by Ed Falco
“Billy!” Rick called from across the wide space between them.
JoJo and the boys had backed out onto the street. The slaughterhouse was quiet, Billy’s ragged breathing the only noise other than a constant low hum coming from someplace out of sight.
“Your brother’s okay,” Luca yelled. He knocked the piled-up crates aside with his free arm, sending a few tumbling the twenty or so feet to the floor below. “Come on out—Rick.” With the crates out of the way, he pushed Billy in front of him to the edge of the catwalk, up against the railing. He had one arm around Billy’s neck, the other dangling at his side, the revolver in his hand. When Rick didn’t answer or show himself, he said, “Jumpin’ Joe wants—to see you. He wants—to talk to you and Billy.”
“Ah, you’re so full of shit,” Rick said, “y’twisted freak.” He spoke as if Luca was sitting across the table from him. If not for a loud note of weariness, he would have sounded amused.
Luca pushed Billy against the railing, lifting him a little. Billy had relaxed a bit, and Luca loosened his grip, making it easier for the kid to breathe. “Come out now,” he said to Rick. “Don’t make me put—a bullet in your little brother. Giuseppe only—wants to talk.”
“Ah, you’re lyin’,” Rick said, still hidden behind a pile of crates. “You work for the Corleones now and everyone knows it.”
“I work for myself,” Luca said. “You Irish—should know that.”
Billy squirmed in Luca’s grasp and shouted, “He’s lying, Rick. Shoot the son of a bitch.”
“Okay, Billy,” Luca whispered into his ear. He jerked the kid off his feet and over the railing, and dangled him off the catwalk, where he squealed and kicked. To Rick, Luca said, “Say good-bye—to your kid brother,” and in that same instant, Rick knocked a pair of crates to the ground and showed himself with hands up over his head, palms facing Luca.
“Good,” Luca said. He let Billy drop as he raised his revolver and emptied the cylinder into Rick’s chest and guts. Rick jerked back and then forward and over the railing, where he landed in a heap on a conveyor belt.
On the floor beneath Luca, Billy groaned and tried to pick himself up, but his leg had broken ugly, part of the bone sticking out through his thigh. He puked and then passed out.
“Put ’em in cement shoes,” Luca said as JoJo stepped onto the floor of the slaughterhouse, followed by Paulie and Vinnie. “Drop ’em in the river,” he added, on his way to the ladder. He was tired and looking forward to a good night’s sleep.
On the Romeros’ stoop, a half dozen or so men in cheap dark suits were talking to a pair of young women in cloche hats and clingy dresses inappropriate for a funeral. The girls’ outfits, Sonny figured, were probably all they owned in the way of anything dressy. He had parked around the corner and had watched the block for a half hour before deciding it was safe to make an appearance at Vinnie’s wake. The Corleone family had sent a wreath to the funeral parlor, and Sonny had five thousand dollars in a fat envelope in his jacket pocket that he wanted to deliver personally, though he had been ordered to stay away from the funerals, especially Vinnie’s funeral. Mariposa, according to Genco, wasn’t above snatching him at a wake. Sonny took a deep breath and felt the comforting bind of his shoulder holster.
Before he reached the stoop, the two girls noticed him approaching and hurried back into the building. By the time Sonny climbed the front steps and started up a flight of stairs to the Romeros’ second-floor apartment, Angelo Romero and Nico Angelopoulos were waiting on the landing. In the dim light of the stairwell, Angelo’s face looked as though it had aged a dozen years. His eyes were bloodshot, red around the eyelids, and surrounded by dark circles the color of bruises. He looked as though he hadn’t slept since the parade. People’s voices speaking in hushed tones floated down the stairs. “Angelo,” Sonny said, and then he was surprised by the knot in his throat that made it impossible to say anything more. He hadn’t let himself think about Vinnie. The fact of his death was there in his mind like a checkmark. Check, Vinnie is dead. But there was nothing more than that, nothing he felt and nothing he’d let himself think about. As soon as he spoke Angelo’s name, though, something rushed up inside him and lodged in his throat and he couldn’t say anything more.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Angelo rubbed his eyes so hard he looked more like he was trying to crush them than trying to comfort himself. “I’m tired,” he said, and then, announcing the obvious, added, “I haven’t slept much.”
