by Ed Falco
“You’re no floozy.” Sonny took her hands in his.
“If I’m not a floozy,” she said, “then what am I doing bedding my little brother’s best friend—or ex–best friend.” She added, as if it were a question she’d been meaning to ask, “And what’s the story between you two?”
“You haven’t been bedding your little brother’s best friend for a long time now, for the record,” Sonny said, “and me and Cork—That’s why I came over here, to try to straighten things out between us.”
“You can’t be coming here by yourself anymore, Sonny.” Eileen squeezed out from between him and the sink and went to get his hat from the shelf beside the front door. “This was sweet,” she said, “but unless you’re with Cork, don’t come here again, please.”
“Che cazzo!” Sonny said. “I only came here after I went to Cork’s place and he wasn’t there!”
“Be that as it may,” Eileen said, holding his fedora over her chest, “you can’t be coming here alone, Sonny Corleone. It won’t do.”
“Doll face,” Sonny said, approaching her, “you’re the one dragged me into bed. I was only looking for Cork.”
“I don’t recall doing much dragging,” Eileen answered. She handed him his hat.
“Okay, so I admit,” Sonny said, and he tossed his hat up onto his head, “you didn’t have to do much dragging. But still, I came here looking for Cork.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I’m glad things worked out the way they did, though.”
“I’m sure you are,” Eileen said, and then, as if she just remembered, she returned to her earlier question. “What’s the story with you and Cork?” she asked. “He won’t tell me a thing, but he’s moping around all the time like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.”
“We parted company,” Sonny said, “business-wise. He’s mad at me about that.”
Eileen cocked her head. “Are you saying he’s not running with you at all anymore?”
“No more,” Sonny said. “We parted ways.”
“How’d that come to pass?”
“Long story.” Sonny adjusted his hat. “Tell Cork I want to see him, though. This not talking, it’s—We should talk, me and him. Tell him I came looking for him to tell him that.”
Eileen watched Sonny. “Are you saying,” she asked, “that Cork is no longer in the same business as you?”
“I don’t know what business Cork’s in now.” Sonny reached around her for the door. “But whatever it is, we’re not in it together. We’ve gone our separate ways.”
“It’s one surprise after another today, isn’t it?” Eileen held Sonny by the waist, stood on her toes, and gave him a good-bye kiss. “This was sweet,” she said, “but it won’t ever happen again, Sonny. Just so you know.”
“That’s too bad,” Sonny said. He leaned toward her, as if to kiss her good-bye. When she took a step back, he said, “Okay, don’t forget to tell Cork,” and he left, pulling the door closed gently behind him.
Out on the street, the thunderstorm had passed, leaving the sidewalks washed clean of trash and dirt. The railroad tracks gleamed. Sonny looked at his wristwatch, trying to figure out what to do next—and he remembered, like a cartoon lightbulb turning on in his empty head, that he was supposed to be at a meeting in the Hester Street warehouse in a couple of minutes. “V’fancul’,” he said aloud, doing the quick calculations of distance and traffic and figuring, if he was lucky, he’d be about ten minutes late. He slapped himself on the forehead and then sprinted around the corner to his car.
Vito moved away from the desk and turned his back on Sonny when he came through the office door sputtering excuses. He fixed his eyes on his fedora and jacket hanging off the metal hall tree and waited for Sonny to shut up, which didn’t happen until Clemenza told him to sit down and be quiet. When he turned around and looked out over the office again, Vito sighed in Sonny’s direction, making his displeasure obvious. Sonny straddled a chair by the door, his arms wrapped around the backrest. He looked eagerly at Vito, over the heads of Genco and Tessio. Clemenza was sitting on the file cabinet, and he shrugged when he met Vito’s eyes, as if to say about Sonny showing up late for the meeting, What are you gonna do? Outside, a thunderclap quickly followed a crack of lightning as another in a line of spring storms passed over the city. Vito spoke as he took off his cuff links and rolled up his sleeves. “Mariposa has summoned all the families in New York and New Jersey to a meeting,” he said, looking at Sonny, making it clear that he was repeating himself for his benefit. “To show his pure intentions, he’s holding this meeting on Sunday afternoon, at Saint Francis in midtown.” Finished rolling up his sleeves, Vito paused and loosened his tie. “It’s a good move on his part, bringing us to Saint Francis on a Sunday. He’s showing he doesn’t intend any dirty business. But,” Vito added, looking to Tessio and Clemenza, “men have been killed in church before, so I want your boys close by, all over the neighborhood, on the streets, in the restaurants, anywhere they can be reached quickly if we need them.”
