by Mario Puzo
“I’m going up on the roof. Get Emilo and tell him I want to see him, and tell him to bring Tits with him.”
“Sure,” the kid said.
“Then get this place cleaned up, put on some coffee, and get everybody else out of bed. You think you can handle all that?”
“Sure,” the kid said, and he leaned against the sink, soaking the back of his pants.
Giuseppe glared at the kid and then went back to the master bedroom, where the sheets and covers to his bed were bunched up at the footboard. He tossed and thrashed most nights, fighting with his bedding. He groaned too. Sometimes loud enough that he could be heard in the next apartment. On the other side of the open bathroom door, a mirror over the sink was still fogged with steam from the shower. He always took a shower as soon as he got out of bed. Unlike that stronz’, his father, long dead and good riddance, or his mother, the two of them, a pair of worthless drunks, them and their beloved fuckin’ Sicily. They stunk to high heaven half the time. Giuseppe got up, got showered, got dressed, first thing, always, ever since he was a young man. Always wore a suit: Even when he didn’t have two nickels to rub together, he found a way to get hold of a decent suit. Out of bed, dressed, and at his business. That’s why he was where he was and the rest of these nobodies were working for him.
He looked over the bedroom, at all the furnishings, the mahogany sleigh bed and the night tables and the matching dresser and mirror, everything brand-new. He liked the place and thought maybe he’d keep it for one of his girls after all this bullshit with Corleone was over. His jacket was hanging on the back of the bathroom door, and under it, his shoulder holster. He put the jacket on and left the holster. He opened a dresser drawer and chose a tiny derringer from a clutter of pistols. He put the gun in his jacket pocket and went up to the roof, smacking each of the sleeping guards on the head as he passed them, waking them and walking away without a word.
It was gorgeous on the roof, the sun heating up the tar paper, warming the stone cornice. He guessed the temperature was in the seventies, a sunny spring morning, almost summery. Giuseppe liked being outside, in the fresh air. It made him feel clean. He went to the edge of the roof, put a hand on the back of a gargoyle’s head, and looked out over the city, which was already bustling with people and traffic rushing along the avenues. Nearby, the white arrow of the Flatiron Building gleamed in the sunlight. When he was still coming up, he worked awhile for Bill Dwyer in Chicago. That was where he met Capone. Whenever Bill asked him to do something, didn’t he jump to it? He did. He jumped, and then they started calling him Jumpin’ Joe, which he made a big deal of not liking, but he didn’t mind it. Goddamn right he jumped. He jumped all his life. Something needed doing, he jumped to it. That’s why he rose up the way he did.
When the roof door opened behind him, Giuseppe reluctantly turned away from the warmth of the sun on his face and glanced back to Emilio, who was dressed casually in dark slacks and a blowsy pale-yellow shirt opened a couple of buttons down at the neck, revealing a gold link chain. Emilio was a sharp dresser, which was one of the things Giuseppe liked about him. What he didn’t like was seeing him in casual clothes. It wasn’t professional.
“Joe,” Emilio said as he came up alongside him. “You wanted to talk to me?”
“I get up this morning,” Giuseppe said, turning around fully to face Emilio, “I find two of your boys sleeping outside the door, everybody inside fast asleep, except one of Tony’s boys, some moron, washing his clothes in the kitchen sink.” He opened his hands, asking Emilio how to explain such bullshit.
“They’re just getting settled,” Emilio said. “The boys were up till dawn playing poker and drinking.”
“And so what? That makes a difference if Clemenza sends some of his men up here? They won’t blow our brains out because the boys were up late playing poker?”
Emilio put up his hands in submission. “It won’t happen again, Joe. I give you my word.”
“Good,” Giuseppe said. He took a seat on the stone cornice, resting his arm on the gargoyle, and motioned for Emilio to sit alongside him. “Tell me again,” he said, “we’re absolutely certain it was Frankie Pentangeli’s boys?”
“Yeah,” Emilio said. He sat alongside Giuseppe and tapped a cigarette out of his pack. “Carmine Rosato was there. He says it was Fausto and Fat Larry and a couple of boys he didn’t know. They shot up the place. We’re out ten grand, easy.”
“And the union offices?” Giuseppe motioned for Emilio to give him a cigarette.
