by Ed Falco
The cop Vito was following seemed to relax once they were out of the courthouse and on their way to the jail. He straightened out his tunic, took off the blue saucer cap, brushed the badge on its peak, and put it back on again. The series of gestures reminded Vito of someone who had just managed a narrow escape and was straightening himself out before he went on with his business. “Cold one today,” the cop said, gesturing toward the street. “Below zero,” Vito said, and hoped that would be the end of it. The streets were pockmarked with sooty humps of ice and snow, though it hadn’t stormed recently. On the corner of Franklin a young woman waited with her head bowed and her face held in her gloved hands as a crowd of pedestrians walked past her. Vito noticed her as he first stepped onto the bridge. He watched her appear and disappear as he moved from window to window. When he passed the last window she was still standing there motionless, her head in her hands—and then Vito crossed from the bridge to the Tombs and lost sight of her.
“We’ve got him in the basement,” the cop said as they entered a long corridor of closed doors. “We brought him over from the hospital ward.”
Vito didn’t bother to answer. Somewhere out of sight at the far end of the corridor someone was yelling in anger, berating someone, and the sound of it wafted along the hallway.
“I’m Walter,” the cop said, suddenly deciding to introduce himself. He had just shouldered open a door onto a stairwell. “My partner Sasha’s keeping an eye on him.” He checked his wristwatch. “We can only give you a half hour at the most.”
“I won’t need more than a half hour.”
“And you understand,” the cop said, looking Vito over carefully, his eyes moving up and down the contours of Vito’s suit jacket and searching the folds of the overcoat he held draped over his arm, “you understand that nothing can happen to him while he’s in our custody?”
Walter was Vito’s height but several years younger and fifty pounds heavier. His gut pushed at the tunic’s brass buttons and his thighs stretched the blue fabric of his pants. “Nothing will happen to him,” Vito said.
The cop nodded and led Vito down two flights of stairs and onto a windowless corridor that smelled of something offensive. Vito covered his face with his fedora to block the smell. “What is that?”
“Mug’s got to take a beating,” Walter said, “this is where we bring him.” He looked around as he walked, as if trying to locate the source of the odor. “Smells like someone lost his lunch.”
At the end of the corridor and around a corner, Sasha waited with his back to a green door, his arms folded over his chest. At Vito’s approach, he opened the door and stood aside. “Half hour,” he said. “Did Walt explain?”
Through the open door, Vito saw Luca sitting up on a hospital gurney. His appearance was so changed that at first glance Vito thought they had brought him the wrong man. The right side of his face drooped slightly as if it had been yanked down an eighth of an inch. His lips were swollen, and he breathed noisily through his mouth. Luca squinted through dulled eyes as he looked up toward the open door. He appeared to be struggling both to see clearly and to understand what he saw.
Sasha, seeing Vito hesitate in the doorway, said, “He looks worse off than he is.”
“Give us a little privacy,” Vito said. “You can wait around the corner.”
Sasha looked at Walter, as if he wasn’t any too sure about the wisdom of leaving Vito alone with Luca.
“That’s fine, Mr. Corleone,” Walter said, and he reached around his partner to pull the door closed.
“Luca,” Vito said, once they were alone. His voice was so full of dismay and sadness that it surprised him. The room smelled of disinfectant, and it was barren except for the gurney and a scattering of plain, straight-back chairs. There were no windows, and the only light came from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room. Vito pulled a chair away from the wall and pulled it close to the gurney.
Luca said, “What are you—doing here—Vito?” He had on a short-sleeved, white hospital gown that was too small for him. The bottom hem didn’t even reach his knees. He appeared to have to swallow or adjust something in his throat after speaking a few words. He spoke stutteringly but clearly, working to articulate each word. As Luca spoke, Vito for the first time saw a hint of the old Luca, as if that other Luca was lurking someplace under the damaged face and dull eyes.
“How are you?” Vito asked.
A second passed and Luca answered, “How—do I look?” An expression that might have been an attempt at a smile passed over his face.