“Sure,” Tessio said, his tone no more glum or somber than usual.
“That’s easy,” Clemenza said. “That won’t be no problem, Vito.”
“At this meeting,” Vito continued, turning to Sonny, “I’m taking Luca Brasi as my bodyguard. And I want you there as Genco’s bodyguard.”
“Sure, Pop,” Sonny answered, tilting his chair forward. “Sure thing.”
Clemenza’s face reddened at Sonny’s response.
“All you do is stand behind Genco and say nothing,” Vito said, speaking each word precisely, as if Sonny were a little stupid and he needed to speak slowly for his benefit. “Do you understand?” he asked. “They know you’re in the business already. Now I want them to know that you’re close to me. That’s why you’ll be at this meeting.”
Sonny said, “I got it, Pop. Sure.”
“V’fancul’!” Clemenza shouted, raising a fist to Sonny. “How many times I gotta tell you not to call your father ‘Pop’ when we’re doing business? When we’re doing business, just nod your head, like I told you. Capisc’?”
“Clemenza and Tessio,” Vito said, not giving Sonny a chance to open his mouth, “you’ll be close by outside the church, in case we need you. I’m sure these precautions are not necessary, but I’m a cautious man by nature.”
Vito turned again to Sonny, as if he had something more to say to him. Instead he looked to Genco. “Consigliere,” he said, “do you have any ideas about this meeting, any guesses about what Mariposa will say?”
Genco juggled his hands in his lap, as if he were tossing around ideas. “As you know,” he said, turning slightly in his chair to address everyone in the room, “we had no advance word from anyone about this meeting, not even our friend, who wasn’t told until we were. Our friend has no knowledge himself of the purpose of the meeting.” He stopped and pulled at his cheek, mulling over his words. “Mariposa has smoothed out the last of the problems with the LaConti organization,” he said, “and now all that used to be LaConti’s is his. This makes his far and away the most powerful family.” Genco opened his hands, as if holding a basketball. “I think he’s bringing us together to let us know who’ll be calling the shots from now on. Given his strengths, that’s reasonable. Whether or not we can go along, that depends on what shots he wants to call.”
“And you think we’re going to find out at the meeting?” Tessio asked.
“That would be my guess,” Genco answered.
Vito pushed a stack of papers aside and leaned back on his desk. “Giuseppe is greedy,” he said. “Now that whiskey is legal, he’ll cry out how poor he is—and he’ll want money from all of us in some way. Maybe a tax, I don’t know. But he’ll want a piece of our earnings. This is what we all saw coming when he went after LaConti. Now the time is here, and that’s what this meeting will be about.”
“He’s strong now,” Tessio said. “We won’t have any choice but to go along, even if he asks more than we like.”
“Pop,�
�� Sonny said, and then immediately corrected himself. “Don,” he said, but the word obviously felt wrong to him and he stood up, exasperated. “Listen!” he said, “everybody knows Mariposa’s got it in for us. I say, why don’t we blast him, right there, in the church, when he won’t be expecting it. Bada boom, bada bing!” he yelled, slapping his hands together. “Mariposa’s out of the picture and everybody knows what happens if you go up against the Corleones!”
Vito looked at Sonny with an utterly blank face as the sound of voices in the room was replaced with rainfall on the warehouse roof and wind gusting at the window. Vito’s capos watched the floor. Clemenza pressed his hands over his temples as if to keep his head from flying apart.
Vito said, calmly, “Gentlemen, let me have a moment alone with my son, per favore,” and the room quickly emptied.
When they were alone, Vito waited in the quiet and stared at Sonny as if he was truly puzzled. “You want us to kill Giuseppe Mariposa,” he said, finally, “in church, on a Sunday, in the midst of a meeting like this one, between all the families?”
