“Vito,” Clemenza said, and his tone of voice suggested he was about to console Vito, to talk to him about Sonny.
Vito raised his hand to silence him. “Find something for all of them except the Irish,” he said. “Let Tessio take the Romeros, and you take Sonny.”
“And the Irish?” Clemenza asked.
“Let them go on and be cops and politicians and union hotshots, and we’ll pay them off on that end,” Vito said. He pushed the glass of Strega away from him, splashing the yellow liqueur onto a sheet of paper.
“Okay,” Clemenza said. “I’ll make them understand.”
“Good,” Vito said. He added, his tone of voice changing suddenly, “Keep Sonny close to you, Peter. Teach him everything he needs to know. Teach him every part of the business, so that he can be skilled at what he has to do—but keep him close. Keep him close all the time.”
“Vito,” Clemenza said, and again he sounded like he might try to console him. “I know this isn’t what you had planned.”
Vito picked up the Strega again, and this time he remembered to take a sip. He said, “He’s got too much of a temper. That’s not good for him.” He knocked twice on the desk and added, “It’s not good for us either.”
“I’ll straighten him out,” Clemenza said. “He’s got a good heart, he’s strong, and he’s your blood.”
Vito motioned to the door and told Clemenza to send Sonny in. On his way out, Clemenza put his hand over his heart and said, “I’ll keep him close. I’ll teach him the ropes.”
“His temper,” Vito said, reminding Clemenza.
“I’ll straighten him out, ” Clemenza said again, as if making Vito a promise.
When Sonny came into the office, he was massaging the raw skin where his wrists had been tied behind his back. He looked at his father briefly and then looked away.
Vito came around from behind his desk, dragged two chairs away from the wall, and pulled them to Sonny. “Sit down,” he said. Once Sonny was seated, he took a seat facing him. “Be quiet and listen to me. I have some things I want to tell you.” Vito folded his hands in his lap and gathered his thoughts. “This is not what I wanted for you,” he said, “but I can see that I can’t keep you from it. The best I can do is keep you from acting like a fool and getting yourself and your friends killed over a few dollars by a wild man like Giuseppe Mariposa.”
“Nobody ever got a scratch—” Sonny said, and then was silent again when he saw the look in his father’s eyes.
“We’ll talk about this matter once,” Vito said, raising his finger, “and then I don’t want to talk about it ever again.” Vito tugged at the bottom of his vest and then folded his hands over his belly. He coughed and then continued. “I’m sorry you witnessed what you did,” he said. “Tom’s father was a degenerate gambler and a drunk. Back then, I was not who I am now. Henry Hagen insulted us in a way that, had I kept Clemenza and Tessio from doing what they did, I would have lost their respect. In this business, as in life, respect is everything. In this life, Sonny, you can’t demand respect; you must command it. Are you listening to me?” When Sonny nodded, Vito added, “But I am not a man who enjoys that kind of thing. And I’m not a man who wants that kind of thing to happen. But I am a man—and I do what has to be done for my family. For my family, Sonny.” Vito looked at the glass of Strega on his desk as if he was considering taking another drink, and then looked back to Sonny. “I have one question for you,” he said, “and I’d like a simple answer. When you brought Tom back to our home all those years ago, when you set him down in that chair before me, you knew I was responsible for him being an orphan, and you were accusing me, weren’t you?”
“No, Pop,” Sonny said, and he started to reach for his father before he pulled his hand back. “I was a kid,” he said. “I admit”—he touched his temples with wiggling fingers—“there were a lot of things going on in my head after what I saw, but… all I can remember thinking is that I wanted you to fix the problem. I wanted you to fix Tom’s troubles.”
“And that was it,” Vito said. “You wanted me to fix his problems?”
“That’s all I can remember thinking,” Sonny said. “It was a long time ago.”
Vito watched his son, studying his face. Then he touched Sonny’s knee. “Tom must never know what you know,” he said. “Never.”
“I give you my word,” Sonny said, and he put his hand over his father’s. “This is a secret I’ll take to my grave.”
Vito patted Sonny’s hand and then pulled his chair back. “Listen to me carefully, Sonny,” he said. “In this business, if you don’t learn to control that temper of yours, the grave will come sooner than you think.”
“I understand, Pop,” Sonny said. “I’ll learn. I will.”