Vito noted the momentary delay between the asking of the question and the response, and so spoke slowly, giving Luca time to process and respond to what was said. “You don’t look so good,” he said.
Luca slid off the gurney and crossed the room to find a second chair. He was naked under the gown, which was too small to tie closed and so fell open over his broad back. He found a chair and pulled it across from Vito so that they were facing each other. “You know what I keep—thinking about?” he asked as he took his seat. Again his words came out interrupted by a pause in which he seemed to have to recall the next series of words while he fixed something in his mouth or throat, but his meaning was clear, as were the words themselves. When Vito shook his head, Luca said, “Willie O’Rourke.”
“Why is that?”
“I hate him,” Luca said. He added, “I want—him dead.” A few seconds passed, and Luca made a sound that Vito interpreted as a laugh.
“Luca,” Vito said. “I can help you. I can get you out of this.”
This time Luca clearly smiled. “Are you God?”
“I’m not God,” Vito said. He picked up his hat and looked at it and then put it down in his lap again, on top of his overcoat. “Listen to me, Luca,” he said. “I want you to trust me. I know everything. I know all you’ve been through. I know—”
“What—what do you—know, Vito?” Luca leaned forward in his seat, a hint of menace in the movement. “I know what you’re—talking about,” he said. “You know I—killed my father. So you think—you know everything. But you—don’t know—anything.”
“But I do,” Vito said. “I know about your mother. I know about your neighbor, the teacher, this Lowry fellow.”
“What do you know?” Luca sat back again, put his hands on his knees.
“The police figured you did it, Luca, but they had no proof.”
“Did what?”
“Luca,” Vito said. “The pieces of this puzzle are not difficult to fit together. Why would your father—a Sicilian!—try to cut his own baby out of its mother’s womb? The answer is he wouldn’t. Never. And why would you push this Lowry, your next-door neighbor, off the roof as soon as they let you out of the hospital? Luca, this is a tragedy, not a mystery. You killed your father to save your mother, and then you killed the man who cuckolded your father. In all of this,” Vito added, “I say you behaved honorably.”
Luca seemed still to be listening long after Vito stopped speaking. He sank down in his chair and swiped his hand across his forehead, as if wiping away perspiration, though it was cold in the room. He asked, “Who else knows—all this?”
“The police in Rhode Island who investigated,” Vito said. “They figured it out, but they had no proof and they didn’t care. They forgot about you long ago.”
“How do you—know what the police in—Rhode Island know?”
Vito shrugged.
“What about your—organization?” Luca asked. “Who among them—knows?”
The hallway was quiet. Vito didn’t know if the cops were nearby. “Nobody knows but me,” he said.
Luca looked at the door and then back to Vito. “I don’t want—anyone—to know about my—mother’s sins,” he said.
“And no one ever will,” Vito said. “My word can always be trusted, and I give you my word.”
“I’m not a trusting—man,” Luca said.
“Sometimes,” Vito said, “you must. You must
trust someone.”
Luca watched Vito, and Vito felt as if, under Luca’s eyes, he could see someone else looking at him, looking at him through Luca. “Trust me now,” Vito said. “Listen to me when I say you can save yourself.” Vito leaned closer to Luca. “I understand suffering,” he said. “My father and brother were murdered. I watched a man take a shotgun to my mother and blow her away like she was a piece of straw. My mother, who I loved, Luca. When the time was right, when I grew up and came into my own, I went back and I killed that man.”
Luca said, “I already—tried to kill—the man who killed my father—and mother.” He placed his fingers over his eyes and rubbed them gently. Into the darkness, he said, “Why do you want—to help me?”
“I want you to come to work for me,” Vito said. “I am not by nature a violent man. I do not wish to do violence. But I live in the same world you live in, Luca, and we both know this world is full of evil. There’s a need for men who will stamp out evil ruthlessly. Brutally. You can be of great service to me, a man like you, a man everybody fears.”
“You want me—to work for you?”
“I’ll take care of you,” Vito said. “I’ll take care of your men. These charges against you will be dropped.”
