by Mario Puzo
To enter Angelo’s from the street, the two Anthonys had to climb down three steps and pull open a heavy door with the name of the restaurant on a brass plate under a small rectangular window. That brass plate was the only indication there was a restaurant in a place that otherwise looked like a basement apartment, no windows looking out onto the street, only a red brick wall and those three steps to a heavy wooden door. Anthony Firenza glanced back to the black Chrysler four-door parked on the street in front of the restaurant, Fio Inzana, a kid with peach-fuzz on his face, at the wheel. The kid looked like he couldn’t be more than sixteen. Firenza didn’t like having a bambino as his wheelman. It made him nervous. Beside him at the door, Bocatelli, the other Anthony, peered into the restaurant through a clouded pane of glass. He was the bigger of the two Anthonys, though in stature and age they were roughly the same, both pushing fifty, both a little over five-ten. They’d known each other since they were boys growing up on the same block in Cleveland Heights. They’d started getting in trouble together as teenagers and by the time they were in their twenties they were known by everybody as the two Anthonys.
Bocatelli shrugged and said, “I can’t see much. You ready?”
Firenza looked through the window. He could make out the rough outline of a few tables. “Only looks like a few people in there,” he said. “We shouldn’t have any trouble spotting them.”
“But you know them, right?” Bocatelli said.
“Been a few years, but, yeah, I know Pete,” he said. “You ready?”
The Anthonys were both wearing black trench coats over snappy three-piece suits with white tab collars and gold collar bars, matching bright white carnations pinned to their lapels. Under Firenza’s trench coat, a double-barreled, sawed-off shotgun was holstered at his waist. Bocatelli was lightly armed in comparison, with a Colt .45 in his pocket.
Firenza said, “I kind of like Pete. He’s a funny guy.”
“We’ll send him a nice wreath,” Bocatelli said. “The family will appreciate it.”
Firenza took a step back and Bocatelli opened the door for him.
Clemenza recognized him right away, and Firenza acted surprised at seeing him. “Eh, Pete,” he said. He started to pull open his trench coat, Bocatelli coming up alongside him as they approached Clemenza’s table. Genco twisted around in his chair just as Bocatelli reached into his pocket—and then the kitchen doors swung open and a monster of a man stepped through them, his arms dangling at his sides, his face twisted grotesquely. The guy was tall enough that he had to stoop as he passed through the doors. He took a few steps into the room and stood at ease behind Clemenza. Firenza had already reached under his trench coat, about to pull the shotgun from its holster, and Bocatelli alongside him had his hand in his coat pocket—but both men froze at the sight of that bestia coming through the kitchen doors. Luca and the two Anthonys stared at each other over the heads of Pete and Genco, everyone frozen in place until two gunshots from the street broke the tableau. Bocatelli turned his head slightly, as if he had considered looking behind him in the direction of the gunshots, before he jumped, mimicking the movement of Firenza beside him, Bocatelli bringing the Colt out of his pocket and Firenza pulling out the shotgun. They appeared to have been confused by the huge, unarmed man at the table behind Clemenza before they realized what was going on and went for their weapons—and by that time, it was too late. The four men slightly in front of them at the wall tables already had their guns in hand. They lifted them from under red cloth napkins and fired a dozen shots seemingly all at once.
Clemenza lifted a glass of wine to his lips. Two of his men came out of the kitchen once the shooting was over, one of them carrying sheets of plastic, the other with a wash bucket and mop, and a minute later the two Anthonys were being hauled through the kitchen door and out of sight. All that was left behind were slick wet spots where their blood had been cleaned up. Richie Gatto and Eddie Veltri, two of the four who had done the shooting, approached Clemenza as Luca Brasi without a word followed the others and disappeared through the kitchen. “Put the bodies in the car with the driver and take them down to the river,” Clemenza said.
Richie looked through the portholes, as if to assure himself no one was listening. “That Brasi’s got some balls,” he said to Clemenza. “No gun, no nothin’. He just stood there.”
Genco said to Clemenza, “Did you see the Anthonys stop in their tracks soon as he came through the door?”
