The Family Corleone (54 page)

“He don’t mean it,” Nico said, once Angelo was gone. “He’s distraught, Sonny. You know how close they were, those two. They were like each other’s shadows. Jesus, Sonny.”

“Sure.” Sonny handed the envelope to Nico. “Tell him I understand,” he said. “And tell him my family will provide whatever he and his family might need, now or in the future. You got that, Nico?”

“He knows that,” Nico said. He put the envelope in his pocket. “I’ll make sure they get this.”

Sonny patted Nico on the shoulder as a departing gesture, and then started down the stairs.

“I’ll walk with you to your car,” Nico said, following him. When they were on the street, he asked, “What will happen with Bobby now? I heard he’s hiding out.”

Sonny said, “I don’t know,” and his tone of voice and manner said he didn’t want to talk about Bobby.

“Listen, I wanted to tell you,” Nico said, and he took Sonny by the arm and stopped him on the street. “Me and Angelo were talking, and Angelo figures that Bobby must have been shootin’ at Stevie Dwyer, not your father. Your father don’t make any sense, Sonny. You know that.”

“Stevie Dwyer?”

“That’s what Angelo thinks. That’s what Vinnie thought, too. They had a chance to talk it over before Vinnie got shot.”

Sonny scratched his head and looked toward the street, as if he might somehow be able to see what happened at the parade. “Stevie Dwyer?” he said again.

“That’s what Angelo says. They didn’t see it, but Angelo said Stevie was behind your father, and then after Bobby’s shot, Luca got Stevie. I wasn’t there,” he said, and he shoved his hands in his pockets, “but, Sonny, damn, Bobby loves you and your family and he hated Stevie. It makes sense, don’t it?”

Sonny tried to think back to the parade. He remembered seeing Bobby take the shot at his father, and then Vito went down, and that’s all he remembered. Everybody was shooting everywhere. Stevie Dwyer wound up dead. He tried to remember but already everything that had happened at the parade and right after was a jumble. He rubbed his knuckles along his jaw. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know what the hell happened. I got to talk with Bobby. It don’t look good,” he added, “that he’s hiding out.”

“Yeah, but you know,” Nico said. They were nearing Sonny’s car. “You know Bobby wouldn’t take a shot at your father. That just ain’t right,” he said. “You know that, Sonny.”

“I don’t know what I know.” Sonny stepped into the street, starting for his car. “What about you?” he asked, changing the subject. “How do you like your job?”

“It’s a job.” Nico took his hat off and blocked it as Sonny got into the car. “It’s hard work on the docks.”

“That’s what I hear.” Sonny closed the car door and sat back in his seat. “But the pay’s decent in the union, right?”

“Sure,” Nico said. “I don’t get to buy fancy clothes or anything anymore, but it’s okay. Did you hear I got a girl?”

“Nah,” Sonny said. “Who is it?”

“You don’t know her,” Nico said. “Her name’s Anastasia.”

“Anastasia,” Sonny said. “You got yourself a nice Greek girl.”

“Sure,” Nico said. “We’re talking about getting married and having kids already. I figure now I’ve got a decent job, I can make a good future for them.” Nico smiled and then blushed, as if he’d just embarrassed himself. “Tell your father thank you for me, Sonny. Tell him I appreciate him getting me this job, okay?”

Sonny started the car and then reached out the window to shake Nico’s hand. “Take care of yourself,” he said.

“Sure,” Nico said, and then he hesitated at the car door, watching Sonny as if there was more he wanted to say. He stood there another second or two past the point when it became awkward, as if whatever it was he wanted to say was pushing at him—and then he gave up and laughed awkwardly and walked away.

Jimmy Mancini shouldered his way through a narrow door and dragged Corr Gibson into a windowless room where Clemenza stood over a long stainless steel table, hefting a glistening butcher knife in his right hand, as if testing its weight and balance. Al Hats followed Jimmy into the room carrying Corr’s shillelagh.

“Where the hell am I?” Corr asked, as Jimmy propped him up on his feet. The Irishman sounded drunk, and he had indeed been drinking most of the night before Jimmy and Al found him asleep in his bed and delivered a beating that rendered him senseless. As he moved in and out of consciousness, he kept asking where he was and what was going on, as if he had never fully awakened. “Pete,” he said, squinting through swollen, half-closed eyes. “Clemenza,” he said. “Where am I?”

