The Family Corleone (23 page)

“The Irish to the Irish,” Hooks said. “Got it.”

“Good,” Donnie said.

“And what about your sister?” Hooks asked. “What should I tell her?”

“I don’t have a sister,” Donnie answered, “but you can tell that girl you’re talking about that we reap what we sow.” He backed out the door with Willie and hurried down the stairs, where Sean was waiting for them at the bottom of the steps.

“We’re into it now,” Willie said, and he pushed Sean out the door. The three of them trotted around the corner, where their car was waiting, the engine running.

From the chair where he was tied up, Rosario LaConti had a panoramic view of the Hudson River. In the distance, he could see the Statue of Liberty glittering blue-green in bright sunlight. He was in
a largely empty loft with ceiling-to-floor windows. He had been carried up to the loft in a freight elevator, and then taken to this chair in front of these tall windows and tied up. They’d left the carving knife in his shoulder because he wasn’t bleeding much, and Frankie Pentangeli had said, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” So they’d left the knife handle protruding from just under his collarbone, and to Rosario’s wonderment, it didn’t hurt very much. It hurt, especially when he moved, but he would have imagined it would hurt a great deal more.

In general, Rosario was pleased with how he was handling it all, finding himself in this position—which he had always known, all his life, was a possibility, finding himself in this position or a position like this: a possibility and in all likelihood a probability. And so now here he was, and he found that he wasn’t scared, that he wasn’t in a lot of pain, and that he wasn’t even especially sad about what was going to happen soon, inevitably. He was an old man. In a few months, if he’d had a few months, he’d have turned seventy. His wife had died of cancer in her fifties. His oldest son had been murdered by the same man who was about to murder him. His younger son had just betrayed him, had sold him out in return for his own life—and Rosario was glad for it. Good for him. The deal was, as Emilio Barzini had explained it, the boy got to stay alive if he’d leave the state and hand over his old man. So good for him, Rosario thought. He thought maybe the kid might make a better life for himself—though he doubted it. He’d never been very bright. Still, maybe he wouldn’t wind up like this, Rosario thought, and that at least was something. As for himself, as for Rosario LaConti, he was tired and ready to be done with it all. The only thing bothering him—other than the slight pain from the knife in his shoulder, which wasn’t much after all—was his nakedness. It wasn’t right. You don’t strip a man naked in this kind of a situation, especially a man like Rosario, who had, after all, been a big shot. It wasn’t right.

Behind Rosario, over a pile of shipping crates, Giuseppe Mariposa was talking quietly with the Barzini brothers and Tommy Cinquemani. Rosario could see them reflected in the windows. Frankie Pentangeli
stood off by himself, next to the freight elevator. The Rosato brothers were arguing quietly about something. Carmine Rosato threw up his hands and walked away from Tony Rosato. He came over to the chair and said, “Mr. LaConti. How are you holding up?”

Rosario craned his neck to get a good look at him. Carmine was a kid, still a baby in his twenties, all dressed up in a pin-striped suit like he was going out for a fancy dinner.

“You all right?” Carmine asked.

Rosario said, “My shoulder hurts a little.”

“Yeah,” Carmine said, and he looked at the knife handle and part of the blood-smeared blade sticking out of Rosario’s shoulder as if it were a problem for which there was no solution.

When at last Giuseppe quit his conference with the Barzinis and Tommy and came back to the chair, Rosario said, “Joe, for God’s sake. Let me get dressed. Don’t humiliate me like this.”

Giuseppe stood in front of the chair, clasped his hands together, and rocked them back and forth for emphasis. He, too, was dressed as if he was on his way to a party, with a crisp blue dress shirt and a bright-yellow tie that disappeared into a black vest. “Rosario,” he said. “You know how much trouble you caused me?”

“It’s business, Joe,” Rosario said, raising his voice. “It’s all business. This too.” He glanced down at himself. “This is business.”

“It’s not all business,” Giuseppe said. “Sometimes it gets personal.”

“Joe,” Rosario said. “It’s not right.” He nodded as best he could toward his body, which was flabby and speckled with liver spots. The skin of his chest was doughy and pale, and his sex drooped tiredly down onto the chair. “You know this is not right, Joe,” he said. “Let me get dressed.”