Clemenza acted unimpressed. To Richie and Eddie he said, “Andate!” and as they started to leave, he twisted in his seat and called into the kitchen. “Frankie! What are you doing back there?”
Frankie Pentangeli came out of the kitchen while the doors were still swinging from Richie and Eddie’s departure.
“Come here!” Clemenza said, his mood suddenly jovial. “Sit down!” He pulled a chair out from the table. “Look at this!” He removed the cover from the silver plate in the center of the table and revealed a baked lamb’s head, cloven in two, the milky eyeballs still in place.
“Capozzell’,” Genco said. “Angelo makes the best.”
“Capozzell’ d’angell’,” Frankie said in his gravelly voice, as if talking to himself, laughing a little. “My brother in Catania, he makes this,” he said. “He loves the brains.”
“Oh! That’s what I like, the brains!” Clemenza said. “Sit down!” He slapped the table. “Mangia!”
“Sure,” Frankie said. He clasped Genco’s shoulder by way of a greeting and took a seat.
“Angelo!” Clemenza called to the kitchen. “Bring another plate!” To Frankie he said again, “Mangia!”
“We should talk business,” Frankie said, as Genco took a wineglass from another table and poured Frankie some Chianti.
“Not now,” Clemenza said. “You did good. We’ll talk later, with Vito. Now,” he said, shaking Frankie’s wrist, “now we eat.”
“If I squint my eyes,” Sandra said, “it’s like we’re flying.” She leaned against the door and looked out the car window as the upper stories of apartment buildings rushed by, most of the windows brightly lit, sometimes with a quick blur of people going about their private lives, oblivious to the traffic sailing past them.
Sonny had taken the West Side Highway out of the city and was about to exit on the way back to Arthur Avenue and the Bronx. “They used to call this Death Avenue,” he said, “before they elevated it like this. When all the traffic was down on the street with the trains, they’d crash all the time, the trains and the cars.”
Sandra appeared not to hear him. Then she said, “I don’t want to think about crashes tonight, Sonny. Tonight is like a dream.” She squinted her eyes and looked out the window to the buildings and the skyline. When Sonny took the exit ramp and descended to the street, she sat up, slid across the seat, and rested her head on his shoulder. “I love you, Santino,” she said. “I’m so happy.”
Sonny shifted into second gear and put his arm around her. When she nuzzled closer to him, he pulled the Packard over to the curb, cut the engine, and wrapped her up in his arms, kissing her and letting his hands wander over her body for the first time. When he held her breasts and she didn’t resist, when she instead made a sound like a cat purring and ran her fingers through his hair, he pulled away from her and started the car.
“What is it?” Sandra asked. “Sonny…”
Sonny didn’t answer. He made a face like he was struggling to find words and turned onto Tremont Avenue, where he nearly ran into the back of a horse-drawn wagon.
Sandra asked, “Did I do something wrong?” She folded her hands in her lap and stared out the front window as if she were afraid to look at Sonny, afraid of what he might say.
“It’s nothin’ about you,” Sonny said. “You’re beautiful,” he added as he slowed the car to a crawl, following the junk wagon. “I want to do everything right with you,” he said, turning to look at her. “So it’s all special, the way it should be.”
“Oh,” Sandra said, the
single syllable full of disappointment.
“When we get married,” he said, “we can have a honeymoon. We can go someplace like Niagara Falls.” He turned to look at her again. “We can make it be like it’s supposed to when you get married.” He was quiet, and then he laughed.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Me,” Sonny said. “I think I might be going crazy.”
Sandra slid close to him again and hooked her arms around his. “Have you told your family yet?”
“Not yet.” He gave her a quick kiss. “I wanted to be sure you’d say yes.”
“You knew I’d say yes,” she said. “I’m crazy about you.”
“What’s this?” Sonny had just turned onto Sandra’s street, and the first thing he saw was his father’s big Essex parked in front of her building.
“What?” Sandra looked to her building and then up to her grandmother’s window.
