The Family Corleone

by Ed Falco

  To Eddie, Gorski said, “He’s not really gonna harm a newborn infant.”

  “You too,” Luca said to his boys. “All of you. Get out.”

  Filomena, clutching the infant, stood with her back to the wall and watched as everyone except Hooks and Luca gathered their money, bundled up in heavy clothes, and left the farmhouse. Each time the door opened, a blast of icy wind bulled its way into the kitchen. Filomena covered the infant with her shawl and held it close, trying to protect it from the cold.

  When the rest of the card players were gone, Hooks said to Luca, “Boss. Let me take them to the hospital.”

  Luca remained seated, holding the broken whiskey bottle by its neck. He looked at Hooks as if he was trying to place him. He blinked and wiped a patina of sweat from his forehead. To Filomena, Luca said, “Didn’t you hear me? Take that thing down to the basement and throw it in the furnace, or else bring it here and let me cut its throat.”

  Filomena said, “The baby’s born too soon. You have to take him to the hospital.” She spoke as if she hadn’t heard anything Luca said. She added, “The mother too. Both of them.”

  When Luca got up from his seat with the broken bottle in his hand, Filomena said, the words rushing out of her, “This is your baby, he’s born too soon, take him to the hospital, him and his mother.” She held the infant tightly and pressed herself back against the wall.

  Luca moved closer to Filomena. When he was hovering over her, he looked down for the first time at the bundle of swaddling in her arms. He lifted the whiskey bottle to his chin, and Hooks stepped between him and Filomena and put his hand on Luca’s chest.

  “Boss—” Hooks said.

  With his left, Luca threw a straight, swift punch that dazed Hooks and stood him up while his arms dropped to his sides like a pair of weights. Luca shifted the bottle to his left hand, leaned back, and put his weight behind a right to Hooks’s head.

  Hooks went down like the dead, landing on his back with his arms thrown to either side of him.

  “Madre di Dio,” Filomena said.

  Luca said, “I’m going to tell you one more time, and if you don’t do what I say, I’m gonna cut your throat from ear to ear. Take that thing down to the basement and throw it in the furnace.”

  Filomena, shaking, unwrapped a layer of swaddling from the infant, exposing its tiny, wrinkled face and a little piece of its chest. She showed it to Luca. “Here,” she said, holding the infant out toward Luca. “If you’re the father, you take it. It’s your baby.”

  Luca looked at the infant, his face expressionless. “I might be the father,” he said, “but it doesn’t matter. I don’t want any of that race to live.”

  Filomena looked confused. “Here,” she said again, offering Luca the infant, “you take it.”

  Luca began to raise the broken bottle and then stopped. “I don’t want to take it,” he said, and he grabbed Filomena by the back of her neck and pushed her roughly through the kitchen and down the stairs to the basement, where the furnace rumbled and cast off a close circle of heat. The basement was dark, and he dragged Filomena to within a few feet of the furnace and then let her go as he opened the furnace door. A blast of heat and red light shot out from the burning coals.

  “Throw it in,” Luca said.

  “No,” Filomena said. “Mostro!” When Luca put the broken bottle to her neck, she held out the infant to him. “It’s your child,” she said. “Do what you want with it.”

  Luca looked to the furnace and then again to Filomena. He blinked and took a step back. In the red light from the burning coals she didn’t look like Filomena. She didn’t look like the woman he had picked up on Tenth Avenue a few hours earlier. He didn’t recognize her. “You have to do it,” he said.

  Filomena shook her head, and then, for the first time, tears came to her eyes.

  “Throw it in the furnace,” Luca said, “and I’ll forgive you. If you don’t, I’ll cut your throat and throw you both in.”

  “What are you talking about?” Filomena said. “You’re mad.” Then she sobbed, and she looked as though she had come to a terrible realization. She said, “Oh, Madre di Dio, you’re mad.”

  “I’m not mad,” Luca said. He raised the jagged edge of the whiskey bottle to Filomena’s neck and repeated what he had said earlier. “I don’t want any of that race to live. I’m not mad. I know what I’m doing.”

