The Family Corleone (36 page)

On the way to his office, inside the warehouse, he shouted for
Clemenza, and the name bounced off the high ceiling as Vito closed his office door behind him and took a seat at his desk. From one of the drawers he pulled out a bottle of Strega and a tumbler, and he poured himself a drink. The office was bare: thin wooden walls painted a muted green, a desk with a scattering of papers and pencils spread across a fake wood veneer, a few chairs lined against the walls, a metal hall tree behind the desk, a cheap filing cabinet next to the hall tree. Vito did all his real work at home, in his study, and spent hardly any time in this office. He glanced around at the tawdry surroundings and was filled with disgust. When Clemenza came through the door, Vito asked, before Clemenza had a chance to sit down, “Who pissed his pants?”

“Eh,” Clemenza said, and pulled a chair up to the desk.

“Don’t sit down,” Vito said.

Clemenza pushed the chair aside. “Nobody pissed his pants, Vito,” he said. “They’re tough kids.”

“Good,” Vito said, “at least there’s that.” He lifted the glass of Strega to his lips and held it there a moment, as if he had forgotten what he was doing. He looked over the tumbler and past Clemenza, his eyes focused on nothing.

“Vito,” Clemenza said, and his tone of voice suggested he was about to console Vito, to talk to him about Sonny.

Vito raised his hand to silence him. “Find something for all of them except the Irish,” he said. “Let Tessio take the Romeros, and you take Sonny.”

“And the Irish?” Clemenza asked.

“Let them go on and be cops and politicians and union hotshots, and we’ll pay them off on that end,” Vito said. He pushed the glass of Strega away from him, splashing the yellow liqueur onto a sheet of paper.

“Okay,” Clemenza said. “I’ll make them understand.”

“Good,” Vito said. He added, his tone of voice changing suddenly, “Keep Sonny close to you, Peter. Teach him everything he needs to know. Teach him every part of the business, so that he can be skilled at what he has to do—but keep him close. Keep him close all the time.”

“Vito,” Clemenza said, and again he sounded like he might try to console him. “I know this isn’t what you had planned.”

Vito picked up the Strega again, and this time he remembered to take a sip. He said, “He’s got too much of a temper. That’s not good for him.” He knocked twice on the desk and added, “It’s not good for us either.”

“I’ll straighten him out,” Clemenza said. “He’s got a good heart, he’s strong, and he’s your blood.”

Vito motioned to the door and told Clemenza to send Sonny in. On his way out, Clemenza put his hand over his heart and said, “I’ll keep him close. I’ll teach him the ropes.”

“His temper,” Vito said, reminding Clemenza.

“I’ll straighten him out, ” Clemenza said again, as if making Vito a promise.

When Sonny came into the office, he was massaging the raw skin where his wrists had been tied behind his back. He looked at his father briefly and then looked away.

Vito came around from behind his desk, dragged two chairs away from the wall, and pulled them to Sonny. “Sit down,” he said. Once Sonny was seated, he took a seat facing him. “Be quiet and listen to me. I have some things I want to tell you.” Vito folded his hands in his lap and gathered his thoughts. “This is not what I wanted for you,” he said, “but I can see that I can’t keep you from it. The best I can do is keep you from acting like a fool and getting yourself and your friends killed over a few dollars by a wild man like Giuseppe Mariposa.”

“Nobody ever got a scratch—” Sonny said, and then was silent again when he saw the look in his father’s eyes.

“We’ll talk about this matter once,” Vito said, raising his finger, “and then I don’t want to talk about it ever again.” Vito tugged at the bottom of his vest and then folded his hands over his belly. He coughed and then continued. “I’m sorry you witnessed what you did,” he said. “Tom’s father was a degenerate gambler and a drunk. Back then, I was not who I am now. Henry Hagen insulted us in a way that, had I kept Clemenza and Tessio from doing what they did,
I would have lost their respect. In this business, as in life, respect is everything. In this life, Sonny, you can’t
de
mand respect; you must
co
mmand it. Are you listening to me?” When Sonny nodded, Vito added, “But I am not a man who enjoys that kind of thing. And I’m not a man who wants that kind of thing to happen. But I am a man—and I do what has to be done for my family. For my family, Sonny.” Vito looked at the glass of Strega on his desk as if he was considering taking another drink, and then looked back to Sonny. “I have one question for you,” he said, “and I’d like a simple answer. When you brought Tom back to our home all those years ago, when you set him down in that chair before me, you knew I was responsible for him being an orphan, and you were accusing me, weren’t you?”

“No, Pop,” Sonny said, and he started to reach for his father before he pulled his hand back. “I was a kid,” he said. “I admit”—he touched his temples with wiggling fingers—“there were a lot of things going on in my head after what I saw, but… all I can remember thinking is that I wanted you to fix the problem. I wanted you to fix Tom’s troubles.”

“And that was it,” Vito said. “You wanted me to fix his problems?”

“That’s all I can remember thinking,” Sonny said. “It was a long time ago.”

Vito watched his son, studying his face. Then he touched Sonny’s knee. “Tom must never know what you know,” he said. “Never.”

“I give you my word,” Sonny said, and he put his hand over his father’s. “This is a secret I’ll take to my grave.”

