” He pressed his hands together as if praying. “It’s all over the newspapers and the radio. It’ll be on The March of Time on Friday, I heard. Madre ’Dio,” he added, as if offering up a prayer.

Vito stood and put his hand on Genco’s back, and then patted his shoulder before he crossed the room and sat down again in the window seat. “How many were killed,” he asked Genco, “besides our men and the Irish?”

“Four dead, including the kid,” Sonny answered for Genco, “and a dozen wounded. That’s what’s in the Mirror. They got a picture of the dead kid on the front page.”

“LaGuardia was on the radio with his ‘throw the bums out’ garbage again.” Clemenza brushed at the gravy stain on his tie, and then, as if more frustrated with the tie than with the news, he undid the knot, pulled off the tie, and stuffed it in his jacket pocket.

To Genco, Vito said, “For the child and his family, we find a quiet way to provide whatever help money and connections can afford. Same for the families of the dead.”

“Sì,” Genco said. “Already I’m hearing of funds to help the families. We can be generous there, and anonymous.”

“Good,” Vito said. “As for everything else,” he started, and then was interrupted by a gentle knock on the door.

“Yeah, what?” Sonny shouted at the door, and Vito looked away, out the window.

Jimmy Mancini stepped into the study and hesitated, as if at a loss for words. He was a big man who looked older than his thirty-plus years, with muscular arms and skin that appeared deeply tanned even in the middle of winter. “Emilio Barzini,” he said, finally.

“What about him?” Clemenza barked. Jimmy was one of his men, and he didn’t like his fumbling.

“He’s here,” Jimmy said. “He’s at the front door.”

“Barzini?” Tessio touched his heart, as if something hurt him there.

To his father Sonny whispered, “We should kill the son of a bitch right here!”

“He’s by himself,” Jimmy said. “I frisked him good. He’s here naked, hat in hand. He says, ‘Tell Don Corleone that I respectfully request an audience with him.’ ”

The men in the room looked to Vito, who touched his chin tentatively and then nodded to Jimmy. “Bring him up,” he said. “Treat him with respect.”

“V’fancul’!” Sonny rose halfway out of his seat, leaning toward Vito. “He tried to kill Genco and Clemenza!”

“This is business,” Tessio said to Sonny. “Sit down and listen.”

When Jimmy left and closed the door, Sonny said, “Let me frisk him again. He’s in our home, Pop.”

“Which is why you don’t have to frisk him,” Vito said. He took his seat again behind his desk.

Clemenza finished explaining for Vito. “There are things that are understood in our business, Sonny. A man like Emilio, he wouldn’t come into your home with murder in his heart.”

At Clemenza’s words, Vito made a noise that came out as something between a grunt and a snarl, a sound so unusual coming from Vito that everyone turned to look at him.

When Vito didn’t say anything, Tessio broke the silence by addressing Clemenza. “It’s good to trust,” he said, repeating an old Sicilian adage, “it’s better not to.”

Clemenza smiled at that. “All right,” he said. “Let’s just say I trust that Jimmy frisked him.”

When Mancini knocked once and opened the door, all the men in the room were seated. No one stood when Emilio entered the study. He held his hat in one hand, and the other hand dangled at his side. His dark hair was carefully combed, pushed up off his forehead. A whiff of cologne entered the room with him, a scent almost flowery. “Don Corleone,” he said, and he moved closer to Vito’s desk. The men had shifted in their chairs, two on each side of Vito, so that they formed a small audience, with Vito stage front and Emilio addressing him from the aisle. “I’ve come to talk business,” Emilio said, “but first I want to offer my condolences for the men you lost today, especially Richie Gatto, who I know was close to you, and who I too have known and respected for many years.”

“You’re offering condolences?” Sonny said. “What do you think? You think this makes us weak now?”

Sonny looked like he was about to say more before Clemenza laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

Emilio never so much as glanced at Sonny. Looking at Vito, he said, “I’m willing to bet Don Corleone understands why I’m here.”

From behind his desk, Vito watched in silence until he saw the slightest hint of sweat along Emilio’s upper lip. He grasped the armrest on his chair and leaned back. “You’re here because Giuseppe Mariposa was behind this massacre,” he said. “And now that he has failed, again, you see which way this war will go, and you want to save yourself and your family.”

Emilio nodded once, slowly, a slight bow of his head. “I knew you would understand.”

“It doesn’t take a genius,” Vito said. “The Irish would have never tried something like this without Mariposa’s backing.”

Sonny’s face had gone from ruddy to bright red, and he looked so close to leaping for Emilio’s throat that Vito interceded. “Santino,” he said. “We invited Signor Barzini into our home, and now we will listen to what he has to say.”

When Sonny muttered something under his breath and fell back in his seat, Vito turned again to Emilio.

Emilio looked around the study until his eyes fell on a folding chair leaning against the wall. When no one took him up on his obvious request to be seated, he continued on his feet. “I was against this, Don Corleone,” he said. “I plead with you to believe me. I was against this, and so were the Rosatos—but you know Giuseppe. When he gets mule-headed about a thing, there’s no stopping him.”

“But you were against this,” Vito said, “employing the Irish to do this dirty work, this massacre.”

“Joe is a powerful man now.” Emilio gave away his nervousness only in the way he occasionally tapped his hat against his leg. “We couldn’t stop him any more than one of your captains could overrule your commands.”

“But you were opposed to it,” Vito repeated.

“We argued against it,” Emilio said, the brim of his hat bent in his grip, “but to no avail. And now, this bloodbath that will bring the cops down on all of us like we’ve never seen before. Already they’re raiding our banks and going after Tattaglia’s girls.”

“Our banks,” Vito said, almost in a whisper. “Tattaglia’s girls…” He paused and let his gaze settle heavily on Emilio. “This upsets you, but not an innocent child murdered, not my family,” he said, his voice rising on the word family, “cowering in the street. My wife, my six-year-old daughter, my boys, in the street—this is not why you’re here, in my home.”

“Don Corleone,” Emilio said, his head bowed, his voice full of emotion. “Don Corleone,” he repeated, “forgive me for allowing this to happen. Mi dispiace davvero. Mi vergogno. I should have come to you to prevent it. I should have risked my life and my fortune. I beg your forgiveness.”

“Sì,” Vito said, and then he was silent, with Emilio held in his unrelenting gaze. “What is it you’ve come here to say, Emilio?” he added, finally. “How is it you propose to make amends?”

“To survive a disgrace like this,” Emilio said, “we need wise leadership. Giuseppe is strong and ruthless, but he has never been called wise.”

“And so?”

“My brother, Ettore, the Rosato brothers, all our men, even Tomasino, we believe that a wise leader, a leader with political connections, is necessary in a time like this.” Emilio hesitated and tapped his hat against his thigh. He seemed to be looking for the right words. “We believe you should be our leader, Don Corleone. Giuseppe Mariposa, with this parade blunder, this disaster, his time is over.”

“Sì,” Vito said, again, and finally looked away from Emilio. He glanced over his men, taking in their expressions: Clemenza and Tessio, with faces as blank as stone; Genco, with a look of interest and thoughtfulness; and Sonny, predictably, angry. “And they all agree to this,” Vito said, “all of Joe’s caporegimes?”

“Yes,” Emilio said, “and if there’s any trouble after Joe’s gone—with his businesses, or with the Tattaglias, or even Al Capone and Frank Nitti, I give you my solemn word, the Barzinis and the Rosatos and Tomasino Cinquemani, we will fight by your side.”

“And in return for this?” Vito asked.

“A fair division of all of Joe’s businesses between your family and our families.” When Vito didn’t respond immediately, Emilio continued, “What happened today was terrible. Disgrazia. We must wipe ourselves clean of it and get back to operating peacefully, without all this bloodshed.”

“On that we agree,” Vito said, “but on the division of Giuseppe’s businesses, we will need to talk.”

“Yes, certainly,” Emilio said, with obvious relief. “You’re known as a man who is always fair, Don Corleone. I’m prepared to make this agreement here and now, on behalf of myself and the Rosatos and Tomasino Cinquemani.” He stepped closer to the desk and offered Vito his hand.

Vito stood and shook hands with Emilio. “Genco will come to see you soon, and he’ll make the arrangements.” He came around the desk and put his hand on Emilio’s back, guiding him out of the study just as the door opened and Luca Brasi stepped into the room. He had on a new shirt and tie, but otherwise the same suit he had worn at the parade. The only evidence of the gun battle was a slight rip in his trousers.

Emilio blanched and looked at Vito and then back to Luca. “I was told that you were among the dead.” He sounded more angry than shocked.

“I can’t be killed,” Luca said. He glanced at Emilio and then walked away, as if the man’s presence held no interest to him. He leaned against the wall next to the window seat. When he saw that everyone was still looking at him, he added, “I’ve made—a deal with the devil,” and smiled crookedly, the left side of his face hardly moving.

Vito guided Barzini to the study door and then waved for all the others in the room to leave along with Emilio. “Give me a moment alone with my bodyguard,” he said, “per piacere.”

When the last of the men had left the study, Vito went to Luca and stood next to him at the window. “How is it that a man takes a bullet close-up from a cannon and now stands here in my study?”

Luca smiled his crooked smile. “You don’t believe—I made a deal with the devil?”

Vito touched Luca’s chest and felt the bulletproof vest under his shirt. “I didn’t think one of these could stop a high-caliber bullet.”

“Most of them—can’t,” Luca said, and he unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a thick leather vest. “Most of them—are just—a lot of cotton.” He took Vito’s hand and pressed it against the leather. “Feel that?”

“What is it?” Vito asked. He felt layers of something solid under the leather.

“I had it made special. Steel scales—wrapped in cotton—inside leather. Weighs—a ton, but nothing—I can’t carry. It could—stop a hand grenade.”

Vito touched the left side of Luca’s face with the palm of his hand. “What do the doctors say about this?” he asked. “Does it cause you any pain?”

“Nah,” Luca said. “They say—it’ll get better in time.” He touched his face after Vito took his hand away. “I don’t mind it.”

“Why’s that?” Vito asked. When Luca only shrugged, Vito patted him on the arm and then pointed to the study door. “Tell the others to get packed. I want everybody back to Long Beach, right away. We’ll talk more later.”

Luca nodded obediently and left the room.

Alone in his study, Vito turned off the lamp and looked out the window. The streets were dark now and empty. Behind him, a bedroom door opened and closed, and then he heard Connie crying and Carmella comforting her. He closed his eyes and opened them again to see his reflection in the window, superimposed over the dark city streets and a black sky. When Connie stopped crying he ran his fingers through his hair, and then left his study and went to his bedroom, where he found that Carmella had already packed his suitcase and left it on their bed.

Cork waited downstairs, in the narrow room behind the bakery and off the alley, as Eileen put Caitlin to sleep for the night. He stretched out on the cot and got up again and stretched out again and got up again and then paced the room awhile before he sat down on the cot and fiddled with a radio on the nightstand. He found a boxing match and listened to it for a few minutes and then turned the big tuner knob and watched a black band slide along an array of numbers until he came to The Guy Lombardo Show, and he listened a minute to Burns and Allen as Gracie went on about her lost brother, and then he turned off the radio and got up and went to one of the two ancient bookcases and tried to pick out a title to read, but he couldn’t hold three words together in his mind for more than a second. Finally, he sat down on the cot again and put his head in his hands.

Eileen had insisted on him staying in this room behind the bakery until she could find Sonny and talk to him. She was right. It was a good idea. He didn’t want to put her and Caitlin in danger. He should probably be hiding out someplace else altogether, but he didn’t know where to go. He kept turning over the facts, rethinking and reviewing. He had shot Vito Corleone. There was no doubt about that. But he had been aiming for Dwyer, trying to save Vito from taking a bullet in the back of the head. And even though he had accidentally hit Vito, he had probably saved his life anyway, since Dwyer’s bullet missed its mark and it probably wouldn’t have if Vito hadn’t been hit and dropped to the ground. Probably, Dwyer would have hit him and killed him. So, as unbelievable as it sounded, he had probably saved Vito’s life by shooting him.