“Had to be Frankie. We got a war now, Joe. Frankie’s with the Corleones.”
Giuseppe took the cigarette Emilio offered and tapped it against the stone cornice. Emilio handed him a lighter. “And us?” Giuseppe said. “We still pullin’ our puds?”
“They’ve moved or shut down their banks and most of their gambling places, so they’re losing money. That’s one thing. The guys,” Emilio said, “all their big guys are out at that place on Long Island. It’s like a fortress out there. You gotta risk your life just to get a peek. To get inside? You’d have to lay siege to the place, like in medieval times.”
“What times?” Giuseppe asked. He handed the lighter back to Emilio.
“Castle times,” Emilio said. “Like castles and moats and such.”
“Ah,” Emilio said, and then he was quiet as he looked up at a blue, cloudless sky. “So now we know for sure,” he said, not looking at Emilio. “It was Frankie tipped them off about the Anthonys.” He turned a grim face to Emilio. “See, I never trusted Frankie,” he said. “He didn’t like me. He smiled, he said the right things—but I could tell. He never liked me. Only thing I’m sorry is I didn’t just put a bullet in him like I should’ve.” He stubbed out his cigarette and tossed it off the roof. “You stood up for him, Emilio. You said hold on, don’t rub him out, wait and see, he’s a good guy.”
“Hey, Joe,” Emilio said. “How could I have known?”
Joe tapped a finger against his heart. “Instinct,” he said. “I didn’t know, but I suspected. I should’ve gone with my gut and killed him.”
When the roof door opened and Ettore Barzini came out of the shadowy doorway with Tits following, Giuseppe said to Emilio, slipping in a final word before the others joined them, “This thing with the Irish better work, Emilio. Do you hear me?”
“Yeah, sure,” Emilio said. “I hear you, Joe.”
Giuseppe and Emilio stood up as Ettore and Tits approached. “Emilio and I were just talking about that scumbag traitor, Frankie Pentangeli,” Giuseppe said.
“Son of a bitch,” Ettore said. He was wearing a smoky gray suit with a black shirt and no tie, the collar open. “I can hardly believe it, Joe.”
“But the thing is,” Giuseppe said, looking at Tits, “the thing that’s got me confused is, we didn’t tell Frankie about the Anthonys. And Frankie didn’t know about Capone’s men. So how’d he find out?” He took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled, his eyes on Tits. “How’d he know about Angelo’s? How’d he know about the guys the Outfit sent over? Somebody had to tip him off. Tits,” he said, “you got any ideas?”
“Don Mariposa,” Tits said. The kid’s face, his plump cheeks and ready smile that made him look childish, turned uncharacteristically hard, almost angry. “How could I tip off Frankie?” he said. “I’m not one of his guys. I have no dealings with him at all. When would I even see him to tip him off? Please. Don Mariposa, I had nothing to do with this.”
“Joe,” Ettore said, “I’ll vouch for Tits. Why would he tip off Frankie? What’s in it for him?”
“Shut up, Ettore,” Joe said, looking at Emilio. “Do you vouch for him too?” he asked Emilio.
“Sure I do,” Emilio said. “The kid’s been with me since he was a boy. He wouldn’t turn on me. It’s not him, Joe.”
“Of course he wouldn’t turn on you. You’re like a father to him. He ain’t gonna turn on you.” Giuseppe shook his head, disgusted with the whole question. He motioned for the others to follow him as
he started toward the roof door. “You know how this makes me look to the other families now? To my friend Al Capone? To the Outfit? Do you know how this makes me look?”
Tits bolted in front of the others to open the roof door for Giuseppe.
Giuseppe said to Tits, “You don’t like me much, do you?
Tits said, “I like you fine, Don Mariposa.”
“Don Mariposa, Don Mariposa,” Giuseppe said to Emilio as he stepped into the shadows of a foyer-like space above a flight of steps. “Now all of a sudden your boy’s full of respect.”
Tits pulled the door closed behind him and the four men stood in a small circle at the head of the stairs.
Giuseppe shook his head again, as if responding to an argument that the others couldn’t hear. “You know what?” he said to Tits. “I don’t know if you tipped off Frankie or the Corleones or what the fuck. But other than my captains, you’re the only one who knew all the details, so—”
“That’s not true, Don!” the kid shouted. “We all know everything.”
