Vito was quiet, allowing Genco time to calm down. “So now we’re working for Jumpin’ Joe Mariposa.” He shrugged. “How is it,” he said to all three of them, “that these thieves remain unknown? They’ve got to be selling this whiskey to someone, no?”
“They’re selling it to Luca Brasi,” Clemenza said, “and he’s selling to speakeasies in Harlem.”
“So why doesn’t Joe find out what he wants to know from this Luca Brasi?”
Clemenza and Tessio looked at each other, as if hoping the other would speak first. When neither did, Genco spoke up. “Luca Brasi’s a beast. He’s huge, strong as ten men, and crazy. Mariposa’s scared of him. Everybody’s scared of him.”
“Il diavolo!” Clemenza said. “Vinnie Suits in Brooklyn swears he saw Brasi take a bullet point-blank in the heart and get up and walk away like nothing happened.”
“A demon from hell,” Vito said, and smiled as if amused. “So how come this is the first I’m hearing of such a man?”
“He’s strictly small-time,” Genco said. “He’s got a gang of four, five boys. They pull heists and run a numbers bank they took over from the micks. He’s never shown any interest in expanding.”
“Where does he operate?” Vito asked.
“In the Irish neighborhoods around Tenth and Eleventh, and up in Harlem,” Tessio said.
“All right,” Vito said, and he nodded in a way that indicated the discussion was over. “I’ll see about this demone.”
“Vito,” Genco said. “Luca Brasi is not a man you reason with.”
Vito looked at Genco as if he were looking right through him.
Genco flopped back in his chair.
“Anything else?” Vito checked his wristwatch. “They’re waiting for us to start dinner.”
“I’m starving,” Clemenza said, “but I can’t stay. My wife’s got her family coming over. Madre ’Dio!” He slapped his forehead.
Genco laughed at this and even Vito couldn’t suppress a grin. Clemenza’s wife was as big as him and tougher. Her family was a famous bunch of shouters who loved to argue over everything from baseball to politics.
“One more thing,” Tessio said, “long as we’re talking about the Irish. I’m getting word that some of them might be trying to band together. I’m told there have been meetings between the O’Rourke brothers, the Donnellys, Pete Murray, and more. They’re unhappy about how they’ve been pushed out of their old businesses.”
Vito disregarded this with a toss of his head. “The only Irishmen we have to worry about now are cops and politicians. These people you’re talking about, they’re street fighters. They try to organize, they’ll wind up getting drunk and killing each other.”
“Still,” Tessio said. “They could present a problem.”
Vito looked to Genco.
Genco said to Tessio, “Keep an eye on them for us. You hear anything more…”
Vito lifted himself out of his chair and slapped his hands together, meaning the meeting was over. He stubbed out his cigar in a cut-glass ashtray, finished the last sip of his Strega, and followed Tessio out the door and down the stairs. His home was full of family and friends. In the living room at the bottom of the steps, Richie Gatto, Jimmy Mancini, and Al Hats were in the midst of a loud discussion about the Yankees and Ruth. “The Bambino!” Mancini yelled, before he saw Vito coming down the stairs. He stood, along with the other men. Al, a sharply dressed short guy in his midfifties, shouted to Tessio, “These cetriol’s are trying to tell me Bill Terry’s a better manager than McCarthy!”
“Memphis Bill!” Genco said.
Clemenza shouted back, “The Yanks are five games behind the Senators!”
Tessio said, “The Giants already got the pennant locked up.” His tone suggested he wasn’t happy about it, as a Brooklyn Dodgers diehard, but those were the facts.
“Pop,” Sonny said, “how are you?” and he made his way through the crowd to give Vito a hug.
Vito patted Sonny on the neck. “How are things at work?”
“Good!” Sonny pointed to an open doorway between the living room and dining room, where Tom had just emerged carrying Connie in his arms, Fredo and Michael at his side. “Look who I found,” he said, meaning Tom.
“Hey, Pop!” Tom said. He put Connie down on the sofa and went to Vito.