Clemenza found an apron hanging nearby and put it on. “You don’t know where you are, Corr?” He tied the apron behind his back. “This place is famous,” he said. “This is Mario’s Butcher Shop in
Little Italy. Everybody knows this place. Mayor LaGuardia gets his sausage here.” Clemenza returned to the table and touched the blade of the butcher knife. “Mario knows how to take care of his utensils,” he said. “He keeps his knives sharp.”

“Does he now?” Corr said. He yanked his arm free from Jimmy and managed to stand unsteadily but on his own. He looked at the stainless steel table and the butcher knife in Clemenza’s hand and laughed. “You fucking guineas,” he said. “You’re all a bunch of barbarians.”

Clemenza said, still talking about Mario’s Butcher Shop, “Of course, Sicilians don’t come here. This is a Neapolitan sausage place. We don’t like Neapolitan sausage. They don’t know how to make it right, even with all their fancy stuff.” He glanced around at the array of cutlery and shiny pots and pans and various culinary equipment, including a band saw at the far end of the table.

“Where’s my shillelagh?” Corr asked. When he saw that Al was holding it in front of him, leaning on it like Fred Astaire, he said, wistfully, “Ah, how I’d love one last chance to bash your head in with it, Pete.”

“Yeah, but you won’t get it,” Clemenza said, and he gestured to Jimmy. “Take care of him in the freezer,” he said. “It’s quiet in there.” Corr went off without a fight, and Clemenza called after him, “See you in a few minutes, Corr.”

When the Irishman and the boys were out of sight, Clemenza stood in front of an array of knives and saws of various sizes, shapes, and designs hanging from a wall. “Will you look at all this,” he said, and whistled in appreciation.

Tessio, with Emilio Barzini in front of him and Phillip Tattaglia following, made his way through a maze of tables, where fifty or more diners in evening wear chatted and laughed over their meals. The club, not as fashionable as the Stork Club but a close cousin, was located in a midtown hotel and crowded every night of the week with celebrities—but it was not a club that any of the families frequented. Tessio glanced from table to table as he made his way to the back of
the room. He thought he might have seen Joan Blondell at one of the tables, seated across from a classy-looking guy he didn’t recognize. To one side of the room, where a small orchestra was set up on a long white riser that served as a stage, a band leader in tails stepped up to a wide microphone next to a white grand piano and tapped the mike three times with a baton, and the orchestra launched into a snappy version of “My Blue Heaven.”

“This dame’s got a voice like an angel,” Tattaglia said, as a young woman with smoky eyes and long black hair approached the microphone and began to sing.

“Yeah,” Tessio said, and the single syllable came out sounding like a dolorous grunt.

At the back of the room, Little Carmine, one of Tomasino’s boys, stood in front of a pair of glass doors with his hands clasped at his waist, watching the singer. A flimsy curtain covered the length of the glass doors, and through it Tessio could see the outline of two figures seated at a table. When Emilio reached the doors, Little Carmine opened one for him, and Tessio and Tattaglia followed Emilio into a small room occupied by a single round table large enough to seat a dozen diners, though there were places set for only five. A waiter stood beside the table with a bottle of wine in his hand, next to Mariposa, who was wearing a gray three-piece suit with a bright-blue tie and a white carnation. Tomasino Cinquemani was seated next to Mariposa in a rumpled jacket with the top button of his shirt undone and his tie slightly loosened. “Salvatore!” Mariposa called out as Tessio entered the room. “Good to see you, my old friend,” he said. He rose and extended his hand, which Tessio shook.

“You too, Joe.” Tessio offered a slight nod to Tomasino, who hadn’t risen but nonetheless looked glad to see him.

“Sit!” Mariposa gestured to the seat alongside him and then turned his attention to the waiter as Barzini and Tattaglia joined Tessio in taking their seats at the table.

To the waiter, Giuseppe said, “I want the best of everything for my friends. Be sure the antipasto is fresh,” he said, lecturing the waiter. “For the sauces, squid on one pasta, nice and black. On the ravioli,
fresh tomato with just the right amount of garlic: not too much just because we’re Italians, eh!” He laughed and looked around the table. To Tessio he said, “I’ve ordered us a feast. You’re gonna love this.”

“Joe’s a gourmet,” Tattaglia said to the table. To Tessio he added, “It’s a privilege to let him order for us.”

“
Basta
,” Joe said to Tattaglia, though clearly he was flattered. To the waiter he said, finishing up, “Be sure the lamb is the youngest you have, and the roast potatoes,” he said, gesturing with his thumb and forefinger pinched together, “must be crisp.
Capisc’?
”

“Certainly,” the waiter answered, and then exited the room, Little Carmine opening the door from the outside as he approached it.

With the waiter gone, Barzini leaned over the table to Tessio, and his manner and tone suggested he was about to make a joke. “Joe always insists the cooks prepare his meals with virgin olive oil,” he said, and then raised a finger and added, “but never Genco Pura!”

Mariposa laughed along with the others, though he didn’t seem particularly amused. When the table quieted he settled into his seat, clasped his hands in front of him, and addressed Tessio. The music from the club and the chatter of diners was muted enough by the closed doors for easy conversation, though, still, Joe had to speak up over the noise. “Salvatore,” he said. “You don’t know what a pleasure it is to see you. I’m honored that we will be true friends in the years to come.”

Tessio answered, “I have always wanted your friendship, Don Mariposa. Your wisdom—and your strength—have inspired my admiration.”

As usual, Tessio sounded like he was delivering a eulogy. Mariposa, nonetheless, was beaming. “Ah, Salvatore,” he said, and suddenly his demeanor changed to one of great seriousness. He touched his hand to his heart. “Surely you understand, Salvatore: We never wanted to go through with this parade thing, but the Corleones, they got themselves barricaded out there in Long Beach!
Madon’!
An army couldn’t get to them there! Barzini here had to slither like a snake just to get word to you.” Mariposa sounded deeply angry, furious at the Corleones. “They forced this parade thing on us,” he
said, “and look at how it turned out!” He slapped the table. “An abomination!”

“
Sì
,” Tessio said, gravely. “An abomination.”

“And now we’ll make them pay,” Mariposa said, leaning over the table. “Tell me, Salvatore…” He filled Tessio’s wineglass from the bottle of Montepulciano in the center of the table. “What can I do for you in return for this favor you offer me?”

Tessio looked around the table, surprised to be getting down to business so quickly. Emilio nodded to him, encouraging him to respond. Tessio said to Mariposa, “I want to make a peaceful living. The bookmaking in Brooklyn. The concessions on Coney Island. That’s all I need.”

Mariposa sat back in his chair. “That’s a very good living,” he said, “and peaceful.” He paused, as if to think it over, and then said, “You have my word on it.”

“We have an understanding, then,” Tessio said. “Thank you, Don Mariposa.” He rose and reached across the table to shake hands.

“
Splendido
,” Emilio said, as Mariposa and Tessio shook hands. He clapped politely, along with Tattaglia, and then looked at his wristwatch. To Giuseppe he said, “Now that you two have an agreement, Tattaglia and I need to take care of a few things with our boys.” He stood and Tattaglia joined him. “Give us a few minutes,” he said. “We’ll be right back.”

“But where are you going?” Giuseppe objected. He looked surprised. “Right now you have to go?”

“We have to set some things in motion,” Tattaglia said.

“It won’t take five minutes,” Emilio added, and he put a hand on Tattaglia’s shoulder and led him to the door, which, again, magically opened for him.

Giuseppe looked to Tomasino, as if for reassurance. To Tessio he said, “Business,” and made a face. “They’ll be right back.”

Once Tattaglia and Barzini were out of the room, Tomasino turned in his chair and wrapped his beefy arms around Giuseppe’s chest, pinning him to his seat, while in the same moment, Tessio rose and stuffed a cloth napkin in his mouth.

Giuseppe craned and twisted his neck, trying to look behind him to the man who was holding him fast to his seat. Through the napkin he muttered “Tomasino!”

Tomasino said, “It’s business, Joe,” as Tessio removed a garrote from his jacket pocket and snapped the thin piano wire taut in front of Giuseppe’s face.

“I usually don’t do the dirty work anymore,” Tessio said as he moved behind Mariposa. “But this is special,” he added, whispering into his ear. “Just for you, I insisted.” He wrapped the wire around Mariposa’s neck, slowly at first, giving him time to feel the cold metal against his skin. Then Tomasino let go of Mariposa as Tessio pulled the wire tight while at the same time pressing his knee into the back of Giuseppe’s chair for leverage. Giuseppe struggled and managed to kick the leg of the dining table, knocking it back and spilling a place setting to the floor before the wire cut through his jugular, sending a spray of blood over the white tablecloth. In another second, his body went limp and Tessio pushed him forward. Mariposa remained in his seat, slumped over his place setting, blood spilling from his neck and pooling rapidly into his plate, which quickly filled up to look like a bowl of red soup.