“You’re sick,” Vito said to Fredo. “You’re shivering.”
“No, I’m not,” Fredo said. He peeled his mother’s hand off his forehead. “I just got a little chill. That’s all, Pop.”
Vito raised his finger to Fredo and called to Al Hats, who was looking over the crowd with Richie Gatto and the Romero twins. On the other side of the block, Luca Brasi and his boys were mingling with the crowd. When Al approached Vito with a cigarette dangling from his lips and his fedora tilted low on his forehead, Vito yanked the cigarette out of his mouth and stubbed it out with his toe. He straightened the fedora. “Take Fredo home,” he said. “He’s got a fever.”
“Sorry,” Al said to Vito, meaning he was sorry for walking around with a cigarette dangling from his lips, looking like a caricature of a thug. He straightened out his tie, which was dark gray over a maroon shirt. To Fredo he said, “Come on, kid. We’ll stop at a soda fountain and get you a milkshake.”
“Yeah?” Fredo said, looking to his mother.
“Sure,” Carmella said. “It’s good for your fever.”
“Hey, you guys,” Fredo called to his brothers, “I gotta go ’cause I’m sick.”
The boys quit horsing around and joined Fredo and their parents. There were people all around them, many Italians, but Poles and Irish, too, and a group of Hasidim in black robes and black fedoras. “Sorry you have to go,” Michael said to Fredo. “You want me to get you the mayor’s autograph if we see him?”
“Why would I want that fat jerk’s autograph?” Fredo said, and he shoved Michael.
“Cut it out,” Sonny said, and he grabbed Michael by the collar before he could shove Fredo back.
Vito looked at his boys and sighed. He motioned to Hats, who took Fredo by the arm and led him away.
Michael said, “Sorry, Pop,” and quickly added, “But do you think we’ll see the mayor? Do you think I can get his autograph?”
Vito lifted Connie to his chest and pulled her blue dress down over her knees, straightening it out. “Your sister’s being an angel,” he said to Michael.
“Sorry, Pop, really,” Michael said. “I’m sorry for fightin’ with Fredo.”
Vito looked at Michael sternly before he put his arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. “If you want the mayor’s autograph, I’ll see that you get it.”
“Really, Pop?” Michael said. “You can do that?”
Tom said, “Hey, Michael. Pop can get you any autograph you want, kid.”
“You should be asking for Pop’s autograph,” Sonny said, and slapped Michael playfully on the forehead.
“Sonny!” Carmella said. “Always so rough!” She brushed a hand over Michael’s forehead, as if to cure the sting of Sonny’s slap.
From someplace nearby but out of sight, the rude belch of a tuba sounded, followed by a discordant array of musical instruments squealing and howling as a marching band warmed up. “Here we go,” Vito said, and he gathered his family around him. A moment later, a parade marshal appeared and began directing groups out onto the street and shouting directions. Across Sixth Avenue, Luca Brasi stood as motionless as a building, his eyes on Vito.
Vito nodded to Luca and led his family out onto the avenue.
Cork pulled his Nash to the sidewalk in front of Sonny’s building when he saw Hats approaching the steps with a hand on Fredo’s shoulder. Fat Bobby and Johnny LaSala, who had been standing at Sonny’s door like a pair of sentries, started quickly down the steps, each with a hand in his jacket pocket. Cork slid across the seat and popped his head out the window.
“Cork!” Fredo yelled and trotted over to the car.
“Hey, Fredo!” Cork said, and nodded to Hats. On the stoop, the two sentries returned to their post. “I’m lookin for Sonny,” Cork said to Fredo. “He’s not at his place, and I thought he might be with you guys.”
“Nah, he’s at the parade,” Fredo said. “I was just with him, but I’m sick so I gotta come home.”
“Ah, too bad,” Cork said. “He’s at a parade? Sonny?”
“Yeah, everybody’s there,” Fredo said, “ ’Cept me now.”
“A parade?” Cork asked again.
“What’s the matter, Cork?” Hats said. “You hard of hearing now?”
“All the big shots are there,” Fredo said. “Even the mayor.”
“No kiddin’?” Cork pulled his cap off and scratched his head as if he was still finding it hard to believe that Sonny was at a parade. “So where is this parade?” he asked Fredo.