Vito embraced him and then held him by the shoulders. “What are you doing here instead of studying like you should be?”
Carmella came in from the kitchen carrying a big plate of antipasto, the rolled-up slices of capicol’ surrounding bright red tomatoes, black olives, and hunks of fresh cheese. “He needs some real food!” she yelled. “His brain’s shriveling up from that garbage they feed him! Mangia!” she said to Tom. She carried the plate to the table, which was actually two tables placed end to end, covered with a pair of red and green tablecloths.
Tessio and Clemenza excused themselves and then worked their way through a half dozen handshakes and hugs before leaving.
Vito put his hand on Tom’s back and directed him to the dining room, where the rest of the men and boys were pulling up seats around the table while the women went about setting the places and carrying out more trays of antipasto and bread, along with decanters of oil and vinegar. Jimmy Mancini’s wife, barely in her twenties, was in the kitchen with the rest of the women. They were preparing the simmering tomato sauce with meats and spices, and every few minutes her high, cackling laugh would punctuate the laughter of the older women as they told stories and talked about their families and neighbors. At the kitchen table behind them, Carmella joined in the conversation while she cut and folded lines of dough over hunks of ricotta before sealing the edges with the tines of a fork. She had gotten up early to mix and beat the dough, and soon she would drop the ravioli into a big vat of boiling water. Beside her at the table, one of Carmella’s neighbors, Anita Columbo, worked quietly preparing the braciol’, while Anita’s granddaughter Sandra, a raven-haired sixteen-year-old only recently arrived from Sicily, arranged browned potato croquettes on a bright-blue serving dish. Sandra, like her grandmother, was quiet, though she arrived from the old country speaking flawless English, which she’d learned from her parents, who had been raised by Anita in the Bronx.
On the living room rug, Connie played with Lucy Mancini, who was the same age as Connie and already twice her weight, though only maybe an inch taller. They sat in a corner quietly playing a game that involved dolls and teacups. Michael Corleone, thirteen and in eighth grade, had everyone’s attention at the dining room table. He wore a plain white shirt with a band collar, and he sat at the table with his hands folded in front of him. He had just reported to all present that he had a “massive” project due at the end of the year for his American history class, and he “was considering” writing a report on the five branches of the armed services: the army, the marine corps, the navy, the air force, and the coast guard. Fredo Corleone, who was sixteen months older than Michael and a year ahead of him in school, shouted, “Hey, stupido! Since when is the coast guard part of the armed services?”
Michael glanced at his brother. “Since always,” he said, and then looked to Vito.
“Dope!” Fredo yelled. He gestured with one hand and with the other grasped the metal clip on one of his suspenders. “The coast guard’s not part of the real military.”
“That’s funny, Fredo.” Michael leaned back and then turned his gaze fully to his brother. “I guess the pamphlet I got from the recruitment office is mistaken.”
When the table broke into laughter, Fredo yelled to his father, “Hey, Pop! The coast guard’s not part of the armed services! Right?”
Vito, at the head of the table, poured himself a glass of red wine from a plain gallon jug beside his plate. The Volstead Act was still in effect, but there wasn’t an Italian family in the Bronx that didn’t serve wine with the Sunday meal. When he finished with his glass, he poured some for Sonny, who was seated closest to him on his left. On his right was Carmella’s empty chai
r.
Tom answered for Vito by putting his arm around Fredo and saying “Mikey’s right. It’s just that the coast guard doesn’t get mixed up in the big fights like the other branches.”
“See,” Fredo said to Michael.
“Anyway,” Michael said to the table, “I’m probably going to do it on Congress.”
Vito gestured to Michael and said, “Maybe one day you’ll be in Congress yourself.”
Michael smiled at that while Fredo muttered something under his breath, and then Carmella and the women joined them at the table, bringing with them two big serving bowls of ravioli smothered in tomato sauce, along with plates of meat and vegetables. Excited talk erupted around the table at the sight of the food and then turned into loud banter as the women went about ladling portions onto plates. When the dishes were all heaped with food, Vito raised his glass and said “Salute!” to which everyone responded in kind before digging into the Sunday meal.