Sonny, wavering under his father’s gaze, took his seat again. Softly, he said, “It seems to me—”
“It seems to you!” Vito said, cutting him off. “It seems to you,” he repeated. “What things seem like to you is of no interest to me, Sonny. You’re a bambino. In the future I don’t want to hear what things seem like to you, Santino,” he said. “Do you understand?”
“Sure, Pop,” Sonny answered, quieted by his father’s anger.
“We’re not animals, Sonny. That’s first of all. Next,” he said, raising his finger, “what you’re proposing, it would turn all the families against us, which, Sonny, would ensure our doom.”
“Pop—”
“Sta’zitt’!” Vito pulled a chair up next to Sonny. “Listen to me,” he said, and he put a hand on Sonny’s knee. “There’s going to be trouble now. Serious trouble, not a child’s game. There’s going to be blood spilled. Sonny, do you understand?”
“Sure, Pop. I understand.”
Vito said, “I don’t think you do.” He looked away and ran his knuckles along his jaw. “I’ve got to be thinking about everyone, Santino. About Tessio and Clemenza and their men, and all their families. I’m responsible,” he said, and then paused, looking for the right words. “I’m responsible for everyone,” he said, “for our whole organization, for everybody.”
“Sure,” Sonny said, and he scratched his head, wishing he could come up with a way to make his father believe that he understood him.
“What I’m saying,” Vito said, and he yanked at his ear, “you have to learn to listen not just to what’s said but to what’s meant. I’m telling you I’m responsible for everyone, Santino. For everyone.”
Sonny nodded and for the first time realized that he perhaps didn’t understand what his father was trying to tell him.
“I need you to do what you’re told,” Vito said, again articulating each word as if talking to a child. “I need you to do what you’re told and only what you’re told. I can’t be worried about what hotheaded thing you’re going to do or say, Sonny. Here you are now,” he said, “a part of my business—and I’m telling you, Santino, you are to do nothing or say nothing, unless you’re told by me, or Tessio, or Clemenza. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Sonny said, and he gave himself another second to consider it. “You don’t want me getting in the way. You’re telling me you got important business to concentrate on, and you can’t be worrying about me doing something stupid.”
“Ah,” Vito said, and he pantomimed clapping.
“But, Pop,” Sonny said, leaning toward his father. “I could—”
Vito clasped a fist roughly around Sonny’s jaw and held him tight. “You’re a bambino,” he said. “You know nothing. And when you come to understand how little you know, then, maybe, maybe you’ll finally start listening.” He let go of Sonny and tugged at his own ear. “Listen,” he said. “That’s the beginning.”
Sonny got up and turned his back to Vito. His face was red, and if another man had been so unlucky as to be standing in front of him, he’d have broken his jaw. “I’m going now,” he said to his father without looking at him. Behind him, Vito nodded. Sonny, as if he somehow saw his father’s gesture, nodded in return and left the room.
Under the streetlamp on the corner of Paddy’s, Pete Murray executed an elaborate bow, including a twisting flourish with his extended left arm. A stout older woman in an ankle-length dress put her hands on her hips, threw her head back, and laughed before she sauntered off haughtily, turned to throw a glance at Pete, and said something that made him bellow with laughter. Cork watched this scene unfold as he parked across the street, behind a knife-sharpener’s wagon, the big grinding wheel bolted to the wagon bed. It was midmorning still, the day awash in bright spring sunlight. All through the city, people were digging their lightweight jackets out of the back of the closet and storing away winter clothes. Cork stepped out of the car and yelled to Pete as he hurried to the corner.
Pete greeted Cork with a smile. “Glad you decided to join us,” he said, and he clapped a burly arm around Cork’s shoulder.
“Sure,” Cork said. “When Pete Murray asks me to have a beer, you know I don’t think twice.”
“Attaboy. How’s Eileen and the little girl?”
“They’re doing good,” Cork said. “The bakery’s thriving.”