“What about—the witness?” Luca asked. “What about—Luigi Battaglia?”
“He will recant or disappear. Filomena, the midwife, is already in my care. She’ll be returning to Sicily with her family. This whole incident,” Vito said, “will be behind you.”
“And for this—all I have to do—is come to work for—you as a soldier?” Luca watched Vito with curiosity, as if he truly couldn’t comprehend why he would make such an offer. “Don’t you know—I’m il diavolo?” he said. “I’ve—murdered mothers, fathers—and infants. I’ve murdered—my own father—and my own son. Who would associate—with the devil? Would Clemenza? Would Tessio?”
“Clemenza and Tessio will do what I say. But I don’t need another soldier,” Vito said. “I have button men, Luca. I have soldiers.”
“Then what do—you want from me?”
“I need you to be something much more important than a soldier, Luca. I need you to go on being il diavolo—but il mio diavolo.”
Luca’s face remained blank as he watched Vito before turning to look away, off into the distance. Then, finally, he seemed to understand, and nodded to himself. “I have one piece of—outstanding business—before I come to work for you,” he said. “I need to kill—Willie O’Rourke.”
“That can wait,” Vito said.
Luca shook his head. “He’s all—I can think about. I want him dead.”
Vito sighed and said, “After this outstanding business, then you work only on my orders.”
“Okay,” Luca said. “Yes.”
“One more thing,” Vito said. “This business between you and Tom Hagen. It’s over. It’s forgotten.”
Luca looked at a blank wall as if studying it. When he turned back to Vito, he nodded.
Both men were quiet then, their essential business having been concluded. Still, Vito was surprised by the tumble of emotions he felt as he watched Luca, watched the destroyed face and dull eyes. The man seemed to have sunken into himself, fallen and been buried inside a hulking frame of flesh and bone, as if, whoever Luca really was, he was trapped inside himself like a boy lost in a dark building. To his own surprise, Vito found himself reaching out and touching Luca’s hand, tentatively at first, and then grasping it with both his hands. He meant to speak, to explain to Luca that sometimes a man must simply put things out of his mind, that sometimes things happen that no one, not even God, can forgive—and then all there is to do is not think of them. But not a word came out of Vito’s mouth. He grasped Luca’s hand and didn’t speak.
Luca made a sound at the touch that was almost a gasp, and the dullness disappeared from his eyes, so that they looked in that instant like the eyes of a young boy. “My mother’s dead,” he said, as if he had just heard the news and was in shock. “Kelly’s dead,” he added, again as if he had just gotten the news.
“Sì,” Vito said, “and this you must endure.”
Luca’s eyes brimmed and he wiped the tears away roughly with his forearm. “Don’t,” he said, “don’t…”
“I won’t,” Vito said, knowing what Luca meant, that he wanted his tears to remain secret. “Trust me,” Vito said.
Luca had been looking down into his own lap, and he raised his eyes to Vito’s. “Never doubt me,” he said. “Don Corleone,” he added, “never doubt me—Don Corleone.”
“Good,” Vito said, and he let go of Luca’s hand. “Now, tell me: I need the names of the boys who have been giving Giuseppe all this trouble.”
“Yes,” Luca said, and he proceeded to tell Vito everything he knew.
17.
On Hester, nearing his father’s warehouse, Sonny stared out the Packard’s side window at streets teeming with men and women scurrying around on some business or other. Clemenza was at the wheel, driving slowly over the cobblestones, while Vito sat quietly alongside him in the passenger seat. Sonny concentrated on keeping his mouth shut and not jumping into the front seat and cursing out Clemenza, who had been treating him like a scumbag ever since he’d shown up at Leo’s and pulled him out of work. His father hadn’t thus far said a word. Clemenza had pulled Sonny along roughly by the arm and thrown him into the back of the Packard, and Sonny had been too surprised by the fat man’s bulk and power and too shocked by the way he was being treated to react until he was in the car and saw his father in the front seat. When he had asked angrily what the hell was going on, Clemenza had told him to shut up, and when he’d asked again, shouting, Clemenza had shown him the butt of his gun and threatened to crack his skull open with it—and through all this Vito had remained silent. Now Sonny had his hands in his lap and his mouth shut as Clemenza parked in front of the warehouse.
