The Family Corleone (27 page)

“There’s forty-eight states,” Michael said, “and ninety-six men represent their constituents as senators.”

Clemenza said to Connie, “He means they represent whoever’s paying them off.”

Michael looked out the kitchen doorway and up to the ceiling as if he might be able to see through the floor and into the study, where it had been quiet for the past several minutes. He tugged at his shirt collar and ran his hand over his neck as if the collar was bothering him. “What do you mean?” he asked, turning back to Clemenza. “What do you mean, ‘who’s paying them off’?”

Genco said, “Don’t listen to him, Michael.”

Carmella, at the kitchen counter with a chef’s knife in her hand, said, “Clemenza,” ominously, without looking away from the fat eggplant on the cutting board.

“I don’t mean nothin’,” Clemenza said, tickling Connie, making her wriggle and squirm in his lap.

Connie threw her torso over the table toward Michael. “I can name the states,” she said, and she launched into her recital: “Alabama, Arizona, Arkansas—”

“
Sta’zitt’!
” Carmella said. “Not now, Connie!” She brought the cutting knife down and began slicing up the eggplant as if it was a hunk of raw meat and the chef’s knife was a cleaver.

Upstairs, the study door opened. Everyone in the kitchen first turned to look toward the stairs, and then, catching themselves,
went back to what they were doing: Carmella went back to slicing the eggplant, Clemenza went back to tickling Connie, and Michael looked to Genco and Tessio and started reciting facts about the House of Representatives.

When Tom came into the kitchen, his face was pale and his eyes puffy. He gestured toward Genco and said, “Pop wants to see you.”

Tessio said, “Genco or all of us?”

“All of you,” Tom said.

Connie, who ordinarily would have leapt up on Tom at the sight of him, instead went around the table and stood next to Michael when Clemenza put her down. She was wearing shiny black shoes with white socks and a pink dress. Michael picked her up and held her on his lap, and then they both stared at Tom in silence.

Tom said “Mama, I’ve got to go.”

Carmella pointed to the table with the chef’s knife. “Stay for dinner. I’m making eggplant the way you like it.”

“I can’t, Mama.”

Carmella said, raising her voice, “You can’t stay? You can’t stay and have dinner with your family?”

“I can’t,” Tom said, louder than he had intended. First he looked like he might try to explain or apologize, and then he left the kitchen and started for the front door.

Carmella pointed to Michael. “Take Connie up to her room and read her a book.” Her tone of voice made it clear that neither Michael nor Connie had any choice in the matter.

In the living room, Carmella caught Tom at the door as he was putting on his jacket. “I’m sorry, Mama,” he said and he swiped at his eyes, which were damp with tears.

“Tom,” she said, “Vito, he told me what happened.”

“He told you?”

“What?” Carmella said. “You think a man doesn’t talk to his wife? You think Vito doesn’t tell me?”

“He tells you what he wants to tell you,” Tom said—and as soon as he said it he saw the anger in Carmella’s face and apologized. “I’m sorry, Mama,” he said. “I’m upset.”

“You’re upset,” Carmella repeated.

“I’m ashamed,” Tom added.

“You should be.”

“I behaved badly. I won’t do it again.”

“Some Irish girl,” Carmella said, and shook her head.

“Mama,” Tom said, “I’m part Irish.”

“That don’t matter,” Carmella said. “You should know better.”

“
Sì
,” Tom said. “
Mi dispiace
.” He hooked the zipper on his jacket. “The kids don’t know anything,” he said, as if he knew of course they wouldn’t know but was asking anyway.

Carmella made a face as if to say the question was silly and the kids didn’t know anything. She stepped closer to him and held his cheeks in her hands. “Tommy,” she said, “you’re a man. You have to struggle against your nature. Are you going to church? Do you say your prayers?”

“Sure, Mama,” Tom said, “sure.”

“Which church?” Carmella shot back, and when Tom couldn’t come up with an answer, she sighed dramatically. “Men,” she said. “You’re all the same.”

“Mama, listen. Pop says if anything like this happens again, I’m on my own.”

“So don’t let it happen again,” Carmella said, harshly. Then she softened a little and added, “Pray, Tommy. Pray to Jesus. Believe me,” she said, “you’re a man now. You need all the help you can get.”

Tom kissed Carmella on the cheek and said, “I’ll be here for Sunday dinner.”

“Sure you’ll be here for Sunday dinner,” Carmella said, as if that was always understood. “Be a good boy,” she said. She opened the door for him and then patted him affectionately on the arm as he left.