“I say to you again,” Vito said, “I did not want this for you.” He folded his hands in front of him as if indulging in one final prayer. “There is more money and more power in the legitimate business world,” he said, “and there’s nobody coming to kill you, the way it has always been for me. When I was a boy, men came and killed my father. When my brother swore revenge, they killed him too. When my mother pleaded for my life, they killed her. And then they came looking for me. I escaped and I made my life here in America. But always in this business, there are men who want to kill you. So that I never escaped.” When Sonny looked shocked, Vito said, “No. I never told you these things. Why should I? I hoped to keep them from you.” As if with a final hope that Sonny might change his mind, he said, “This is not the life I want for you, Sonny.”
“Pop,” Sonny answered, deaf to Vito’s wishes, “I’ll be someone you can always trust. I’ll be your right-hand man.”
Vito watched Sonny another moment and then almost imperceptibly shook his head, as if reluctantly but finally giving up. “With you as my right-hand man,” he said, and he got up and shoved his chair aside, “you’ll make your mother a widow and yourself an orphan.” Sonny seemed to think about his father’s words, as if he didn’t understand what was being said. Before he could respond, Vito went back to his desk. “Clemenza will teach you the business,” he said, the desk between him and his son. “You’ll start at the bottom, like everyone else.”
“Okay, Pop. Sure,” Sonny said, and though he was obviously trying to contain his excitement and sound professional, he failed.
Vito only frowned at Sonny’s excitement. “What about Michael and Fredo,” he asked, “and Tom? Do they all think I’m a gangster too?”
“Tom knows about the gambling and the unions,” Sonny said. “But, like you said, Pop: It’s not a secret.”
“But that’s not what I asked,” Vito said, and he tugged at his ear. “Learn to listen! I asked if he thinks I’m a gangster.”
“Pop,” Sonny said, “I know you’re not a guy like Mariposa. I never meant that. I know you’re no crazy man like Al Capone.”
Vito nodded, grateful for at least that. “And what about Fredo and Michael?” he asked.
“Nah,” Sonny said, “you hang the moon for the kids. They don’t know nothing.”
“But they will,” Vito said, “just like you and Tom.” He took a seat behind his desk. “Clemenza and Tessio will take care of your boys,” he said. “You’ll work for Clemenza.”
Sonny grinned and said, “They’re in there thinking you’re about to give them a bad case of lead poisoning.”
“What about you?” Vito asked. “Did you think I’d have you killed?”
“Nah, didn’t figure it, Pop.” Sonny laughed as if clearly the thought had never entered his mind.
Vito didn’t laugh. He looked grim. “The Irish boys are on their own,” he said. “They don’t have a place with us.”
“But Cork’s a good man,” Sonny said. “He’s smarter—”
“Sta’zitt’!” Vito slapped his desk, sending a pencil flying to the floor. “You don’t question me. Now I’m your father and I’m your don. You do as you’re told—by me and by Clemenza and by Tessio.”
 
; “Sure,” Sonny said, and he bit his lip. “I’ll tell Cork,” he added. “He ain’t gonna be happy, but I’ll tell him. Little Stevie, I got half a mind to put a bullet in his head myself.”
“You’ve got half a mind to put a bullet in his head?” Vito said. “What’s wrong with you, Sonny?”
“Madon’, Pop!” Sonny said, throwing up his hands. “I didn’t mean I’d really do it!”
Vito gestured toward the door. “Go on,” he said. “Go talk to your boys.”
Once Sonny was gone, Vito noticed for the first time that his overcoat, scarf, and hat were hanging on the hall tree. He slipped into the coat, wrapped the scarf tightly around his neck, and found a pair of gloves in a coat pocket. When he exited his office, hat in hand, he took a couple of steps toward the front entrance before changing his mind and going out the back door. The weather had turned even colder. A ceiling of low gray clouds had rolled in over the city. Vito thought about going home, but that thought was followed immediately by a picture of Carmella in the kitchen, at the stove, making dinner, and the recognition that at some point he’d have to tell her about Sonny. The thought grieved him, and he decided to drive to the river again, where he could take some time to think about when and how to tell her. He dreaded the look that he knew with certainty would come over her face, a look that would include at least in part an accusation. He didn’t know what was worse, the sense of foreboding that had come over him when he knew he couldn’t keep Sonny out of his business, or his dread of that look he would now unavoidably see on his wife’s face.
