The Family Corleone (38 page)

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.”