Hats pulled Fredo back from the car and said, “What are you asking so many questions for?”
“ ’Cause I’m lookin’ for Sonny,” Cork said.
“Well, look for him another time,” Hats said. “He’s busy today.”
“They’re by Gimbels in the city,” Fredo said. “The whole family’s there: Sonny, Tom, everybody.” When Hats gave him a murderous look, Fredo yelled, “He’s Sonny’s best friend!”
Cork said to Fredo, “Take care of yourself, kid. You’ll be feeling better in no time.” He nodded to Hats again, and then slid back over to the driver’s seat.
In Manhattan, the cops had Herald Square blocked off with yellow barricades, though the streets were hardly lined with throngs of parade goers. The pedestrian traffic looked like about what you’d expect for any day of the week, maybe a little heavier. Cork navigated around barricades and parked in the shadow of the Empire State Building. Before he got out of the car, he took a Smith & Wesson from the glove compartment and put it in his jacket pocket. On the street, he found a subway entrance and hustled out of the sunlight and into the chilly air of the tunnels, amid the rumbling clatter of trains. He’d been shopping before at Gimbels, with Eileen and Caitlin, and he figured he could navigate the tunnels that led directly into the store. Once underground, he didn’t have any trouble finding his way: He followed the signs and the crowds into the bargain basement of the huge department store, where shopgirls worked a labyrinth of display cases and counters. From Gimbels, he followed the signs until he was out on the street, and he made his way to Sixth Avenue and then to Broadway, where a line of majorettes in white uniforms were twirling and tossing batons to the music of a marching band.
Parade watchers lined up two and three deep along the curb, leaving plenty of room on the sidewalk for the ordinary foot traffic of the city. Cork squeezed his way out to the street in time to see Mayor LaGuardia waving to the crowd from atop a slow-moving flatbed truck. The mayor was surrounded by cops dressed up like generals and a crowd of officials in suits and uniforms, but his portly shape and the energetic way he waved his hat at the crowd made him unmistakable. A mob of police surrounded him and his contingent, and the parade stretched out in front of them as far as Cork could see along Broadway. Behind the mayor’s truck, two cops on horseback followed like slow-moving place markers separating the city officials from the majorettes and the marching band’s clash of drums and cymbals and horns blaring “The Stars and Stripes Forever.”
Cork moved along the sidewalk in the opposite direction of the parade, past the marching band, looking for Sonny. Overhead, a line of gray clouds drifted past buildings, blocking the sun and creating a patchwork of light and shadow that seemed to move along the avenue as if following the procession. Once the marching band had passed, all that remained of the parade were clusters of people walking down the center of the street. One group of a dozen men, women, and children carried a banner that read Walter’s Stationery, 1355 Broadway. Beyond them, a well-dressed couple walked hand in hand, waving to the crowd. At the same moment that Cork spotted Luca Brasi on the other side of the street, Angelo Romero stepped in front of him, cutting him off. Cork backed up and then saw that it was his friend grinning at him.
“What the hell are you doing here, Cork?” Angelo took him by the shoulders and gave him a shake.
“Angelo,” Cork said, “what’s going on?”
Angelo glanced at the street and then back to Cork. “It’s a parade,” he said.
“What do you think?”
“Thanks,” Cork said. He grabbed Angelo’s derby off his head and flicked at the red and white feather. “I’ve got an uncle from the old country wears a hat like this.”
Angelo snatched the hat back. “So what are you doing here?” he asked again.
“I was shopping at Gimbels,” Cork said. “Eileen sent me. What are you doing here?” He gestured across the street. “And Luca?”
“The Corleones are in the parade. We’re looking out, making sure there’s no trouble.”
“Where are they?” Cork said, scanning the street again. “I don’t see them.”
“They’re a couple of blocks back,” Angelo said. “Come on. You want to come with us?”
“Nah,” Cork said. He spotted two of Luca’s guys, Tony Coli and Paulie Attardi, mingling with the crowd. Tony had a limp, from where he’d been shot in the leg by Willie O’Rourke. “Do you have Luca’s whole gang here?” Cork asked.
“Yeah,” Angelo said. “Luca and his boys, me and Vinnie, and Richie Gatto.”
“Where’s Nico?” Cork asked. “No Greeks allowed?”