“Look at this,” Giuseppe said. He had noticed a spot of blood on the cuff of his shirt. “This shirt cost me ten bucks.” He looked at Rosario as if he were furious at him for getting blood on his shirt. “I never liked you, Rosario,” he said. “You were always high and mighty, in your fancy tailored suits. Always giving me the high hat.”

LaConti shrugged and then grimaced at the subsequent pain
in his shoulder. “So now you cut me down to size,” he said. “I’m not arguing with you, Joe. You’re doing what you gotta do. This is the nature of our business. I’ve been on your side of this more times than I can count—but I never sent a man off naked, for God’s sake.” He looked around him, at the Barzini brothers and Tommy Cinquemani, as if asking for their agreement. “Have some decency, Joe,” he said. “Besides, it’s bad for business. You’re making us look like a bunch of animals.”

Giuseppe was quiet, as if he was considering Rosario’s arguments. He asked Cinquemani, “What do you think, Tommy?”

Carmine Rosato said, “Listen, Joe—”

“I didn’t ask you, kid!” Giuseppe barked, and he looked again to Cinquemani.

Tommy laid one hand on the back of Rosario’s chair, and with the other he gingerly touched the still-swollen skin under his eye. “I think having him splashed across the newspapers like this,” he said, “tells everybody who’s in charge now. I think the message will be very clear. I think even your friend Mr. Capone in Chicago will take note.”

Giuseppe stepped closer to Carmine Rosato and said, “I think Tommy’s right.” To Rosario he said, “And I gotta be honest with you, LaConti. I’m lovin’ this.” As he stared at Rosario, his look turned solemn. “Who’s giving who the high hat now?” he asked. He nodded to Tomasino.

Rosario shouted, “No! Not like this!” as Tomasino picked up the chair and hurled LaConti through the window.

Giuseppe rushed over with the others in time to see a shower of glass and wood splinters follow Rosario to the pavement, where the chair shattered on impact. “
Madonna mia!
” Mariposa said. “Did you see that?” He grunted, stared down at the street and the blood seeping from Rosario’s head onto the sidewalk, and then turned abruptly and left the loft as if the matter with Rosario was now done and he had other business to take care of. Behind him, Carmine lingered at the window until his brother put his arm around his shoulder and led him away.

Vito had pulled Sonny away from Tessio and Clemenza, and now they were crossing the compound together on their way to the basement of Vito’s house, to check on the progress of the furnace inspection. Vito had already asked several questions about Leo’s Garage and Sonny’s work there, and Sonny had answered them all with a few words. It was late in the afternoon and the sun cast long shadows over the grass around the compound walls. At the entrance to the estate, the big Essex was parked nose to nose with Tessio’s Packard, and a few of the men were hanging around the cars, smoking cigarettes and chatting. Sonny pointed to a lot across from the main house, where there was nothing more than a foundation. “Who’s that for?” he asked.

“That?” Vito said. “That’s for when one of my sons gets married. That will be his house. I told the builders to put the foundation down and I’d let them know when I wanted the house completed.”

“Pop,” Sonny said. “I have no plans to marry Sandra.”

Vito stepped in front of Sonny and put his hand on his shoulder. “This is what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Come on, Pop,” Sonny said. “Sandra’s sixteen.”

“How old do you think your mother was when I married her? Sixteen.”

“Yeah, Pop, but I’m seventeen. You were older.”

“That’s true,” Vito said, “and I’m not suggesting that you get married right away.”

“So what are we talking about, then?”

Vito fixed Sonny with a glare, letting him know that he didn’t like his tone. “Mrs. Columbo has talked to your mother,” he said. “Sandra is in love with you. Did you know that?”

Sonny shrugged.

“Answer me.” Vito clapped his hand on Sonny’s shoulder. “Sandra is not the kind of girl you play around with, Sonny. You don’t play with her affections.”

“No, Pop,” Sonny said. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, Santino?”

Sonny looked away from Vito, at the cars and Ken Cuisimano and Fat Jimmy, two of Tessio’s men, who were leaning against the Essex’s long hood and smoking cigars. The two men watched Sonny until he made eye contact with Fat Jimmy, and then they turned to each other and started talking. Sonny said to his father, “Sandra is a very special girl. It’s just that I don’t plan to marry anybody. Not right now.”

“But she’s special to you,” Vito said. “Not like all these others you’re so famous for running after.”

Sonny said, “Hey, Pop…”

“Don’t tell me ‘Hey, Pop,’ ” Vito said. “You think I don’t know?”

