by Ed Falco
“Grizz was part of my message for Joe,” Luca said, “so he has no doubt about who he’s dealing with. And the kid? Vic? I was just saving you the trouble. You were gonna kill him anyway, right?”
“You done?” Tomasino said. “ ’Cause if you’re gonna kill me and Nicky, get it over with.”
“Nah. I told the kid I wouldn’t kill you,” he said, “and I keep my word.”
Nicky’s wheezing kept getting louder. Luca said to him, “You got asthma or something, Nicky?” Nicky shook his head and then grabbed his mouth, dropped to his knees, and retched through his hands.
“You done?” Tomasino asked Luca again.
“Not quite yet,” Luca said. He took Tomasino by the throat with one hand, spun him around, and threw two quick blows to his face with the butt of his pistol. Tomasino hit his head on the fender of the Buick as he went down. His nose spewed blood and he was cut under one eye. He looked up at Luca blankly before he took a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it to his nose.
“I thought about pulling a couple of your teeth,” Luca said, “but, you know, I figured that was your thing.” He unzipped and pissed in the water while Tomasino stared up at him. After he zipped up, he motioned JoJo and Hooks to get in the car. “Don’t forget to deliver my message,” he said to Tomasino, and he started for the Buick. Then he stopped and said, “You know what?” like he was changing his mind about something. He went over to Nicky, who was still on his knees, hit him once, viciously, over the head with the gun, and then picked up his unconscious body and put it in the trunk of the Buick before he got into the passenger’s seat and drove off slowly with his boys.
10.
Vito downshifted the big Essex, and its eight-cylinder engine grumbled before easing again into its steady hum. He was in Queens, just getting off Francis Lewis Boulevard, on his way out to the Long Island compound for a picnic with his family. Carmella sat beside him with Connie in her lap, playing pat-a-cake with her, singing pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man. Sonny sat next to Carmella, by the window, his hands on his knees, his finger drumming a tune only he heard. Michael, Fredo, and Tom were in the back. Fredo had finally quit asking questions, for which Vito was grateful. The Essex was the middle car in a caravan, with Tessio and a few of his men driving a black Packard in the lead, and Genco behind them in his old Nash, with its bug-eye headlights. Al Hats was with Genco in the backseat, and Eddie Veltri, another one of Tessio’s men, drove. Vito was dressed casually in khaki slacks and a yellow cardigan over a blue shirt with a wide collar. His dress was appropriate for a picnic, but he nonetheless felt self-conscious, as if he were playacting at a life of leisure.
It was still early, not yet ten in the morning. The day was perfect for an outing, the sky blue and cloudless and the weather mild. Vito’s thoughts, though, kept drifting back to business. Luca Brasi had bumped off two of Cinquemani’s boys, and a third man, Nicky Crea, had been missing for days. Vito didn’t know how this would affect him and his family, but he suspected he’d find out soon enough. Mariposa had pushed him to negotiate with Brasi, which he’d never done, and now this mess. He didn’t see how Mariposa could hold him responsible, but Giuseppe was stupid, and thus anything was possible. Vito understood it was only a matter of time before he would have to deal with Mariposa. He had ideas, he had possibilities he was working on, and those ideas and possibilities went round and round in his head as he followed Tessio. He hoped sincerely to be moved into his Long Beach compound before trouble started, but the construction was going slower than he had been promised. For now he had to hope that Rosario LaConti could at least keep Mariposa and his capos preoccupied a little longer.
“Is this it?” Fredo asked.
Vito had just followed Tessio onto the long driveway to the compound, where gold and red leaves fluttered down from columns of trees that bracketed the drive.
“Look at all these trees!” Fredo yelled.
Michael said, “That’s what you get in the country, Fredo: trees.”
Fredo said, “Ah, shut up, will ya, Mikey?”
Sonny looked into the back and said, “Both of you, knock it off.”
“Is that the wall?” Fredo said, opening his window. “Is that like the castle wall you said, Ma?”
“That’s it,” Carmella said. To Connie she said, “See. It’s like a castle.”
“Except it’s got a few gaps in it,” Michael said.
Tom said, “It’s not finished yet, wise guy.”