  When Filomena said, “No, I won’t do it,” Luca took her by the hair and pulled her into the blast of heat issuing from the open furnace door. “No!” Filomena shouted. She writhed in his grasp, trying to protect herself from the heat, and then she felt the jagged edge of the whiskey bottle against her neck, and an instant later the baby was not in her hands. The infant was gone and there was only her and Luca and the red light of the furnace and darkness all around.

  Hooks leaned over the kitchen sink and splashed water onto the tender skin around his jaw and cheek. He had come to a few seconds earlier and stumbled over to the sink, and now he heard footsteps on the basement stairs and a woman he assumed was Filomena sobbing. He splashed water on his face and ran his wet fingers through his hair, and when he turned around, Luca was behind him, holding Filomena by the back of her neck as if she was a puppet and would crumple to the ground should he let her go.

  “For Christ’s sake,” Hooks said. “Luca.”

  Luca dropped Filomena into a chair, where her torso collapsed and folded over her legs as she clutched her forehead and sobbed. “Take her home,” he said to Hooks, and he started for the stairs. Before he disappeared, he turned to Hooks and said, “Luigi…” He hesitated and pushed his hair back off his face. He looked as though he wanted to say something to Hooks but couldn’t find the words. He gestured toward Filomena and said, “Pay her five grand.” He added, “You know where the money is,” and then he continued up the stairs.

  Luca found Kelly lying motionless in bed, her eyes closed and her arms at her sides. “Kelly,” he said, and he sat on the mattress beside her. Downstairs, the kitchen door opened and closed and a little while after that a car engine started. “Kelly,” Luca said, louder. When she didn’t rouse, he stretched out beside her and touched her face. He knew she was dead as soon as his fingers touched her skin, but he placed his ear over her breast anyway and listened for a heartbeat. He heard nothing, and in that silence a strange surge of feeling rose up in him, and he thought for a second that he might cry. Luca hadn’t cried since he was a boy. He used to cry before every beating handed out by his father, and then one day he didn’t and he had never cried again—and so the surge of feeling was disturbing and he choked it down, his body rigid and painfully stiff until the feeling subsided. From his pocket he pulled a full bottle of pills, clutched a handful, and popped them in his mouth. He washed them down with a slug of whiskey from a flask on the table next to the bed. He sat up and emptied the rest of the pills into his mouth, and again washed them down with whiskey. He thought he might have more pills in the closet. He found another bottle in a jacket pocket with a roll of bills. There were only ten or twelve pills left, but he took them anyway and then lay down again beside Kelly. He put his arm under her and pulled her up so that her head was resting on his chest. He said, “Let’s sleep, doll face. It’s nothin’ but shit here, wall to wall,” and he closed his eyes.

  14.

  Richie Gatto piloted Vito’s Essex slowly down Chambers Street on his way to city hall. Outside, the weather was clear and cold. Mounds of snow left over from the last storm collected grime as they hardened into a low barricade between the street and the sidewalk. In the back of the Essex, between Vito and Genco, Michael chattered excitedly about city hall.

  “Pop,” Michael said, “did you know that Abraham Lincoln and Ulysses S. Grant both lay in state in city hall?”

  “Who’s Ulysses S. Grant?” Genco asked. He sat stiffly by the window with one hand on his stomach, as if something hurt him there, the brim of his black derby in his other hand, the derby resting on his knees.


  “Eighteenth president of the United States,” Michael said. “Eighteen sixty-nine to eighteen seventy-seven. Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox to end the Civil War.”

  “Oh,” Genco said, and he looked at Michael as if the boy was a Martian.

  Vito laid a hand on Michael’s knee. “Here we are,” he said, and he pointed out the window to the gleaming marble facade of city hall.

  “Wow,” Michael said, “look at all those steps.”

  Vito said, “There’s Councilman Fischer.”

  Richie, having caught sight of the councilman, pulled the big Essex to the curb in front of the central portico.

  Michael was dressed in a navy blue suit, with a white shirt and a red tie, and Vito leaned over him to straighten out the tie and pull its knot neatly to the collar. “After the councilman gives you a tour,” he said, “one of his aides will drive you home.” He took a money clip from his inside jacket pocket, slid a five-dollar bill free, and handed it to Michael. “You won’t need this,” he said, “but you should always have a few dollars with you when you’re away from home. Capisc’?”