Even if no one else in the world could be expected to believe this, Cork felt that Sonny would. Sonny knew him too well. They were as much family as friends: Sonny had to know it wasn’t possible that he, that Bobby Corcoran, would take a shot at Vito. He had to know it, and all Cork had to do was explain the whole thing, how he’d come to the parade after seeing Mrs. O’Rourke, how he’d come there out of concern for him, for Sonny and his family, how he’d seen Dwyer sneaking up behind Vito and had tried to save him. The facts made sense when you pieced them together, and he knew Sonny would see the whole picture, and then he had to bet that Sonny could convince the rest of his family, and after that everything would be jake, and he could go on with his life with Eileen and Caitlin and the bakery. He might even expect some thanks from the Corleones for what he’d tried to do, how he’d tried to help. No one ever said he was a crack shot. Jaysu Christi, he’d tried to help is all.

Upstairs he heard the back door open and close and Eileen’s footsteps on the stairs, and then she opened the door and found him still with his head in his hands, sitting on the edge of the cot.

“Look at you,” she said, and she paused in the doorway with her hands on her hips. “You’re a sight, aren’t you, with your hair all disheveled and lookin’ like the weight of the world is on your shoulders?”

Cork straightened out his hair. “I’m sitting here and I’m thinking: Bobby Corcoran, did you really shoot Vito Corleone? And the answer keeps coming back, Yes, you did, Mr. Corcoran. You put a bullet in his shoulder in plain sight of dozens, including Sonny.”

Eileen sat beside Cork and put a hand on his knee. “Ah, Bobby,” she said, and then was quiet as her eyes moved over the rows of titles stuffed into the pair of bookcases across from her. She smoothed her dress down over her knees and reached under her hair to squeeze an earlobe between her thumb and forefinger.

“Ah, Bobby, what?” Cork said. He took his hands away from his face and looked at his sister. “What is it you’re wanting to say to me, Eileen?”

“Did you know that a little boy was killed in all the shooting? A child just Caitlin’s age?”

“I did,” Bobby said. “I saw him lying there in the street. It wasn’t me that shot him.”

“I didn’t mean to say it was you that shot that child,” Eileen said, and in her voice still there was a note of chastisement.

“Ah, for God’s sake, Eileen! I went there to help Sonny! You even said to go!”

“I didn’t say to take a gun with you. I didn’t say to go there armed.”

“Ah, Mother of God,” Bobby said, and again he held his head in his hands. “Eileen,” he said into his palms, “unless I can explain to Sonny what happened, I’m a dead man. I shot Vito Corleone. I didn’t mean to, but I did shoot him.”

“Sonny will listen to reason,” Eileen said, and she put a hand on her brother’s neck and gave him a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll wait a day or two until this mess settles, and if Sonny doesn’t show up at my door looking for you, I’ll go to him. One way or another we’ll talk. Once Sonny hears the whole story, he’ll see it’s the truth.”

“Then he just has to convince the rest of his family,” Bobby said, and his tone suggested that wouldn’t be easy.

“Aye,” Eileen said. “That could be a problem.” She kissed Bobby on the shoulder. “Sonny’s a good talker,” she added. “You have to give him that. He’ll win over his family. I’ll wager on it.” When Bobby didn’t answer, when he only nodded into his hands and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, Eileen kissed him on the side of the head and told him to try to get some sleep.

“Sleep,” Bobby said. “There’s a good idea,” and he flung himself down on the cot and covered his head with the pillow. “Wake me when it’s safe to move about in the world,” he said, his voice muffled.

“Ah, but then you’d have to sleep forever,” Eileen said as she left the room, but she said it so softly, she was sure Bobby didn’t hear.

Clemenza grasped Sonny’s lapel and pulled him close. “Five minutes,” he said, “capisc’? You take any longer, I’ll come get you myself.” They were in the backseat of Clemenza’s Buick, Jimmy Mancini and Al Hats in the front, Jimmy at the wheel. They’d just pulled up to Sandra’s building, where Sandra was waiting, watching from her window. As soon as Jimmy had pulled the big Buick over to the curb, Sandra disappeared from the window, leaping up and hurrying out of sight. “Five minutes,” Clemenza repeated as Sonny grunted an affirmation and threw open his door. “Go ahead,” Clemenza said to Jimmy, tapping him on the shoulder.

Jimmy cut the engine and joined Hats, who was already out of the car, following Sonny toward Sandra’s stoop.

“Che cazzo!” Sonny spun around and threw up his hands. “Wait in the car! I’ll be two minutes!”

“No can do,” Jimmy said, and he nodded toward the top of the steps, where Sandra had appeared in the doorway, holding a hand over her heart, looking down at Sonny as if he might be in grave danger. “We’ll wait here,” Jimmy said, and he and Al turned their backs to the doorway and took up positions side by side at the bottom of the stairs.

Sonny looked once to Clemenza, who was frowning at him from the backseat, his hands folded over his belly, and then he muttered a curse under his breath and hurried up the steps. Sandra threw her arms around his neck and squeezed so violently that she almost knocked him over.

“Doll face,” Sonny said as he peeled her arms off his neck, “I gotta hurry. I wanted to tell you,” he added, stepping back and grasping her by the shoulders, “I may not be able to see you till all this parade stuff is over with.” He gave her a brief, passionless kiss on the lips. “But I’m all right,” he said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

“Sonny…” Sandra started to speak and then stopped. She looked as though she might dissolve in tears if she tried to say another word.

“Doll face,” Sonny said again. “I promise, this’ll all blow over pretty soon.”

“How soon?” Sandra managed. She wiped away tears. “What’s going on, Sonny?”

“It’s nothin’,” Sonny said, and then caught himself. “It was a massacre, what happened,” he said, “but the cops will straighten it out. They’ll get the bastards that did this, and then everything will be back to normal.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, as if dismissing Sonny’s explanation. “The papers are saying terrible things about your family.”

“You don’t believe that crap, do you?” Sonny asked. “It’s ’cause we’re Italian, they can get away with saying that stuff about us.”

Sandra looked down the steps to where Jimmy and Al were standing at their posts like sentries. They each had one hand in their pockets as their eyes scanned the street. Beyond them a gleaming black Buick waited at the curb with a fat man waiting in the backseat. In her eyes there was a mix of recognition and surprise, as if she suddenly understood everything but still found it hard to believe.

“We’re businessmen,” Sonny said, “and sometimes our business gets rough. But this,” he said, meaning the parade massacre, “people are going to pay for this.”

Sandra nodded and was silent.

“I don’t have the time to explain everything,” Sonny said, his voice turning curt and hard, before he softened and added, with a touch of exasperation, “Do you love me?”

Sandra answered without hesitation, “Yes. I love you, Santino.”

“Then trust me,” he said. “Nothing bad’s going to happen.” He stepped close and kissed her again, this time tenderly. “I promise you that, okay? Nothin’ bad’s going to happen.” When she nodded and wiped away more tears, he kissed her again and brushed away the wetness from her cheeks. “I’ve got to go now.” He looked over his shoulder to the Buick, where he could almost see Clemenza through the roof, his hands over his fat belly, waiting. “I’ll be on Long Island, on my family’s estate, until this is all settled.” He held her hands and took a step back. “Don’t read the papers,” he said. “It’s nothin’ but lies.” He smiled, waited until he saw a hint of a smile returned, and then stepped in for a quick last kiss before he hurried off down the steps.

Sandra waited in the doorway and watched as the men at the bottom of the steps followed Sonny into the car. She watched as the car started up and drove away along Arthur Avenue. She remained in the doorway watching the dark street, her head empty of everything except the sight of Sonny driving off into the night. She couldn’t bring herself to close the door and return to her apartment and her sleeping grandmother until she repeated Sonny’s words in her head a dozen times: “Nothing bad’s going to happen,” and then finally she closed the door and went back up to her room, where all she could do was wait.

25.

Sonny pushed a door open and stuck his head into a dark room. He was in their soon-to-be new home, on Long Island, in the walled-in compound that was bustling now, late at night, with cars and men moving from house to house. Between the headlights and the lights on in every room in every house and the floodlights on the courtyard and the surrounding walls, the place was lit up like Rockefeller Center. Clemenza had told Sonny that his father wanted to see him, and Sonny had gone from room to room in his father’s house until he wound up at the door of what he guessed was the only dark space in the compound. “Pop?” he said, and he took a tentative step into the shadowy room, where his father’s silhouette was centered in a window that looked out on the courtyard. “Should I turn on the lights?” he asked.

The silhouette shook its head and stepped away from the window. “Close the door,” it said, in a voice that seemed to come from someplace far away.

“Clemenza said you wanted to see me.” Sonny closed the door and moved through the shadows to his father, who pulled a pair of chairs together with his good arm. His left arm hung useless in a sling over his chest.

“Sit down.” Vito took a seat and gestured to the chair across from him. “I want to talk to you alone a moment.”

“Sure, Pop.” Sonny took his seat, folded his hands in his lap, and waited.

“In a minute,” Vito said, his voice not much more than a whisper, “Clemenza will join us, but I wanted to have a word with you first.” He leaned forward and hung his head and ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair, and then held his head in his hands.

Sonny had never seen his father like this, and an impulse rushed up to touch him, to lay a hand on his father’s knee in comfort. It was an impulse he didn’t act on but would recall often in the future, this moment with his father in his shadowy unfurnished study when he wanted to reach out and comfort him.

“Santino,” Vito said, and he sat up. “Let me ask you, and I want you to take a moment to consider this: Why do you think Emilio came to us? Why is he betraying Giuseppe Mariposa?”

In his father’s eyes, Sonny read a note of hopefulness, as if Vito deeply wanted him to get this answer right, and so Sonny tried to think about the question—but he came up with nothing, a blank space, a refusal on his mind’s part to do any thinking. “I don’t know, Pop,” he said. “I guess I take him at his word, what he said: He sees you’ll make a better leader now than Mariposa.”

Vito shook his head and the little bit of hope in his eyes disappeared. It was replaced, though, with kindness. “No,” he said, and he laid his good hand on Sonny’s knee, exactly the gesture Sonny had entertained a moment earlier. “A man like Emilio Barzini,” he said, “can never be taken at his word. To understand the truth of things,” he went on, tightening his grip on Sonny’s knee, “you have to judge both the man and the circumstances. You have to use both your brains and your heart. That’s what it’s like in a world where men lie as a matter of course—and there is no other kind of world, Santino, at least not here on earth.”

“So why, then?” Sonny asked, a note of frustration in his voice. “If not what he said, then why?”

“Because,” Vito said, “Emilio planned the parade shootings.” He paused and watched Sonny, looking like exactly what he was: a parent explaining something to his child. “He didn’t plan for it to turn into the massacre that it did, and that was his mistake,” he continued, “but you can be sure that this was Emilio’s plan. Mariposa was never smart enough to come up with something like this. If it had worked, if I had been killed, along with Luca Brasi—and you, Sonny, killing you would have been part of the plan too—and if this could have all been blamed on the crazy Irish, because everyone knows Italians would never endanger women and children, another man’s innocent family, that this is our code—if even the others’ families, they believed it was the Irish—then the war would have been over, and Joe would be on his way to running everything, with Emilio as his second in command.” Vito got up and wandered to the window, where he looked out at the activity in the courtyard. With his right hand, he slipped the sling over his head and tossed it away, wincing slightly as he opened and closed the fist of his left hand. “Already,” he said, turning to Sonny, “we see the newspapers calling it an Irish vendetta, a bunch of mad-dog Irishmen. These stories are plants from newspapermen on Mariposa’s payroll. But now,” he added, “now that everything has turned out so badly, now Emilio is scared.” Vito took his seat across from Sonny again and leaned close. “He knew that if I survived I would see that Mariposa’s family had to be behind this massacre. He fears now that all the families will turn against him and Giuseppe. With the failure to kill Clemenza and Genco at Angelo’s, with the failure of Capone’s men to kill me, and now with this—With all of this so soon after our agreement to pay his tax—Giuseppe’s word is worth nothing, and now he’s shown that he can be defeated. Emilio’s best chance now is the deal he offered. That’s why he risked his life to come to us with this proposal. And most importantly, Sonny, that’s why, now, he can be trusted.”

“If he planned to kill us all, I don’t see why we let him walk away alive.” Sonny knew he should tamp down his anger, should struggle to be as reasonable as his father, but he couldn’t control it. Anger flared at the thought of Emilio planning to kill him and his family, and his only thought, if it could even be called a thought, was the desire to strike back.

