by Mario Puzo
“Sure,” Emilio said. A gust of wind ruffled his hair. With the palm of his hand he pushed back a few loose strands that had fallen over his forehead. “Tell you the truth, Joe,” he said, “we take care of Clemenza and Genco tonight, I think Vito comes to us tomorrow with his tail between his legs.”
Giuseppe pulled his jacket tight and turned his back to the wind. At each corner of the roof, the hunched shape of a gargoyle peered down over the city streets. He was silent a moment, thinking, and then he said, “I’d like to see that, Vito Corleone coming to me with his tail between his legs. You know what I’d do?” he asked, perking up, “I’d kill him anyway—but first I’d let him try some of his big talk on me.” He smiled, his eyes bright. “Oh, yeah?” he said, mimicking talking to Vito. “Oh, really? That’s interesting, Vito.” He raised his hand as if holding a gun and pointed it at Emilio’s head. “Pop! I’d blow his brains all over the wall. I’d tell him, That’s how I talk, Vito. What do you think of that?” He looked to Tits and Ettore, as if he had just remembered that they were there and now he wanted their response. Both young men smiled as if they had immensely enjoyed his story.
Emilio didn’t smile. “He’s a smart guy, Vito Corleone,” he said. “I don’t like him either, Joe, but he’s not all talk. What I’m saying, we take care of Clemenza and Genco, he’s crippled and he’ll be the first to know it.” He paused and moved closer to Tits. He yanked the kid’s hand down a few inches, bringing the umbrella closer. “He’ll be the first to know he’s crippled,” Emilio repeated, “and then, I think, he’ll give us what we want. His only other choice will be a war that he knows he’ll lose—and he’s not a hothead. He’s not crazy. We can bank on him doing what’s best for him and his family.”
A lightning flash, brighter than the others, lit up the dark clouds for an instant. Giuseppe waited for the thunder, which came several seconds later, a muted distant boom. “So I don’t push him right away, you’re saying?”
“I don’t think he’ll give you the chance.” Emilio put his arm around Giuseppe’s shoulders and guided him back to the roof door as the rain started to come down harder. “Vito’s not stupid,” he continued, “but soon enough…” He opened his hand in front of him, a gesture that suggested he was showing Mariposa the future. “We make sure he keeps getting weaker, and then—Then we take care of him.”
“Only thing that worries me,” Giuseppe said, “is Luca Brasi. I don’t like it.”
Tits opened the roof door and stepped aside. “I don’t like it either,” Emilio said, waiting alongside Tits, “but what can you do? We have to take care of Luca, we’ll take care of him.”
“Tommy wants to rip Brasi’s heart out,” Giuseppe said, and he stepped out of the rain and into a well-lit area at the head of a flight of stairs. “What about Vito’s boy, Sonny?” Giuseppe asked Emilio. “Is he a problem?”
“Sonny?” Emilio said. “He’s a bambino. But, probably, when we get to Vito we’ll have to take care of him, too.”
“Too many sons in this business,” Joe said, thinking of the LaContis. At the top of the stairs he stopped and watched Tits pull the roof door closed and lock it with a key that Emilio handed to him. “Did you make sure about the newspaper guys?” he asked Emilio.
“They’ll be at the club with the photographers.”
“Good. It’s always smart to have an alibi.” Giuseppe started down the stairs and then turned around again. “You reserved us a table by the stage, right?”
“Joe, we got it all taken care of.” Emilio joined Giuseppe on the stairs, put his hand on the back of his arm, and guided him down the steps. “What about Frankie?” he asked. “He should be there with us.”
Giuseppe shook his head. “I don’t trust him. I don’t want him to know anything more than he has to know.”
“Say, Joe,” Emilio said, “is Frankie with us or not?”
“I don’t know,” Giuseppe said. “Let’s see how things go.” At the bottom of the flight of stairs, Carmine Rosato waited. “You trust these guys, the two Anthonys?” Joe asked Emilio.
“They’re good,” Emilio said. “I’ve used them before.”