“You didn’t hear about Nico?” Angelo said. “The Corleones got him a job on the docks.”
“Oh yeah,” Cork said. “I forgot. Italians only in their crowd.”
“Nah, they ain’t like that,” Angelo said, and then he seemed to rethink the question. “Well, yeah, sure, a little,” he said. “Tom Hagen’s not Italian.”
“I always wondered about that,” Cork said. “It don’t add up.”
“Forget it,” Angelo said. “Come on back with me. Sonny’ll be happy to see you. You know he never liked it, the way things worked out.”
“Nah,” Cork said, and he took a step back from Angelo. “I got to finish my chores for Eileen. I’m a working stiff now. Besides, it doesn’t look like you need any more manpower.” He gestured to Luca. “Jeez,” he said, “he’s even uglier than he was before.”
“Yeah,” Angelo said. “He don’t smell too good either.”
Cork looked up and down Broadway one more time. All he saw were people watching a parade, and Luca and his boys watching the people. “All right,” he said, and he gave Angelo a shove. “Tell Sonny I’ll see him real soon.”
“That’s good,” Angelo said. “I’ll tell him that. And, hey, Vinnie says hello too. He says you ought to start coming by again. I think the dumb mug misses you hanging around.” He stuck out his hand, awkwardly.
Cork shook Angelo’s hand, smacked him on the shoulder, and then started back for Gimbels. Someone had dropped a copy of the Daily News on the street, and he bent to pick it up as a breeze riffled through its pages. He looked up to the clouds, thinking rain suddenly felt like a possibility, and then back down to the paper and a picture of ten-year-old Gloria Vanderbilt under the headline “Poor Little Gloria.” When he spotted a waste bin on the corner of Thirty-Second, he started for it and then stopped abruptly at the sight of Pete Murray behind the wheel of a black Chrysler four-door, with Rick Donnelly alongside him and Billy Donnelly in the backseat. The car was parked at the curb midway down the block. Instead of throwing out the newspaper, he opened it and held it out in front of his face as he backed into the entrance of a toy store. Pete and the Donnellys were wearing trench coats, and at the first sight of them, Old Lady O’Rourke’s threat against Sonny and his family came back as clearly as if someone had just shouted it in his ear: They’ve got a nice Irish surprise coming to them. Cork watched the car from the store entrance until the men stepped out onto the street, each of them with one arm thrust under his trench coat. He waited until he rounded the corner of Thirty-Second and the Chrysler was out of sight before he broke into a run.
Two blocks later, he spotted Sonny and his family in the center of the avenue. Vito Corleone, with Connie in his arms, between his wife and his son Michael, marched in front of Sonny and Tom, who were chatting with each other as if oblivious to everything going on around them. When Cork saw them, he bolted out into the street but didn’t manage more than a few steps before he ran into Luca Brasi and bounced off him as if he’d hit a wall.
Luca met Cork’s eyes and then jerked his head toward the street as Sean O’Rourke leapt over a yellow barricade screaming his name.
“Luca Brasi!” Sean was in the air, having leapt the barricade like a hurdler, a black pistol the size of a small cannon in his outstretched hand. His face twisted into ugliness, he hit the ground shooting, firing wildly. All around him, people scattered. Women grabbed their children and ran screaming. Luca’s men crouched and pulled guns from under their jackets as Sean stopped abruptly in the center of the street and aimed carefully at Luca. Brasi couldn’t have been more than six feet in front of Sean, and yet Sean stopped and held his gun with two hands and seemed to take a breath and let it out halfway, as if he was following instructions on how to aim and fire. When he squeezed off a shot, it hit Luca squarely in the chest, over his heart, and Luca’s huge body flew back and fell like a downed tree. His head hit the center of a barricade and knocked it over before smacking into the edge of the slate curb. He jerked once and then was still.
Sean watched Luca fall as he advanced on him, gun in hand, as if he were alone in a room with Luca and not in the middle of a parade. When the first bullet hit him in the chest, he spun around, surprised. He looked like he was waking from a dream—and then the next bullet hit him in the head and the dream was over. He crumpled to the ground, the black monster of a gun falling out of his hand.