“I don’t keep things from my men,” Emilio said, stepping a little closer to Giuseppe. “I gotta trust them, and they all knew Frankie was cut out. None of my men said squat to him.”
Giuseppe looked into Emilio’s eyes before he turned back to the kid. “Still,” he said, “I don’t trust you, Tits. You’re a punk and I got my suspicions, so—” He took a quick step, closing the gap between himself and Tits. With his left hand he held the kid behind the neck and with his right hand he pushed the derringer into his heart and fired. He stepped back and watched the kid crumple to the floor.
Ettore turned around and looked away. Emilio didn’t move. He looked at Giuseppe in silence.
“Don’t ever question me again,” Giuseppe said to Emilio. “If I hadn’t listened to you, Frankie would have been in the ground and none of this would have come about. This should have all been over quickly, and now I got a real fuckin’ war to worry about.”
Emilio seemed hardly to have heard Giuseppe. He looked down at Tits. A little river of blood was already flowing out from under the body. “He was a good kid,” he said.
“Well, now he’s a dead kid,” Giuseppe said, and he started down the stairs. “Get rid of him.” At the bottom of the flight, he turned and looked up. “Somebody talk to the Irish,” he said. “Make sure they keep their mouths shut.” He disappeared down another flight of stairs.
When Giuseppe’s footsteps faded and Ettore was certain he wouldn’t be overheard, he turned to his brother. “The son of a bitch was probably right, though,” he said. “Tits probably did tip off Frankie. He hated Joe.”
“We don’t know that,” Emilio said. He started down the stairs with Ettore behind him. “Get a couple of the boys and bring him over to that mortuary in Greenpoint, near his family.”
Ettore said, “You think Joe—”
“Fuck Joe,” Emilio said. “Do what I told you.”
23.
Cork pulled the bakery’s green window shade halfway down against the blaze of morning sunlight coming in off the street. Eileen had just delivered a steaming tray of sweet sticky buns and the shop smelled of cinnamon and fresh-baked bread. The early morning rush of customers had already come and gone, and now Eileen had disappeared upstairs with Caitlin and left him to straighten out the display cases and get the shop in order. Cork didn’t mind working in the bakery. He was getting to like it, though he could do without the white apron and cap Eileen made him wear. He liked chatting with the customers, who were almost exclusively women. He enjoyed telling stories with the married women and flirting with the unmarried ones. Eileen swore that business had picked up the day after he’d started working the counter.
As soon as the shade was set, a long black dress appeared in the bottom of the window, and a moment later the bell rang over the door as Mrs. O’Rourke came into the shop toting a brown paper bag. She was a narrow wisp of a woman with graying hair and a scrunched-up face that looked like it was wincing even when at ease.
“Ah, Mrs. O’Rourke,” Cork said, a note of sympathy in his tone.
“Bobby Corcoran,” Mrs. O’Rourke said. She was dressed in mourning black and she carried the smell of beer and cigarettes into the bakery with her. She ran the fingers of her free hand through her thinning hair as if straightening herself out in the presence of a man. “It was you I came here looking for,” she said. “I heard you were working behind the counter.”
“That I am,” Cork said. He started to offer his condolences but didn’t get past the mention of Kelly’s name before the old woman interrupted him.
“I never had a daughter,” she said. “No daughter of mine would bed a murdering wop like Luca Brasi, the filthy guinea bastard.”
Cork said, “I understand how you must feel, Mrs. O’Rourke.”
“Do you?” she said, and her face twisted with disgust as she clasped the brown paper bag to her chest and took a couple of unsteady steps toward the counter. “Sean tells me you had a big fallin’ out with your friend Sonny Corleone. Is that the truth?”
“It is,” Cork said, and he countered his repugnance at the approach of the old lady by leaning over the display case and offering her a slight smile. “We don’t see eye to eye anymore.”
“That’s good,” Mrs. O’Rourke said, and she clutched the brown paper bag tighter to her chest. She looked like she was torn between speaking and remaining silent.
“Is there something I can do for you this morning?” Cork asked.