When Vito, in his study at the window, saw Tom walk out onto the street and start for Arthur Avenue and the trolley, he poured himself some more Strega. Genco was leaning back on Vito’s desk with his hands on his hips and reviewing the situation with Giuseppe Mariposa and Rosario LaConti. Some of LaConti’s organization wasn’t
falling into line so easily. They didn’t like the way Giuseppe took care of Rosario, humiliating him, leaving him naked on the street. Giuseppe Mariposa was an animal, they complained. Some of them were looking to the Stracci and Cuneo families, wanting to come in under their umbrella—anything but work for Mariposa.

Tessio, standing by the study door with his arms crossed and with his habitual dour expression and tone of voice, said, “Anthony Stracci and Ottilio Cuneo didn’t get to where they are without being smart. They won’t risk a war with Mariposa.”

“
Sì
,” Genco said. He stepped away from the desk and sank down heavily in a stuffed chair facing the window and Vito. “With LaConti’s organization either with him or under his thumb, and Tattaglia in his pocket, Mariposa’s too strong. Stracci and Cuneo will turn their backs on anyone who comes to them.”

Clemenza, sitting next to Genco with a glass of anisette in hand, looked to Vito. “I’ve got to tell Mariposa something about this Luca Brasi situation. He’s expecting us to take care of it.”

Vito sat in the window seat and held the glass of Strega on his knee. “Tell Giuseppe we’ll take care of Brasi when the time is right.”

“Vito,” Clemenza said. “Mariposa’s not gonna like what he hears. Tomasino wants Brasi out of the picture
now
, and Mariposa wants to keep Tomasino happy.” When Vito only shrugged, Clemenza looked to Genco for support. Genco turned away. Clemenza laughed in a way that suggested he was amazed. “First,” he said, “Mariposa tells us to find out who’s been stealing from him—and we don’t deliver. Then he tells us to take care of Brasi—and we tell him ‘when we get around to it.’
Che minchia!
Vito! We’re asking for trouble!”

Vito took another sip of his drink. “Why,” he asked Clemenza quietly, “would I want to get rid of somebody who puts the fear of God into Mariposa?”

“And not just Mariposa,” Tessio said.

Clemenza opened his hands. “What choice do we have?”

Vito said, “Tell Joe we’ll take care of Luca Brasi. Tell him we’re working on it. Just do what I say, please. I don’t want him or Cinquemani going after Brasi. I want them to think we’re doing the job.”

Clemenza fell back in his chair as if defeated. He looked to Tessio.

“Vito,” Tessio said, and he moved from the door to the desk, “forgive me, but on this I have to side with Clemenza. If Mariposa comes after us, we’re no match. He can wipe us out.”

Vito sighed and folded his hands in front of him. He looked to Genco and nodded.

“Listen,” Genco said. He hesitated, searching for the best words. “We wanted to keep this between me and Vito,” he said, “because there was no need to take a chance on anyone slipping up and getting Frankie Pentangeli bumped off.”

Clemenza clapped his hands, understanding immediately. “Frankie’s with us! I always loved that son of a bitch! He’s too good to be with scum like Mariposa.”

“Clemenza,” Vito said, “God love you, I trust you with the lives of my children, but—” He paused and raised a finger. “You love to talk, Clemenza, and about this you make even a little slip and our friend will suffer.”

“Vito,” Clemenza said, “hand to God. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Good,” Vito said, and again he nodded to Genco.

“Mariposa’s coming after us,” Genco said. “We know this from Frankie. It’s just a matter of time—”

“Son of a bitch,” Clemenza said, interrupting. “The decision’s already been made?”

“
Sì
,” Genco said. “While Mariposa and his boys are still busy with LaConti, we’ve got time—but we’re in his sights. He wants the olive oil business; he wants our connections; he wants everything. He knows once Prohibition is repealed, he’s going to need more businesses, and he’s set his sights on us.”

“
Bastardo!
” Tessio said. “Emilio and the others? They go along?”

Genco nodded. “He thinks you’re a separate organization,” he said to Tessio, “but they’re coming after you, too. Probably, they’re thinking, the Corleones first, then you.”

Clemenza said, “Why don’t we just have Frankie blow Mariposa’s brains out?”

“And what good would that do?” Vito said. “Then Emilio Barzini’s in a better position to come after us, with the other families behind him.”

Clemenza muttered, “I’d like to blow his brains out anyway.”

“For now,” Genco said, “Giuseppe’s biding his time—but Frankie says he’s planning something with the Barzinis. They’re keeping him on the outside, so he doesn’t know what it is—but he knows something’s going on, and when he finds out, we’ll know. For now, though, with the LaConti mess, they’re not ready to make a move.”