“I don’t know.” Giuseppe stopped at the bottom of the flight and stood beside Carmine. “These Cleveland guys,” he said, “they’re buffoons, Forlenza and all the rest of them.”
“They’ve gotten the job done for me before,” Emilio said. “They’re good boys.”
“And we’re sure Clemenza and Genco will be there?” Joe asked. “I never heard of this Angelo’s.”
Emilio nodded to Carmine.
“It’s a little family place,” Carmine said, “a hole in the wall on the East Side. A kid who works there, he’s the son of one of our guys. The way it is, Clemenza and Abbandando, they eat there all the time. They make the reservations under phony names, but this Angelo, he hears them calling each other by their real names—so when the reservation comes in, he tells the kid, ‘reservation for Pete and Genco.’ The kid’s light goes on—Pete Clemenza, Genco Abbandando. He tells his dad…”
“Luck,” Emilio said. “We caught a break.”
Mariposa smiled at the notion of luck being on his side. “Make sure they’ve got everything they need, these Cleveland mugs.” To Tits he said, “You know where they’re staying?” When Tits said he did, Giuseppe pulled a roll of bills out of his pocket and peeled off a twenty. “Go get them a couple of fresh carnations,” he said. “Tell them I said they should look good when they rub out these two pricks.”
“Sure,” Tits said, taking the twenty. “When? Right now?”
“No, yesterday,” Giuseppe said, and slapped Tits playfully on the side of the head. He laughed and pushed Tits toward the steps. “Yeah, go on,” he said. “Go do what I said.”
“Take my car.” Emilio handed Tits the keys. “And come right back.”
“Sure,” Tits said. He glanced once quickly to Emilio, and then hurried down the stairs, leaving the others behind him, where he heard them pick up their conversation once he was out of sight.
Out of the building, Tits scanned the street for parked cars. He saw Emilio’s and walked toward it and then past it, to the corner of Twenty-Fourth, where he again scanned both sides of the street. In the middle of the block, toward Sixth Avenue, he spotted Frankie’s black De Soto and approached it casually, glancing back now and then over his shoulder. When he reached the car he bent down to the street-side window, which was open.
“Get in,” Frankie said. “I been watchin’ the street. It’s okay.”
The kid got in the car and then slouched down so that his knees were up on the dashboard and his head was hidden by the seat back.
Frankie Pentangeli looked down at Tits and laughed. “I told you,” he said, “there’s nobody out here.”
“I don’t want to have to explain to anybody what I was doing in your car.”
“What are you doing in my car?” Frankie asked, still amused at the sight of Tits scrunched up in a ball. “What do you got for me?”
“It’s tonight,” Tits said. “Emilio brought in the two Anthonys from Cleveland.”
“Anthony Bocatelli and Anthony Firenza,” Frankie said, all the amusement rapidly going out of him. “You sure no one else?”
“Just Fio Inzana,” Tits said. “He’s the driver. Everybody else will be at the Stork Club getting their pictures taken.”
“Everybody but me,” Frankie said. He took an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Tits.
Tits pushed the envelope away. “I don’t want money,” he said. “Makes me feel like a Judas.”
“Kid…,” Frankie said, meaning he should take the money.
“Just don’t forget me,” Tits said, “if somehow you come out on top in all this.” He looked up at Frankie. “I hate Jumpin’ Joe, il bastardo.”
“You and everybody else,” Frankie said, and he put the envelope back in his pocket. “I won’t forget,” he added. “Meanwhile, keep your mouth shut, so if I don’t come out
on top, you’ll still be okay. Understand? Not a word to anyone.”
“Sure,” Tits said, “but you need me, you tell me.” He popped his head over the back of the seat and looked up and down the block. “Okay, Frankie,” he said, getting out of the car, “see you in the funny pages.”
Frankie watched Tits walk back up the block toward Broadway. Once the kid turned the corner and disappeared, he started the car. To himself he said, “V’fancul’,” and then he pulled out into the traffic.
