The Family Corleone (48 page)

Ettore turned around and looked away. Emilio didn’t move. He looked at Giuseppe in silence.

“Don’t ever question me again,” Giuseppe said to Emilio. “If I hadn’t listened to you, Frankie would have been in the ground and none of this would have come about. This should have all been over quickly, and now I got a real fuckin’ war to worry about.”

Emilio seemed hardly to have heard Giuseppe. He looked down at Tits. A little river of blood was already flowing out from under the body. “He was a good kid,” he said.

“Well, now he’s a dead kid,” Giuseppe said, and he started down the stairs. “Get rid of him.” At the bottom of the flight, he turned and looked up. “Somebody talk to the Irish,” he said. “Make sure they keep their mouths shut.” He disappeared down another flight of stairs.

When Giuseppe’s footsteps faded and Ettore was certain he wouldn’t be overheard, he turned to his brother. “The son of a bitch was probably right, though,” he said. “Tits probably did tip off Frankie. He hated Joe.”

“We don’t know that,” Emilio said. He started down the stairs with Ettore behind him. “Get a couple of the boys and bring him over to that mortuary in Greenpoint, near his family.”

Ettore said, “You think Joe—”

“Fuck Joe,” Emilio said. “Do what I told you.”

C
ork pulled the bakery’s green window shade halfway down against the blaze of morning sunlight coming in off the street. Eileen had just delivered a steaming tray of sweet sticky buns and the shop smelled of cinnamon and fresh-baked bread. The early morning rush of customers had already come and gone, and now Eileen had disappeared upstairs with Caitlin and left him to straighten out the display cases and get the shop in order. Cork didn’t mind working in the bakery. He was getting to like it, though he could do without the white apron and cap Eileen made him wear. He liked chatting with the customers, who were almost exclusively women. He enjoyed telling stories with the married women and flirting with the unmarried ones. Eileen swore that business had picked up the day after he’d started working the counter.

As soon as the shade was set, a long black dress appeared in the bottom of the window, and a moment later the bell rang over the door as Mrs. O’Rourke came into the shop toting a brown paper bag. She was a narrow wisp of a woman with graying hair and a scrunched-up face that looked like it was wincing even when at ease.

“Ah, Mrs. O’Rourke,” Cork said, a note of sympathy in his tone.

“Bobby Corcoran,” Mrs. O’Rourke said. She was dressed in mourning black and she carried the smell of beer and cigarettes into the bakery with her. She ran the fingers of her free hand through her
thinning hair as if straightening herself out in the presence of a man. “It was you I came here looking for,” she said. “I heard you were working behind the counter.”

“That I am,” Cork said. He started to offer his condolences but didn’t get past the mention of Kelly’s name before the old woman interrupted him.

“I never had a daughter,” she said. “No daughter of mine would bed a murdering wop like Luca Brasi, the filthy guinea bastard.”

Cork said, “I understand how you must feel, Mrs. O’Rourke.”

“Do you?” she said, and her face twisted with disgust as she clasped the brown paper bag to her chest and took a couple of unsteady steps toward the counter. “Sean tells me you had a big fallin’ out with your friend Sonny Corleone. Is that the truth?”

“It is,” Cork said, and he countered his repugnance at the approach of the old lady by leaning over the display case and offering her a slight smile. “We don’t see eye to eye anymore.”

“That’s good,” Mrs. O’Rourke said, and she clutched the brown paper bag tighter to her chest. She looked like she was torn between speaking and remaining silent.

“Is there something I can do for you this morning?” Cork asked.

“That’s good,” Mrs. O’Rourke repeated, as if Cork hadn’t said a word. She took another step toward the display case and then leaned toward Cork. Though he was still several feet away, she looked as though she were talking to him face-to-face. She lowered her voice. “That Sonny will get his,” she said, “him and Luca Brasi and all those miserable dagos.” She brushed her hair back, pleased with herself. “They’ve got a nice Irish surprise coming to them.”

“What’s that you’re talkin’ about, Mrs. O’Rourke?” Cork asked, offering a little laugh along with the question. “I’m not making you out.”

“You will,” Mrs. O’Rourke said, and she added a little laugh of her own. At the door, before she stepped out into the sunlight, she turned back to Cork and said, “God loves a parade,” and she laughed again, bitterly, and then disappeared onto the street, letting the door swing closed behind her.

