The Family Corleone (13 page)

“Kelly…” Luca closed his eyes, as if he needed to disappear for a second. When he opened them, he said, “You know you’re the only one I bring out here, doll face. You know that.”

“That’s so sweet,” Kelly said. She pinched the neck of her robe together with both hands. She clutched the terry-cloth lapels, as if
holding on to steady herself. “So where do you shack up with the rest of your whores, then? One of those uptown cathouses?”

Luca laughed and pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. “I like Madam Crystal’s place on Riverside Drive,” he said. “You know it?”

“How would I know it?” Kelly shouted. “What do you mean by that?”

Luca patted the mattress beside him. “Come here,” he said.

“Why?”

“I said come here.”

Kelly glanced behind her, down the stairs and out the window on the landing, where she could see the end of the driveway and the empty road and the trees beyond it.

Luca said, “Don’t make me say it again.”

Kelly sighed and said, “For Christ’s sake, Luca.” She climbed up on the mattress and sat beside him, still clutching the lapels of her robe.

Luca said, “I’m gonna ask you one more time, and I want an answer. Who was the college boy you were talking about at Juke’s?”

“Ah, not this again,” Kelly said. “I told you. He’s nobody. Just some kid.”

Luca snatched Kelly by the hair with one hand, picked her up like a puppet, and swung her around in front of him. “I know you,” he said, “and I know there’s more—and now you’re gonna tell me.”

“Luca,” Kelly said. She grabbed at his hand and pulled herself up. “You’re my guy, Luca. I swear. You’re the only one.” When Luca tightened his grip and reached back with his free hand as if to slap her, she yelled. “Don’t, Luca! Please! I’m knocked up, Luca. It’s yours, and I’m knocked up!”

“You’re what?” Luca pulled Kelly close to him.

“I’m pregnant,” Kelly said, letting loose the tears she’d been holding back. “It’s your baby, Luca.”

Luca dropped Kelly and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. He sat still and stared at the wall. He bowed his head.

“Luca,” Kelly said, softly. She touched his back and he jumped away from her. “Luca,” she said again.

Luca went to the closet and came back flipping through the pages of a small black book. When he found what he was looking for, he sat on the edge of the bed, in front of Kelly. “Pick it up,” he said, nodding to the phone. “I want you to call this number.”

“Why, Luca? What do you want me to call someone for?”

“You’re getting rid of it,” he said, and he placed the black book on the mattress in front of her. He watched her, waiting to see what she would do.

Kelly backed away from the book. “No,” she said. “I can’t do that, Luca. We’d both go to hell. I can’t.”

“You stupid gash,” Luca said, “we’re both going to hell anyway.” He took the phone from the night table and dropped it on the mattress at Kelly’s knees. The mouthpiece fell off its hook and he put it back in place. He picked up the phone and held it in front of her. “Dial the number,” he said. When Kelly shook her head, he threw the phone at her.

Kelly screamed more out of fear than pain. She backed away. “I’m not gonna do that!” she yelled, perched at the edge of the mattress.

Luca put the phone back on the night table. “You’re getting rid of it,” he said to her, calmly, across the mattress.

“I’m not!” Kelly screamed, kneeling, thrusting herself toward him.

“You’re not?” Luca said. He leapt onto the bed and knocked Kelly off the mattress and onto the floor.

Kelly scuttled into a corner and yelled, “I’m not, Luca! Fuck you! I’m not gonna do it!”

Luca picked her up, one hand under her legs and the other under her shoulders. He ignored her as she beat at his chest and face. He carried her to the stairs and tossed her down.

From the bottom of the landing Kelly screamed a litany of curses. She wasn’t hurt. She’d hit her head on a post and both her knees stung, but she knew she wasn’t really hurt. She yelled up the stairs, “You’re a miserable guinea bastard, Luca!”

Luca nodded as he watched her on the landing with the window at her back. His face was so dark he looked like someone different altogether. Downstairs the furnace roared again and the whole house shook.

“You want to know about that college boy?” Kelly said. Her robe had fallen open and she pulled herself to her feet, wrapped the robe around her tightly, and tied the belt in a neat bow. “He’s Tom Hagen,” Kelly said. “You know who that is?”

Luca didn’t say anything. He watched her and waited.

“That’s Vito Corleone’s son,” she said, “and I let him screw me even after I knew I was carrying your baby. What do you think of that, Luca?”

Luca only nodded.

“What are you gonna do now?” she asked, and she took a step toward him on the stairs. “You know who the Corleones are, don’t you, Luca? All you dago goons know each other, right? So what are you gonna do now?” she asked. “You gonna kill me while I’m carrying your baby? Then you gonna kill Vito Corleone’s kid? You gonna go to war with the whole family?”