Vito brought the car to a halt behind Tessio, and Eddie pulled up the Nash. Clemenza waited at the gate—or the place where the gate would be when the work was finished. He leaned against the fender of his car next to Richie Gatto, who had a newspaper under his arm. Clemenza, looking bulkier than usual in casual clothes, and in contrast to Gatto’s muscular build, sipped from a mug of coffee. Sonny and the boys had jumped out of the Essex as soon as it stopped, but Vito was taking a minute to admire the masonry of the tall stone wall—ten feet high in places—that surrounded the compound. The work was being done by the Guilianos, masons whose family had worked with stone for centuries. The elaborate construction of the wall was topped with a concrete ledge, out of which wrought-iron spearheads provided a convenient ornamental touch. Carmella, waiting beside Vito with Connie, put her hand over his and kissed him, quickly, a peck on the cheek. Vito patted her hand and said, “Go. Go look around.”
“Let me get the picnic basket,” Carmella said. She went around to the trunk.
When Vito got out of the car, Tessio approached him and put his arm around his shoulder. “This is gonna be spectacular,” he said, gesturing to the gate and the compound.
“My friend,” Vito said, “stay close to my family, per favore.” He gestured at the unfinished walls. “This is our business,” he said, meaning that a man could never feel entirely safe.
“Certainly,” Tessio said, and he went off to look for Sonny and the kids.
Clemenza, with effort, pushed himself away from the car and joined Vito. Richie followed.
Vito said to Clemenza, “What is it I don’t like about that look on your face?”
“Eh,” Clemenza said, and he motioned for Richie to show Vito the newspaper.
“Wait,” Vito said, as Carmella joined them, carrying Connie in one hand and a small basket in the other. She had on a long, flowered dress with a frilly collar. Her hair, just beginning to gray, fell to her shoulders.
Vito said, “You have a picnic for all of us in there?”
Carmella grinned and showed him the basket, in which she had smuggled their house cat, Dolce, along for the ride. Vito took the cat from the basket, held it to his chest, and rubbed its head. He smiled at his wife and pointed toward the biggest of the five houses in the compound. Between him and the house, two groups of Tessio’s and Clemenza’s men talked among themselves. The boys were all out of sight. “Find the children and show them their rooms,” he said, as he replaced the kitten in the basket.
“No business today,” Carmella said to Vito. To Clemenza she added, “Let him relax one day, okay?”
“Go,” Vito said. “I promise. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
Carmella gave Clemenza a stern look, and then went off to join her family.
Once Carmella was out of hearing range, Vito peered at the masthead of the paper and said, “So what’s in today’s Daily News?” Richie handed him the paper. Vito shook his head at the picture on the cover. When he read the caption, he said, “Mannagg’… ‘Unidentified victim…’ ”
“It’s Nicky Crea,” Clemenza said. “One of Tomasino’s boys.”
The front page of the paper pictured the body of a boy stuffed into a trunk. The kid’s face was untouched, but his torso was torn up with bullet holes. It looked like someone had used him for target practice.
Clemenza said, “I hear Tomasino’s furious.”
Vito studied the picture another moment. The body was crammed into a steamer trunk with cracked leather straps and an ornate bras
s lock. Someone in a jacket and tie who looked like a passerby but was probably a detective peered into the trunk as if curious about the body, the way the knees were twisted and the arms folded awkwardly. The trunk had been left under the fountain in Central Park, and the angel atop the fountain appeared to be pointing at the trunk and the body.
“Brasi,” Vito said, and handed the paper back to Gatto. “He’s sending a message to Giuseppe.”
“What’s his message?” Clemenza said. “Hurry up and kill me? He’s got five guys against Mariposa’s organization? He’s a madman, Vito. We got another Mad Dog Coll on our hands.”
Vito said, “So why isn’t he dead yet?”
Clemenza glanced at Genco, who was approaching them with Eddie Veltri at his side. To Vito, he said, “The Rosato brothers paid me a personal visit last night. Late.”
Genco, joining the circle, said, “Did he tell you?”
Vito said to Gatto, “Richie, why don’t you and Eddie go check all the houses, please.” When Gatto and Veltri were out of the circle, Vito motioned for Clemenza to continue.