Cork watched the door as if the meaning of the old lady’s words might suddenly appear in the shafts of sun coming through the fanlight. He’d seen a story in the morning paper about a parade. In the back room, he found the
New York American
open to the comics, and he flipped through the pages until he found the story, which was a single column on page three. A parade was scheduled for Manhattan in the afternoon, along Broadway, something about civic responsibility. It looked like some political foolishness to Cork, and he couldn’t imagine what Sonny and his family would have to do with it. He tossed the paper down and went back to straightening out the display cases, but his thoughts were stuck on Mrs. O’Rourke saying “God loves a parade” and “Sonny will get his,” and after a minute or two of fiddling with the pastries, he flipped the
Closed
sign on the front door, turned the lock, and hurried up the back stairs.

He found Eileen in the living room stretched out on the sofa, holding a giggling Caitlin over her head. The child had her arms spread like wings and was pretending to fly. “Who’s minding the shop?” Eileen said at the sight of him.

“Uncle Bobby!” Caitlin squealed. “Look! I’m flying like a bird!”

Bobby picked up Caitlin, threw her over his shoulder, and spun her around once before putting her down and patting her butt. “Go play with your toys a minute, sweetheart,” he said. “I need to talk some grown-up things with your mom.”

Caitlin looked to her mom. When Eileen pointed to the doorway, she pouted dramatically, then put her hands on her hips and went off to her room in a playful pretence of indignation.

“Did you at least lock the door?” Eileen said, pulling herself upright on the couch.

“And put up the
Closed
sign,” Bobby said. “It’ll be slow until lunch anyway.” He took a seat beside Eileen on the couch and explained what had just gone on with Mrs. O’Rourke.

“She was probably drunk and ravin’ like a lunatic,” Eileen said. “What time is the parade supposed to start?”

Cork looked at his wristwatch. “In about an hour.”

“So,” Eileen said. She paused, took another second to think things
over. “Go find Sonny and tell him what happened. He probably won’t know a thing about any of it, and that’ll be that.”

“And I’ll feel like an idiot.”

“You’re a pair of idiots, the two of you,” Eileen said. She yanked Bobby to her and kissed him on the side of his head. “Go find Sonny and talk to him. It’s time you two buried the hatchet.”

“What about Caitlin? Will you be okay runnin’ the shop?”

Eileen rolled her eyes. “Now you’re indispensable, are you?” She got to her feet, squeezing Bobby’s knee in the process. “Don’t take too long,” she said, on her way to the bedrooms. In the doorway, she turned and waved him toward the kitchen and out the door. “Go on, go on,” she said, and went off to get Caitlin.

Vito handed Fredo a handkerchief. They were on Sixth Avenue, between Thirty-Second and Thirty-Third Street, waiting with hundreds of others for the start of the parade. Fredo had gotten out of bed coughing but insisted on joining the rest of the family for the parade, and now Carmella was standing behind him, holding the palm of her hand over his forehead and frowning at Vito. The day was intermittently cloudy and sunny and promised to warm up, but at that moment, in the shadow of Gimbels Department Store, it was chilly and Fredo was shivering. Vito held Connie by the hand as he looked over Fredo. Behind Carmella, Santino and Tom pretend-boxed with Michael, who was excited about the parade and played along, slipping punches in under Sonny’s arms and throwing a shoulder into Tom’s gut. At the other end of the street, Councilman Fischer was surrounded by a dozen big shots, including the chief of police, all dressed up in his starched uniform with ribbons and medals pinned to his chest. Vito and his family had walked right by the group without so much as a nod from the councilman.

“You’re sick,” Vito said to Fredo. “You’re shivering.”

“No, I’m not,” Fredo said. He peeled his mother’s hand off his forehead. “I just got a little chill. That’s all, Pop.”

Vito raised his finger to Fredo and called to Al Hats, who was looking over the crowd with Richie Gatto and the Romero twins. On
the other side of the block, Luca Brasi and his boys were mingling with the crowd. When Al approached Vito with a cigarette dangling from his lips and his fedora tilted low on his forehead, Vito yanked the cigarette out of his mouth and stubbed it out with his toe. He straightened the fedora. “Take Fredo home,” he said. “He’s got a fever.”

“Sorry,” Al said to Vito, meaning he was sorry for walking around with a cigarette dangling from his lips, looking like a caricature of a thug. He straightened out his tie, which was dark gray over a maroon shirt. To Fredo he said, “Come on, kid. We’ll stop at a soda fountain and get you a milkshake.”

“Yeah?” Fredo said, looking to his mother.

“Sure,” Carmella said. “It’s good for your fever.”

“Hey, you guys,” Fredo called to his brothers, “I gotta go ’cause I’m sick.”