“That’s my father’s car,” Sonny said. He pulled up to the curb, in front of the Essex, and hopped out to the street just as Clemenza was stepping out onto the sidewalk, followed by Tessio. In the front seat, Richie Gatto lifted his fingers from the steering wheel, acknowledging Sonny. Al Hats sat alongside him with his arms crossed over his chest, a black homburg circling his head.
“What’s going on?” Sonny asked, his face red.
“Calm down,” Clemenza said, and he clapped a meaty hand around Sonny’s forearm.
Tessio, standing next to Clemenza, said, “Everything’s all right, Sonny.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“You must be Sandra.” Clemenza stepped around Sonny and offered Sandra his hand.
Sandra hesitated, looked to Sonny, and when he nodded she took Clemenza’s hand. “We’re going to steal Sonny away from you,” Clemenza said. “He’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Che cazzo!” Sonny started toward Clemenza and was stopped abruptly when Tessio slapped his arm around his shoulder and pulled him close.
“Everything’s okay, honey,” Tessio said to Sandra in his typical monotone, a voice that always sounded like it was in mourning.
“Santino,” Sandra said, frightened, turning Sonny’s name into a question.
Sonny pulled loose from Tessio. “I’ll see her to the door,” he said to Clemenza. To Sandra he said, leading her up the stairs, “These are close friends of my family.” He added, “There must be some kind of a problem. I’ll tell you soon as I know.”
At the door, Sandra asked, “Is everything all right, though, Sonny?” and the words came out more like a plea than a question.
“Yeah, of course!” Sonny kissed her on the cheek. “It’s something to do with the family business.” He opened the door for her. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Are you sure?” Sandra looked past him, to Clemenza and Tessio, where they stood on either side of the big Essex, like sentries.
“Of course I’m sure,” Sonny said. He nudged her inside the door. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, I promise.” He closed the door behind her after a quick kiss on the lips and trotted down the steps. When he was in the backseat of the car, between Clemenza and Tessio, he looked from one to the other and said, calmly, “What’s going on?”
Richie started the car and Al thrust his open hand at Sonny.
Tessio said, “Give him your car keys. You’re coming with us.”
Sonny looked at Tessio as if he was on the verge of punching him, but he handed Al his keys.
Hats said, “Meet you at the offices,” and got out of the car.
Clemenza said, “Mariposa came after me and Genco tonight.”
“Genco?” Sonny said, his voice suddenly thick with worry.
“No, Genco’s fine,” Clemenza said, and he put a hand on Sonny’s shoulder, as if to calm him.
“What happened?”
Richie made a careful three-point turn and headed back to Hughes Avenue with Al following in the Packard.
“Mariposa brought in a couple of torpedoes from Cleveland,” Clemenza said, “to push me and Genco.” He shrugged. “We found out in time. Now they’re in the river seeing if they can swim back to Cleveland underwater.”
“And we got a war,” Tessio added.
Sonny looked to Clemenza. “We gonna kill that son of a bitch now?”
Tessio said, “You’re coming back with us to the offices, where we’re meeting with your father. If you’re smart, you’ll shut up, listen, and do what you’re told.”
“That bastard,” Sonny said, thinking of Mariposa. “We should blow his brains out. That’d put an end to things pretty quick.”
Clemenza sighed. “You should take Tessio’s advice, Sonny, and keep your mouth shut.”
“’Fancul’,” Sonny said, to no one in particular, “and I just asked Sandra to marry me.”
The car went quiet at Sonny’s announcement, as Clemenza and Tessio stared at him, and even Richie, behind the wheel, turned around to throw a quick glance into the backseat.
“Does your father know about this?” Clemenza asked.
“Nah, not yet.”
“And you’re telling us first?” Clemenza yelled. He slapped Sonny on the back of the head. “Mammalucc’!” he said. “Something like this, you tell your father first. Come here.” He leaned into Sonny, put an arm around him, and pulled him close. “Congratulations,” he said, “maybe you’ll grow up now.”
When Clemenza let him loose, Tessio gave Sonny a hug and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re eighteen,” he said, “right? That’s how old I was when I married my Lucille. Smartest thing I ever did.”
“Big day today,” Clemenza said, “love and war.”
