The Family Corleone (32 page)

“We don’t know who?”

“Nobody’s recognized them yet. They’re not gambling with the money or spending it on dames. They’re probably Irish.”

“Why do you say that?” Vito asked.

“One of them had an Irish accent, and it makes sense. They were Italian, we’d know them.”

“You think it’s the same gang that was stealing his whiskey?”

“That’s what Mariposa figures.” Genco spun the derby around in his lap. He slapped the seat beside him and laughed. “I like these
bastardi
,” he said. “They’re driving Joe crazy.”

Vito rolled his window down an inch. “What about Luca Brasi?” he asked. “Have we had any more news?”

“
Sì
,” Genco said. “The doctor says there was brain damage. He can still talk and all, but slower, like he’s stupid.”

“Yeah?” Richie said from behind the steering wheel. “Was he a genius before?”

“He wasn’t stupid,” Vito said.

Genco said, “He took enough pills to kill a gorilla.”

“But not enough,” Vito said, “to kill Luca Brasi.”

“The doctor says he thinks he may get worse over time,” Genco said. “I forget the word he used. He may de-something.”

“Deteriorate,” Vito said.

“That’s right,” Genco said. “He may deteriorate over time.”

Vito asked, “Did he say how much he might deteriorate?”

“It’s the brain,” Genco said. “He says you can’t ever tell with the brain.”

“But right now,” Vito asked, “he’s slow, but he’s still talking, getting around?”

“That’s what I’m told,” Genco said. “He just sounds a little stupid.”

“Hey,” Richie said, “that’s half the people we deal with.”

Vito looked up at the roof of the car and stroked his neck. He seemed to disappear into a world of calculations. “What do our lawyers say about the case against Brasi?” he asked.

Genco sighed as if annoyed by the question. “They found the infant’s bones in the furnace.”

Vito put his hand over his stomach and looked away at the mention of the infant’s bones. He took a breath before he pushed on. “They could argue that the girl threw the baby in the furnace before she died,” he said, “and that Brasi tried to kill himself when he realized what she’d done.”

“His own man brought in the police,” Genco said, his voice getting
louder. “Luigi Battaglia, who’s been with Luca I’m told since he was a baby himself. And he’s willing to testify he saw Luca drag Filomena and the newborn into the basement, after telling everyone he was going to burn up his own baby—and then he saw him come out of the basement without the baby and with Filomena hysterical. Vito!” Genco shouted. “Why are we wasting our time on this
bastardo! Che cazzo!
We should kill the son of a bitch ourselves!”

Vito put his hand on Genco’s knee and held it there until his friend calmed down. They were on Canal Street. The clamor and noise of the city grew louder in contrast to the quiet inside the car. Vito rolled up his window. “Can we find Luigi Battaglia?” he asked Genco.

Genco shrugged, meaning he didn’t know whether or not Luigi could be found.

“Find him,” Vito said. “I believe he’s someone who can be reasoned with. What about Filomena?”

“She’s not telling the police nothing,” Genco said, looking away from Vito, out the window at the crowds on the sidewalk. “She’s scared to death,” he added, turning then to face Vito, as if having finally pulled himself together and settled back into his role as
consigliere
.

“Maybe it’s time for her and her family to go back to Sicily,” Vito said.

“Vito… You know I don’t question you—” Genco shifted in his seat so that he was facing Vito. “Why are you concerning yourself with this
animale
?” he asked. “They say he’s the devil, and they’re right. He should be burning in hell, Vito. His mother, when she found out what he’d done, she took her own life. Mother and son,
suicidi
. This is a family that’s…” Genco clutched his forehead as if the word he was looking for was inside his head somewhere and he was trying to pull it out. “
Pazzo
,” he said, finally.

Vito said, in a whisper, as if frustrated at being forced to speak the words, and not without a touch of anger, “We do what we must, Genco. You know that.”

“But Luca Brasi…,” Genco pleaded. “Is it worth it? Because he
frightens Mariposa? I tell you the truth, Vito; he frightens me too. This man disgusts me. He’s a beast. He deserves to rot in hell.”

Vito moved close to Genco and spoke softly enough that Richie Gatto in the front seat couldn’t hear him. “I don’t argue with you, Genco,” he said, “but a man like Luca Brasi, a man with a reputation so awful that even the strongest men fear him—if a man like that can be controlled, he’s a powerful weapon.” Vito held Genco’s wrist. “And we’re going to need powerful weapons,” he said, “if we’re to have a chance against Mariposa.”

Genco clutched his stomach with both hands, as if distressed by a sudden pain. “
Agita
,” he said, and sighed as if the weight of the world were contained in that one word. “And you think you can control him?” he asked.

“We’ll see,” Vito said. He shifted back to his side of the car. “Find Luigi,” he said, “and bring Filomena to me.” As an afterthought, he added, “Give Fischer a little something extra this month.” He rolled down the window again and felt around in his jacket pocket for a cigar. Outside, the city was bustling, and now, as they approached Hester Street and the Genco Pura warehouse and his office, Vito recognized several of the faces on the sidewalk, talking outside the shops and standing around on stoops or in doorways. When they neared Nazorine’s bakery, he told Richie to pull over. “Genco,” he said, getting out of the car, “let’s get some
cannoli
.”

Genco touched his stomach, hesitated a moment, and then shrugged and said, “Sure.
Cannoli
.”

C
ork goofed around, spinning his hat on a fingertip, making a saltshaker stand up at an impossible angle, and in general serving as the entertainment for Sonny and Sandra, and Sandra’s little cousin Lucille, a twelve-year-old who had succumbed to an instant infatuation with Cork at the first sight of him, an infatuation that manifested itself in irrepressible giggles and a dopey batting of her eyes. The four of them were seated in the corner booth of Nicola’s Soda Fountain and Candy Shop, in front of a plate-glass window that looked out on Arthur Avenue, half a block from where Sandra lived with her grandmother, and where, as they talked and drank their sodas and watched Cork performing for them, they all knew Mrs. Columbo was sitting by her window and watching them with eyesight that Sandra claimed would put an eagle to shame.

“Is that her?” Cork asked. He got up and leaned over the table close to the window, and waved in the direction of Sandra’s building.

Lucille squealed and covered her mouth, and Sonny, laughing, pushed Cork down. Sonny and Sandra were seated on one side of the booth, across from Cork and Lucille. Out of sight, under the table, Sonny held Sandra’s hand, his fingers entwined with hers. “Cut it out,” Sonny said. “You’re gonna get her in trouble.”

“Why?” Cork shouted, his face a mask of incredulity. “I’m only being a good lad and waving politely!”

Sandra, who had been quiet throughout the whole carefully arranged meeting, from the time Cork and Sonny met her and Lucille on her front stoop and escorted them to Nicola’s and bought them each sodas, opened her purse, looked at a silver timepiece, and said, softly, “We have to go now, Sonny. I promised my grandmother I’d help her with the laundry.”

“Aw,” Lucille said, “do we have to go already?”

“Hey! Johnny, Nino!” Sonny called to Johnny Fontane and Nino Valenti, who had just pushed through the front door. “Come over here,” he said.

Johnny and Nino were both good-looking boys, a few years older than Cork and Sonny. Johnny was thin and ethereal in comparison to Nino, who was the more muscular of the two. Lucille folded her hands on the table and beamed at them.

“I want you to meet Sandra and her little cousin Lucille,” Sonny said as Johnny and Nino approached the table.

At the word
little
, Lucille cast a quick dark glare at Sonny.

“We’re very pleased to meet you,” Johnny said, speaking for Nino.

“We are most certainly,” Nino said. He added, squaring off angrily in front of Cork, whom he’d known for as long as he’d known Sonny and his family, “Who’s this mug?”

Cork gave Nino a playful shove. The girls, apparently relieved that Nino wasn’t really angry, laughed at the joke.

“Hey, Sandra,” Johnny said, “you’re too beautiful to be giving a half portion like Sonny the time of day.”

“Yap, yap, yap,” Sonny said.

Nino said, “Don’t pay any attention to Johnny. He thinks he’s the next Rudy Valentino. I keep telling him he’s too skinny.” He poked Johnny in the ribs, and Johnny swatted his hand away.

“Sonny,” Johnny said, “you should bring Sandra to see us at the Breslin. It’s a swank little club. You’ll like it.”

“It’s a hole in the wall,” Nino said, “but, hey, they’re actually gonna pay us with real money.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Johnny said. “He’s a twit, but he can play the mandolin pretty good.”

“When this guy don’t ruin everything by trying to sing,” Nino said, putting his arm around Johnny’s shoulder.

“I know the Breslin,” Cork said. “It’s a hotel on Broadway and Twenty-Ninth.”

“That’s the place,” Nino said. “We’re playin’ the bar.”

“It’s a club,” Johnny said, looking honestly frustrated. “Don’t listen to a word this guy says.”

Under the table, Sandra squeezed Sonny’s hand. “We really have to go,” she said. “I don’t want to get my grandmother mad.”

“All right, you
cafon’
…” Sonny slid out of the booth. Once he was on his feet, he grabbed Johnny around the neck in a playful headlock. “Hey,” he said, “if my father’s your godfather, what’s that make me? Your godbrother?”

“It makes you a crazy man,” Johnny said, wrestling free of Sonny.

Nino, who had wandered over to the soda fountain, called to Sonny, “Tell your father maybe he wants to come see us at the Breslin. The pasta primavera’s pretty good.”

“Only time my pop goes out to restaurants,” Sonny answered, “is on business. Otherwise,” he added, looking at Sandra, “he prefers to eat at home.”

Cork moved to the door and put his hand on the knob. “Come on, Sonny,” he said, “I gotta go too.”

On the street with the girls, Cork flirted with Lucille, to her delight, while Sonny and Sandra walked side by side quietly. All around them, people hurried across the pavement or scurried by them on the sidewalk, moving quickly to get out of the bitter cold. Potentially lethal icicles hung from the rooftops and fire escapes of several apartment buildings, and the sidewalks here and there were bejeweled with the shattered remains of an icicle that had broken loose. Sonny’s bare hands were pushed deep in his coat pockets. As he walked he leaned toward Sandra so that his arm brushed against her. “What do you think I could do,” Sonny asked as they approached Sandra’s building, “to get your grandmother to let me take you out to dinner?”

Sandra said, “She won’t allow it, Sonny. I’m sorry.” She moved
close, as if she might lift her head to him for a kiss—and then she took Lucille by the hand and pulled her up the steps. The girls waved good-bye, and then they were gone, swallowed up by the building’s red brick walls.

“She’s a beauty,” Cork said, walking back to his car with Sonny. “So,” he added, “you gonna marry her?”

Sonny said, “It’d make my family happy. Jeez!” he yelled, turning up his collar and pulling his cap down. “It’s cold as hell out, ain’t it?”

“Cold as a witch’s tit in a brass brassiere,” Cork said.

“Want to stop by home with me? My mom’ll be happy to see you.”

“Nah,” Cork said. “It’s been years since I’ve been by. You should come around and see Eileen and Caitlin, though. Caitlin keeps askin’ for you.”

“Eileen’s probably busy with the bakery.”

“Ah,” Cork said, “isn’t she furious with me now? I’m scared to go around myself anymore.”

“Why?” Sonny asked. “What did you do?”

Cork sighed and then wrapped himself up in his arms, as if the cold was finally getting to him. “She read something in the paper about the stickup, and it said one of the guys had an Irish accent. Then I showed up the same day with money for her and Caitlin. She threw it in my face and started bawlin’. Jaysus,” he sighed, “she’s got herself convinced I’m gonna wind up dead in the gutter.”

“But you didn’t tell her nothin’, did you?”

“She ain’t stupid, Sonny. I’m not workin’ any job she knows of, and I come around with a few hundred for her. She knows the score.”

“But she don’t know about me or anything?”

“Course not,” Cork said. “I mean, she knows you’re a bloody thief for sure, but she don’t know any of the particulars.”

Cork’s Nash was parked in front of a fire hydrant on the corner of 189th, its front right tire on the curb. Sonny pointed to the fire hydrant and said, “Ain’t you got no respect for the law?”

“Listen, Sonny,” Cork said. “I’ve been thinking about something you said to me a while ago, and you’re right. We’ve got to go one way or the other.”

“What are you talking about?” Sonny got into the Nash and pulled the door closed behind him. It was like stepping into an icebox. “
V’fancul’!
” he said. “Turn on the heat!”

Cork started the car and revved the engine. “I’m not sayin’ I’m not happy with the money we’re making,” he said, watching the temperature gauge, “but it’s penny ante compared to what guys like your father are pullin’ in.”

“So? My father’s got an organization he’s been building since before either of us was born. You can’t make the comparison.” Sonny gave Cork a funny look, as if to ask what the hell he was getting at.

“Sure,” Cork said. “But what I’m sayin’ is, if—like you said—you went to him and told him you wanted to be part of his organization, then maybe you could bring us all in with you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Sonny said. “Cork… For all I know, I tell my father what we’ve been doing and I’ll be the first guy he kills.”