The boys quit horsing around and joined Fredo and their parents. There were people all around them, many Italians, but Poles and Irish, too, and a group of Hasidim in black robes and black fedoras. “Sorry you have to go,” Michael said to Fredo. “You want me to get you the mayor’s autograph if we see him?”

“Why would I want that fat jerk’s autograph?” Fredo said, and he shoved Michael.

“Cut it out,” Sonny said, and he grabbed Michael by the collar before he could shove Fredo back.

Vito looked at his boys and sighed. He motioned to Hats, who took Fredo by the arm and led him away.

Michael said, “Sorry, Pop,” and quickly added, “But do you think we’ll see the mayor? Do you think I can get his autograph?”

Vito lifted Connie to his chest and pulled her blue dress down over her knees, straightening it out. “Your sister’s being an angel,” he said to Michael.

“Sorry, Pop, really,” Michael said. “I’m sorry for fightin’ with Fredo.”

Vito looked at Michael sternly before he put his arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. “If you want the mayor’s autograph, I’ll see that you get it.”

“Really, Pop?” Michael said. “You can do that?”

Tom said, “Hey, Michael. Pop can get you any autograph you want, kid.”

“You should be asking for Pop’s autograph,” Sonny said, and slapped Michael playfully on the forehead.

“Sonny!” Carmella said. “Always so rough!” She brushed a hand over Michael’s forehead, as if to cure the sting of Sonny’s slap.

From someplace nearby but out of sight, the rude belch of a tuba sounded, followed by a discordant array of musical instruments squealing and howling as a marching band warmed up. “Here we go,” Vito said, and he gathered his family around him. A moment later, a parade marshal appeared and began directing groups out onto the street and shouting directions. Across Sixth Avenue, Luca Brasi stood as motionless as a building, his eyes on Vito.

Vito nodded to Luca and led his family out onto the avenue.

Cork pulled his Nash to the sidewalk in front of Sonny’s building when he saw Hats approaching the steps with a hand on Fredo’s shoulder. Fat Bobby and Johnny LaSala, who had been standing at Sonny’s door like a pair of sentries, started quickly down the steps, each with a hand in his jacket pocket. Cork slid across the seat and popped his head out the window.

“Cork!” Fredo yelled and trotted over to the car.

“Hey, Fredo!” Cork said, and nodded to Hats. On the stoop, the two sentries returned to their post. “I’m lookin for Sonny,” Cork said to Fredo. “He’s not at his place, and I thought he might be with you guys.”

“Nah, he’s at the parade,” Fredo said. “I was just with him, but I’m sick so I gotta come home.”

“Ah, too bad,” Cork said. “He’s at a parade? Sonny?”

“Yeah, everybody’s there,” Fredo said, “ ’Cept me now.”

“A parade?” Cork asked again.

“What’s the matter, Cork?” Hats said. “You hard of hearing now?”

“All the big shots are there,” Fredo said. “Even the mayor.”

“No kiddin’?” Cork pulled his cap off and scratched his head as
if he was still finding it hard to believe that Sonny was at a parade. “So where is this parade?” he asked Fredo.

Hats pulled Fredo back from the car and said, “What are you asking so many questions for?”

“ ’Cause I’m lookin’ for Sonny,” Cork said.

“Well, look for him another time,” Hats said. “He’s busy today.”

“They’re by Gimbels in the city,” Fredo said. “The whole family’s there: Sonny, Tom, everybody.” When Hats gave him a murderous look, Fredo yelled, “He’s Sonny’s best friend!”

Cork said to Fredo, “Take care of yourself, kid. You’ll be feeling better in no time.” He nodded to Hats again, and then slid back over to the driver’s seat.

In Manhattan, the cops had Herald Square blocked off with yellow barricades, though the streets were hardly lined with throngs of parade goers. The pedestrian traffic looked like about what you’d expect for any day of the week, maybe a little heavier. Cork navigated around barricades and parked in the shadow of the Empire State Building. Before he got out of the car, he took a Smith & Wesson from the glove compartment and put it in his jacket pocket. On the street, he found a subway entrance and hustled out of the sunlight and into the chilly air of the tunnels, amid the rumbling clatter of trains. He’d been shopping before at Gimbels, with Eileen and Caitlin, and he figured he could navigate the tunnels that led directly into the store. Once underground, he didn’t have any trouble finding his way: He followed the signs and the crowds into the bargain basement of the huge department store, where shopgirls worked a labyrinth of display cases and counters. From Gimbels, he followed the signs until he was out on the street, and he made his way to Sixth Avenue and then to Broadway, where a line of majorettes in white uniforms were twirling and tossing batons to the music of a marching band.