Vito patted Sonny’s hand and then pulled his chair back. “Listen to me carefully, Sonny,” he said. “In this business, if you don’t learn to control that temper of yours, the grave will come sooner than you think.”

“I understand, Pop,” Sonny said. “I’ll learn. I will.”

“I say to you again,” Vito said, “I did not want this for you.” He folded his hands in front of him as if indulging in one final prayer. “There is more money and more power in the legitimate business world,” he said, “and there’s nobody coming to kill you, the way it has always been for me. When I was a boy, men came and killed my
father. When my brother swore revenge, they killed him too. When my mother pleaded for my life, they killed her. And then they came looking for me. I escaped and I made my life here in America. But always in this business, there are men who want to kill you. So
that
I never escaped.” When Sonny looked shocked, Vito said, “No. I never told you these things. Why should I? I hoped to keep them from you.” As if with a final hope that Sonny might change his mind, he said, “This is not the life I want for you, Sonny.”

“Pop,” Sonny answered, deaf to Vito’s wishes, “I’ll be someone you can always trust. I’ll be your right-hand man.”

Vito watched Sonny another moment and then almost imperceptibly shook his head, as if reluctantly but finally giving up. “With you as my right-hand man,” he said, and he got up and shoved his chair aside, “you’ll make your mother a widow and yourself an orphan.” Sonny seemed to think about his father’s words, as if he didn’t understand what was being said. Before he could respond, Vito went back to his desk. “Clemenza will teach you the business,” he said, the desk between him and his son. “You’ll start at the bottom, like everyone else.”

“Okay, Pop. Sure,” Sonny said, and though he was obviously trying to contain his excitement and sound professional, he failed.

Vito only frowned at Sonny’s excitement. “What about Michael and Fredo,” he asked, “and Tom? Do they all think I’m a gangster too?”

“Tom knows about the gambling and the unions,” Sonny said. “But, like you said, Pop: It’s not a secret.”

“But that’s not what I asked,” Vito said, and he tugged at his ear. “Learn to listen! I asked if he thinks I’m a gangster.”

“Pop,” Sonny said, “I know you’re not a guy like Mariposa. I never meant that. I know you’re no crazy man like Al Capone.”

Vito nodded, grateful for at least that. “And what about Fredo and Michael?” he asked.

“Nah,” Sonny said, “you hang the moon for the kids. They don’t know nothing.”

“But they will,” Vito said, “just like you and Tom.” He took a seat
behind his desk. “Clemenza and Tessio will take care of your boys,” he said. “You’ll work for Clemenza.”

Sonny grinned and said, “They’re in there thinking you’re about to give them a bad case of lead poisoning.”

“What about you?” Vito asked. “Did you think I’d have you killed?”

“Nah, didn’t figure it, Pop.” Sonny laughed as if clearly the thought had never entered his mind.

Vito didn’t laugh. He looked grim. “The Irish boys are on their own,” he said. “They don’t have a place with us.”

“But Cork’s a good man,” Sonny said. “He’s smarter—”

“
Sta’zitt’!
” Vito slapped his desk, sending a pencil flying to the floor. “You don’t question me. Now I’m your father and I’m your don. You do as you’re told—by me and by Clemenza and by Tessio.”

“Sure,” Sonny said, and he bit his lip. “I’ll tell Cork,” he added. “He ain’t gonna be happy, but I’ll tell him. Little Stevie, I got half a mind to put a bullet in his head myself.”

“You’ve got half a mind to put a bullet in his head?” Vito said. “What’s wrong with you, Sonny?”

“
Madon’
, Pop!” Sonny said, throwing up his hands. “I didn’t mean I’d really do it!”

Vito gestured toward the door. “Go on,” he said. “Go talk to your boys.”

Once Sonny was gone, Vito noticed for the first time that his overcoat, scarf, and hat were hanging on the hall tree. He slipped into the coat, wrapped the scarf tightly around his neck, and found a pair of gloves in a coat pocket. When he exited his office, hat in hand, he took a couple of steps toward the front entrance before changing his mind and going out the back door. The weather had turned even colder. A ceiling of low gray clouds had rolled in over the city. Vito thought about going home, but that thought was followed immediately by a picture of Carmella in the kitchen, at the stove, making dinner, and the recognition that at some point he’d have to tell her about Sonny. The thought grieved him, and he decided to drive to the river again, where he could take some time to think about when
and how to tell her. He dreaded the look that he knew with certainty would come over her face, a look that would include at least in part an accusation. He didn’t know what was worse, the sense of foreboding that had come over him when he knew he couldn’t keep Sonny out of his business, or his dread of that look he would now unavoidably see on his wife’s face.

He was in the Essex and had started the engine when Clemenza came running out of the warehouse in only his suit jacket. “Vito,” he said, bending to the car window as Vito rolled it down, “what do you want to do about Giuseppe? We can’t let him know it was Sonny all along.”

Vito tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Have one of your boys bring him five dead mackerel wrapped in newspaper. Tell him to say, ‘Vito Corleone guarantees that your business problems have been rectified.’ ”

“What-ified?” Clemenza asked.

“Fixed,” Vito said, and he drove off toward the East River, leaving Clemenza at the curb looking after him.

SPRING 1934

I
n 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.