“He’s not Vito’s kid,” Luca said, calmly, “but, yeah, I’m gonna kill him.” He started down the stairs and stopped. “How do you even know about Vito Corleone and his family?” He sounded merely curious, as if all his anger had suddenly gone out of him.

Kelly took a step up the stairs. Her hands were balled up into fists. “Hooks told me all about the Corleones,” she said, and she took another step up. “And I did a little looking into them on my own.” There was blood on her cheek and she wiped it away. She didn’t know where it came from.

“Yeah, you did?” Luca said, and now suddenly he was amused. “You looked into them?”

“That’s right,” Kelly said. “I found out all about them. And you know what I found out? They’re not so big you can’t take ’em on, Luca. Who’s tougher than you? You could take over their territories and be making millions.”

Luca said, “Maybe that’s what will have to be, now you put me in the position of having to kill one of Vito’s kids.”

“And what about me?” Kelly asked, her voice softening a little, a touch of fear in it now. “You gonna kill me too?”

“Nah,” Luca said. “I’m not gonna kill you.” He started down the
stairs, his movements slow and lumbering, as if the weight of his huge body was pulling him down. “But I am gonna give you a beatin’ you won’t forget.”

“Go ahead,” Kelly said. “What do I care? What do I care about anything?” She thrust her chin out to Luca. She climbed another step and waited for him.

Eileen lifted the bedsheet and looked under it. “My God, Sonny,” she said, “they ought to build a shrine to that thing.”

Sonny played with Eileen’s hair where it fell to her bare shoulder. He liked the feel of her hair, the fineness of it between his fingers. They were in her bed late on a blustery autumn afternoon. Sunlight came in through the slatted blinds of a window over the headboard in a straight line and tinted the room red. Caitlin was with her grandmother, where she spent every Wednesday through to dinnertime. Eileen had closed the bakery an hour early.

Sonny said, “Some of the kids in school used to call me the Whip.”

“The Whip, did they?”

“Yeah,” Sonny said. “You know, in the locker room after gym, they’d—”

“Sure, I get the picture,” Eileen said. “You don’t need to explain.”

Sonny put his arm around Eileen’s waist and pulled her to him. He nuzzled in her hair and kissed the top of her head.

Eileen laid her head on his chest. She was quiet awhile, and then she picked up where she’d left off. “Really, Sonny,” she said, “we should take a picture of it. When I tell my girlfriends they’ll think I’m the dirtiest liar in all of New York City.”

“Stop it,” Sonny said. “We both know you’re not telling nobody nothin’.”

“That’s true,” Eileen said. She added, wistfully, “But I’d like to.”

Sonny pulled her hair back off her face so that he could see her eyes. “No you wouldn’t,” he said. “You like secrets.”

Eileen thought about that and said, “True again. I suppose I’m not about to tell anyone I’m shacking up with my kid brother’s best friend.”

Sonny asked, “Are you worried about your reputation?”

Eileen shifted her weight and turned her head so that her cheek pressed against Sonny’s chest and the line of curly hair that spread from breast to breast like wings. On her dresser a framed picture of Jimmy and Caitlin lay facedown. She always turned the picture down when she was with Sonny—and it never helped. On the other side of the black cardboard Jimmy Gibson has just tossed his daughter in the air. His arms are outstretched as he looks up to Caitlin’s delighted face and waits eternally for her to return to his arms. “I suppose I am worried about my reputation,” she said. “Your being seventeen wouldn’t look good, but even worse than that, you’re a dago.”

“You don’t seem to mind.”

“I don’t,” Eileen said, “but the rest of my family is not so open-minded.”

“How come some of you micks have it in for Italians so bad?”

“You Italians don’t have any great love for the Irish, now, do you?”

“It’s different,” Sonny said. He put his arms around her waist and pulled her closer. “We knock heads with you,” he added, “but we don’t hate you like you’re scum. Some of you Irish, you act like Italians are dirt.”

“Oh,” Eileen asked, “are we getting serious now?”

“A little,” Sonny answered.

Eileen gave the question a moment’s thought. The bedroom door was closed and locked and on the back of it Sonny’s jacket and cap hung from the top hook. Her work clothes hung from the bottom hook. She stared at the drab blouse and skirt, and through the closed door to the kitchen beyond, and beyond the kitchen to the red brick walls of the apartment house, where she could hear Mrs. Fallon out on the fire escape beating a rug or a mattress, the
thap-thap
of a blunt object striking something soft. “I suppose,” she said, “to lots of the Irish you’re not white, now, are you? They think of you like they think of the colored, like you’re not the same race as the rest of us.”