“And so what are we supposed to do?” Clemenza asked. “Sit around and wait till they decide to come after us?”

“We have an advantage,” Vito said, and he stood with his Strega in hand and went around to his seat at the desk. “With Frankie on the inside, we’re in a position to know what Joe’s planning.” He took a cigar from the desk drawer and began unwrapping it. “Mariposa is thinking about the future,” he said, “but so am I. With repeal coming, I’m looking at new ways of doing business. Right now, the Dutch Schultzes and the Legs Diamonds…” Vito looked disgusted. “These people—in the newspapers every other day, these hotshots—they have to go. I know that and Giuseppe knows it. We all know it. There’s too many clowns out there who think they can do whatever they want. Every two blocks, there’s another big shot. That has to end. Giuseppe thinks he can run everything. Make no mistake,” Vito said, and he snipped the end off his cigar, “Joe’s like that
idiota
, Adolf Hitler, in Germany. He’s not stopping till he has it all.” Vito paused, lit his cigar, and puffed on it. “We have plans,” he said. “I don’t know how yet, but Luca Brasi may be helpful. Anybody who scares Mariposa could be helpful to us, so we’ll do our best to keep him alive. And the punks that are stealing from Mariposa? It’s in our interest to find out who they are and give them to Joe—so we’ll keep trying to do that. If we can give him the punks and stall him on Brasi, and we keep Frankie alive and working with us…” Again, Vito paused. He looked around the room at his friends. “With God’s help, when the time comes, we’ll be ready. Now,” he said, and he pointed to the study door, “forgive me, but I’ve had a hard day.”

Clemenza took a step toward Vito as if he had more to say, but Vito held up his hand and went to the window. He turned his back on Clemenza and the others and stared out onto the street as they all left the room. When the study door closed, he sat in the window seat and looked across Hughes Avenue to the red brick, two-family houses that rose above the slate sidewalk. He looked to the houses, but his eyes were turned inward. The previous night, the night before he went to see Luca Brasi, he dreamed he was in Central Park, by the fountain, looking into a steamer trunk at a mangled body. He couldn’t make out the identity of the body, but his heart was pounding because he feared to see who it was. He leaned over the trunk, closer and closer, but he couldn’t make out the face on the body all horribly crumpled and stuffed into the cramped space. Then two things happened fast together in the dream. First, he looked up and saw the huge stone angel atop the fountain, pointing at him. Then he looked down and the body in the steamer trunk reached up and grabbed his hand as if imploring him for something—and Vito woke up with his heart raging. Vito, who always slept soundly, lay awake through most of that night, his thoughts scurrying everywhere—and then in the morning, as he read the newspaper with his coffee, he came across a photograph of the kid, Nicky Crea, in Central Park, stuffed into the steamer trunk with the angel atop the fountain pointing at him. The photo was buried several pages deep in the paper, part of a follow-up story on the murder. No suspects. No witnesses. No clues. Only a kid’s body stuffed in a steamer trunk and an unidentified man in civilian clothes peering into the trunk. The sight of the picture had brought the dream back vividly, and he had pushed the newspaper aside—but the dream and newspaper together, they’d left him with an ominous feeling. Later, when Luca Brasi told him about Tom, his thoughts flashed to the dream, as if there might be a connection—and even now, as the day drew to a close, he couldn’t shake the dream, which was as alive in him as a recent memory, and he couldn’t get rid of that ominous feeling, as if something bad was looming.

Vito sat in his study window, with his cigar and his drink, until
Carmella came to the door and knocked once before opening it. When she saw Vito in the window seat, she sat alongside him. She didn’t say anything. She looked at his face, and then took his hand in hers and rubbed his fingers the way he liked, kneading the joints and knuckles one by one as the last of the daylight faded.

Donnie O’Rourke turned the corner onto Ninth Avenue and stopped to tie his shoelace. He rested his foot on the base of a lamppost and looked up and down the street as he took his time with the laces. The neighborhood was quiet: a couple of mugs dressed to the nines walking along the sidewalk and laughing with a good-looking dame between them; an older woman with a brown paper bag in her arms and a kid at her side. Out on the street, cars rolled by regularly and a peddler pushed his empty cart while he whistled a tune likely only he could identify. It was late in the afternoon and unseasonably warm, the end of a gorgeous day when everyone had been out taking in the blue skies and bright sunlight. Once he was satisfied that he wasn’t being followed or watched, Donnie proceeded up the block to an apartment building where he had rented a place with Sean and Willie. Their rooms were on the first floor, up one flight of stairs from the building entrance, and as soon as Donnie entered the small foyer with its white and black tiled floor, the basement door to the right of the staircase flew open.