Clemenza opened the back door. “Shut up, kid,” he said, leaning close to Sonny as he got out of the car. “You’re in trouble here,” he added, in a whisper, as Vito waited on the sidewalk, pulling his overcoat tight around him.
“What’d I do?” Sonny asked. All he had on were the grease-stained overalls he’d been wearing at work, and the cold nipped at his nose and ears.
Clemenza said, “Just follow me. You’ll get plenty of chances to talk in a minute.”
On the sidewalk near the warehouse door, Vito spoke for the first time. The subject had nothing to do with Sonny. “Is Luca out?” he asked Clemenza.
“Last night,” Clemenza said. “He’s with a couple of his boys.”
At the mention of Luca Brasi, Sonny’s heart did a quick dance—but before he had time to think through the implications, he was inside the warehouse looking at five chairs arranged in a semicircle in front of stacks of olive oil crates. The space was damp and cold, with a gray concrete floor and a high ceiling of exposed metal beams. The wood crates of olive oil were stacked ten feet high around the chairs, so that it felt like they were in a room inside the larger space of the warehouse. Sonny’s boys were bound and gagged in the chairs, Cork in the middle, with Nico and Little Stevie on one side of him and the Romero twins on the other. Richie Gatto and Jimmy Mancini stood with their backs to the crates on one side of the semicircle, and Eddie Veltri and Ken Cuisimano were on the other side. The men were all dressed nattily in three-piece suits and polished shoes, while the boys in comparison looked like street scum, their winter coats in a pile on the floor behind them. From out of a corridor in the stacks of crates, Tessio appeared with his head down, working at his zipper, which was apparently stuck. He got it fixed just as he entered the little room. When he looked up, he said, “Hey, Sonny! Look what we found!” He gestured to the chairs. “It’s the Hardy Boys Gone Bad!” The line made everyone laugh, except for Sonny and Vito, and Sonny’s boys with their arms tied behind their backs in the chairs.
“Basta,” Vito said. He moved into the semicircle and looked back at Sonny. “These mortade
ll’,” he said, “they’ve been stealing from Giuseppe Mariposa, causing him trouble and costing him money—and because I have business ties with Mr. Mariposa, they’re causing me trouble and threatening to cost me money.”
“Pop—” Sonny took a step toward his father.
“Sta’zitt’!” Vito’s open hand shot up in a warning, and Sonny moved back. “I noticed that young Mr. Corcoran here,” Vito said, approaching Bobby, “he’s been to our house many times over the years. In fact, I can remember him in knickers, playing with toys in your room.” Vito pulled the gag out of Bobby’s mouth and watched him, waiting to see whether or not he’d speak. When Cork was silent, Vito moved on to the Romero brothers. “These two,” he said, pulling the gags out of their mouths, “they live in our neighborhood. Nico here,” he said, pulling his gag away, “lives around the corner from us. His family’s friends of our family.” Vito moved to Little Stevie and looked at him with contempt. “This one,” he said, and ripped the gag away, “I don’t know.”
“I told you,” Stevie yelled, as soon as the gag was out of his mouth, “I don’t run with these mutts anymore.”
Richie Gatto pulled a gun from his shoulder holster and cocked the hammer. To Stevie he said, “Be healthier for you to shut up.”
Vito moved to the center of the semicircle. “Every one of these boys except this one,” he said, pointing to Stevie, “tells me you have nothing to do with any of the jobs they’ve pulled.” He looked to Little Stevie again. “This one, though, he says that they’re all your gang, that you’ve been running the whole thing.” Vito moved toward Sonny. “The others defend you,” he said. “They say he’s got it in for you.” When he was standing practically on top of Sonny, he stopped and paused and stared. “I’m tired of this childishness,” he said. “I’m going to ask you once: Did you have anything to do with these stickups, these hijackings and robberies?”
