The Family Corleone (33 page)

“Ah,” Cork said. He turned on the heat. “You could be right.” He shoved Sonny. “He wants you to be an automobile tycoon,” he said. “Sonny Corleone, captain of industry.”

“Yeah, but I’ve missed work two days already this week.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Cork said, and he pulled the Nash out onto the street. “I promise you, Sonny, Leo won’t fire you.”

Sonny thought about that and then grinned. “Nah,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

The film reel on the projector wobbled as the machine whirred and hummed and cast across the darkened hotel room a scratchy black-and-white image of a short, plump young woman with long black hair sucking a headless man’s dick. The guy in the film stood with his legs spread and his hands on his hips, and though the frame of the shot cut off his head, he was clearly a young guy, his taut white skin heavily muscled. On a couch next to the projector, one of Chez Hollywood’s camera girls sat in Giuseppe Mariposa’s lap. With one hand Giuseppe played with the camera girl’s breasts, while in his other hand he held a fat cigar, its smoke wafting up into the stream of light from the projector. Next to Giuseppe and the camera girl,
Phillip Tattaglia had his hand under the slip of one of his whores, while another of his girls knelt on the floor between his legs, her head buried in his lap. They were all in their underwear, everyone except the singer from Chez Hollywood with the striking platinum blond hair and the two young guys seated by the hotel room door, both of whom were wearing blue pin-striped suits, a matching set of hatchet men. Giuseppe had taken the singer to the hotel on a date, and now she waited fully dressed in a chair across from the couch looking tense and fidgety, her dark eyes shooting to the door every few minutes, as if she was considering bolting.

“Watch this,” Tattaglia said as the stag-film scene was about to culminate. “All over her!” he shouted, and he shook Giuseppe’s shoulder. “What do you think?” he asked the girl with her head in his lap. He pushed her away and straightened himself out, and then asked the girl under his arm the same question. “What do you think?” he said. “Is she good?” He was asking about the girl in the stag film.

“I couldn’t tell you,” the girl beside him answered in a smoky voice. “You’d have to ask the guy, in my opinion.”

Giuseppe laughed at that and pinched the girl’s cheek. “You got a smart one here,” he said to Tattaglia. On-screen, two more guys entered the frame and went about undressing the girl, whose face was now suddenly clean and freshly made up.

“Joe,” Tattaglia said, “movies like this, they’re gonna be big. I can make ’em for almost nothing and sell them to every Rotary Club in the country for plenty of dough.”

“You think rubes will buy this kind of thing?” Mariposa asked, his eyes fastened to the screen, his hand lingering under the camera girl’s bra.

“People been buyin’ this kind of thing since the beginning of time,” Tattaglia said. “We already make a good buck selling pictures. Movies like these, I tell you, Joe, movies like these are gonna be big.”

“So where do I come in?”

“Financing. Distribution. That kind of thing,” Tattaglia said.

Giuseppe was puffing on his cigar and thinking over the proposition when someone knocked on the hotel room door and the two hatchet men, startled, jumped up in unison.

“Go ahead and get it,” Giuseppe said, meaning get the door. He pushed the camera girl off his lap.

The kid cracked the door an inch and then pulled it open the rest of the way. A swatch of bright light washed over half the room as Emilio Barzini stepped out of the hall, holding his hat in his hands.

“Close that,” Joe barked, and the kid quickly shut the door.

“Joe,” Emilio said. He took a few steps into the dark room, cast a glance at the stag film, and then looked back to the couch. “You wanted to see me?”

Giuseppe pulled his pants on and fastened his belt. He stubbed out his cigar in a cut-glass ashtray on the table in front of him. To the others he said, “I’ll be right back.” He stepped around the couch and through a partially opened door into an attached room.

Emilio shielded his eyes against the flickering bright light of the projector as he crossed the room to join Giuseppe, who turned on the overhead lights in the second room before he closed the door. Emilio glanced at a king-size bed bracketed by gleaming mahogany end tables, both of which were decorated with fat vases brimming with a bright array of cut flowers. Across from the bed, a matching mahogany vanity table with an adjustable mirror and a floral upholstered bench was set up catty-corner beside a long dresser. Giuseppe pulled the bench out with his foot, took a seat, and crossed his arms over his chest. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt that accentuated the muscles of his shoulders and arms. He was almost youthful, even with the white hair and the creases and lines etched through his face. “Listen, Emilio,” he said, starting out calmly, though the calm was obviously willed. “We lost more than six grand this last stickup.” He opened his hands. “And we still don’t know who they are, these bastards! They rob me, they disappear for months, they rob me again.
Basta!
” he said. “No more. I want these guys, and I want them dead.”

“Joe,” Emilio said. He tossed his hat on the dresser and took a seat
on the edge of the bed. “We think it’s the Irish now,” he said. “We’re leaning on everybody.”

“And the micks don’t know nothin’?” Giuseppe said. “Nobody knows nothin’?”

“Joe—”

“Don’t ‘
Joe
’!” Giuseppe yelled. “Nobody knows fuckin’ nothin’!” he shouted, emphasizing “nothin’ ” by overturning the vanity, toppling it into the wall, where its mirror shattered, throwing shards of glass into the plush carpeting.

“Joe,” Emilio said, evenly, “it’s not the Corleone family, and it’s not Tessio. We been watching them. And one of the stickup guys has an Irish accent.”

“I don’t care about this bullshit anymore,” Giuseppe said. He righted the vanity. “Look at this mess.” He gestured to the glass strewn across the carpeting and glared at Emilio as if he had been the one who smashed the mirror. “I called you because I got a job,” he said. “I want you to see that fucking olive oil salesman, that fancy talking bag of wind, and you tell him that he either takes care of whoever it is giving me headaches, or I’m holding him personally responsible. Understand? I’m tired of this son of a bitch looking down his nose at me.” Giuseppe stooped to pick up a shard of glass. He held it up and looked at his own reflection, at the white hair and the wrinkles etched around his eyes. “You tell Vito Corleone,” he said, “starting today, starting right this minute, every cent I lose to these bastards, he owes me. It comes out of his pocket. You make that very clear to him. You got it, Emilio? Either he puts an end to it, or he pays for it. That’s the deal. I told him nicely to take care of this and he gave me the high hat. Now this is the deal. One way or another, he takes care of it, or else. You understand what I’m saying, Emilio?”

Emilio retrieved his hat from the dresser. “You’re the boss, Giuseppe,” he said. “That’s what you want me to do, I’m on my way.”

“That’s right,” Giuseppe said. “I’m the boss. You just deliver my message.”

Emilio put his hat on and started for the door.

“Hey,” Giuseppe said, relaxing a bit now, as if after having delivered his decree he felt better. “You don’t have to run,” he said. “You want the canary out there?” he asked. “I’m tired of her. She acts like she’s got a broom stuck up her ass.”

“I better go take care of your business,” Emilio said. He tipped his hat to Giuseppe and left.

Giuseppe frowned at the mess of glass and his own fragmented reflection looking back at him. He stared at himself, at the broken, puzzle-like image, as if something in the picture confused or bothered him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He turned off the light and joined the others in the dark, where the long-haired girl on-screen was now in bed with three guys. He watched standing, cast a single quick look at the canary, who was sitting rigid and quiet with her hands in her lap, and then he joined Tattaglia and the girls on the couch.

V
ito crossed the pedestrian bridge connecting the Criminal Courts Building to the Tombs. Outside, beyond the line of tall windows that looked down on Franklin Street, the sidewalks were crowded with New Yorkers in heavy overcoats, many of whom, Vito guessed, had business with the courts or were visiting friends and family locked up in the Tombs. Vito had never seen the inside of a jail cell, nor had he ever been a defendant in a criminal trial—though he was always keenly aware of the possibility of both. On his way to the bridge, he had traversed the tall corridors of the Criminal Courts Building, meeting the eyes of the cops and the lawyers, the
pezzonovante
in their pin-striped suits carrying fancy leather attachés, while the cop he was following, who had been handsomely paid off, had kept his eyes largely on the ground. He’d walked Vito quickly past the swinging doors of a large courtroom, where Vito had caught a quick glance of a black-robed judge seated on his gleaming wood throne. The courtroom had reminded Vito of a church, and the judge, of a priest. Something in Vito had felt anger at the sight of the judge, maybe even something more than anger, maybe fury—as if the judge was responsible for all the cruelty and inhumanity in the world, for the murder of women and children everywhere, from Sicily to Manhattan. Vito couldn’t have put into words why he felt this flash of anger, this desire to kick open the courtroom’s
swinging doors and pull the judge down from his perch—and all anyone observing him would have seen was a slow closing and opening of his eyes, as if he had taken a moment to rest as he walked past the courtroom and toward the two wide doors that opened onto the pedestrian bridge.