Vito, as was typical for him, talked little during the meal. All around him his family and friends chattered while he ate slowly, taking his time to savor the sauce and the pasta, the meatballs and braciol’, to sip the hearty red wine that had come all the way from the old country to grace his Sunday table. He didn’t like the way others at the table, especially Sonny, wolfed down their food while concentrating, it seemed to Vito at least, more on the conversation than on the meal. It annoyed him, but he kept his annoyance hidden behind a mask of quiet interest. He knew he was the odd one. He liked to do one thing at a time and to pay attention. He was in many ways different from the men and women who had raised him and among whom he lived. He recognized this. He was straightlaced about matters of sex, while his own mother and most of the women he knew loved to be rude and bawdy. Carmella understood Vito and was careful about what she said when he was in earshot—but once, walking by the kitchen when it was full of women, Vito heard Carmella make a vulgar remark about another woman’s sexual tastes and it bothered him for days after. Vito was reserved—and he lived among a people who were famous for the rawness of their emotions, at least among each other, among family and friends. He ate his meal slowly, and in between bites of food, he listened. He paid attention.
“Vito,” Carmella said, midway through the meal. She was trying to be reserved but was unable to contain a smile. “Maybe you have something you want to say to everybody?”
Vito touched his wife’s hand and looked across the table. The Gattos and Mancinis and Abbandandos watched him attentively, as did his own family, his boys, Sonny and Tom, Michael and Fredo. Even Connie, seated at the far end of the table next to her friend Lucy—even Connie watched him with anticipation.
“As long as we’re all together, my family and my friends,” Vito said, gesturing with his glass toward the Abbandandos, “this is a good time to let everyone know that I’ve purchased some land on Long Island—not too far away, in Long Beach—and I’m having houses built there for my own family, and for some of my closest friends and business associates.” He nodded toward the Abbandandos. “Genco here and his family will join us on Long Island. By this time next year, I hope we’ll all be moving to our new residences.”
Everyone was silent. Carmella and Allegra Abbandando were the only ones smiling, both of them having already seen the land and the plans for the houses. The others seemed unsure how to react.
Tom said, “Pop, you mean like a compound? All the houses together?”
“Sì! Esattamente!” Allegra said, and then was silent when Genco gave her a look.
“There are six lots,” Vito said, “and eventually we’ll build houses on all of them. For now, under construction, there are houses for us, the Abbandandos, Clemenza and Tessio, and another one for our associates, when we need them close by.”
“It’s got a wall around all of it,” Carmella said, “like a castle.”
“Like a fort?” Fredo asked.
“Sì,” Carmella said, and laughed.
Michael said, “What about school?”
Carmella said, “Don’t worry. You finish the year here.”
“Can we go see it?” Connie shouted. “When can we go see it?”
“Soon,” Vito said. “We’ll make a picnic. We’ll go out and spend the day.”
Anita Columbo said, “God has blessed you with good fortune. We will miss you, though.” She clasped her hands in front of her, as if in prayer. “The neighborhood will never be the same without the Corleones.”
“We will always be nearby for our friends,” Vito said. “This I promise to all of you.”
Sonny, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, beamed at Anita, offering her a bright smile. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Columbo,” he said. “You don’t think I’m going to let that beautiful granddaughter of yours get too far away from me, do you?”
Sonny’s boldness made everyone at the table erupt into laughter—except Sandra, Mrs. Columbo, and Vito.
When the laughter died down, Vito said to Mrs. Columbo, “Forgive my son, signora. He was born blessed by a good heart and cursed by a big mouth.” He punctuated his remark by slapping Sonny lightly on the back of the head.
Vito’s words and the slap brought more laughter to the table and a slight smile to Sandra’s lips—but did nothing to lighten the coldness of Mrs. Columbo’s expression.
Jimmy Mancini, a big muscular guy in his early thirties, raised his glass of wine. “To the Corleones,” he said. “May God bless and keep them. May their family prosper and flourish.” He lifted his glass higher, said, “Salute!” and drank heartily, as everyone at the table followed suit, shouting “Salute!” and drinking.