On the stage, which was a platform at the back of a long, narrow room that resembled a railroad car, Johnny leaned over the mike he held in his left hand and sang a particularly moody version of “I Cover the Waterfront,” his right hand open at his waist, palm turned out to the crowd, as if imploring them to listen. For the most part, the dozens of patrons ignored him as they ate meals at tables so crammed into the available space that the waiters had to turn sideways as they navigated the maze with trays of food held high over their heads. Some of the women, though, were watching and listening, and they all seemed to share the same absorbed, wistful expression while they turned sideways in their seats, their eyes on the skinny, bow-tied singer while their boyfriends or husbands went about digging into their food and drinking their wine or liquor. There was no possible room to dance. Even a trip to the restrooms involved a delicate ballet of twists and turns. Still, the place, as Johnny had promised, was swanky. The women were dressed in gowns and pearls and glittery diamond jewelry, and the men looked like bankers and politicians in tailored suits and patent leather shoes that caught the light and glistened when they crossed the room.
“He sings beautifully, don’t you think?” Sandra asked. She held her wineglass by the stem with her right hand while her left hand rested, only slightly awkwardly, on her knee. She had on the dress Sonny had bought for her, a long lavender gown, tight around her waist and thighs and billowing out over her calves where it swept the floor when she walked.
“Nothing’s as beautiful as you tonight,” Sonny said, and then smiled to see that he had made her blush yet again. He sipped his whiskey and his eyes dropped to Sandra’s breasts, which were covered entirely by a high neckline but were revealed still by the way the silky fabric clung to them.
“What are you looking at?” Sandra asked, and then Sonny blushed, embarrassed, before he caught himself and laughed at her boldness.
“You’re full of surprises,” he said. “I didn’t know that about you.”
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Sandra said. “A girl should surprise her guy now and then.”
Sonny propped his head on his hands and grinned as he looked at Sandra appraisingly. “That salesgirl who helped me pick out your dress,” he said, “she knew her stuff.”
Sandra let go of her wineglass and reached across the table to take Sonny’s hand. “I’m so happy, Santino,” she said, and gazed up at him.
When the silence felt a little awkward, Sonny looked across the room to the stage. “He’s a little crazy, that Johnny,” he said. “My father got him a good job as a riveter in the shipyards, but he wants to be a singer.” Sonny made a face that said he didn’t understand Johnny. “He’s got some voice though, huh?” When Sandra only nodded, he added, “His mother’s a pip. Madon’!”
“What about his mother?” Sandra asked. She lifted the wineglass to her lips and took a healthy sip.
“Nothing, really,” Sonny said. “She’s a little nutty, that’s all. I guess that’s where Johnny gets it from. His father’s a fire chief,” he said. “Good friend of the family.”
Sandra listened as Johnny finished up the song accompanied by Nino. “They look like good boys,” she said.
“They’re swell,” Sonny said. “Tell me about Sicily,” he added. “What was it like growing up there?”
“A lot of my family,” she said, “they died in the earthquake.”
“Oh,” Sonny said. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
“It was before I was born,” she said, as if to excuse Sonny from having to feel bad for her. “My relatives that survived, they all left Messina and came to America, and then some of them, later, they went back to Messina and started up their lives again—so, for me, I’m from Sicily, true, but I grew up hearing about the wonderful America, about what a great country, America.”
“So why’d they go back?”
“I don’t know,” Sandra said. “Sicily’s beautiful,” she added, after thinking about it. “I miss the beaches and the mountains, especially Lipari, where we used to go for vacations.”
“How come I never hear you speaking Italian?” Sonny asked. “Even with your grandmother.”
“I grew up, my parents talked English around me, my relatives talked English. They sent me to school to improve my English… I speak English better than I speak Italian!”
Sonny laughed at that, and an echoing burst of laughter came from the back of the room, from the tables surrounding the stage, where Nino was goofing around with Johnny.
“The food…,” Sandra whispered, as if to warn Sonny of their waiter’s approach. A tall, handsome, middle-aged man who spoke with a French accent appeared alongside the table. He placed two covered dishes in front of them and dramatically announced the meals as he removed each silver-plated cover. “Chicken cordon bleu,” he said to Sandra. “And a porterhouse steak, rare, for the gentleman,” he said, though it sounded more like “pewterhose steak” to Sonny’s ear. When he was finished, the waiter hesitated, as if to see if the diners had any requests. When neither spoke, he bowed briskly from the waist and left.