“He’s having dreams,” Nico said. He put his hand on Angelo’s shoulder. “He can’t sleep because of the dreams.”
Sonny managed to say, “I’m sorry, Angelo,” though he had to struggle to get the words out.
“Yeah,” Angelo said, “but you shouldn’t be here.”
Sonny swallowed hard and looked down the stairs to the street, where the dreary and overcast day was visible through a window in the front door. He found it easier to think about business, about details. “I checked things out before I came up,” he said. “There’s nobody watching the place or anything. I’ll be all right.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Angelo said. “I meant my family doesn’t want you here, my parents. You can’t come up to the wake. They won’t have it.”
Sonny gave himself a moment to let that sink in. “I brought this.” He pulled the envelope out of his jacket pocket. “It’s something,” he said, and extended the envelope to Angelo.
Angelo crossed his hands over his chest and ignored the offering. “I’m not coming back to work for your family,” he said. “Am I gonna have trouble?”
“Nah,” Sonny said, and he pulled the envelope away, let his hand drop to his side. “Why would you think that?” he said. “My father will understand.”
“Good,” Angelo said, and then he stepped closer to Sonny. He looked as though he might embrace him, but he stopped. “What were we thinking?” he asked, and the words came out of him like a plea. “That we were in the comic books, that we couldn’t really get hurt?” He waited, as if he truly hoped that Sonny might have an answer. When Sonny was silent, he continued. “I must have been dreamin’, that’s what it feels like, like we all must have been dreamin’, like we couldn’t really get hurt. We couldn’t really get killed, but…” He stopped and sighed, the long breath coming out of him as much a moan as a sigh, and the sound itself seemed to acknowledge Vinnie’s death, to accept it. He moved away, toward the stairs, his eyes still on Sonny. “I curse the day I met you,” he said, “you and your family,” and he said it evenly, without malice or anger. He walked back up the stairs and out of sight.
“He don’t mean it,” Nico said, once Angelo was gone. “He’s distraught, Sonny. You know how close they were, those two. They were like each other’s shadows. Jesus, Sonny.”
“Sure.” Sonny handed the envelope to Nico. “Tell him I understand,” he said. “And tell him my family will provide whatever he and his family might need, now or in the future. You got that, Nico?”
“He knows that,” Nico said. He put the envelope in his pocket. “I’ll make sure they get this.”
Sonny patted Nico on the shoulder as a departing gesture, and then started down the stairs.
“I’ll walk with you to your car,” Nico said, following him. When they were on the street, he asked, “What will happen with Bobby now? I heard he’s hiding out.”
Sonny said, “I don’t know,” and his tone of voice and manner said he didn’t want to talk about Bobby.
“Listen, I wanted to tell you,” Nico said, and he took Sonny by the arm and stopped him on the street. “Me and Angelo were talking, and Angelo figures that Bobby must have been shootin’ at Stevie Dwyer, not your father. Your father don’t make any sense, Sonny. You know that.”
“Stevie Dwyer?”
“That’s what Angelo thinks. That’s what Vinnie thought, too. They had a chance to talk it over before Vinnie got shot.”
Sonny scratched his head and looked toward the street, as if he
might somehow be able to see what happened at the parade. “Stevie Dwyer?” he said again.
“That’s what Angelo says. They didn’t see it, but Angelo said Stevie was behind your father, and then after Bobby’s shot, Luca got Stevie. I wasn’t there,” he said, and he shoved his hands in his pockets, “but, Sonny, damn, Bobby loves you and your family and he hated Stevie. It makes sense, don’t it?”
Sonny tried to think back to the parade. He remembered seeing Bobby take the shot at his father, and then Vito went down, and that’s all he remembered. Everybody was shooting everywhere. Stevie Dwyer wound up dead. He tried to remember but already everything that had happened at the parade and right after was a jumble. He rubbed his knuckles along his jaw. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know what the hell happened. I got to talk with Bobby. It don’t look good,” he added, “that he’s hiding out.”