Vito said, “Think, Sonny. Please. Use your head.” He clapped his hands over Sonny’s face, gave him a shake, and let him go. “What good does Emilio Barzini dead do for us? Then we’re fighting Carmine Barzini and the Rosato brothers—and Mariposa.” When Sonny didn’t answer, Vito continued: “With Emilio alive and Mariposa dead, when we finish dividing up Mariposa’s territories—there will be five families, and we’ll be the strongest of the five. That’s our goal. That’s what we need to be thinking about—not killing Emilio.”

“Forgive me, Pop,” Sonny said, “but if we went after all of them, we could be the only family.”

“Again,” Vito said, “think. Even if we could win such a war, what happens after? The newspapers will make us out as monsters. We make bitter enemies of the relatives of the men we kill.” Vito leaned into Sonny and put his hands on his shoulders. “Sonny,” he said, “Sicilians never forget and they never forgive. This is a truth you must always keep in mind. I want to win this war so that we can have a long peace afterward and die surrounded by our families, in our own beds. I want Michael and Fredo and Tom to go into legitimate businesses, so that they can be rich and prosperous—and unlike me and now you, Sonny, they won’t always have to worry about who will be trying to kill them next. Do you understand, Sonny? Do you understand what it is that I want for this family?”

Sonny said, “Yeah, Pop, I understand.”

“Good,” Vito said, and gently brushed Sonny’s hair back off his forehead. When a door opened behind them, Vito touched Sonny’s shoulder and pointed to the light switch by the door.

Sonny turned on the lights and Clemenza entered the room.

To Sonny, Vito said, “There’s much to do in the coming days.” He touched Sonny’s arm again. “We must be on guard for treachery.” He hesitated and appeared to be caught in a moment of indecision. “I’m going to leave now,” he said, and glanced once toward Sonny and quickly looked away, almost as if he was afraid to meet his eyes. “Treachery,” he said again, softly, whispering a warning to himself, and then he raised a finger and nodded to Clemenza and Sonny, as if to emphasize the warning. “Listen to Clemenza,” he said to Sonny, and he left the room.

“What’s going on?” Sonny asked.

“Aspett’,” Clemenza said, and he closed the door gently behind Vito, as if being careful not to make too much noise. “Sit down.” He pointed to the two facing chairs where Sonny had sat a few minutes earlier with his father.

“Sure,” Sonny said. He took a seat and crossed his legs, making himself comfortable. “What’s this about?”

Clemenza was wearing his typical baggy, rumpled suit with a bright-yellow tie so crisp and clean that it had to be brand-new. He plopped himself down in the chair across from Sonny, grunted with the pleasure of taking the weight off his feet, and took a black pistol out of one jacket pocket and a silvery silencer out of the other. He held up the silencer. “You know what this is?”

Sonny gave Clemenza a look. Of course he knew it was a silencer. “What’s this about?” he asked again.

“Personally, I don’t like silencers,” Clemenza said. He went about attaching the heavy metal tube to the barrel of the gun as he spoke. “I prefer a big, noisy gun,” he said, “better to scare anybody gets ideas. Big bang, everybody scatters, you walk away.”

Sonny laughed and clasped his hands behind his neck. He leaned back and waited for Clemenza to get around to whatever it was he wanted to say.

Clemenza fiddled with the silencer. He was having trouble getting it attached. “This is about Bobby Corcoran,” he said, finally.

“Ah,” Sonny said, and he glanced behind him, out the window, as if he was looking for something that he’d just remembered he’d lost. “I can’t figure it,” he said when he turned back to Clemenza—and the way he said it made it sound like a question.

“What’s there to figure?” Clemenza answered.

Sonny said, “I don’t know what the hell to think, Uncle Pete.” He was immediately embarrassed at having fallen back to his childhood way of addressing Clemenza, and he tried to rush past the moment by speaking quickly. “I know Bobby shot Pop,” he said, “I saw it like everybody else, but…”

“But you can’t believe it,” Clemenza said, as if he knew what Sonny was thinking.

“Yeah,” Sonny said. “It’s—” He looked away again, not knowing what else to say.

“Listen, Sonny,” Clemenza said, and he went back to fiddling with the gun, loosening and tightening the silencer, checking that it was properly fitted to the barrel. “I understand,” he said, “that you’ve grown up with this kid Bobby, that you’ve known him all your life…” He paused and nodded, as if he had just explained something to himself satisfactorily. “But Bobby Corcoran has got to go,” he said. “He shot your father.” He twisted the silencer one last time, till it fit snug to the barrel, and then he handed the gun to Sonny.

Sonny took the pistol and dropped it in his lap, as if putting it aside. “Bobby’s parents,” he said, quietly, “they both died when he was a baby, from the flu.”

Clemenza nodded and was silent.

“His sister and her daughter, they’re all he’s got. And Bobby, he’s all they got.”

Again Clemenza was silent.

“Bobby’s sister, Eileen,” Sonny went on, “her husband, Jimmy Gibson, one of Mariposa’s goons killed him in a strike riot.”

“Who killed him?” Clemenza asked.

“One of Mariposa’s goons.”

“Is that what you heard?”

“Yeah. That’s what I heard.”

“Because that’s what some people wanted you to hear.”

“You know different?”

“If it’s got to do with the unions,” Clemenza said, “we know about it.” He sighed and glanced up at the ceiling, where a line of light coming from beyond the window moved slowly from right to left. “Pete Murray killed Jimmy Gibson,” he said. “He clocked him with a lead pipe. There was some kind of bad blood between them—I forget the whole story—but Pete didn’t want it to get around that he’d killed one of his own, so he worked a deal with Mariposa. Pete Murray was on Mariposa’s payroll since forever. It was how Giuseppe kept his thumb on the Irish.”

“Jesus,” Sonny said. He looked down at the gun and silencer in his lap.

“Listen, Sonny,” Clemenza said, and then, just as Vito had done earlier, he put his hand on Sonny’s knee. “This is a tough business. The cops, the army…,” he said, and he appeared to be struggling for words. “Put a uniform on somebody, tell ’em you got to kill this other guy because he’s the bad guy, you got to kill him—and then anybody can pull the trigger. But in this business, sometimes you got to kill people who maybe they’re your friends.” He stopped and shrugged, as if he were taking a moment to think about this himself. “That’s the way it is in this business. Sometimes maybe it’s even people you love and you got to do it. That’s just the way it is,” he repeated, “in this business.” He picked up the gun from Sonny’s lap and handed it to him. “It’s time for you to make your bones,” he said. “Bobby Corcoran’s got to go, and you got to be the one to do it. He shot your father, Santino. That’s the long and short of it. He’s got to go and you got to do it.”

Sonny dropped the gun into his lap again and peered down at it as if he were looking at a mystery. When finally he picked it up, it was black and heavy in his hands, the silencer adding extra weight. He was still staring at it when he heard the door close and realized that Clemenza had left the room. He shook his head as if he refused to believe what was happening, though the gun was there, in his hand, solid and heavy. Alone in the sudden quiet, he closed a fist around the butt of the gun. In a series of movements that uncannily matched Vito’s only minutes earlier, he leaned forward, hung his head, ran the fingers of his free hand through his hair, and then held his head in his hands, the butt of the gun cold against his temple. He touched his finger to the trigger and then sat there motionless in the quiet.

Fredo woke to darkness, his head buried in pillows and his knees pulled to his chest. He didn’t know where he was for a minute, and then the excitement of the previous day came back to him and he knew he was in his own bed and he remembered the parade and that his father had been shot but that he’d be okay. He’d seen him. Mama had let him and Michael get a peek at him before she pulled them back and sent them upstairs to their room, away from all the commotion in the house. Pop’s arm was in a sling, but he looked okay—and then no one would tell him anything more about what had happened. He tried to listen at the door, but Mama was in the room with them, making them both, him and Michael, do their schoolwork, and keeping them from hearing anything. They couldn’t even turn on the radio, and Mama wouldn’t let Michael talk about it, and then he fell asleep. Still, he knew there’d been shooting at the parade and Pop had been hit in the shoulder. As he lay in bed letting the day’s events come back to him, Fredo found himself getting angry again because he’d been unlucky enough to miss the whole thing. If he’d been there, maybe he could have protected his father. Maybe he could have kept him from getting shot. He might have thrown himself over his father, or knocked him out of the way of the bullet. He wished he had been there. He wished he’d had the chance to show his father and everybody else that he wasn’t just a kid. If he’d had the chance to save his father from being shot, everybody’d see. He was fifteen now. He wasn’t a kid anymore.

When finally Fredo turned over, pulling his head out of the pillows, he was groggy with sleep. Across the room, Michael’s covers were tented over his knees and light was seeping out around the edges. “Michael, what are you doing?” Fredo whispered. “You reading under there?”

“Yeah,” Michael’s voice came back, muffled. Then he peeled the covers back and stuck his head out. “I sneaked a newspaper from downstairs,” he said, and he showed Fredo a copy of the Mirror. On the cover was a picture of a little kid lying on the sidewalk, his arm hanging over the curb, and over the picture was the huge headline: “Gangland Massacre!”

“Holy cow!” Fredo said, and leapt out of his bed and onto Michael’s. “What’s it say?” He snatched the paper and the flashlight away from Michael.

“It says Pop’s a gangster. It says he’s a big shot in the Mafia.”

Fredo turned the page and saw a picture of his father being pushed into a paddy wagon. “Pop says there’s no such thing as the Mafia,” he said, and then he saw a picture of Richie Gatto on his face in the street, his arms and legs twisted, blood all around him. “That’s Richie,” he said, softly.

“Yeah,” Michael said. “Richie’s dead.”

“Richie’s dead?” Fredo said. “Did you see him get shot?” he asked, and then he dropped the newspaper as the bedroom door opened.

“What are you two doing?” Carmella demanded. She came into the bedroom wearing a blue robe over a white nightgown, her hair unpinned and falling to her shoulders. “Where did you get this?” She picked up the newspaper from the bed, folded it in half, and held it to her breast as if trying to hide it.

“Michael snuck it up from downstairs,” Fredo said.

Michael gave Fredo a look and then turned to his mother and nodded.

“Did you read it?” she asked.

“Michael did,” Fredo said. “Is Richie really dead?”

Carmella crossed herself and was silent, though her expression and the tears that came to her eyes were answer enough.

Fredo said, “But Pop’s okay, right?”

“Didn’t you see him yourself?” Carmella stuffed the folded newspaper into the pocket of her robe and then took Fredo by the arm and led him back to his bed. To Michael she said, “You can’t believe what you read in the newspapers.”

Michael said, “They say Pop’s a big shot in the Mafia. Is that true?”

“The Mafia,” Carmella said, pulling her robe tight. “Everything with Italians, it’s always the Mafia. Would a Mafia know congressmen like your father does?”

Michael pushed his hair off his forehead and seemed to think about this. “I’m not doing my report on Congress,” he said. “I changed my mind.”

“What are you talking about, Michael? All the work you’ve done!”

“I’ll find another subject.” Michael settled himself into his bed, pulling the covers up over him.

Carmella took a step back. She shook her head at Michael, as if disappointed in him. She wiped tears from her eyes. “I hear another sound from in here,” she said to Fredo, “I’ll tell your father.” She said it halfheartedly and then hesitated, watching her boys.

When she left the room, pulling the bedroom door closed behind her, she found Tom waiting at the head of the stairs. “Madon’!” she said, joining him. “Isn’t anybody sleeping tonight?”

Tom sat down on the top step and Carmella joined him. “Are the boys upset?” he asked.

“They know Richie’s dead,” she answered, and she pulled the Mirror from the pocket of her robe and looked at the picture of the dead child on the cover.

Tom took the newspaper from her. “I should be out on Long Island with the rest of the men.” He rolled the paper into a tight little tube and tapped the edge of the step with it. “They leave me here with the boys.”

“Per caritá!” Carmella said. “God forbid you’re out there too.”

“Sonny’s out there,” Tom said, and at that Carmella turned away. “Sonny wouldn’t let me fight,” he went on, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. He sounded as though he might be talking to himself. “He held me down like I was a kid.”

“Sonny was looking out for you,” Carmella said. She gazed off into the distance. “Sonny’s always looked out for you.”

“I know that,” Tom said. “I’d like to return the favor, now I’m grown. Sonny could use a little looking after himself now.”

Carmella took Tom’s hand and held it in both of hers. Her eyes filled again with tears.

“Mama,” Tom said. “I want to be there to help. I want to help the family.”