4.
Sonny stretched out on his bed, hands folded under his neck, feet crossed at the ankles. Through the open bedroom door, he had a view of his kitchen and a clock on the wall over a claw-foot bathtub. Tom had called the apartment “spare,” and now that word rattled around in Sonny’s head as he waited for the minutes to tick away until midnight. The round clock face had the words “Smith & Day” at its center, in the same black print as the numbers. Once every minute, the long hand jumped and the short hand crept closer to the twelve. “Spare” meant not much furniture and not decorated much. That was about right. A cheap dresser that came with the place was the only other piece of furniture in the bedroom. The kitchen furniture consisted of two white chairs and a table with a single drawer under a white baked-enamel top. The tabletop was trimmed in red, and the drawer handle was red. “Spare”… He didn’t need anything more. His mother took care of his laundry, he bathed at home (which was how he thought of his parents’ apartment), and he never brought girls here, preferring to sleep with them at their places, or to do it quick and dirty in the back of the car.
He had five minutes yet before he could leave. In the bathroom, he looked himself over in the medicine cabinet mirror. He had on a dark shirt, black chinos, and black Nat Holman sneakers. It was a kind of uniform. He had decided all the guys should wear the same thing on a job. This way it would be harder to pick one out from the other. He didn’t like the sneakers. He thought they made them look even more like kids, which was the last thing they needed since the oldest of them was eighteen—but Cork thought they could run faster and be more sure-footed with sneakers, and so sneakers it was. Cork was five-seven and maybe 120 pounds, but there wasn’t anyone, including Sonny, who wanted to fight him. He was relentless and possessed of a powerhouse right that Sonny had personally witnessed knock a guy out cold. The mug was smart, too. He had boxes of books scattered all over his apartment. He’d always been that way, reading a lot, since they were kids together in elementary school.
Sonny took a dark blue jacket from a hook on the front door. He slipped into it, fished a wool cap out of one pocket, and pulled it down over the thick tangle of his hair. He glanced back at the clock just as it ticked past midnight, and then jogged down two flights of stairs to Mott Street, where a three-quarter moon peeking out from a hole in the clouds lit up the cobblestone street and rows of apartment bui
ldings with brick facades and black-iron fire escapes. The windows were all dark, and the sky was overcast, threatening rain. On the corner of Mott and Grand, a pool of light gathered under a lamppost. Sonny walked toward the light, and when he saw that he was alone on the street, he ducked into a maze of alleys and followed them across Mulberry to Baxter, where Cork was waiting behind the wheel of a black Nash with bug-eye headlights and wide running boards.
Cork drove off slowly as soon as Sonny slid into the front seat. “Sonny Corleone,” he said, pronouncing Sonny’s last name like a native Italian, having fun with it. “Day’s been dull as a dishrag. What about you?” He was dressed the same as Sonny, his hair straight and sandy blond, locks of it spilling out from the borders of his cap.
“Same thing,” Sonny said. “You nervous?”
“Little bit,” Cork said, “but we don’t need to announce that to the others, do we, now?”
“What do I look like?” Sonny shoved Cork and then pointed up the street, to the corner, where the Romeros, Vinnie and Angelo, were on the bottom steps of a rough stone stoop.
Cork pulled the car over and then took off again as soon as the boys jumped in the back. Vinnie and Angelo were twins, and Sonny had to look closely to figure out who was who. Vinnie wore his hair cut close to the scalp, which made him look tougher than Angelo, whose hair was always carefully combed and neatly parted. With their caps on, the only way Sonny could distinguish between them was the few strands of loose hair falling over Angelo’s forehead.
“Jaysus,” Cork said, glancing into the backseat. “I’ve known you two birds all my life, and I’ll be damned if I can tell you apart dressed like that.”
Vinnie said, “I’m the smart one,” and Angelo said, “I’m the good-looking one,” and then they both laughed. Vinnie said, “Did Nico get the choppers?”