The Family Corleone (42 page)

“Mrs. Columbo,” Sonny said, and then paused as he placed his cup down on the table and crossed his arms over his chest, announcing that he was about to say something of significance. “How come you don’t trust a good Italian boy like me?”

“What?” Mrs. Columbo appeared to be taken aback by the abrupt shift in conversation. She looked to the bowl of twist cookies in the center of the table as if something about her baking might be the cause of Sonny’s question.

“I would like to take your granddaughter out to dinner tonight where Johnny and Nino are performing. Sandra feels that this is out of the question, that you would never allow me to take her out to dinner—and so I ask, respectfully, why is it you don’t trust a good Italian boy like me, someone whose family you know and count among your friends?”

“Ah!” Mrs. Columbo slapped her cup down, sloshing a wave of coffee over the brim and onto the table. She looked as though she was more than willing to have this discussion with Sonny. “You ask me why I don’t trust a good Italian boy like you?” She waved a single outstretched finger at Sonny’s nose. “Because I know all about men, Santino Corleone! I know what men want,” she said, spitting out the words and leaning over the table, “especially young men, but, eh, all of you. You’re all the same—and Sandra and me, we have no good family man to protect us!”

“Mrs. Columbo…” Sonny cocked his head, suggesting that he took her point and understood her concern. He reached for one of the delicious twists of golden dough in the center of the table. “All I want,” he said, placing the cookie on a plate next to his cup, his voice eminently reasonable, “is to take Sandra out to a supper club, so she can hear Johnny and Nino. They’re local boys! You know them. It’s a very fancy place, Mrs. Columbo.”

“Why do you want to go out to dinner?” Mrs. Columbo asked. “Our house is not good enough for you? You get better food here than some fancy restaurant—and it doesn’t cost you your hard-earned money!”

“That I don’t argue,” Sonny said. “No restaurant can equal your cooking.”

“So?” Mrs. Columbo turned to look at Sandra for the first time, as if she had just remembered she was at the table and she wanted her support. “Why does he want to spend his money at some restaurant?” she asked Sandra.

Sandra looked to Sonny.

“Listen, Mrs. Columbo…” Sonny’s face paled as he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small package that he kept hidden in his closed fist. “This is for your Sandra,” he said, opening his hand, revealing a small black box. “I planned on surprising her with it tonight at dinner, but since we can’t have that dinner until we have your approval…” He moved the box closer to Mrs. Columbo without looking at Sandra, who had covered her mouth with her hands.

“What is this foolishness?” Mrs. Columbo snatched the box out of Sonny’s hand and opened it to reveal a diamond ring.

“This is our engagement ring.” Sonny looked across the table at Sandra. “Sandra and me are getting married,” he said. When Sandra nodded eagerly at him, a smile blossomed on his face and he added, dramatically, looking at Mrs. Columbo, “But only if you let me take her out to hear Johnny and Nino, where I can propose the question to her properly!”

“If this is trickery,” Mrs. Columbo said, waving her finger again, “I’ll go to your father!”

Sonny put his hand over his heart. “When I marry your Sandrinella,” he said, getting up from his seat, “you’ll have a man in your family to protect you.” He grasped Mrs. Columbo by the shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.

Mrs. Columbo raised a hand to Sonny’s chin and held him still while she looked into his eyes. Then she said, as if angry, “Eh! She’s
the one you should be kissing!” and pointed his face at Sandra. “Have her home before ten o’clock,” she said on her way out of the room, “or I’ll go to your father!” She turned before she left the room and raised a finger as if she might have one more thing to say, but instead she only nodded and left Sonny and Sandra alone.

Ettore Barzini followed Giuseppe as he inspected the roof, holding an umbrella over his head, while Tits did the same for Emilio. The rest of the boys were still downstairs, in the empty apartment, where someone had brought in sandwiches and a case of Coca-Cola. Giuseppe walked to the edge of the roof and looked down over the ledge to the street. Crowds of pedestrians hurried along the avenue, hidden under the multicolored circles of their umbrellas. The rain was light but steady, and an occasional pale flash of distant lightning showed through the clouds, followed by a low rumble of thunder. Giuseppe pointed to the black loops of a fire-escape ladder. To Emilio he said, “Have your boys loosen the bolts, make sure no one can climb up from the street.”

“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.