Cork was still in the street, near the curb, when Sean fell—and after that it started raining bullets and bodies. It was like a sudden downpour, getting caught in a sudden downpour of crackling gunfire and hysterical shouting and bodies hitting the ground like raindrops, a storm of movement and noise. Screaming parade watchers ran in every direction, some of them crawling on all fours, some of them slithering along the ground like snakes, all of them looking for the protection of doorways or storefronts.
Cork bolted for cover, and no sooner had he made it into a doorway than the plate glass alongside him shattered, hit by the Fourth of July fireworks of guns going off everywhere, from every direction. Sean O’Rourke lay dead in the street, half his head blown away. Luca’s men were crouched over him, guns out, shooting. Vito Corleone was sprawled over his wife, who held Connie and Michael in her arms, clutching them close to her. Vito was shouting something, his body spread over his family, his head up like a turtle. He seemed to be shouting to Sonny, who held Tom Hagen down by the back of the neck with one hand and wielded a gun with his free hand, shooting at someone. Cork scanned the sidewalk in the direction Sonny was firing and found a doorway with shattered windowpanes, and then Corr Gibson popped up with a gun in each hand, the pistols jerking with each shot, spitting bursts of white flame. Tony Coli got off a couple of shots at Gibson and then fell face forward, his pistol skittering over the street.
It was almost quiet then for a heartbeat. The gunfire stopped and there was only the sound of men shouting to each other. Richie Gatto appeared on the street with a gun in each hand. He tossed one to Vito, who caught it at the same moment the calm ended and the shooting started again. Cork looked in the direction of the renewed gunfire and saw the Donnellys and Pete Murray charging along the street, three abreast, Pete Murray in the middle of the avenue with a tommy gun, the Donnellys on either side of him with pistols. They advanced in a crouch behind a fusillade of fire, and Richie Gatto went down in front of Vito. Vito caught him in his arms, so that Richie’s body shielded Vito and Vito’s family behind them. Vito aimed carefully and squeezed off a shot, and Pete Murray went down, his chopper flying into the air out of his brawny arms, stray bullets shattering windows. Vito dropped to his knees in front of his wife and continued firing, squeezing off shots one at a time, so that it appeared he alone was moving with care and precision while everything around him blazed and rattled.
Sonny dragged Tom to Carmella, who managed to free a hand and pull him down to her. Tom wrappe
d his arms around her and Michael, with Connie whimpering between them. Sonny picked up Gatto’s gun and stood over his father, firing wildly in comparison to his father’s deliberate shooting.
All this happened in a matter of seconds—and then an army of cops swooped down on the scene, their green and white squad cars with sirens screaming appearing out of the side streets. The Donnellys were still shooting, as was Corr Gibson from the protection of his doorway. Among Luca’s gang, JoJo, Paulie, and Vinnie were returning fire at Gibson and the Donnellys. Among the Corleones, the Romero brothers, side by side, stretched out flat on the street near the curb, were firing at the Donnellys, who had each scurried to cover in storefronts. The cops shouted from behind the protection of their cars. On the curb, Luca Brasi stirred and sat up, rubbing at the back of his head, as if he had a splitting headache. It seemed to Cork that the shooting couldn’t go on much longer, not with sirens yowling and still more police cars arriving and blocking off the avenues. Sonny and his family appeared unscathed, and at the same moment that thought occurred to him, Cork saw Stevie Dwyer emerge from a doorway behind Sonny and Vito. With everyone’s attention on the Donnellys and Gibson in front of them, Stevie walked unmolested into the street and toward Vito, gun in hand.
Cork jumped out to the sidewalk and shouted to Sonny. He should have yelled “Look behind you!” or “Stevie’s behind you!” but instead he shouted only Sonny’s name.
Sonny turned and spotted Cork, while at the same moment Stevie lifted his gun and aimed for Vito.
Cork was acutely aware of his vulnerability, standing as he was out in the open amid the staccato rattle of gunfire. He crouched slightly, as if the constriction of his muscles and the slightly lowered posture might somehow protect him. Deep within him something powerful was urging him to run and hide—but Stevie Dwyer was standing behind Vito, less than two car lengths behind him, his gun raised and aimed, about to shoot Sonny’s father, and so Cork tore his gun from his pocket, aimed as best he could, and fired at Stevie an instant before Stevie fired at Vito.