“I’m young, Pop.”

“That’s true,” Vito said. “You are young—and one of these days, you’ll grow up.” He paused and raised his finger. “Sandra is not a girl to fool around with. If you think she might be the girl you want to marry, you keep seeing her.” He stepped closer to Sonny to make his point. “If you know in your heart she’s not the girl you’ll marry, you stop seeing her.
Capisc’?
I don’t want you breaking this young girl’s heart. That’s something that…” Vito paused and hunted for the right words. “That’s something that would lower my opinion of you, Santino. And you don’t want that.”

“No, Pop,” Sonny said, and then, finally, his eyes met his father’s eyes. “No,” he repeated. “I don’t want that.”

“Good,” Vito said, and he clapped Sonny on the back. “Let’s go see how our furnace is doing.”

In the basement, at the bottom of a flight of wooden steps, Vito and Sonny found the furnace taken apart into dozens of pieces that were spread around on the concrete floor. Light came into the damp, enclosed space through a series of narrow windows at ground level. A line of round metal poles ran along the center of the room from the concrete floor to a wooden supporting beam eight feet above. Eddie Veltri sat on a stool under one of the windows with a newspaper in his hands. When he saw Sonny and Vito, he smacked the paper. “Hey, Vito,” he said. “Did you see Ruth picked the Senators to beat the Giants in the series?”

Vito had no interest in baseball or any other sport, except where they affected his gambling businesses. “So?” he said to the two workers, who appeared to be packing up their tools. “Did we pass the inspection?”

“With flying colors,” the bigger of the two men said. They were both bruisers, a couple of burly guys who looked like they should be somebody’s bodyguards and not furnace repairmen.

“And we don’t owe you anything?” Vito said.

“Not a thing,” the second guy said. He had grease on his face and a bright shock of blond hair sticking out from under the cap he had just settled onto his head.

Vito was about to give them a tip when the first guy put his cap on and picked up his toolbox.

Vito said, “Are you taking a break?”

They both looked surprised. “Nah,” the bigger of the two said, “we’re done. You’re all set.”

Sonny said, “What the hell do you mean, we’re ‘all set’?” When he took a step toward the two workmen, Vito placed a hand on his chest.

Eddie Veltri put the newspaper down.

Vito said, “Who’s going to put the furnace back together?”

“That ain’t our job,” the blond one said.

The bigger guy looked at the various pieces of the furnace spread around on the floor and said, “Anybody around here will charge you two hundred bucks or more to put this furnace back together. But seeing you didn’t understand the expense involved in an inspection, me and my buddy here, we’ll do it for…” He again looked over the furnace pieces, as if working out an estimate. “We can do it for, say, a hundred and fifty bucks.”

“
V’fancul’!
” Sonny said, and he looked at his father.

Vito glanced over to Eddie, who had a big grin on his face. Vito laughed and said, “A hundred and fifty bucks, you say?”

“What are you laughing at?” the guy said, and he looked over to Eddie and then Sonny as if sizing them up. “We’re giving you a bargain,” he said. “This ain’t our job. We’re trying to be nice guys.”

Sonny said, “These mugs need to take a beatin’, Pop.”

The big guy’s face turned red. “You’re going to give me a beatin’, you fuckin wop?” He opened his toolbox and took out a long, heavy wrench.

Vito moved one hand only slightly, a gesture Eddie Veltri alone saw. Eddie took his hand out of his jacket.

“Just ’cause you’re a bunch of ignorant fuckin’ dagos, don’t mean we have to put your furnace back together for free.
Capisc’?
” he said.

Sonny lunged for the guy, and Vito grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back. “Pop!” Sonny yelled. He seemed both furious at being held back and shocked at his father’s strength.

Vito said, calmly, “Shut up, Santino, and go stand by the stairs.”

“Son of a bitch,” Sonny said, but when Vito raised his finger, he went and stood by the stairs.

The blond guy laughed and said, “
Santino
,” as if the name were some kind of a joke. “Good you put a muzzle on him,” he said to Vito. “Here we are tryin’ to do you a favor and that’s the way he acts?” He appeared to be struggling mightily to keep himself under control. “You fuckin’ wops,” he said, losing the battle. “They ought to send you all back to fuckin’ Italy and your fuckin’ pope.”

Eddie shielded his eyes, as if he was both amused and afraid to see what would happen next.