  “Sì,” Michael said. “Thanks, Pop.”

  In front of the city hall steps, Councilman Fischer waited with his hands on his hips and a broad smile on his face. He was sharply dressed in a brown windowpane-plaid suit with a high-collared shirt, a bright-yellow tie, and a yellow carnation in his lapel. Though it was cold, even in the bright sunlight, he carried his overcoat draped on his arm. He was a stocky, middle-aged man with bright shocks of blond hair showing around the edges of his fedora.

  Michael pulled on his overcoat and followed his father out of the car and across the wide sidewalk, where the councilman was walking toward them with his arm extended for a handshake.

  “This is my youngest son, Michael,” Vito said, after shaking the councilman’s hand and exchanging greetings. He put his arm around Michael’s shoulder. “He’s very grateful to you for your generosity, Councilman.”

  The councilman put his hands on Michael’s shoulders and looked him over. To Vito he said, “Fine-looking young man you’ve got here, Mr. Corleone.” To Michael he said, “So your father tells me you’ve developed an interest in government. Is that right, young man?”

  “Yes, sir,” Michael said.

  The councilman laughed and patted Michael on the back. “We’ll take good care of him,” he said to Vito, and then he added, “Say, Vito. You and your family should join us in the big civic responsibility parade we’re planning for the spring. The mayor’s going to be there, all the city councilmen, prominent New York families…” To Michael he said, “You’d like to march in a parade like that, wouldn’t you, young man?”

  “Sure,” Michael said, and he looked up to Vito, waiting for his okay.

  Vito put his hand on the back of Michael’s neck. “We’d love to participate in such a parade.”

  “I’ll have the invitations sent right out to you,” Fischer said. “My girls are all busy as bees organizing it all.”

  Michael said, “Can everybody walk in the parade? The whole family?”

  “Absolutely,” the councilman said. “That’s the very idea. We’re going to show these subversive elements, these anarchists and whatnot, we’re a good American city and we support our government.”

  Vito smiled, as if something the councilman said particularly amused him. “I have to be going now.” He offered Fischer his hand. To Michael he said, “This evening, you can tell us all about it at dinner.”

  “Sure, Pop,” Michael said, and he started up the city hall steps with the councilman as Vito rejoined Genco in the backseat of the Essex.

  Genco said, “Mikey’s turning into a handsome kid. He looks sharp all dressed up.”

  “He’s smart,” Vito said. He watched his son ascend the steps of city hall as Richie pulled the Essex onto the road. When the boy was out of sight, he leaned back in his seat and loosened his tie slightly. He asked Genco, “Have we heard anything more from Frankie Pentangeli?”

  “Nothing,” Genco said. He stuck his fingers under his vest and rubbed his belly. “Somebody pulled a stickup in one of Mariposa’s clubs. Took him for a lot of money, we hear.”

  “We don’t know who?”

  “Nobody’s recognized them yet. They’re not gambling with the money or spending it on dames. They’re probably Irish.”

  “Why do you say that?” Vito asked.

  “One of them had an Irish accent, and it makes sense. They were Italian, we’d know them.”

  “You think it’s the same gang that was stealing his whiskey?”

  “That’s what Mariposa figures.” Genco spun the derby around in his lap. He slapped the seat beside him and laughed. “I like these bastardi,” he said. “They’re driving Joe crazy.”

  Vito rolled his window down an inch. “What about Luca Brasi?” he asked. “Have we had any more news?”

  “Sì,” Genco said. “The doctor says there was brain damage. He can still talk and all, but slower, like he’s stupid.”

  “Yeah?” Richie said from behind the steering wheel. “Was he a genius before?”

  “He wasn’t stupid,” Vito said.

  Genco said, “He took enough pills to kill a gorilla.”

  “But not enough,” Vito said, “to kill Luca Brasi.”

  “The doctor says he thinks he may get worse over time,” Genco said. “I forget the word he used. He may de-something.”

  “Deteriorate,” Vito said.

  “That’s right,” Genco said. “He may deteriorate over time.”

  Vito asked, “Did he say how much he might deteriorate?”