“That’s good,” Mrs. O’Rourke repeated, as if Cork hadn’t said a word. She took another step toward the display case and then leaned toward Cork. Though he was still several feet away, she looked as though she were talking to him face-to-face. She lowered her voice. “That Sonny will get his,” she said, “him and Luca Brasi and all those miserable dagos.” She brushed her hair back, pleased with herself. “They’ve got a nice Irish surprise coming to them.”
“What’s that you’re talkin’ about, Mrs. O’Rourke?” Cork asked, offering a little laugh along with the question. “I’m not making you out.”
“You will,” Mrs. O’Rourke said, and she added a little laugh of her own. At the door, before she stepped out into the sunlight, she turned back to Cork and said, “God loves a parade,” and she laughed again, bitterly, and then disappeared onto the street, letting the door swing closed behind her.
Cork watched the door as if the meaning of the old lady’s words might suddenly appear in the shafts of sun coming through the fanlight. He’d seen a story in the morning paper about a parade. In the back room, he found the New York American open to the comics, and he flipped through the pages until he found the story, which was a single column on page three. A parade was scheduled for Manhattan in the afternoon, along Broadway, something about civic responsibility. It looked like some political foolishness to Cork, and he couldn’t imagine what Sonny and his family would have to do with it. He tossed the paper down and went back to straightening out the display cases, but his thoughts were stuck on Mrs. O’Rourke saying “God loves a parade” and “Sonny will get his,” and after a minute or two of fiddling with the pastries, he flipped the Closed sign on the front door, turned the lock, and hurried up the back stairs.
He found Eileen in the living room stretched out on the sofa, holding a giggling Caitlin over her head. The child had her arms spread like wings and was pretending to fly. “Who’s minding the shop?” Eileen said at the sight of him.
“Uncle Bobby!” Caitlin squealed. “Look! I’m flying like a bird!”
Bobby picked up Caitlin, threw her over his shoulder, and spun her around once before putting her down and patting her butt. “Go play with your toys a minute, sweetheart,” he said. “I need to talk some grown-up things with your mom.”
Caitlin looked to her mom. When Eileen pointed to the doorway, she pouted dramatically, then put her hands on her hips and went off to her room in a playful pretence of indignation.
“Did you at least lock the
door?” Eileen said, pulling herself upright on the couch.
“And put up the Closed sign,” Bobby said. “It’ll be slow until lunch anyway.” He took a seat beside Eileen on the couch and explained what had just gone on with Mrs. O’Rourke.
“She was probably drunk and ravin’ like a lunatic,” Eileen said. “What time is the parade supposed to start?”
Cork looked at his wristwatch. “In about an hour.”
“So,” Eileen said. She paused, took another second to think things over. “Go find Sonny and tell him what happened. He probably won’t know a thing about any of it, and that’ll be that.”
“And I’ll feel like an idiot.”
“You’re a pair of idiots, the two of you,” Eileen said. She yanked Bobby to her and kissed him on the side of his head. “Go find Sonny and talk to him. It’s time you two buried the hatchet.”
“What about Caitlin? Will you be okay runnin’ the shop?”
Eileen rolled her eyes. “Now you’re indispensable, are you?” She got to her feet, squeezing Bobby’s knee in the process. “Don’t take too long,” she said, on her way to the bedrooms. In the doorway, she turned and waved him toward the kitchen and out the door. “Go on, go on,” she said, and went off to get Caitlin.
Vito handed Fredo a handkerchief. They were on Sixth Avenue, between Thirty-Second and Thirty-Third Street, waiting with hundreds of others for the start of the parade. Fredo had gotten out of bed coughing but insisted on joining the rest of the family for the parade, and now Carmella was standing behind him, holding the palm of her hand over his forehead and frowning at Vito. The day was intermittently cloudy and sunny and promised to warm up, but at that moment, in the shadow of Gimbels Department Store, it was chilly and Fredo was shivering. Vito held Connie by the hand as he looked over Fredo. Behind Carmella, Santino and Tom pretend-boxed with Michael, who was excited about the parade and played along, slipping punches in under Sonny’s arms and throwing a shoulder into Tom’s gut. At the other end of the street, Councilman Fischer was surrounded by a dozen big shots, including the chief of police, all dressed up in his starched uniform with ribbons and medals pinned to his chest. Vito and his family had walked right by the group without so much as a nod from the councilman.