Carmella squeezed Tom’s hand. “Pray for them,” she said. “Pray for Vito and Sonny. It’s all in God’s hands,” she said. “Everything.”

26.

Luca parked on Tenth Street next to the river and walked past a line of shacks with wood and various junk piled on their makeshift roofs. The night was chilly, and a thin mist of smoke floated up from a crooked stovepipe sticking out of the last shack in the row. It was after two in the morning, and Luca was alone on the street. To one side of him were the shacks, and to the other, the river. He pulled his jacket tight and continued up the block, the shuffle of his footsteps the only sound other than wind over the water. When he turned the corner, JoJo and Paulie were waiting outside a busted door. They leaned against a brick wall, JoJo with a cigarette dangling from his lips, Paulie tapping the ash off a fat cigar.

“Are you sure—they’re in there?” Luca asked when he reached the boys.

“They already took some shots at us,” Paulie said, and he stuck the cigar in his mouth.

“We’re sittin’ ducks in there,” JoJo added. “Take a look.” He gestured to the door.

“What is this—place?”

“Slaughterhouse.”

Luca snorted. “Just like micks. Makin’ their stand—in a slaughterhouse. It’s only two of them?”

“Yeah, it’s the Donnellys,” Paulie said, the cigar still in his mouth.

“We chased ’em here,” JoJo said.

“They figure they just got to hold out a couple more hours.” Paulie chewed on his cigar.

“Then the workers start showing up,” JoJo said, finishing Paulie’s thought for him.

Luca peeked into the slaughterhouse. The floor was mostly empty, with a web of hooks dangling over conveyor belts. Catwalks crisscrossed the building, midway up the walls. “Where are they?” he asked.

“Somewhere up there,” JoJo said. “Poke your head in, they’ll start shooting at you.”

“You got—no idea?”

“They’re moving around,” Paulie said. “They got the advantage up there.”

Luca looked into the slaughterhouse again and found a ladder against a near wall that led up to the catwalks. “There another—way in?”

“Other side of the building,” JoJo said. “Vinnie’s over there.”

Luca pulled a .38 out of his shoulder holster. “Go with Vinnie—When you’re ready—bust in firing. Don’t have to aim at nothing—don’t have to hit nothing.” Luca checked his gun. “Just make sure—you’re shooting up—not across—so you don’t hit me.”

“You want us to keep them distracted,” JoJo said, “and you come at ’em from this side?”

Luca snatched the cigar out of Paulie’s mouth and stubbed it out against the wall. “Go on,” he said to both of them. “Hurry up. I’m startin’ to get tired.”

When the boys were out of sight, Luca took a second pistol from his jacket pocket and looked it over. It was a new gun, a .357 Magnum with a black cylinder and long barrel. He removed a bullet from one of the chambers, popped it back in, and then looked into the slaughterhouse again. The interior of the building was dimly lit by a series of lights hanging from the ceiling. They cast a puzzle of shadows over the walls and floor. While he watched, a door on the opposite side of the building flew open and a storm of muzzle flashes sparked out of the darkness. Up on the catwalks, Luca spotted more barrel flashes coming from opposite sides of the building, and he made a dash for the ladder. He was already up on the catwalk and halfway across the space between him and a pile of crates barricading one of the Donnellys when Rick yelled from the other side of the building, warning Billy of Luca’s approach. Billy managed to get off two shots, the second of which hit Luca in the chest, over his heart, nearly knocking the wind out of him. It felt like a big man landing a solid punch, though it wasn’t enough to bring him down, and a second later Luca was on top of Billy, knocking the gun out of his hand and wrapping his arm around his neck so that he couldn’t speak or make a sound other than a panicked guttural rumble. Luca gave himself a minute to recover as he held Billy in front of him like a shield.

“Billy!” Rick called from across the wide space between them.

JoJo and the boys had backed out onto the street. The slaughterhouse was quiet, Billy’s ragged breathing the only noise other than a constant low hum coming from someplace out of sight.

“Your brother’s okay,” Luca yelled. He knocked the piled-up crates aside with his free arm, sending a few tumbling the twenty or so feet to the floor below. “Come on out—Rick.” With the crates out of the way, he pushed Billy in front of him to the edge of the catwalk, up against the railing. He had one arm around Billy’s neck, the other dangling at his side, the revolver in his hand. When Rick didn’t answer or show himself, he said, “Jumpin’ Joe wants—to see you. He wants—to talk to you and Billy.”

“Ah, you’re so full of shit,” Rick said, “y’twisted freak.” He spoke as if Luca was sitting across the table from him. If not for a loud note of weariness, he would have sounded amused.

Luca pushed Billy against the railing, lifting him a little. Billy had relaxed a bit, and Luca loosened his grip, making it easier for the kid to breathe. “Come out now,” he said to Rick. “Don’t make me put—a bullet in your little brother. Giuseppe only—wants to talk.”

“Ah, you’re lyin’,” Rick said, still hidden behind a pile of crates. “You work for the Corleones now and everyone knows it.”

“I work for myself,” Luca said. “You Irish—should know that.”

Billy squirmed in Luca’s grasp and shouted, “He’s lying, Rick. Shoot the son of a bitch.”

“Okay, Billy,” Luca whispered into his ear. He jerked the kid off his feet and over the railing, and dangled him off the catwalk, where he squealed and kicked. To Rick, Luca said, “Say good-bye—to your kid brother,” and in that same instant, Rick knocked a pair of crates to the ground and showed himself with hands up over his head, palms facing Luca.

“Good,” Luca said. He let Billy drop as he raised his revolver and emptied the cylinder into Rick’s chest and guts. Rick jerked back and then forward and over the railing, where he landed in a heap on a conveyor belt.

On the floor beneath Luca, Billy groaned and tried to pick himself up, but his leg had broken ugly, part of the bone sticking out through his thigh. He puked and then passed out.

“Put ’em in cement shoes,” Luca said as JoJo stepped onto the floor of the slaughterhouse, followed by Paulie and Vinnie. “Drop ’em in the river,” he added, on his way to the ladder. He was tired and looking forward to a good night’s sleep.

On the Romeros’ stoop, a half dozen or so men in cheap dark suits were talking to a pair of young women in cloche hats and clingy dresses inappropriate for a funeral. The girls’ outfits, Sonny figured, were probably all they owned in the way of anything dressy. He had parked around the corner and had watched the block for a half hour before deciding it was safe to make an appearance at Vinnie’s wake. The Corleone family had sent a wreath to the funeral parlor, and Sonny had five thousand dollars in a fat envelope in his jacket pocket that he wanted to deliver personally, though he had been ordered to stay away from the funerals, especially Vinnie’s funeral. Mariposa, according to Genco, wasn’t above snatching him at a wake. Sonny took a deep breath and felt the comforting bind of his shoulder holster.

Before he reached the stoop, the two girls noticed him approaching and hurried back into the building. By the time Sonny climbed the front steps and started up a flight of stairs to the Romeros’ second-floor apartment, Angelo Romero and Nico Angelopoulos were waiting on the landing. In the dim light of the stairwell, Angelo’s face looked as though it had aged a dozen years. His eyes were bloodshot, red around the eyelids, and surrounded by dark circles the color of bruises. He looked as though he hadn’t slept since the parade. People’s voices speaking in hushed tones floated down the stairs. “Angelo,” Sonny said, and then he was surprised by the knot in his throat that made it impossible to say anything more. He hadn’t let himself think about Vinnie. The fact of his death was there in his mind like a checkmark. Check, Vinnie is dead. But there was nothing more than that, nothing he felt and nothing he’d let himself think about. As soon as he spoke Angelo’s name, though, something rushed up inside him and lodged in his throat and he couldn’t say anything more.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Angelo rubbed his eyes so hard he looked more like he was trying to crush them than trying to comfort himself. “I’m tired,” he said, and then, announcing the obvious, added, “I haven’t slept much.”

“He’s having dreams,” Nico said. He put his hand on Angelo’s shoulder. “He can’t sleep because of the dreams.”

Sonny managed to say, “I’m sorry, Angelo,” though he had to struggle to get the words out.

“Yeah,” Angelo said, “but you shouldn’t be here.”

Sonny swallowed hard and looked down the stairs to the street, where the dreary and overcast day was visible through a window in the front door. He found it easier to think about business, about details. “I checked things out before I came up,” he said. “There’s nobody watching the place or anything. I’ll be all right.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Angelo said. “I meant my family doesn’t want you here, my parents. You can’t come up to the wake. They won’t have it.”

Sonny gave himself a moment to let that sink in. “I brought this.” He pulled the envelope out of his jacket pocket. “It’s something,” he said, and extended the envelope to Angelo.

Angelo crossed his hands over his chest and ignored the offering. “I’m not coming back to work for your family,” he said. “Am I gonna have trouble?”

“Nah,” Sonny said, and he pulled the envelope away, let his hand drop to his side. “Why would you think that?” he said. “My father will understand.”

“Good,” Angelo said, and then he stepped closer to Sonny. He looked as though he might embrace him, but he stopped. “What were we thinking?” he asked, and the words came out of him like a plea. “That we were in the comic books, that we couldn’t really get hurt?” He waited, as if he truly hoped that Sonny might have an answer. When Sonny was silent, he continued. “I must have been dreamin’, that’s what it feels like, like we all must have been dreamin’, like we couldn’t really get hurt. We couldn’t really get killed, but…” He stopped and sighed, the long breath coming out of him as much a moan as a sigh, and the sound itself seemed to acknowledge Vinnie’s death, to accept it. He moved away, toward the stairs, his eyes still on Sonny. “I curse the day I met you,” he said, “you and your family,” and he said it evenly, without malice or anger. He walked back up the stairs and out of sight.

“He don’t mean it,” Nico said, once Angelo was gone. “He’s distraught, Sonny. You know how close they were, those two. They were like each other’s shadows. Jesus, Sonny.”

“Sure.” Sonny handed the envelope to Nico. “Tell him I understand,” he said. “And tell him my family will provide whatever he and his family might need, now or in the future. You got that, Nico?”

“He knows that,” Nico said. He put the envelope in his pocket. “I’ll make sure they get this.”

Sonny patted Nico on the shoulder as a departing gesture, and then started down the stairs.

“I’ll walk with you to your car,” Nico said, following him. When they were on the street, he asked, “What will happen with Bobby now? I heard he’s hiding out.”

Sonny said, “I don’t know,” and his tone of voice and manner said he didn’t want to talk about Bobby.

“Listen, I wanted to tell you,” Nico said, and he took Sonny by the arm and stopped him on the street. “Me and Angelo were talking, and Angelo figures that Bobby must have been shootin’ at Stevie Dwyer, not your father. Your father don’t make any sense, Sonny. You know that.”

“Stevie Dwyer?”

“That’s what Angelo thinks. That’s what Vinnie thought, too. They had a chance to talk it over before Vinnie got shot.”

Sonny scratched his head and looked toward the street, as if he might somehow be able to see what happened at the parade. “Stevie Dwyer?” he said again.

“That’s what Angelo says. They didn’t see it, but Angelo said Stevie was behind your father, and then after Bobby’s shot, Luca got Stevie. I wasn’t there,” he said, and he shoved his hands in his pockets, “but, Sonny, damn, Bobby loves you and your family and he hated Stevie. It makes sense, don’t it?”

Sonny tried to think back to the parade. He remembered seeing Bobby take the shot at his father, and then Vito went down, and that’s all he remembered. Everybody was shooting everywhere. Stevie Dwyer wound up dead. He tried to remember but already everything that had happened at the parade and right after was a jumble. He rubbed his knuckles along his jaw. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know what the hell happened. I got to talk with Bobby. It don’t look good,” he added, “that he’s hiding out.”

“Yeah, but you know,” Nico said. They were nearing Sonny’s car. “You know Bobby wouldn’t take a shot at your father. That just ain’t right,” he said. “You know that, Sonny.”

“I don’t know what I know.” Sonny stepped into the street, starting for his car. “What about you?” he asked, changing the subject. “How do you like your job?”

“It’s a job.” Nico took his hat off and blocked it as Sonny got into the car. “It’s hard work on the docks.”

“That’s what I hear.” Sonny closed the car door and sat back in his seat. “But the pay’s decent in the union, right?”

“Sure,” Nico said. “I don’t get to buy fancy clothes or anything anymore, but it’s okay. Did you hear I got a girl?”

“Nah,” Sonny said. “Who is it?”