The cop Vito was following seemed to relax once they were out of the courthouse and on their way to the jail. He straightened out his tunic, took off the blue saucer cap, brushed the badge on its peak, and put it back on again. The series of gestures reminded Vito of someone who had just managed a narrow escape and was straightening himself out before he went on with his business. “Cold one today,” the cop said, gesturing toward the street. “Below zero,” Vito said, and hoped that would be the end of it. The streets were pockmarked with sooty humps of ice and snow, though it hadn’t stormed recently. On the corner of Franklin a young woman waited with her head bowed and her face held in her gloved hands as a crowd of pedestrians walked past her. Vito noticed her as he first stepped onto the bridge. He watched her appear and disappear as he moved from window to window. When he passed the last window she was still standing there motionless, her head in her hands—and then Vito crossed from the bridge to the Tombs and lost sight of her.

“We’ve got him in the basement,” the cop said as they entered a long corridor of closed doors. “We brought him over from the hospital ward.”

Vito didn’t bother to answer. Somewhere out of sight at the far end of the corridor someone was yelling in anger, berating someone, and the sound of it wafted along the hallway.

“I’m Walter,” the cop said, suddenly deciding to introduce himself. He had just shouldered open a door onto a stairwell. “My partner Sasha’s keeping an eye on him.” He checked his wristwatch. “We can only give you a half hour at the most.”

“I won’t need more than a half hour.”

“And you understand,” the cop said, looking Vito over carefully, his eyes moving up and down the contours of Vito’s suit jacket and searching the folds of the overcoat he held draped over his arm,
“you understand that nothing can happen to him while he’s in our custody?”

Walter was Vito’s height but several years younger and fifty pounds heavier. His gut pushed at the tunic’s brass buttons and his thighs stretched the blue fabric of his pants. “Nothing will happen to him,” Vito said.

The cop nodded and led Vito down two flights of stairs and onto a windowless corridor that smelled of something offensive. Vito covered his face with his fedora to block the smell. “What is that?”

“Mug’s got to take a beating,” Walter said, “this is where we bring him.” He looked around as he walked, as if trying to locate the source of the odor. “Smells like someone lost his lunch.”

At the end of the corridor and around a corner, Sasha waited with his back to a green door, his arms folded over his chest. At Vito’s approach, he opened the door and stood aside. “Half hour,” he said. “Did Walt explain?”

Through the open door, Vito saw Luca sitting up on a hospital gurney. His appearance was so changed that at first glance Vito thought they had brought him the wrong man. The right side of his face drooped slightly as if it had been yanked down an eighth of an inch. His lips were swollen, and he breathed noisily through his mouth. Luca squinted through dulled eyes as he looked up toward the open door. He appeared to be struggling both to see clearly and to understand what he saw.

Sasha, seeing Vito hesitate in the doorway, said, “He looks worse off than he is.”

“Give us a little privacy,” Vito said. “You can wait around the corner.”

Sasha looked at Walter, as if he wasn’t any too sure about the wisdom of leaving Vito alone with Luca.

“That’s fine, Mr. Corleone,” Walter said, and he reached around his partner to pull the door closed.

“Luca,” Vito said, once they were alone. His voice was so full of dismay and sadness that it surprised him. The room smelled of disinfectant, and it was barren except for the gurney and a scattering
of plain, straight-back chairs. There were no windows, and the only light came from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room. Vito pulled a chair away from the wall and pulled it close to the gurney.

Luca said, “What are you—doing here—Vito?” He had on a short-sleeved, white hospital gown that was too small for him. The bottom hem didn’t even reach his knees. He appeared to have to swallow or adjust something in his throat after speaking a few words. He spoke stutteringly but clearly, working to articulate each word. As Luca spoke, Vito for the first time saw a hint of the old Luca, as if that other Luca was lurking someplace under the damaged face and dull eyes.