“They came by my house, right to the front door.”
“Your home?” Vito said, the color in his face rising.
“They had a bag of cannolis straight from Nazorine’s.” Clemenza laughed. “V’fancul’! I told them, ‘You want me to invite you in for coffee? It’s after eleven!’ They’re yuk yuk yuk, yap yap yap, old times, the old neighborhood. I tell ’em, ‘Boys. It’s late. If you’re not gonna kill me, what do you want?’ ”
“And?” Vito asked.
“Luca Brasi,” Genco said.
Clemenza said, “Just before they leave, Tony Rosato says, ‘Luca Brasi’s an animal. He’s ruining the neighborhood the way he acts. Somebody has to take care of him soon, or else the whole neighborhood will suffer.’ That’s it. They tell me to enjoy the cannolis and they’re gone.”
Vito turned to Genco. “So we have to take care of Luca?”
“LaConti’s hanging on by his teeth,” Genco said, “but he’s still hanging on. Tomasino from what I’m hearing wants Luca dead now—I think he wants to practice his dentistry on him—but the Barzinis want everybody focusing on LaConti, and Cinquemani will do what he’s told. Plus, between me and you, I think they’re all scared of this Luca Brasi. He’s got them all shakin’ in their boots.”
Vito asked Genco, “Does LaConti have a chance?”
Genco shrugged. “I have a lot of respect for Rosario. He’s been in jams before, he’s been counted out before, and he’s always come back.”
“No,” Clemenza said. “Not this time, Genco. Please.” To Vito he said, “His caporegimes have all gone over to Mariposa. Rosario’s on his own. His oldest boy is dead. He’s got his other son and a few of his boys standing by him, and that’s it.”
Genco said, “Rosario’s still got his connections, and I still say, until he’s in the ground, we can’t count him out.”
Clemenza looked up to the sky, as if at wits’ end in trying to deal with Genco.
“Listen to me,” Genco said to Clemenza. “Maybe you’re right and LaConti’s done for, and maybe I just don’t want to believe it—because when that happens, when Mariposa controls all of LaConti’s organization, the rest of us are going to get swallowed or buried. What we’re doing to the Irish now, they’ll do to us.”
“All right,” Vito said, stepping in to end the argument, “right now our problem is Luca Brasi.” To Genco he said, “Arrange a meeting for me with this mad dog.” He raised a finger, making a point. “Only me,” he said. “You tell him that I’m the only one coming. Tell him I’ll be alone and unarmed.”
“Che cazzo!�� Clemenza shouted, and then glanced around to see who was within earshot. “Vito,” he said, containing himself, “you can’t go see Brasi naked. Madon’! What are you thinking?”
Vito raised his hand, silencing Clemenza. To Genco he said, “I want to meet this demone who strikes fear into Mariposa’s heart.”
Genco said, “I agree with Clemenza on this. This is a bad idea, Vito. You don’t go alone and naked to see a man like Luca Brasi.”
Vito smiled and opened his hands as if to embrace both his capos. “Are you scared of this diavolo too?”
“Vito,” Clemenza said, and again looked up to the sky.
Vito asked Genco, “What’s the name of that judge in Westchester who used to be a cop before he was a judge?”
“Dwyer,” Genco said.
“Ask him, as a favor to me, to find out everything he can about Luca Brasi. I want to know all there is to know before I go see him.”
Genco said, “If that’s what you want.”
“Good,” Vito said. “Now, let’s enjoy this weather.” He put his arms around the shoulders of his capos and walked with them through the gate and into the compound. “Beautiful homes, no?” He nodded toward Genco’s and Clemenza’s mostly finished houses.
“Sì,” Genco said. “Bella.”
Clemenza laughed and patted Vito on the back. “Not like the old days,” he said, “stealing dresses off garment trucks and selling them house to house.”
Vito shrugged and said, “I never did that.”
“No,” Genco said, “you only drove the truck.”
Clemenza said, “But you stole a rug with me once, remember that?”
At that Vito laughed. He had once stolen a rug from a wealthy family’s house with Clemenza—only Clemenza had told him the rug was to be a gift, in repayment of an earlier favor from Vito, and he hadn’t mentioned that the wealthy family didn’t know they were giving away this gift. “Come on,” Vito said to Clemenza. “Let’s look over your house first.”