“Folks will always find a few pennies for a sweet,” Pete said, “even in a depression.” He turned to Cork with an expression full of sympathy. “Cryin’ shame about Jimmy. He was a good lad, and a smart one, too.” As if he didn’t want to linger on that bit of sadness, he added, “But your whole family’s like that, isn’t it?” He good-naturedly shook Cork by the shoulder. “You’ve got the brains in the neighborhood.”
“I don’t know about that.” They were a couple of doors down from Paddy’s, and Cork touched Pete’s arm to stop him. On the street, a green and white police car slowed down and a copper stared out the window at Cork, as if making a mental note of his face. Pete tipped his hat to him, the copper nodded, and the car rolled on down the block. “Say, Pete,” Cork asked, once the police car passed by, “would you mind telling me what this is about? It’s not every day I’m asked to have a beer with Pete Murray—and at eleven in the morning! I’ll admit to being curious.”
“Ah, will you?” Pete said. He put his hand on Cork’s back and directed him to Paddy’s. “Let’s say I’d like to make you an invitation.”
“An invitation to what?”
“You’ll see in a minute.” As they neared the entrance to Paddy’s, Pete stopped and said, “You’re not runnin’ with Sonny Corleone and his boys anymore; that’s right, isn’t it?” When Cork didn’t deny it, he said, “I hear they tossed you out like a bum while the rest of the boys are pullin’ in big dough with the Corleones.”
“What’s all that got to do with anything?”
“In a minute,” Pete said, and he pushed open the door to Paddy’s.
Except for five men sitting around the bar, Paddy’s was empty, the chairs all upside down on tables, the floor swept clean. Daylight through a block-glass window that looked out onto a side street and bright sunlight seeping into the barroom around the edges of pulled green curtains provided the only illumination. The space was still chilly from the night’s cold. As always, it smelled of beer. The men at the bar all turned to look at Cork as he entered the room, though no one called out his name. Cork knew them all at a glance: the Donnelly brothers, Rick and Billy, seated side by side, Corr Gibson at the front of the bar, next to Sean O’Rourke, and Stevie Dwyer, by himself at the corner.
With his back turned to the men, in the process of locking the door, Pete said, “You all know Bobby Corcoran.” He put his arm around Cork’s shoulder, led him to a seat at the bar, and pulled up a stool beside him. With the others watching and waiting, he reached for a couple of beer mugs and poured
beers for himself and Cork. He was wearing a pale green shirt, blousy and loose-fitting over his gut, but tight around his chest and the bulging muscles of his arms. “Let me get straight to the point!” he boomed, once he slid Cork his beer. He slapped his big hands down on the bar for an extra jolt of emphasis and looked from face to face as if assuring himself he had everyone’s undivided attention. “The Rosato brothers have made us a proposition—”
“The Rosato brothers!” Stevie Dwyer yelled. He sat with his arms crossed on the bar, lifting himself up in an effort to make himself a little taller. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and then was quiet as Pete and everyone else glared at him.
“The Rosato brothers have made us a proposition,” Pete repeated. “They want us to work for them—”
“Ah, Jesus,” Stevie murmured.
“Stevie,” Pete said, “will you let me speak, for Christ’s sake?”
Stevie lifted a beer mug to his mouth and was quiet by way of an answer.
Pete undid a button at his collar and looked down into his beer, as if having to gather his thoughts again after being interrupted. “All the businesses we used to run in our neighborhoods,” he said, “we’ll be running them again, though of course kicking up a share of the profits, as is only to be expected.”
Before Pete could continue, Billy Donnelly jumped in. “And how would the Rosato brothers be delivering on that malarkey, Pete, given it’s the Corleones in charge around here now?”
“Ah, well,” Pete said, “now, that’s the real point of this little get-together, isn’t it?”
“So that’s it, is it?” Corr said, one hand tight around the knot of his shillelagh. “The Rosatos are moving on the Corleones.”
“The Rosatos aren’t doing a blessed thing on their own,” Rick Donnelly said. “If the Rosatos are coming to us, they’re talking for Mariposa.”
“Of course,” Pete said, raising his voice in annoyance, and dismissing Rick’s addition to the conversation as a waste of time repeating the obvious.