“Yeah, but you know,” Nico said. They were nearing Sonny’s car. “You know Bobby wouldn’t take a shot at your father. That just ain’t right,” he said. “You know that, Sonny.”
“I don’t know what I know.” Sonny stepped into the street, starting for his car. “What about you?” he asked, changing the subject. “How do you like your job?”
“It’s a job.” Nico took his hat off and blocked it as Sonny got into the car. “It’s hard work on the docks.”
“That’s what I hear.” Sonny closed the car door and sat back in his seat. “But the pay’s decent in the union, right?”
“Sure,” Nico said. “I don’t get to buy fancy clothes or anything anymore, but it’s okay. Did you hear I got a girl?”
“Nah,” Sonny said. “Who is it?”
“You don’t know her,” Nico said. “Her name’s Anastasia.”
“Anastasia,” Sonny said. “You got yourself a nice Greek girl.”
“Sure,” Nico said. “We’re talking about getting married and having kids already. I figure now I’ve got a decent job, I can make a good future for them.” Nico smiled and then blushed, as if he’d just embarrassed himself. “Tell your father thank you for me, Sonny. Tell him I appreciate him getting me this job, okay?”
Sonny started the car and then reached out the window to shake Nico’s hand. “Take care of yourself,” he said.
“Sure,” Nico said, and then he hesitated at the car door, watching Sonny as if there was more he wanted to say. He stood there another second or two past the point when it became awkward, as if whatever it was he wanted to say was pushing at him—and then he gave up and laughed awkwardly and walked away.
Jimmy Mancini shouldered his way through a narrow door and dragged Corr Gibson into a windowless room where Clemenza stood over a long stainless steel table, hefting a glistening butcher knife in his right hand, as if testing its weight and balance. Al Hats followed Jimmy into the room carrying Corr’s shillelagh.
“Where the hell am I?” Corr asked, as Jimmy propped him up on his feet. The Irishman sounded drunk, and he had indeed been drinking most of the night before Jimmy and Al found him asleep in his bed and delivered a beating that rendered him senseless. As he moved in and out of consciousness, he kept asking where he was and what was going on, as if he had never fully awakened. “Pete,” he said, squinting through swollen, half-closed eyes. “Clemenza,” he said. “Where am I?”
Clemenza found an apron hanging nearby and put it on. “You don’t know where you are, Corr?” He tied the apron behind his back. “This place is famous,” he said. “This is Mario’s Butcher Shop in Little Italy. Everybody knows this place. Mayor LaGuardia gets his sausage here.” Clemenza returned to the table and touched the blade of the butcher knife. “Mario knows how to take care of his utensils,” he said. “He keeps his knives sharp.”
“Does he now?” Corr said. He yanked his arm free from Jimmy and managed to stand unsteadily but on his own. He looked at the stainless steel table and the butcher knife in Clemenza’s hand and laughed. “You fucking guineas,” he said. “You’re all a bunch of barbarians.”
Clemenza said, still talking about Mario’s Butcher Shop, “Of course, Sicilians don’t come here. This is a Neapolitan sausage place. We don’t like Neapolitan sausage. They don’t know how to make it right, even with all their fancy stuff.” He glanced around at the array of cutlery and shiny pots and pans and various culinary equipment, including a band saw at the far end of the table.
“Where’s my shillelagh?” Corr asked. When he saw that Al was holding it in front of him, leaning on it like Fred Astaire, he said, wistfully, “Ah, how I’d love one last chance to bash your head in with it, Pete.”
“Yeah, but you won’t get it,” Clemenza said, and he gestured to Jimmy. “Take care of him in the freezer,” he said. “It’s quiet in there.” Corr went off without a fight, and Clemenza called after him, “See you in a few minutes, Corr.”
When the Irishman and the boys were out of sight, Clemenza stood in front of an array of knives and saws of various sizes, shapes, and designs hanging from a wall. “Will you look at all this,” he said, and whistled in appreciation.