From the front seat, Richie said, “Congratulations, Sonny. She’s a beauty.”
“Jesus,” Sonny said, “a war…,” as if the import of what he’d been told was just dawning on him.
On Hester Street, Richie Gatto pulled up behind the warehouse, where two of Tessio’s men were standing on either side of the entrance to the alley. The weather had turned chilly and damp, and a breeze through the alley fluttered the canvas tarps on a line of delivery trucks. Two shadowy figures stood by the back door to the warehouse, where a cat meowed at their feet, and then stood up on its back legs before one of the figures bent to it and picked it up, silencing it by scratching its neck. In the sky, a sliver of a sickle moon was visible through a break in the clouds.
Sonny quickly made his way down the alley. When he neared the back entrance, where Clemenza and Tessio had just disappeared into the warehouse, he saw that the shadowy figures at the door were the Romero twins. They were both wearing trench coats, under which Sonny could see the shape of a pair of choppers. “Boys,” Sonny said, and he stopped to shake hands with them, while Richie Gatto waited behind him. “Looks like there’s finally gonna be some action.”
“Couldn’t tell it from around here.” Vinnie tossed the cat he was holding onto the back of one of the delivery trucks, where it quickly jumped down and disappeared into the shadows.
“Everything’s quiet here,” Angelo said, echoing his brother. He adjusted his hat, a brown derby with a small red and white feather in the brim.
Sonny snatched the hat off Angelo’s head and looked it over, and then, grinning, nodded toward Vinnie’s black felt fedora. “They’re making you wear different hats now,” he said, “to tell you apart. Right?”
Vinnie gestured to his brother. “He’s got to wear that thing with a pretty little feather.”
“Mannaggia la miseria,” Angelo said. “It makes me look like a mick.”
“Hey, boys,” Richie said, and he put a hand on the back of Sonny’s arm. “We got business to take care of.”
“I’ll talk with you later.” Sonny reached for the door, but Angelo stepped in front of him and pulled it open first. “You guys making good money?” Sonny asked with one foot in the doorway and the other in the alley. The twins nodded and Vinnie patted Sonny on the shoulder, and then Sonny made his way into the warehouse.
> “There may not be anything going on right now,” Richie said to the twins, “but that don’t mean nothing for five minutes from now. You guys understand what I’m saying?” The twins said “Yeah, sure,” and Richie added, “Keep your mind on the job.”
Sonny opened the door to his father’s office while Frankie Pentangeli was in the middle of a sentence. Frankie stopped and the room went quiet as everybody turned to Sonny and then Richie Gatto in the doorway. Vito was seated behind his desk, leaning back in his office chair. Tessio and Genco were seated in front of the desk, while Clemenza sat on the big file cabinet and Luca Brasi stood with his back to the wall, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes vacant, looking at nothing but the space immediately in front of him. Frankie straddled a folding chair beside Tessio and Genco, his arms crossed over the backrest. Vito gestured for Sonny and Richie to come into the office. To Frankie he said, “You know my son Santino.”
“Sure,” Frankie said. He flashed a smile at Vito. “They grow up fast!”
Vito shrugged as if he wasn’t sure about that. “Go on,” he said, “please.”
Richie and Sonny found a couple of folding chairs at the back of the room. Richie flipped his open and took a seat close to Clemenza. Sonny carried his chair around to the side of the desk and sat close to his father.
Frankie’s eyes followed Santino, as if he was a little surprised to see the boy position himself so close to the don.
“Per favore,” Vito said, urging Frankie to continue.
“Yeah,” Frankie said. “Like I was saying. Mariposa is going crazy. He says he wants his boys to find the bodies of the Anthonys and bring ’em back to him just so’s he can piss on them.”
“Too bad,” Clemenza said, “because he ain’t gonna have any luck with that.”
“Buffóne,” Genco said, meaning Giuseppe.
“But he has friends,” Frankie said. “I got word he went to Capone, and Al’s sending two of his torpedoes to take care of you, Vito. I don’t know who they are yet, but that Chicago Outfit, they’re beasts.”