From the gate behind them, Richie Gatto called to Vito, and Vito turned to find him standing by the window of a white half-ton panel truck with Everready Furnace Repair emblazoned in red across the sides and on the doors. Inside the truck, two burly men in gray coveralls were looking through the window at Vito and the half dozen other men scattered around the compound. Gatto trotted over to him and said, “Couple of guys, say they’re from the town and they’re supposed to inspect the furnace in your house. They say it’s a free inspection.”
“My house?” Vito said.
Genco said, “With no appointment? They just show up?”
Richie said, “They’re a couple of rubes. I looked them over. I don’t see any trouble.”
Genco looked to Clemenza, and Clemenza patted Richie’s jacket, feeling for his gun.
Richie laughed and said, “What do you think? I forgot what you pay me for?”
Clemenza said, “Just checking,” and turned to Vito. “What the hell,” he said. “Let ’em inspect the furnace.”
Vito said to Richie, “Tell Eddie to stay with them.” He raised a finger. “Don’t leave them alone in the house for two seconds, capisc’?”
“Sure,” Gatto said. “I won’t let them out of my sight.”
“Good.” Vito put his hand on Clemenza’s back and directed him again toward his house.
Out of sight behind Vito and Clemenza, in the yard behind Vito’s house, Michael and Fredo were playing catch. Tessio talked with Sonny nearby and every once in a while shouted instructions to one of the boys, telling them something about throwing or catching a baseball. Connie played with Dolce near the back door to the house, holding a small branch over the cat’s head as it pawed at the leaves. In the kitchen, behind Connie, Tom found himself alone with Carmella, which was a rare occasion. Anybody being alone with anybody was a rare occasion in the Corleone household, where there were always family and friends around and kids underfoot. The kitchen was empty of appliances, but Carmella was showing Tom where everything would go. “Over there,” she said, raising her eyebrows, “we’re going to have a refrigerator.” She fixed her eyes on Tom, emphasizing the import of what she was saying. “An electric refrigerator,” she said.
“That’s something, Mama,” Tom said, and he straddled one of two rickety chairs that the workmen had left around and
that he had found and brought into the kitchen.
Carmella clasped her hands together and was silent, watching Tom. “Look at you,” she said, finally. “Tom,” she said, “you’re all grown up.”
Tom sat up straight in his chair and looked himself over. He had on a soft-green shirt with a white corded sweater tied around his neck. He had seen the boys at NYU wearing sweaters around their necks and taken to doing so himself at every possible occasion. “Me?” he said. “Am I all grown up?”
Carmella leaned over him and squeezed his cheek. “College boy!” she said, and then dropped down into the second chair and sighed as she looked over the kitchen space. “An electric refrigerator,” she whispered, as if the thought of such a thing was amazing.
Tom twisted around in his chair to glance behind him, through an arched doorway into a large dining room. For an instant his thoughts flashed back to the cramped rooms in the squalid apartment where he had lived with his parents. A picture of his sister emerged out of nowhere. She was barely more than a toddler, her hair askew, her calves streaked with dirt, picking through a handful of clothes on the floor, looking for something clean to wear.
“What is it?” Carmella asked with that slightly angry tone Tom knew was only concern, as if the possibility of anything being wrong with any of her children made her angry.
“What?”
“What are you thinking about?” Carmella said. “That look on your face!” She shook her hand at him.
“I was thinking about my family,” Tom said. “My biological family,” he added quickly, meaning that of course he wasn’t talking about the Corleones, who were his real family now.
Carmella patted Tom’s hand, meaning she knew what he meant. He didn’t have to explain.
“I’m so grateful to you and Pop,” he said.
“Sta’zitt’!” Carmella looked away, as if embarrassed by Tom’s gratitude.
“My younger sister wants nothing to do with me,” Tom went on, surprising himself with his babbling, just him and Mama alone in the kitchen of their new home. “I located her more than a year ago now,” he said. “I wrote to her, told her all about me…” He straightened out his sweater. “She wrote back and said she never wanted to hear from me again.”