“Did he think we forgot what we ordered?” Sonny asked, and he mimicked the waiter’s accent, “Pewterhose steak!”
“Look,” Sandra said, and she turned toward the back of the room, where Johnny had just stepped off the stage to polite applause and was making his way to their table.
Sonny stood to greet Johnny. They embraced, slapping each other on the back. “Oh!” Johnny said, glancing at the bloody steak on Sonny’s plate. “You sure that thing’s dead?”
“Johnny,” Sonny said, ignoring the joke. “I want you to meet my future wife.” He gestured to Sandra.
Johnny took a step back and looked at Sonny, as if waiting for a punch line. “You’re on the level?” he asked, and then he looked down at the table as Sandra placed her hand on the tablecloth beside her plate, displaying the diamond on her finger. “Well, will you look at that,” he said, and he shook Sonny’s hand. “Congratulations, Santino.” He extended his hand to Sandra. When she took his awkwardly, without getting up from her seat, he bent to her, lifted her hand, and kissed it. “We’re family now,” he said. “Sonny’s father’s my godfather. I hope you’ll think of me like a brother.”
“Yeah, a brother,” Sonny said, and he shoved Johnny. To Sandra he said, “You gotta watch this guy.”
“And of course I’ll be singing at your wedding,” he said to Sandra. To Sonny he said, “And I won’t even charge you too much.”
“Where’s Nino?” Sonny asked.
“Ah, he’s mad at me again.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothin’! He’s always getting mad at me about something.” Johnny shrugged, as if there was no understanding Nino. “I have to go back to work,” he said. He lowered his voice. “This place is nothin’ but squares. I got some mug up there keeps asking me to sing ‘Inka Dinka Doo.’ I look like Jimmy Durante to you? Don’t answer that!” he said, before Sonny could jump on the opening.
Just as Johnny started to leave, Sandra said, “You sing beautifully, Johnny.”
Johnny’s expression changed at the compliment, turned unguarded and almost innocent. He seemed stuck for how to reply, and then finally said, “Thank you,” and went back up to the stage, where Nino was waiting for him.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Johnny said to the audience, “I’d like to dedicate this next song to my dear friend, Santino, Sonny Corleone, and the beautiful young woman in the lavender gown”—he poin
ted across the room, and Sonny, in turn, pointed to Sandra—“who is obviously much too beautiful for a palooka like Sonny, but for reasons incomprehensible to mere mortals, has apparently just agreed to marry him.” The crowd applauded politely. Nino nearly dropped his mandolin before he stood up and opened his arms to Sonny and Sandra. “This is a new Harold Arlen number,” Johnny said, “and I gotta think it’s exactly what my friend Sonny is feeling right now.” He turned and whispered something to Nino, and then he leaned over the mike and started singing “I’ve Got the World on a String.”
Across from Sonny, Sandra ignored her food as she watched the stage intently. Sonny reached over the table and took her hand, and then they both sat quietly, along with everyone else in the room, and listened to Johnny sing.
At Angelo’s, the waiter had just delivered a covered tray to the table where Clemenza and Genco were talking casually to each other, a squat, straw-wrapped bottle of Chianti between them on a red tablecloth. Genco’s elbows rested on either side of his plate, his hands pressed together palm to palm in front of his face, his two index fingers squeezing the tip of his nose. He nodded now and then as he listened to Clemenza, who was doing most of the talking. They both looked to be absorbed in their conversation, and neither of them seemed interested in the tray that had just been delivered. The restaurant was tiny, with only six tables, all of them close together. Clemenza’s back was to the kitchen, near a set of leather-encased swinging doors with porthole windows through which Genco could see Angelo at his stove beside a stainless steel counter. The four other diners in the room were at tables across from each other, against opposite walls, making a small triangle, their two tables at the base and Clemenza and Genco at the tip. The place was quiet, filled only with the muted sounds of three conversations and the occasional clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen.