by Mario Puzo
Tom said, “I had no idea. Who’s Luca Brasi?”
“Who’s Luca Brasi,” Sonny repeated. “You don’t want to know who Luca Brasi is. Luca’s a guy who’ll yank your arm off and beat you to death with the bloody stump for looking at him the wrong way. I know very tough guys who are scared to death of Luca Brasi. And you just did the number on his girl.”
Tom took this information in calmly, as if considering its implications. “Okay,” he said, “so now it’s your turn to answer a question. What the hell are you doing here?”
Sonny said, “Come here!” He wrapped up Tom in a smothering embrace and backed up to get a good look at his brother. “How was she?” He waved his hand. “Madon’! She’s a dish!”
Tom stepped around Sonny. On the street a sleek roan horse pulled a Pechter Bakery wagon beside the railroad tracks, one of the spokes on the wagon’s rear wheel cracked and broken. A fat man at the reins cast a bored glance at Tom, and Tom tipped his cap to him before he turned to Sonny again. “And why are you dressed like you just spent the night with Dutch Schultz?” He fingered the lapels on Sonny’s double-breasted suit and patted the rich fabric of the vest. “How’s a kid works in a garage own a suit like this?”
“Hey,” Sonny said. “I’m doing the asking.” He put his arm around Tom’s shoulder again and directed him out to the street. “Serious, Tommy,” he said. “Do you have any idea the kind of trouble you could be in?”
Tom said, “I didn’t know she was this Luca Brasi’s girlfriend. She didn’t tell me.” He gestured up the street. “Where are we going?” he asked. “Back to Tenth Avenue?”
Sonny said, “What are you doing hanging out at Juke’s Joint?”
“How’d you know I was at Juke’s Joint?”
“Because I was there after you.”
“Well, what are you doing hanging out at Juke’s Joint?”
“Shut up before I give you a smack!” Sonny squeezed Tom’s shoulder, letting him know he wasn’t really mad at him. “I’m not the one’s in college supposed to be hitting the books.”
“It’s Saturday night,” Tom said.
“Not anymore,” Sonny said. “It’s Sunday morning. Jesus,” he added, as if he’d just reminded himself how late it was, “I’m tired.”
Tom wrestled out from under Sonny’s arm. He took off his cap, straightened out his hair, and put the cap on again, pulling the brim low on his forehead. His thoughts went back to Kelly pacing through the tiny space of her room, dragging the sheet behind her as if she knew she should cover up but couldn’t be bothered. She’d been wearing a scent that he couldn’t describe. He squeezed his upper lip, which was something he did when he was thinking hard, and smelled her on his fingers. It was a complex odor, bodily and raw. He was stunned by everything that had happened. It was as if he were living someone else’s life. Someone more like Sonny. On Eleventh, a car rattled up behind a horse-drawn cart. It slowed down briefly as its driver cast a quick glance toward the sidewalk and then swerved around the cart and drove on. “Where are we going?” Tom asked. “It’s late for a stroll.”
“I got a car,” Sonny said.
“You’ve got a car?”
“It’s the garage’s. They let me use it.”
“Where the hell’s it parked?”
“Few more blocks.”
“Why’d you park way up here if you knew I was—”
“Che cazzo!” Sonny opened his arms in a gesture that suggested amazement at Tom’s ignorance. “Because this is Luca Brasi’s territory,” he said. “Luca Brasi and the O’Rourkes and a bunch of crazy micks.”
“So what’s that to you?” Tom asked. He stepped in front of Sonny. “What’s it to a kid works in a garage whose territory this is?”
Sonny shoved Tom out of his way. It was not a gentle shove, but he was smiling. “It’s dangerous around here,” he said. “I’m not as reckless as you.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he laughed, as if he had just surprised himself.
Tom said, “All right, look,” and he started walking up the block again. “I went to Juke’s Joint with some guys I know from the dorms. We were supposed to dance a little bit, have a couple of drinks, and head back. Then this doll asks me to dance, and next thing I know, I’m in bed with her. I didn’t know she was this Luca Brasi’s girlfriend. I swear.”
“Madon’!” Sonny pointed to a black Packard parked under a streetlamp. “That’s mine,” he said.
“You mean the garage’s.”
“Right,” Sonny said. “Get in and shut up.”
Inside the car, Tom threw his arms over the back of the bench seat and watched Sonny take off his fedora, place it on the seat beside him, and extract a key from his vest pocket. The long stick shift rising from the floorboards shook slightly as the car started. Sonny pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from his jacket pocket, lit up, and then placed the cigarette in an ashtray built into the polished wood of the dashboard. A plume of smoke drifted into the windshield as Tom opened the glove box and found a box of Trojans. He said to Sonny, “They let you drive this on a Saturday night?”
Sonny pulled out onto the avenue without answering.
Tom was tired but wide-awake, and he guessed it would be a good while before he’d be doing any sleeping. Outside, the streets ticked by as Sonny headed downtown. Tom said, “You taking me back to the dorms?”
“My place,” Sonny said. “You can stay with me tonight.” He looked over at Tom. “You thought about this at all?” he said. “You got some idea what you’re going to do?”
“You mean if this Luca character finds out?”
“Yeah,” Sonny said. “That’s what I mean.”
Tom watched the streets hurry by. They were passing a line of tenements, the windows mostly dark above the glow of streetlamps. “How’s he going to find out?” he said, finally. “She won’t tell him.” Tom shook his head, as if dismissing the possibility that Luca could find out. “I think she’s a little crazy,” he said. “She was acting crazy all night.”
Sonny said, “You know this ain’t all about you, Tom. Luca finds out and comes after you, then Pop’s got to go after him. Then we got a war. And all ’cause you can’t keep your zipper closed.”
“Oh, please!” Tom shouted. “You’re lecturing me about keeping my zipper closed?”
Sonny knocked the cap off Tom’s head.
“She’s not going to tell him,” Tom said. “There won’t be any ramifications.”
“Ramifications,” Sonny mocked. “How do you know? How do you know she doesn’t want to make him jealous? Did you think about that? Maybe she’s trying to make him jealous.”
“That’s pretty crazy, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” Sonny said, “but you just said she was crazy. Plus she’s a dame and dames are all nuts. ’Specially the Irish. The whole bunch of them are lunatics.”
Tom hesitated, and then spoke as if he had settled the question. “I don’t think she’ll tell him,” he said. “If she does, I’ll have no choice but to go to Pop.”
“What’s the difference if Luca kills you or Pop kills you?”
Tom said, “What else can I do?” Then he added, the thought just occurring to him, “Maybe I should get a gun.”
“And what? Blow your foot off with it?”
“You got an idea?”
“I don’t,” Sonny said, grinning. “It’s been nice knowing you, though, Tom. You been a good brother to me.” He leaned back and filled the car with his laughing.
“You’re funny,” Tom said. “Look. I’m betting she won’t tell him.”
“Yeah,” Sonny said, taking pity on him. He knocked the ash off his cigarette, took a drag, and spoke as he exhaled. “And if she does,” he said, “Pop’ll figure out a way to fix it. You’ll be in the doghouse for a while, but he’s not lettin’ Luca kill you.” After another moment, he added, “Of course, her brothers…,” and then he laughed his big laugh again.
“You having a good time?” Tom said. “Hotsh
ot?”
“Sorry,” Sonny said, “but this is rich. Mr. Perfect’s not so perfect. Mr. Good Boy’s got a little bad in him. I’m enjoying this,” he said, and he reached over to rough up Tom’s hair.
Tom pushed his hand away. “Mama’s worried about you,” he said. “She found a fifty-dollar bill in the pocket of a pair of pants you brought her to wash.”
Sonny slammed the heel of his hand into the steering wheel. “That’s where it went! She say anything to Pop?”
“No. Not yet. But she’s worried about you.”
“What did she do with the money?”
“Gave it to me.”
Sonny looked at Tom.
“Don’t worry,” Tom said. “I’ve got it.”
“So what’s Mama worried about? I’m workin’. Tell her I saved the money.”
“Come on, Sonny. Mama’s not stupid. This is a fifty-dollar bill we’re talking about.”
“So if she’s worried, why don’t she ask me?”
Tom fell back in his seat, as if he were tired of even trying to talk to Sonny. He opened his window all the way and let the wind blow across his face. “Mama don’t ask you,” he said, “the same way she don’t ask Pop why now we own a whole building in the Bronx, when we used to live the six of us on Tenth Avenue in a two-bedroom apartment. Same reasons why she don’t ask him how come everybody that lives in the building happens to work for him, or why there’s always two guys on the front stoop watching everybody who walks or drives by.”
Sonny yawned and ran his fingers over a tangle of dark, curly hair that spilled down over his forehead almost to his eyes. “Hey,” he said. “The olive oil business is dangerous.”
“Sonny,” Tom said. “What are you doing with a fifty-dollar bill in your pocket? What are you doing in a double-breasted, pin-striped suit looking like a gangster? And why,” he asked, moving quickly to shove his hand under Sonny’s suit jacket and up toward his shoulder, “are you carrying a gun?”
“Hey, Tom,” Sonny said, pushing his hand away. “Tell me something. You think Mama really believes that Pop’s in the olive oil business?”
Tom didn’t answer. He watched Sonny and waited.
“I got the bean shooter with me,” Sonny said, “because my brother might have been in trouble and might have needed somebody to get him out of it.”
“Where do you even get a gun?” Tom said. “What’s going on with you, Sonny? Pop’ll kill you if you’re doing what it looks like you’re doing. What’s wrong with you?”
“Answer my question,” Sonny said. “I’m serious. You think Mama really believes Pop’s in the business of selling olive oil?”
“Pop is in the business of selling olive oil. Why? What business do you think he’s in?”
Sonny glanced at Tom as if to say Don’t talk like an idiot.
Tom said, “I don’t know what Mama believes. All I know is she asked me to talk to you about the money.”
“So tell her I saved it up from working at the garage.”
“Are you still working at the garage?”
“Yeah,” Sonny said. “I’m working.”
“Jesus Christ, Sonny…” Tom rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. They were on Canal Street, the sidewalks on either side of them lined with empty vendor stands. Now everything was quiet, but in a few hours the street would be crowded with people in their Sunday finery out for a stroll on a fall afternoon. He said, “Sonny, listen to me. Mama spends her whole life worrying about Pop—but about her children, Sonny, she doesn’t have to worry. Are you hearing me, hotshot?” Tom raised his voice a little to make his point. “I’m in college. You’ve got a good job at the garage. Fredo, Michael, Connie, they’re still kids. Mama can sleep at night because she doesn’t have to worry about her children, the way she has to worry, every waking moment of her life, about Pop. Think, Sonny.” Tom held one of the lapels of Sonny’s jacket between his fingers. “How much you want to put Mama through? How much is this fancy-tailored suit worth to you?”
Sonny pulled onto the sidewalk in front of a garage. He looked sleepy and bored. “We’re here,” he said. “Go open the door for me, will you, pal?”
“That’s it?” Tom said. “That’s all you got to say?”
Sonny laid his head atop the bench seat and closed his eyes. “Jeez, I’m tired.”
“You’re tired,” Tom repeated.
“Really,” Sonny said. “I’ve been up since forever.”
Tom watched Sonny and waited, until he realized, after a minute, that Sonny was falling asleep. “Mammalucc’!” he said. He gently grabbed a hunk of his brother’s hair and shook him.
“What is it?” Sonny asked without opening his eyes. “Did you get the garage yet?”
“You have a key for it?”
Sonny opened the glove box, pulled out a key, and handed it to Tom. He pointed to the car door.
“You’re welcome,” Tom said. He stepped out onto the street. They were on Mott, down the block from Sonny’s apartment. He thought about asking Sonny why he was keeping the car in a garage a block away from his apartment when he could just as easily park on the street outside his front door. He thought about it, decided against it, and went to open the garage.
For more information about The Family Corleone, you can visit:
http://www.familycorleone.com/
About the Authors
ED FALCO is the author of three novels, four story collections, and numerous plays, poems, essays, and critical reviews. Among his many awards and honors are an NEA fiction fellowship and the Southern Review’s Robert Penn Warren Prize. He is a professor of English at Virginia Tech, where he teaches in the MFA Program in Creative Writing.
* * *
MARIO PUZO was born in New York and, following military service in World War II, attended the New School for Social Research and Columbia University. His bestselling novel The Godfather (1969) was preceded by two critically acclaimed novels, The Dark Arena (1955) and The Fortunate Pilgrim (1965). He is the author of seven other novels, including The Sicilian (1984) and The Last Don (1996). Puzo also wrote many screenplays, including those for Earthquake, Superman, and all three Godfather movies, for which he received two Academy Awards. He died in July 1999 at his home on Long Island, at the age of seventy-eight.
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Contents
Welcome
Introduction
The Making of The Godfather
A Preview of The Family Corleone
About the Authors
Newsletters
Copyright
Copyright
Introduction © 2013 by Ed Falco.
“The Making of the Godfather” © 1972 by Mario Puzo. Originally published by G.P. Putnam’s Sons as part of the collection The Godfather Papers.
Excerpt from The Family Corleone © 2012 by The Estate of Mario Puzo.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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