Tessio, with Emilio Barzini in front of him and Phillip Tattaglia following, made his way through a maze of tables, where fifty or more diners in evening wear chatted and laughed over their meals. The club, not as fashionable as the Stork Club but a close cousin, was located in a midtown hotel and crowded every night of the week with celebrities—but it was not a club that any of the families frequented. Tessio glanced from table to table as he made his way to the back of the room. He thought he might have seen Joan Blondell at one of the tables, seated across from a classy-looking guy he didn’t recognize. To one side of the room, where a small orchestra was set up on a long white riser that served as a stage, a band leader in tails stepped up to a wide microphone next to a white grand piano and tapped the mike three times with a baton, and the orchestra launched into a snappy version of “My Blue Heaven.”
“This dame’s got a voice like an angel,” Tattaglia said, as a young woman with smoky eyes and long black hair approached the microphone and began to sing.
“Yeah,” Tessio said, and the single syllable came out sounding like a dolorous grunt.
At the back of the room, Little Carmine, one of Tomasino’s boys, stood in front of a pair of glass doors with his hands clasped at his waist, watching the singer. A flimsy curtain covered the length of the glass doors, and through it Tessio could see the outline of two figures seated at a table. When Emilio reached the doors, Little Carmine opened one for him, and Tessio and Tattaglia followed Emilio into a small room occupied by a single round table large enough to seat a dozen diners, though there were places set for only five. A waiter stood beside the table with a bottle of wine in his hand, next to Mariposa, who was wearing a gray three-piece suit with a bright-blue tie and a white carnation. Tomasino Cinquemani was seated next to Mariposa in a rumpled jacket with the top button of his shirt undone and his tie slightly loosened. “Salvatore!” Mariposa called out as Tessio entered the room. “Good to see you, my old friend,” he said. He rose and extended his hand, which Tessio shook.
“You too, Joe.” Tessio offered a slight nod to Tomasino, who hadn’t risen but nonetheless looked glad to see him.
“Sit!” Mariposa gestured to the seat alongside him and then turned his attention to the waiter as Barzini and Tattaglia joined Tessio in taking their seats at the table.
To the waiter, Giuseppe said, “I want the best of everything for my friends. Be sure the antipasto is fresh,” he said, lecturing the waiter. “For the sauces, squid on one pasta, nice and black. On the ravioli, fresh tomato with just the right amount of garlic: not too much just because we’re Italians, eh!” He laughed and looked around the table. To Tessio he said, “I’ve ordered us a feast. You’re gonna love this.”
“Joe’s a gourmet,” Tattaglia said to the table. To Tessio he added, “It’s a privilege to let him order for us.”
“Basta,” Joe said to Tattaglia, though clearly he was flattered. To the waiter he said, fi
nishing up, “Be sure the lamb is the youngest you have, and the roast potatoes,” he said, gesturing with his thumb and forefinger pinched together, “must be crisp. Capisc’?”
“Certainly,” the waiter answered, and then exited the room, Little Carmine opening the door from the outside as he approached it.
With the waiter gone, Barzini leaned over the table to Tessio, and his manner and tone suggested he was about to make a joke. “Joe always insists the cooks prepare his meals with virgin olive oil,” he said, and then raised a finger and added, “but never Genco Pura!”
Mariposa laughed along with the others, though he didn’t seem particularly amused. When the table quieted he settled into his seat, clasped his hands in front of him, and addressed Tessio. The music from the club and the chatter of diners was muted enough by the closed doors for easy conversation, though, still, Joe had to speak up over the noise. “Salvatore,” he said. “You don’t know what a pleasure it is to see you. I’m honored that we will be true friends in the years to come.”
Tessio answered, “I have always wanted your friendship, Don Mariposa. Your wisdom—and your strength—have inspired my admiration.”
As usual, Tessio sounded like he was delivering a eulogy. Mariposa, nonetheless, was beaming. “Ah, Salvatore,” he said, and suddenly his demeanor changed to one of great seriousness. He touched his hand to his heart. “Surely you understand, Salvatore: We never wanted to go through with this parade thing, but the Corleones, they got themselves barricaded out there in Long Beach! Madon’! An army couldn’t get to them there! Barzini here had to slither like a snake just to get word to you.” Mariposa sounded deeply angry, furious at the Corleones. “They forced this parade thing on us,” he said, “and look at how it turned out!” He slapped the table. “An abomination!”