“Do you think that?” Sonny asked. “Do you think we’re not the same race?”

“What do I care about such things?” Eileen said. “I’m sleeping with you, aren’t I?” She lifted the sheet and looked under it again. “But you are a monster, Sonny!” she said. “My God!”

Sonny pushed Eileen onto her back and hovered over her. He liked to look at the whiteness of her skin, how creamy and soft it was, with a small reddish birthmark by her hip, something no one else got to see.

“What are you thinkin’, Sonny Corleone?” Eileen glanced down and said, “Never mind. I see what you’re thinking.”

Sonny pushed her hair back off her face and kissed her lips.

“We can’t,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because that would be three times this afternoon!” Eileen pressed her hands flat against Sonny’s chest, holding him at bay. “I’m an old lady, Sonny,” she said. “I can’t take it!”

“Ah, come on,” Sonny said. He kissed her again and nuzzled at her breasts.

“I can’t,” Eileen said. “Stop. I’ll be walkin’ funny for days as is. People notice!” When Sonny didn’t stop she sighed, kissed him once, a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, and wiggled out from under him. “Besides, it’s too late.” She got up from the bed, found a slip in a dresser drawer, and threw it on. “Cork might come around,” she added. She gestured for Sonny to get out of the bed.

“Cork doesn’t come around in the afternoons.” Sonny fluffed a pillow under his head and folded his hands over his stomach.

“But he might,” Eileen said, “and then we’d both be in trouble.”

“You sure Cork don’t have any idea about us?”

“Of course he doesn’t have any idea about us!” Eileen said. “Are you mad, Sonny? Bobby Corcoran is an Irishman and I’m his sainted sister. He doesn’t believe I have sex at all.” She kicked the mattress. “Get up and get yourself dressed! I have to bathe and go get Caitlin before six.” She checked her watch on the dresser. “Good Lord,” she said, “it’s already five thirty.”

“Ah, nuts,” Sonny said. He got up, found his pile of clothes by the side of the bed, and started to dress. “It’s too bad you’re such an old
lady.” He zipped up his pants and got into his undershirt. “Otherwise,” he added, “I might get serious about you.”

Eileen took Sonny’s jacket and cap from the door. She folded the jacket over her arm and held the cap in her hand. “This is a fling we’re having,” she said, watching Sonny button up his shirt and buckle his belt. “Cork can’t ever know about it, or anyone else, for that matter. I’m ten years too old for you,” she said, “and that’s that.”

Sonny took his jacket from her and slipped into it as she wrestled his cap over his curls and pulled it down on his head. “I’m havin’ dinner with a pretty girl on Sunday,” he told her. “She’s sixteen and Italian.”

“Good for you,” Eileen said and took a step back from him. “What’s her name?”

“Sandra.” Sonny reached for the doorknob but kept his eyes on Eileen.

“Well, don’t you ruin her, Sonny Corleone.” Eileen put her hands on her hips and looked at Sonny sternly. “Sixteen’s too young for what we’re doing.”

“And what is it we’re doing?” Sonny asked, grinning.

“You know full well what we’re doing,” Eileen said. She pushed him out of the bedroom and into the kitchen and followed him to the front door. “This is nothing but a good time,” she said, getting up on her toes to kiss him a peck on the lips. “Nothin’ but a good time and a roll in the hay,” she added, and she opened the door for him.

Sonny glanced at the hall to be sure they were alone. “Next Wednesday?”

“Sure,” Eileen said. She winked at him and closed the door and then stood with her hand on the knob and listened as Sonny ran down the steps. “Christ,” she said, thinking about the time. She hurried to the bath and got into the tub while the water was still running.

T
omasino Cinquemani scratched his ribs with one hand and pawed a tumbler of whiskey with the other. It was late, past three in morning, and he was in a booth across from Giuseppe Mariposa, Emilio Barzini, and Tony Rosato. Emilio’s and Tony’s younger brothers, Ettore and Carmine, guys still in their twenties, were squeezed into the booth alongside Tomasino. Frankie Pentangeli, in his forties, straddled a chair facing the table with his arms folded over the backrest. They were at Chez Hollywood, one of Phillip Tattaglia’s clubs in midtown Manhattan. The place was huge, with potted palm trees and ferns spread across a massive dance floor. Their booth was one of several lined up against a wall, at a right angle to the bandstand, where a few musicians and a canary were talking as the musicians took their time packing up instruments. The canary wore a red sequined gown with a neckline that plunged toward her naval. She had marcelled platinum-blond hair and dark, smoky eyes. Giuseppe was telling stories to the table, and every once in a while he’d stop and stare a minute at the girl, who looked like she might not even be in her twenties yet.