  “It’s the brain,” Genco said. “He says you can’t ever tell with the brain.”

  “But right now,” Vito asked, “he’s slow, but he’s still talking, getting around?”

  “That’s what I’m told,” Genco said. “He just sounds a little stupid.”

  “Hey,” Richie said, “that’s half the people we deal with.”

  Vito looked up at the roof of the car and stroked his neck. He seemed to disappear into a world of calculations. “What do our lawyers say about the case against Brasi?” he asked.

  Genco sighed as if annoyed by the question. “They found the infant’s bones in the furnace.”

  Vito put his hand over his stomach and looked away at the mention of the infant’s bones. He took a breath before he pushed on. “They could argue that the girl threw the baby in the furnace before she died,” he said, “and that Brasi tried to kill himself when he realized what she’d done.”

  “His own man brought in the police,” Genco said, his voice getting louder. “Luigi Battaglia, who’s been with Luca I’m told since he was a baby himself. And he’s willing to testify he saw Luca drag Filomena and the newborn into the basement, after telling everyone he was going to burn up his own baby—and then he saw him come out of the basement without the baby and with Filomena hysterical. Vito!” Genco shouted. “Why are we wasting our time on this bastardo! Che cazzo! We should kill the son of a bitch ourselves!”

  Vito put his hand on Genco’s knee and held it there until his friend calmed down. They were on Canal Street. The clamor and noise of the city grew louder in contrast to the quiet inside the car. Vito rolled up his window. “Can we find Luigi Battaglia?” he asked Genco.

  Genco shrugged, meaning he didn’t know whether or not Luigi could be found.

  “Find him,” Vito said. “I believe he’s someone who can be reasoned with. What about Filomena?”

  “She’s not telling the police nothing,” Genco said, looking away from Vito, out the window at the crowds on the sidewalk. “She’s scared to death,” he added, turning then to face Vito, as if having finally pulled himself together and settled back into his role as consigliere.

  “Maybe it’s time for her and her family to go back to Sicily,” Vito said.

  “Vito… You know I don’t question you—” Genco shifted in his seat so that he was facing Vito. “Why are yo
u concerning yourself with this animale?” he asked. “They say he’s the devil, and they’re right. He should be burning in hell, Vito. His mother, when she found out what he’d done, she took her own life. Mother and son, suicidi. This is a family that’s…” Genco clutched his forehead as if the word he was looking for was inside his head somewhere and he was trying to pull it out. “Pazzo,” he said, finally.

  Vito said, in a whisper, as if frustrated at being forced to speak the words, and not without a touch of anger, “We do what we must, Genco. You know that.”

  “But Luca Brasi…,” Genco pleaded. “Is it worth it? Because he frightens Mariposa? I tell you the truth, Vito; he frightens me too. This man disgusts me. He’s a beast. He deserves to rot in hell.”

  Vito moved close to Genco and spoke softly enough that Richie Gatto in the front seat couldn’t hear him. “I don’t argue with you, Genco,” he said, “but a man like Luca Brasi, a man with a reputation so awful that even the strongest men fear him—if a man like that can be controlled, he’s a powerful weapon.” Vito held Genco’s wrist. “And we’re going to need powerful weapons,” he said, “if we’re to have a chance against Mariposa.”

  Genco clutched his stomach with both hands, as if distressed by a sudden pain. “Agita,” he said, and sighed as if the weight of the world were contained in that one word. “And you think you can control him?” he asked.

  “We’ll see,” Vito said. He shifted back to his side of the car. “Find Luigi,” he said, “and bring Filomena to me.” As an afterthought, he added, “Give Fischer a little something extra this month.” He rolled down the window again and felt around in his jacket pocket for a cigar. Outside, the city was bustling, and now, as they approached Hester Street and the Genco Pura warehouse and his office, Vito recognized several of the faces on the sidewalk, talking outside the shops and standing around on stoops or in doorways. When they neared Nazorine’s bakery, he told Richie to pull over. “Genco,” he said, getting out of the car, “let’s get some cannoli.”

  Genco touched his stomach, hesitated a moment, and then shrugged and said, “Sure. Cannoli.”