“You don’t know her,” Nico said. “Her name’s Anastasia.”

“Anastasia,” Sonny said. “You got yourself a nice Greek girl.”

“Sure,” Nico said. “We’re talking about getting married and having kids already. I figure now I’ve got a decent job, I can make a good future for them.” Nico smiled and then blushed, as if he’d just embarrassed himself. “Tell your father thank you for me, Sonny. Tell him I appreciate him getting me this job, okay?”

Sonny started the car and then reached out the window to shake Nico’s hand. “Take care of yourself,” he said.

“Sure,” Nico said, and then he hesitated at the car door, watching Sonny as if there was more he wanted to say. He stood there another second or two past the point when it became awkward, as if whatever it was he wanted to say was pushing at him—and then he gave up and laughed awkwardly and walked away.

Jimmy Mancini shouldered his way through a narrow door and dragged Corr Gibson into a windowless room where Clemenza stood over a long stainless steel table, hefting a glistening butcher knife in his right hand, as if testing its weight and balance. Al Hats followed Jimmy into the room carrying Corr’s shillelagh.

“Where the hell am I?” Corr asked, as Jimmy propped him up on his feet. The Irishman sounded drunk, and he had indeed been drinking most of the night before Jimmy and Al found him asleep in his bed and delivered a beating that rendered him senseless. As he moved in and out of consciousness, he kept asking where he was and what was going on, as if he had never fully awakened. “Pete,” he said, squinting through swollen, half-closed eyes. “Clemenza,” he said. “Where am I?”

Clemenza found an apron hanging nearby and put it on. “You don’t know where you are, Corr?” He tied the apron behind his back. “This place is famous,” he said. “This is Mario’s Butcher Shop in Little Italy. Everybody knows this place. Mayor LaGuardia gets his sausage here.” Clemenza returned to the table and touched the blade of the butcher knife. “Mario knows how to take care of his utensils,” he said. “He keeps his knives sharp.”

“Does he now?” Corr said. He yanked his arm free from Jimmy and managed to stand unsteadily but on his own. He looked at the stainless steel table and the butcher knife in Clemenza’s hand and laughed. “You fucking guineas,” he said. “You’re all a bunch of barbarians.”

Clemenza said, still talking about Mario’s Butcher Shop, “Of course, Sicilians don’t come here. This is a Neapolitan sausage place. We don’t like Neapolitan sausage. They don’t know how to make it right, even with all their fancy stuff.” He glanced around at the array of cutlery and shiny pots and pans and various culinary equipment, including a band saw at the far end of the table.

“Where’s my shillelagh?” Corr asked. When he saw that Al was holding it in front of him, leaning on it like Fred Astaire, he said, wistfully, “Ah, how I’d love one last chance to bash your head in with it, Pete.”

“Yeah, but you won’t get it,” Clemenza said, and he gestured to Jimmy. “Take care of him in the freezer,” he said. “It’s quiet in there.” Corr went off without a fight, and Clemenza called after him, “See you in a few minutes, Corr.”

When the Irishman and the boys were out of sight, Clemenza stood in front of an array of knives and saws of various sizes, shapes, and designs hanging from a wall. “Will you look at all this,” he said, and whistled in appreciation.

Tessio, with Emilio Barzini in front of him and Phillip Tattaglia following, made his way through a maze of tables, where fifty or more diners in evening wear chatted and laughed over their meals. The club, not as fashionable as the Stork Club but a close cousin, was located in a midtown hotel and crowded every night of the week with celebrities—but it was not a club that any of the families frequented. Tessio glanced from table to table as he made his way to the back of the room. He thought he might have seen Joan Blondell at one of the tables, seated across from a classy-looking guy he didn’t recognize. To one side of the room, where a small orchestra was set up on a long white riser that served as a stage, a band leader in tails stepped up to a wide microphone next to a white grand piano and tapped the mike three times with a baton, and the orchestra launched into a snappy version of “My Blue Heaven.”

“This dame’s got a voice like an angel,” Tattaglia said, as a young woman with smoky eyes and long black hair approached the microphone and began to sing.

“Yeah,” Tessio said, and the single syllable came out sounding like a dolorous grunt.

At the back of the room, Little Carmine, one of Tomasino’s boys, stood in front of a pair of glass doors with his hands clasped at his waist, watching the singer. A flimsy curtain covered the length of the glass doors, and through it Tessio could see the outline of two figures seated at a table. When Emilio reached the doors, Little Carmine opened one for him, and Tessio and Tattaglia followed Emilio into a small room occupied by a single round table large enough to seat a dozen diners, though there were places set for only five. A waiter stood beside the table with a bottle of wine in his hand, next to Mariposa, who was wearing a gray three-piece suit with a bright-blue tie and a white carnation. Tomasino Cinquemani was seated next to Mariposa in a rumpled jacket with the top button of his shirt undone and his tie slightly loosened. “Salvatore!” Mariposa called out as Tessio entered the room. “Good to see you, my old friend,” he said. He rose and extended his hand, which Tessio shook.

“You too, Joe.” Tessio offered a slight nod to Tomasino, who hadn’t risen but nonetheless looked glad to see him.

“Sit!” Mariposa gestured to the seat alongside him and then turned his attention to the waiter as Barzini and Tattaglia joined Tessio in taking their seats at the table.

To the waiter, Giuseppe said, “I want the best of everything for my friends. Be sure the antipasto is fresh,” he said, lecturing the waiter. “For the sauces, squid on one pasta, nice and black. On the ravioli, fresh tomato with just the right amount of garlic: not too much just because we’re Italians, eh!” He laughed and looked around the table. To Tessio he said, “I’ve ordered us a feast. You’re gonna love this.”

“Joe’s a gourmet,” Tattaglia said to the table. To Tessio he added, “It’s a privilege to let him order for us.”

“Basta,” Joe said to Tattaglia, though clearly he was flattered. To the waiter he said, finishing up, “Be sure the lamb is the youngest you have, and the roast potatoes,” he said, gesturing with his thumb and forefinger pinched together, “must be crisp. Capisc’?”

“Certainly,” the waiter answered, and then exited the room, Little Carmine opening the door from the outside as he approached it.

With the waiter gone, Barzini leaned over the table to Tessio, and his manner and tone suggested he was about to make a joke. “Joe always insists the cooks prepare his meals with virgin olive oil,” he said, and then raised a finger and added, “but never Genco Pura!”

Mariposa laughed along with the others, though he didn’t seem particularly amused. When the table quieted he settled into his seat, clasped his hands in front of him, and addressed Tessio. The music from the club and the chatter of diners was muted enough by the closed doors for easy conversation, though, still, Joe had to speak up over the noise. “Salvatore,” he said. “You don’t know what a pleasure it is to see you. I’m honored that we will be true friends in the years to come.”

Tessio answered, “I have always wanted your friendship, Don Mariposa. Your wisdom—and your strength—have inspired my admiration.”

As usual, Tessio sounded like he was delivering a eulogy. Mariposa, nonetheless, was beaming. “Ah, Salvatore,” he said, and suddenly his demeanor changed to one of great seriousness. He touched his hand to his heart. “Surely you understand, Salvatore: We never wanted to go through with this parade thing, but the Corleones, they got themselves barricaded out there in Long Beach! Madon’! An army couldn’t get to them there! Barzini here had to slither like a snake just to get word to you.” Mariposa sounded deeply angry, furious at the Corleones. “They forced this parade thing on us,” he said, “and look at how it turned out!” He slapped the table. “An abomination!”

“Sì,” Tessio said, gravely. “An abomination.”

“And now we’ll make them pay,” Mariposa said, leaning over the table. “Tell me, Salvatore…” He filled Tessio’s wineglass from the bottle of Montepulciano in the center of the table. “What can I do for you in return for this favor you offer me?”

Tessio looked around the table, surprised to be getting down to business so quickly. Emilio nodded to him, encouraging him to respond. Tessio said to Mariposa, “I want to make a peaceful living. The bookmaking in Brooklyn. The concessions on Coney Island. That’s all I need.”

Mariposa sat back in his chair. “That’s a very good living,” he said, “and peaceful.” He paused, as if to think it over, and then said, “You have my word on it.”

“We have an understanding, then,” Tessio said. “Thank you, Don Mariposa.” He rose and reached across the table to shake hands.

“Splendido,” Emilio said, as Mariposa and Tessio shook hands. He clapped politely, along with Tattaglia, and then looked at his wristwatch. To Giuseppe he said, “Now that you two have an agreement, Tattaglia and I need to take care of a few things with our boys.” He stood and Tattaglia joined him. “Give us a few minutes,” he said. “We’ll be right back.”

“But where are you going?” Giuseppe objected. He looked surprised. “Right now you have to go?”

“We have to set some things in motion,” Tattaglia said.

“It won’t take five minutes,” Emilio added, and he put a hand on Tattaglia’s shoulder and led him to the door, which, again, magically opened for him.

Giuseppe looked to Tomasino, as if for reassurance. To Tessio he said, “Business,” and made a face. “They’ll be right back.”

Once Tattaglia and Barzini were out of the room, Tomasino turned in his chair and wrapped his beefy arms around Giuseppe’s chest, pinning him to his seat, while in the same moment, Tessio rose and stuffed a cloth napkin in his mouth.

Giuseppe craned and twisted his neck, trying to look behind him to the man who was holding him fast to his seat. Through the napkin he muttered “Tomasino!”

Tomasino said, “It’s business, Joe,” as Tessio removed a garrote from his jacket pocket and snapped the thin piano wire taut in front of Giuseppe’s face.

“I usually don’t do the dirty work anymore,” Tessio said as he moved behind Mariposa. “But this is special,” he added, whispering into his ear. “Just for you, I insisted.” He wrapped the wire around Mariposa’s neck, slowly at first, giving him time to feel the cold metal against his skin. Then Tomasino let go of Mariposa as Tessio pulled the wire tight while at the same time pressing his knee into the back of Giuseppe’s chair for leverage. Giuseppe struggled and managed to kick the leg of the dining table, knocking it back and spilling a place setting to the floor before the wire cut through his jugular, sending a spray of blood over the white tablecloth. In another second, his body went limp and Tessio pushed him forward. Mariposa remained in his seat, slumped over his place setting, blood spilling from his neck and pooling rapidly into his plate, which quickly filled up to look like a bowl of red soup.

“He wasn’t as bad a guy as everybody made out,” Tomasino said. He straightened his jacket and smoothed his hair. “I hope Don Corleone will see my cooperation in this as a sign of my loyalty to him.”

“You’ll find Vito a good man to work for,” Tessio said. He pointed to the door, and Tomasino left the room.

Tessio poured water onto a napkin and tried to rub out a spot of blood on his cuff. When he succeeded only in making it worse, he folded his cuff back out of sight under his jacket sleeve. At the door, he gave a final look back to Mariposa slumped and bleeding over the table. With an anger that seemed to come out of nowhere, he said, “Let me see you jump for me now, Joe.” He spit on the floor and walked out of the room, where Eddie Veltri and Ken Cuisimano were waiting for him, strategically situated in front of each door, blocking the view from the club. The orchestra was playing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”

“I like this song,” Tessio said to Ken. He touched Eddie on the shoulder and said, “Andiamo.”

As the three of them made their way through the maze of tables, Tessio hummed along with the young singer. When he sang a few of the lyrics out loud—“something here inside cannot be denied”—Eddie tapped him on the back and said, “Sal, I’d take a bullet for you and you know it, but, Madre ’Dio, don’t sing.”

Tessio looked at Eddie askance before he broke into a big smile, followed by a laugh. He exited the club onto the crowded streets of mid-Manhattan, laughing.

Donnie O’Rourke turned the radio down. All night his parents had been fighting in the next room, both of them drunk again, and they were still at it, late as it was, after midnight according to the radio announcer. He lowered the volume and turned toward the open window next to his bed, where he could hear the curtains fluttering in a light breeze. He was seated in a rocking chair facing his bed and the window, his hands folded in his lap, a shawl over his legs. Quickly, he smoothed his hair and straightened out his sunglasses, leveling them on the bridge of his nose. He pulled his shirt straight over his shoulders and buttoned it to his neck. He sat up and arranged himself as best he could.

He’d lost track of time again, had no idea of the day, though he knew it was spring with summer coming on. He could smell it. He could smell everything lately. He knew whether it was his mother or father coming into the kitchen instantly from the sound of their movements and from the smell of them, which was the smell of whiskey and beer, but different for each of them, a slightly different odor he recognized immediately though he couldn’t put it in words, the smells, their smell. Now he knew it was Luca Brasi on the fire escape. He knew it with certainty. When he heard him step into the room through the open window, he smiled at him and said his name, softly. “Luca,” he said. “Luca Brasi.”

“How did you know—it was me?” Luca spoke softly, little more than a whisper.

“No need to be worrying about my folks,” Donnie said. “They’re too drunk to cause you any problems.”

“I’m not—worried about them,” Luca said. He crossed the room till he was standing in front of the rocker. He asked again, “How’d you know it—was me, Donnie?”

“I can smell you,” Donnie said. He laughed and added, “Jesus, you smell bad, Luca. You smell like a sewer.”

“I don’t bathe like I should,” Luca answered. “I don’t like—getting wet. The water—bothers me.” He was quiet awhile; then he asked, “Are you scared?”

“Scared?” Donnie said. “Jesus, Luca, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Okay,” Luca said, “I’m here now, Donnie,” and put his hands around Donnie’s neck.

Donnie leaned back in his chair, undid a high button on his shirt, and turned his head to the ceiling. “Go ahead,” he said in a whisper. “Do it.”

Luca tightened his grip all at once, savagely, and in no time at all it was dark and quiet and everything was gone, even the sour smell of beer and whiskey from the kitchen, even the sweet smell of spring and the changing season.

27.

Light rain—as much heavy mist as rain—dripped from the black fire escapes that lined the alley behind Eileen’s bakery. It was late for Caitlin to be up, and Sonny was surprised when Eileen stopped at the living room window and pulled down the shade with Caitlin in her arms. They were a pair, the two of them: Eileen with her sandy blond hair in finger curls, Caitlin with fine blond waves falling over her shoulders. Sonny took off his fedora and brushed the wetness from its brim. He’d been waiting in the alley a long time. He’d parked a few blocks away at dusk, waited until it got dark, opened an unlocked spear-picket gate, and took up a place in the alley where he could watch the back windows of Eileen’s apartment. Part of him figured Bobby wouldn’t be here, with Eileen and Caitlin, and part of him couldn’t imagine where else he’d go—and then maybe a second or two after Eileen pulled the shade, he knew Bobby was with her. He’d never seen that shade pulled in the many times he’d visited Eileen’s apartment. The window looked out on a blank wall in a gated alley no one but the garbage collectors used. A minute later, the block-glass window of the little room behind the bakery lit up with a dim orangish light, and Sonny knew it was Bobby. He could almost see him settling into that narrow cot and turning on the table lamp where it rested beside a stack of books.

The screwdriver he’d brought along, knowing, if needed, he could use it to jimmy the back door to the bakery, was in his pants pocket, and he wrapped his fingers around the grooved wooden handle. He watched the door for several minutes. He couldn’t seem to make his mind settle or his feet move. He was sweating and he felt like he might be getting sick. He took a few deep breaths and then found the silencer in his jacket pocket and looked it over: a heavy, silvery cylinder, grooved where it screwed into the barrel. He held the gun steady around the barrel and fitted the silencer to it. When he was done he dropped it into his jacket pocket, but still didn’t move from his spot, only waited there in the heavy mist, watching the door like it might at any moment open and Bobby would be there, laughing at him and inviting him in.

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. When he heard Eileen yell at Caitlin, a harsh note of frustration in her voice, he found himself crossing the alley and slipping the screwdriver into the space between the frame and the lock. The bakery door opened easily, and he stepped into a quiet dark space rich with the smell of cinnamon. A bit of light seeped out from under the door to Bobby’s room. From upstairs, directly over him, he heard running water and the patter of Caitlin’s feet shuffling in and out of the bathroom. He took the gun from his pocket and then put it back and then took it out again and pushed open the narrow door to find Bobby, as he’d guessed, stretched out on the cot, a book in hand, the lamp on beside the bed, a new bright-orange shade hiding the lightbulb. Bobby startled, tossed the book to the floor, and then froze, halfway out of the bed, stopped, picked up the book, and fell back with his arms crossed behind his head. His eyes were fixed on the gun in Sonny’s hand. “How’d you get in?” he asked.

Sonny had been pointing the gun at Bobby. He let it drop to his side and leaned back against the wall. With his free hand, he rubbed his eyes. “Jesus H. Christ,” he said. “Bobby…”

Bobby squinted and cocked his head. “What are you doing here, Sonny?”

“What do you think I’m doing here, Bobby? You shot my father.”

“It was an accident.” Cork watched Sonny leaning against the wall. He studied his face. “Clemenza didn’t tell you, did he?”

“Tell me what?”

“Eileen got word to Clemenza. He should have told you. He knows what happened at the parade, Sonny.”

“I know what happened at the parade,” Sonny said. “I was there, remember?”

Bobby pushed his hair off his face and scratched his head. He was wearing khakis and a blue work shirt unbuttoned to his waist. He again looked at the gun dangling from Sonny’s hand. “A silencer,” he said, and laughed. “Sonny, it was an accident, my shooting Vito. I saw that moron Dwyer coming up on Vito from behind. I took a shot at him and I hit Vito by accident. That’s what happened, Sonny. Think about it. You don’t think I’d take a shot at your father, do you?”

“I saw you take a shot at my father.”

“Yeah, but I was shooting at Dwyer.”

“I gotta admit,” Sonny said, rubbing his eyes again, “you never were a very good shot.”

“I was nervous,” Bobby said, as if defending himself against being a bad shot. “There were bullets flying everywhere. Thank God I only hit him in the shoulder.” Again he looked at the gun in Sonny’s hand. “You came here to kill me,” he said. “Jesus Christ, Sonny.”

Sonny rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked up to the ceiling as if the words he was looking for might be written there. “I’ve got to kill you, Bobby,” he said, “even if what you say is true. Nobody’s gonna believe it, and if I tell ’em I believe you, I look weak. I look like a fool.”

“You look like a fool? Is that what you just said? You want to kill me so that you won’t look like a fool? Is that it?”

“I’d be seen as weak,” Sonny said, “and stupid. It’d be over for me, with my family.”

“And so you’re gonna kill me?” Bobby put on a face of exaggerated amazement. “Jaysu Christi, Sonny,” he said. “You can’t kill me, even if you think you have to, which, by the way, is fuckin’ ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous.”

“Yeah, it is,” Bobby said, a quick, sharp note of anger shooting into his voice, though he was still lying back in his cot, his arms behind his head. “You can’t kill me, Sonny. We’ve known each other since we were younger than Caitlin. Who are you kiddin’? You can’t be killin’ me because of how it makes you look with your family.” He watched Sonny, reading his face and his eyes. “You’re not gonna shoot me,” he said. “It’d be like shootin’ yourself. You can’t do it.”

Sonny lifted the gun, pointed it at Bobby, and found that he was right. He couldn’t pull the trigger. He knew it, that he could never pull the trigger. Bobby seemed to know it too.

“I’m disappointed in you,” Bobby said. “It’s breakin’ my heart, you thought you could do a thing like this.” He stared at Sonny fiercely then and added, “This isn’t you, Sonny. This isn’t you to think you could have done a thing like this.”

Sonny kept the gun aimed at Bobby’s heart. “I have to, Cork,” he said. “I have no choice.”

“Don’t be feedin’ yourself that malarky. Of course you have a choice.”

“I don’t,” Sonny said.

Cork covered his eyes with his hands and sighed, as if despairing. “You can’t do it,” he said, without looking at Sonny. “Even if you’re stupid enough to think you have to.”

Sonny let the gun drop to his side. “You micks,” he said, “you’re all good at talkin’.”

“I’m just telling you the truth,” Cork said. “The truth’s the truth, even if you’re too stupid to see it.”

“You think I’m stupid?”

“You said it, Sonny.”

Sonny felt like he was wrestling with an unsolvable problem. He looked down at the gun dangling from his hand and then across the room to Cork, and though his eyes moved, his body was frozen in place. As the seconds ticked past, his face grew darker. Finally he said, “I may be stupid, Bobby, but at least my sister’s not a whore.”

Cork looked up at Sonny and laughed. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Eileen,” Sonny said. “Hey, pal, I’ve been fuckin’ Eileen for years.”

“What’s got into you?” Cork asked, and he sat up on the cot. “Why are you saying stuff like this to me?”

“Because it’s true, you stupid mick. I’ve been doing the number on Eileen three times a week since—”

“Shut up, you lyin’ bastard!” Cork looked to the ceiling, to the sound of water running in the bath, as if concerned that Eileen or Caitlin might hear what was being said. “It’s not funny, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said to Sonny. “Eileen wouldn’t dirty herself with the likes of you, and we both know it.”

“But you’re wrong,” Sonny said, and he pushed himself off the wall, his legs finally moving. He took a step toward Cork. “Eileen loves it,” he said. “She loves to suck—”

Cork was up and off the bed and almost on top of Sonny before he lifted the gun, aimed for Cork’s heart, and shot him, the gun going off with a loud thump, with the sound of a hammer blow against plaster. A block of window glass shattered and shards of glass hit the orange lampshade, knocking the lamp to the floor. Sonny let the gun drop from his hand as he caught Cork in his arms. He saw the impossibly wide and spreading bloodstain on the back of Cork’s shirt and knew with certainty that he was dead, that the bullet had gone through his heart and exited his back and lodged in the block-glass window that looked out over the alley. He took the time to lift Cork, lay him down in his bed, and place an open book on the bloodstain spreading over his heart, as if to hide the wound from Eileen, who was already hurrying down the stairs, calling Bobby’s name, asking if he was okay.

Sonny was out of the alley and at the gate when he heard her scream. She screamed once, loud and long, followed by silence. At his car, he started the engine and then flung open the door, leaned over, and vomited into the street. He drove off, wiping his arm roughly across his mouth, his head full of a strange, loud buzzing and the echo of Eileen’s scream and the thump of the gun as it went off in his hand, a sound he both heard in his head and felt in his bones, as if the bullet had hit him as well as Bobby. In a crazy moment he looked down at his heart, thinking he might have somehow also been shot, and when he saw blood all over his shirt he panicked until he realized that it was Bobby’s blood and not his own, but still he reached under the shirt with his fingers, feeling the skin over his heart, crazily needing to reassure himself that he was fine, that nothing had happened to him, that he’d be okay—and then he found that he wasn’t driving back to his apartment as he had planned, but instead he was heading for the docks and the river. He didn’t know why he was driving to the river, but he didn’t resist. It was like something was pulling him there—and he didn’t begin to straighten himself out, to make his heart slow down and to get his thoughts straight, until he saw the water and parked close to it and waited there in the dark of his car looking out over the river to the lights of the city, with those sounds in his head beginning to fade, the buzzing and Eileen’s scream and that thump that he both heard and could still feel in his bones and against his heart.

28.

Vito leaned back on the living room sofa and held Connie in his lap with an arm around her waist, letting her cuddle up against him sleepily as she looked out over the living room and listened with what seemed like genuine interest to Jimmy Mancini and Al Hats argue about baseball. Jimmy’s daughter Lucy sat beside them, working intently on a connect-the-dots picture in a brightly colored activity book. Every once in a while she’d look up at Connie, as if to make sure her friend hadn’t gone anywhere while she’d been lost in her picture. They were in Vito’s living room on Hughes Avenue, midafternoon on a Sunday that had been gorgeous, with bright blue skies and temperatures in the seventies. When Tessio came into the room, Al and Jimmy stopped their arguing, which had been mostly about the Giants’ chances of repeating as World Series champs. Al said, “Sal, you think the Dodgers got a shot at the pennant?” Both men broke into laughter as soon as the question was asked, since the Dodgers would be lucky if they made it out of the cellar. Tessio, a die-hard Brooklyn Dodgers fan, ignored them, sat next to Lucy, and took an interest in her activity book.

A burst of laughter came from the kitchen, followed by Sandra leaving the room red faced. She started up the stairs, probably to the bathroom. Vito hadn’t heard the exchange, but he knew without having to ask that one of the women had said something rude and sexual in nature about Sandra and Santino. Such exchanges had been going on since the announcement of her engagement to Sonny and would continue through to the wedding and honeymoon and beyond. He stayed out of the kitchen when the women were in there cooking and chattering. Sandra on her way up the stairs ran into Tom on his way down. Tom took her hands in his, kissed her on the cheek, and the two of them started in on a conversation of sufficient interest that they both wound up sitting on the steps, talking animatedly. This conversation, Vito knew, would be about Santino. He’d been holed up in his apartment for more than a week, and Sandra wanted him to see a doctor, as did Carmella—and of course he wouldn’t go. He’s stubborn like a man, Vito had heard Carmella tell Sandra earlier in the day. Now Tom held Sandra’s hands in his and reassured her. Sonny will be fine, Vito could hear Tom saying without actually hearing him. Don’t worry about him. Carmella had pressed Vito to make Sonny visit a doctor, but Vito had refused. He’ll be okay, he’d told her. Give him time.

In the kitchen, someone turned on the radio—probably Michael—and Mayor LaGuardia’s staticky voice entered the house, instantly annoying Vito. While the rest of the city and the country were rapidly moving on from the parade massacre, writing it off to a bunch of crazed Irishmen who hated Italians for taking their jobs—which was the line a handful of well-paid newspapermen were pushing—LaGuardia wouldn’t let it go. He talked like he’d been the one who’d been shot. In the newspapers and on the radio, he went on about “the bums.” Vito was weary from it, and when he heard him start in again, saying something about “arrogance” and again the word “bums,” he slid out from under Connie, put her down next to Lucy, and went into the kitchen to turn off the radio. He was surprised to find that it was Fredo who had turned the thing on, but not surprised that he wasn’t listening. When Vito turned it off, reaching around Fredo, where he sat at the table between Genco’s and Jimmy’s wives, no one even seemed to notice. “Where’s Michael?” he asked Carmella, who was at the stove with Mrs. Columbo. Carmella was stuffing the braciol’, and Mrs. Columbo was shaping meatballs in the palms of her hands and dropping them into a hissing frying pan. “Up in his room!” Carmella said, as if angry. “His head in a book, just like always!” When Vito started out of the kitchen on his way to see Michael, Carmella called after him. “Make him come down!” she said. “It’s not healthy!”

Vito found Michael in his bed, lying on his belly with a book propped open on his pillow. The boy turned his head when Vito entered the room. “Pop?” he asked. “What’s Mom mad about? Did I do something?”

Vito sat beside Michael and patted his leg in a way that told him not to worry, no one was mad at him. “What are you reading?” he asked.

Michael turned onto his back and placed the book on his chest. “It’s a history of New Orleans.”

“New Orleans?” Vito said. “What are you reading about New Orleans for?”

“Because,” Michael said. He folded his hands over the book. “It’s the place where there was the largest mass lynching in the history of the United States.”

“That’s terrible,” Vito said. “Why are you reading about that?”

“I think I might do my report on it.”

“I thought your report was on Congress.”

“Changed my mind,” Michael said. He slid the book off his chest and sat up against his headboard. “I don’t want to do that one anymore.”

“Why not?” Vito asked. He laid a hand on Michael’s leg and watched the boy’s expression. Michael only shrugged and didn’t answer. “So now you’re doing a report about colored people getting lynched in the South?” He yanked his tie up and stuck out his tongue, trying to make the boy laugh.

Michael said, “Wasn’t colored people, Pop. Was Italians.”

“Italians!” Vito leaned back and gave Michael a look of disbelief.

“The Irish used to run the docks in New Orleans,” Michael said, “until the Sicilians came along and took most of the work away from them.”

“Sicilians have worked the ocean for thousands of years,” Vito said.

“Everything was okay,” Michael went on, “until Italian gangsters came along, probably Mafia—”

“Mafia?” Vito interrupted. “What Mafia? Is that what your book says? There’s no such thing as the Mafia, at least not here in America.”

“Well, gangsters, then, Pop,” Michael said, and it was clear he wanted to finish his story. “Gangsters shot the police chief, and then when they were acquitted—”

“Acquitted,” Vito said, seizing on the word. “So they didn’t do it, right?”

“Some of them were acquitted,” Michael explained, “but probably these gangsters did it. So a mob of citizens went on a rampage and broke into the jail, and they lynched all the Italians they could find. Eleven Italians lynched at once, and most of them were probably innocent.”

“Most of them?” Vito said.

“Yes,” Michael said. He met Vito’s eyes and seemed to be watching them carefully. “It was probably just a handful of gangsters that caused the whole thing.”

“Oh,” Vito said. “I see.” He returned Michael’s gaze until finally the boy looked away. “And this is what you want to do your report on,” he said.

“Maybe,” Michael answered, looking up at him again, a note of hardness in his voice. “Maybe Italian American veterans of the Great War. That’s something else that I think is interesting. There were a lot of Italian American heroes in that war.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Vito said, and then he said, “Michael…,” as if he might explain something to him, but paused and only watched the boy in silence before he patted him gently on the cheek. “Every man has his own destiny,” he said, grasping the child’s face in his hands and pulling him close for a kiss.

Michael looked as though he was struggling with himself. Then he leaned forward and embraced his father.

“Come down and join the family when you’re finished your reading.” Vito pulled himself up from the bed. “Your mother’s making braciol’—” He kissed his fingertips to indicate how good it would be, the braciol’. “Oh,” he added, as if he had just remembered, “I got this for you.” He removed a card from his pocket with a personal note to Michael, encouraging the boy in his studies, signed by Mayor LaGuardia. He handed it to Michael, ruffled his hair, and left him alone.

29.

Sonny had just poured a glass of water from a crystal decanter when a stocky, well-dressed guy with a beak of a nose put a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Hey, Sonny,” the guy said, “how much longer they gonna be in there?”

“I know you?” Sonny asked. Clemenza and Tessio were talking nearby, along with a small crowd of friends and associates of the six dons meeting in the adjacent conference room, the five New York dons and DiMeo from New Jersey.

“Virgil Sollozzo,” the guy said, and offered Sonny his hand.

Sonny shook his hand. “They’re just finishing up.” He lifted the glass of water. “My father’s doing so much talking, he’s gotta oil the pipes.”

“Any problem, Sonny?” Clemenza asked. He and Tessio came up behind Sollozzo and stood one on either side of him. Clemenza had a silver tray in hand, piled high with prosciutto and capicol’, salami, anchovies, and bruschetta.

“No problems,” Sonny answered. He glanced at the lavish spread of food and drink laid out on a long table, and the men in chefs’ suits with ladles and spatulas in hand, serving the crowd. “Pop outdid himself,” he said. “This is some feast.”

“That for your father?” Tessio asked, gesturing to the glass of water in Sonny’s hand.”

“Yeah. Gotta oil the pipes,” Sonny said.

“Eh!” Clemenza said, pointing to the conference room with his tray. “Avanti!”

“I’m going!” Sonny said. “Madon’!”

In the conference room of Saint Francis’s, beneath the portraits of saints decorating the walls, Vito was still talking. He sat at the head of the table in an ordinary chair—the throne Mariposa had commanded was nowhere in sight—facing Stracci and Cuneo on one side of the table, Tattaglia and DiMeo on the other, and Barzini at the opposite end. Vito waved for Sonny to bring him the water. Sonny placed the glass in front of his father and then took his place with the other bodyguards standing back against the wall.

Vito took a sip of water and then folded his hands on the table. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I believe we have achieved great things here today. Before we finish our discussions, I want to say again, on my family’s honor, and to give you my word—and with me, my friends, you know my word is as good as gold. I give you my word now that the fighting is over. I have no wish to interfere in any way with the business of any man present here.” Vito paused and looked from man to man at the table. “As we have agreed,” he continued, “we will meet once or twice a year to discuss any difficulties our people may have with each other. We’ve made certain rules and we’ve come to agreements, and I hope we will all abide by those rules and agreements—and when there are problems, we can meet and resolve them like good businessmen.” At the word businessmen, Vito tapped the table with his finger for emphasis. “There are five families in New York now,” he went on. “There are families in Detroit and Cleveland and San Francisco, and throughout the country. Eventually all these families—all of them that will abide by our rules and agreements—should be represented on a commission that will have as its most important purpose keeping the peace.” Vito paused, again looking from man to man around the table. “We all know,” he said, “that if we have more massacres like those that marred our recent parade, or like the savagery going on now in Chicago, our futures are doomed. But if we can conduct our business peacefully, we will all prosper.”

When Vito stopped to take a drink of water, Emilio Barzini pushed his chair back and stood with his hands resting on the tabletop, his fingers on the gleaming wood surface as if it were a piano keyboard. “I want to say here in the presence of all the great men assembled at this table, that I stand with Don Corleone and that I swear to abide by the agreements made here today—and it is my hope now that you will all join me in taking an oath to abide by what’s been agreed upon here today.”

The others at the table nodded and murmured their ascent, and it looked as though Phillip Tattaglia was about to stand and make his pledge—but Vito spoke first, cutting him off. “And let us now too swear,” Vito said, his eyes on Barzini, “that if ever again anyone has anything to do with an infamitá like the parade massacre, a crime in which innocents were murdered, among them a mere child—if ever again any one of us threatens innocents and family members in such an atrocity, there will be no mercy and no forgiveness.” When all the men at the table applauded Vito, whose voice had been more passionate than at any other time in the long meeting, when Barzini too applauded, though a second later than the rest of the men—after all the men had applauded and each of them had spoken up and sworn to abide by the decisions reached in their meeting, then Vito continued. He pressed his hands together as if in prayer and interlocked his fingers. “It is my greatest wish to be thought of as a godfather, a man whose duty it is to do my friends any service, to help my friends out of any trouble—with advice, with money, with my own strength in men and influence. To everyone at this table, I say, your enemies are my enemies, and your friends are my friends. Let this meeting ensure the peace between us all.”

Before Vito was finished, the men at the table rose from their seats to applaud him. He raised his hand, asking for silence. “Let us keep our word,” he said, with a tone that suggested he had only a few more things to say before he was finished. “Let us earn our bread without shedding each others’ blood. We all know that the world outside is heading to war, but let us, in our world, go in peace.” Vito raised his glass of water, as if in a toast, and took a long drink as the men at the table again applauded before they each approached him to shake his hand and share a few final words.

Sonny at his post against the wall watched his father shake hands and share embraces with each of the dons. When it was Barzini’s turn, Vito embraced him as if he were a long-lost brother, and when Vito turned him loose from his embrace, Barzini kissed him on the cheek.

“You’d think they were the best of friends,” Sonny said to Tomasino, who had come up alongside him and joined him in watching Vito and Emilio.

“They are,” Tomasino said, and he patted Sonny on the back. “It’s over now. We all gotta play nice.” He winked at Sonny. “I’m gonna go have a drink with my new buddy Luca,” he added. He rubbed the scar under his eye and laughed before he headed for the door and the feast.

Sonny looked once more at Barzini and Tattaglia talking with his father, and then he followed Tomasino out the door.

By the time the last of the others had left Saint Francis, the sun was low over the rooftops. Straight lines of light came in through a pair of windows and lit up the remnants of antipasto plates and trays of meats and pasta. Only the Corleone family remained, and they, too, were about to leave. Vito had pulled up a chair behind the table, at its center, and Genco and Tessio sat to the left of him, while Sonny and Clemenza were seated to his right. Jimmy Mancini and Al Hats and the others were outside, getting the cars—and for a minute the room was quiet, even the ordinary city sounds of traffic momentarily stilled.

“Look at this,” Clemenza said, breaking the silence. He pulled an unopened bottle of champagne from out of a crate under the table. “They missed one,” he said, and he wrapped a cloth napkin over the cork and went about loosening it as the others watched. When it popped, Tessio arranged five clean glasses on a tray, took one for himself, and slid the rest in front of Vito.

“It’s been a good day.” Vito took a glass and let Clemenza fill it for him. “Now we’re the strongest family in New York,” he said, as Clemenza went about pouring champagne for all. “In ten years, we’ll be the strongest family in America.” At that, Tessio said, “Hear, hear,” and the men all lifted their glasses and drank.

When the room fell silent again, Clemenza stood and looked at Vito as if he was uncertain about something. He hesitated before he said, “Vito,” and his tone suggested great seriousness, which made eyes open, since it was an unusual tone for Clemenza. “Vito,” he repeated, “we all know that this is not what you wanted for Sonny. You had different dreams,” he said, and nodded, acknowledging his don. “But now that things have gone the way they’ve gone, I think we can all be proud of our Santino, who has so recently made his bones and showed his love for his father and so joins us in our world, in our business. You’re one of us now, Sonny,” Clemenza said, addressing him directly. He lifted his glass and offered Sonny a traditional toast. “Cent’anni!” he said. The others, including Vito, repeated after him, “Cent’anni!” and emptied their glasses.

Sonny, not knowing how to respond, said, “Thank you,” which brought loud laughter from everyone but Vito. Sonny’s face turned red. He looked at his glass of champagne and drank it down. Vito, seeing Sonny’s embarrassment, took his son’s face roughly in his hands and kissed him on the forehead, which brought applause from the others, followed by backslapping and embraces, which Sonny returned gratefully.

30.

At her kitchen sink scrubbing black off the bottom of a pan she’d scorched the night before, Eileen didn’t know what bothered her more, the poor ventilation in her apartment, which turned the place into a sauna whenever the temperature went into the nineties, as it had on this sunny mid-June afternoon; the wobbling rattle from the table behind her of a cheap Westinghouse fan, which did nothing more it seemed than create a mild disturbance in the pool of hot air sitting over the kitchen; or Caitlin’s whining, which had been going on all day about one thing and then another and then the next. Currently, the stickers in her sticker book weren’t sticking because of the heat. “Caitlin,” she said, without looking up from her work, “you’re a hairsbreadth away from a good spanking if you don’t stop your whining.” She had meant for her warning to be seasoned with a touch of affection, but it hadn’t come out that way at all. It had come out nasty and mean.

“I’m not whining!” Caitlin answered. “My stickers won’t stick and I can’t play with it this way!”

Eileen covered the bottom of the pan with hot soapy water and left it to soak. She took a second to still the anger that gripped her, and then faced her daughter. “Caitlin,” she said, as sweetly as she could manage, “why don’t you go outside and play with your friends?”

“I don’t have any friends,” Caitlin said. Her bottom lip was trembling and her eyes were full of tears. The summery yellow dress she’d changed into only an hour earlier was already soaked with sweat.

“Sure you have friends,” Eileen said. She dried her hands on a red dish towel and offered Caitlin a smile.

“No, I don’t,” Caitlin said, pleading, and then the tears she’d been struggling to hold back came cascading down her cheeks in a great wash of sobbing and trembling. She buried her face in her arms, beside herself in her agony.

Eileen watched Caitlin crying and felt a curious lack of sympathy. She knew she should go to her and comfort her. Instead, she left her crying at the table and went to her bedroom, where she fell back onto her unmade bed with her arms spread out and her eyes on the blank ceiling. It was hotter in the bedroom than it was in the kitchen, but at least Caitlin’s crying was muted by the walls. She lay there like that a long while, in a kind of daze, her eyes wandering from the ceiling to the walls, to her dresser, where Bobby’s picture was propped up next to Jimmy’s, the two of them there where she could see them every night before going to sleep and every morning upon waking.

Eventually Caitlin wandered into the bedroom, no longer crying, with Boo dangling from her hand. She climbed up beside Eileen and lay there forlornly.

Eileen stroked her daughter’s hair and kissed her gently on the crown of her head. Caitlin snuggled close to her and threw an arm over her belly. The two of them lay there like that in the summer heat, drowsy on Eileen’s unmade bed, in the quiet of their apartment.

In the center of the courtyard, surrounded by the magnificent stone walls of the compound, twenty or so men and women, neighbors and friends, linked arms and made a circle as they danced and kicked their feet to Johnny Fontane singing “Luna Mezzo Mare” on a wooden stage, accompanied by Nino Valenti playing the mandolin and a small orchestra of musicians in white tuxedos. Vito watched the crowd from a platform set up on a small rise at the edge of the courtyard, close to the compound wall. It covered a bare spot in the ground where he had tried to grow fig trees and failed, and where he planned to start a garden in the spring. He had wandered there from the bride’s table, close to the stage, to get away from the loud music and for the view of the party the platform afforded, and because he wanted to be alone for a minute with his thoughts—but Tessio and Genco had found him almost immediately and started up again with their chatter. Now they were clapping their hands and tapping their feet to the music with big smiles on their faces, even Tessio. The platform was there to hold the rental chairs and various other wedding equipment. Vito found a chair leaning against the wall and sat down to watch the partiers.

It was hot, over ninety, and everybody was sweating, including Vito. He opened the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. All of his business associates were at the party, everyone of any importance. They were seated throughout the courtyard among his family, friends, and neighbors. Most had left their assigned seating hours ago, and now the Barzinis, Emilio and Ettore, were at a table with the Rosato brothers and their women. Close to them, a couple of Tessio’s men, Eddie Veltri and Ken Cuisimano, were seated with Tomasino Cinquemani and JoJo DiGiorgio, one of Luca’s boys. Even the New Jersey guys were here, lumbering Mike DiMeo and his wife and children. Everybody was laughing and clapping hands to the music, engaged in talk with each other or else shouting encouragement to others. Among the dancers in the circle, Ottilio Cuneo linked arms with his daughter on one side and his wife on the other. Phillip Tattaglia and Anthony Stracci stood just outside the circle with their wives beside them and a couple of children lingering at their sides shyly. This was the wedding of his oldest son, and Vito was pleased that no one had missed it and even more pleased that the gifts and blessings and congratulations were heartfelt. Everyone was making money now. Everyone was in the mood to celebrate.

When the song ended to waves of applause and shouting, Genco joined Vito and the others on the platform, a wooden bowl of oranges in his hand.

“Eh!” Clemenza yelled. He pulled a moist handkerchief from his rumpled jacket and mopped his forehead. “What’s with all the oranges? Everywhere I look, there’s bowls of oranges.”

“Ask Sal,” Genco said, and he handed Tessio the bowl. “He showed up this morning with crates of ’em.”

Tessio took an orange from the bowl and ignored Clemenza’s question as he held it in the palm of his hand, testing the weight and feel of it.

Genco put his arm around Vito’s shoulder and said, “Beautiful, Vito. Wonderful,” complimenting him on the wedding.

Vito said, “Thank you, my friend,” and Genco whispered in his ear, “Somebody else we know is getting married soon.”

“Who’s that?” Vito asked.

Genco moved Vito back a little from Clemenza and Tessio so he could talk without being overheard. “This morning,” he said, “we got word about Luigi Battaglia.”

“Who?”

“Hooks. Luca’s guy who turned him in to the cops and ran off with his money.”

“Ah,” Vito said. “And?”

“Turns out he opened a restaurant in West Virginia someplace, middle of nowhere. He’s getting married to some hillbilly girl from down there.” Genco made a face at the craziness of such a thing. “That’s how we found him. His name turned up in a wedding announcement. The imbecille used his real name.”

“Does Luca know?” Vito asked.

“No,” Genco said.

“Good. Make sure it stays that way. Luca doesn’t need to know about this.”

“Vito,” Genco said. “He took a lot of Luca’s money.”

Vito raised a finger to Genco and said, “Luca is not to know. Never. Not a thing.”

Before Genco could say anything more, Ursula Gatto stepped up onto the platform, her ten-year-old son Paulie in hand, followed by Frankie Pentangeli. While Frankie embraced Tessio and Clemenza, Ursula brought her son to Vito. The boy stood in front of him and repeated the words his mother had clearly made him rehearse. “Thank you, Mr. Corleone, sir, for inviting me to the wedding of Santino and Sandra.”

“You are most welcome,” Vito said. He ruffled the boy’s hair and opened his arms to Ursula, who fell into his embrace, her eyes already brimming over with tears. Vito patted her on the back and kissed her forehead. “You’re part of our family,” he said, and wiped away her tears. “La nostra famiglia!” he repeated.

“Sì,” Ursula said. “Grazie.” She tried to say something more but couldn’t speak without crying. She took Paulie by the hand, kissed Vito again on the cheek, and turned to leave just as Tom Hagen was approaching.

Across the courtyard, directly opposite from them, Luca Brasi ambled up to the stone wall and turned to look out over the gathering. His gaze was vacant, but he might have been looking directly at Vito. Genco noticed him and said, “Have you talked to Luca recently, Vito? He gets dumber every day.”

“He doesn’t have to be smart,” Vito said.

Tom Hagen stepped up and embraced Vito. He was followed by Tessio, Clemenza, and Frankie Pentangeli, all of whom suddenly wanted to join the conversation. Tom had caught Genco’s last remark about Luca. “He’s wandering around like a zombie,” he said to Genco. “Nobody’s talking to him.”

“He smells bad!” Clemenza shouted. “He stinks to high heaven! He should take a bath!”

When they all looked to Vito, waiting for his response, he shrugged and said, “Who’s going to tell him?”

The men considered this for a moment before they broke into laughter. “Who’s going to tell him,” Tessio said, repeating the joke, and then went about peeling his orange.

Carmella knelt at the hem of Sandra’s gown with a needle and thread held delicately between her lips. One line among the numerous lines of beads that decorated Sandra’s white satin gown had come loose and Carmella had just finished sewing it in place. She straightened out the dress and looked up at her new daughter’s beautiful face surrounded by the headpiece’s tulle and lace. “Bella!” she said, and then turned to Santino, who was waiting nearby with his hands in his pockets, watching a half dozen women get Sandra ready for the wedding photographs. Connie and her friend Lucy sat on the floor next to Sandra, playing with the ring bearer’s pillow from the wedding. The women had taken over Vito’s new study. Trays of cosmetics and lotions covered Vito’s walnut desk, and gift boxes were spread around on the plush carpeting. Dolce sat atop one of the boxes and batted at a bright-yellow bow.

“Sonny!” Carmella said. “Go get your father!”

“For what?” Sonny asked.

“For what?” Carmella repeated, sounding, as usual, angry when she wasn’t. “For the photographs,” she said. “That’s for what!”

“Madon’!” Sonny said, as if ruefully accepting the burden of going out to find his father.

For weeks now Sonny had been dutifully following all the rituals of his marriage ceremony, from the meetings with the priest and the wedding banns to the rehearsals and the dinners and everything else, till he was ready now for it all to be over. Between the study and the front door of his father’s house, he was stopped three times to accept congratulations from people he barely knew, and when he finally made it out the door and found that he was alone, he waited and took a deep breath and enjoyed a few seconds of not talking. From where he was standing, under a portico at the entrance to the house, he had a good view of the stage. Johnny was singing a ballad that had everyone’s attention, and guests were dancing in the cleared space between rows of tables and the stage. “Cazzo,” he said aloud at the sight of Councilman Fischer talking in a circle with Hubbell and Mitzner, a couple of his father’s big-shot lawyers, and Al Hats and Jimmy Mancini, two of Clemenza’s men. They were chatting and laughing like a bunch of lifelong friends.

To one side of the courtyard, near the boundary wall, close to Sonny’s new house, where he would live with Sandra when they got back from their honeymoon, he spotted his father standing on an equipment platform, his hands folded in front of him as he looked out over the crowd. He had a look about him of great seriousness. Across from the platform, on the other side of the courtyard, Luca Brasi squinted and gazed out over the wedding guests as if looking for something or someone he’d lost. While Sonny watched, they lifted the oranges to their mouths at the same moment. Vito bit off a slice and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, while Luca bit into his orange, peel and all, and seemed unaware of the juice dripping from his cheeks and his chin. Michael jumped onto the platform with Vito, running from Fredo, who was close behind and waving a stick of some kind. When Michael slammed into his father, nearly knocking him down, Sonny laughed at the sight of it. Vito took the stick away from Fredo and playfully whapped him across the can, and again Sonny laughed, as did Frankie Pentangeli and Tessio, who were standing on either side of Vito, and little Paulie Gatto, who had been chasing after Fredo and Michael and leapt up onto the platform after them.

Sonny watched the festivities undisturbed for a time, and it occurred to him, watching the councilman and the lawyers and the judges, the cops and detectives mingling with the heads of the families and all their men—it occurred to him that his family was the strongest of them all and nothing was going to stop them, not now. They had it all, they had everything, and nothing was in their way—nothing was in his way, since he was the oldest son and thus heir to the kingdom. Everything, he thought, and though he couldn’t have said what everything meant, he felt it, he felt it down to his bones, like a surge of heat. It made him want to lean back and roar. When Clemenza waved for Sonny to join him on the platform, Sonny opened his arms as if embracing Clemenza and every other guest at the wedding—and he stepped out into the courtyard to join his family.