He was in the Essex and had started the engine when Clemenza came running out of the warehouse in only his suit jacket. “Vito,” he said, bending to the car window as Vito rolled it down, “what do you want to do about Giuseppe? We can’t let him know it was Sonny all along.”
Vito tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Have one of your boys bring him five dead mackerel wrapped in newspaper. Tell him to say, ‘Vito Corleone guarantees that your business problems have been rectified.’ ”
“What-ified?” Clemenza asked.
“Fixed,” Vito said, and he drove off toward the East River, leaving Clemenza at the curb looking after him.
BOOK TWO
Guerra
SPRING 1934
18.
In the dream, someone, a man, is floating away from Sonny on a raft. Sonny is in a tunnel or a cave, the light eerie and shimmering, the way it gets before a storm. He’s in a riverbed up to his knees. He splashes through water. He’s definitely in a cave; water drips like rain from the darkness over his head as rough stone walls sweat and release little waterfalls into the river. He can just make out a man’s shape in the distance, moving swiftly, perched atop the raft as a fast-moving current pulls it around a bend. The cave is in a jungle full of monkey chatter and bird squawks under the rhythmic chanting and drumbeat of natives who are hidden among trees. One second Sonny is splashing through water in patent leather shoes and a three-piece suit trying to catch up to the raft, and the next he’s looking up into Eileen’s eyes as she leans over him and touches his cheek with the palm of her hand. They’re in Eileen’s bed. Outside a low rumble of thunder growled as it rolled through the streets and built toward a window-shaking boom followed by a violent gust of wind that rattled the venetian blinds and sent a pair of sheer white curtains flying back at right angles to the wall. Eileen slammed the window down and then sat up beside Sonny and brushed hair off his forehead. “What were you dreaming?” she asked. “You were moaning and thrashing.”
Sonny propped a second pillow under his head and pulled himself up out of his dream. He laughed a little and said, “Tarzan the Ape Man. I saw it last Saturday at the Rialto.”
Eileen slid down beside him, under a faded green blanket. She held a silvery cigarette lighter and a pack of Wings as she craned her neck and watched the window. A sudden downpour beat against the glass and filled the room with the sound of rain and wind. “This is nice,” she said, and she tapped two cigarettes out of the pack and handed one to Sonny.
Sonny took the lighter from her and looked it over. He had to fiddle with it a bit before he figured out how it worked, and then he squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger and the top popped up, unleashing a blue flame. He lit Eileen’s cigarette and then his own.
Eileen found an ashtray on the night table beside the bed and settled it on the blanket over her knees. “And who were you in this dream, then,” she asked, “Johnny Weissmuller?”
The dream had already faded from Sonny’s memory. “I was in the jungle, I think.”
“With Maureen O’Sullivan, I don’t doubt. Now, she’s a great Irish beauty, don’t you think?”
Sonny inhaled a lungful of smoke and waited a second before he answered. He liked the light golden brown of Eileen’s eyes and how they seemed as though they were somehow lighted up in contrast to the fairness of her skin framed by her hair, which was tousled a little in a way that made her look like a kid. “I think you’re a great Irish beauty,” he said. He found her hand under the covers and entwined his fingers with hers.
Eileen laughed and said, “Aren’t you the Casanova, Sonny Corleone?”
Sonny let go of her hand and sat up straight.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“Nah,” Sonny answered. “Only I don’t like it, the Casanova remark.”
“And why’s that?” Eileen found his hand again and held it. “I didn’t mean anything.”
“I know…” Sonny took a moment to gather his thoughts. “My father,” he said, “that’s what he thinks of me. I’m a sciupafemmine, a playboy. Take my word for it: It’s not a compliment.”
“Ah, Sonny…” Eileen’s tone suggested that Sonny’s father had a point.
“I’m young,” Sonny said. “This is America, not some village in Sicily.”
“True enough,” Eileen said. “Anyway, I thought Italians were expected to be great lovers.”
“Why? Rudy Valentino?” Sonny stubbed out his cigarette. “Chasing around after women is not considered manly among Italians. It’s a sign of a weak character.”
“And this is what your father thinks of you, that you have a weak character?”
“Jesus Christ,” Sonny said, and he threw up his hands in frustration. “I don’t know what my father thinks of me. I can’t do anything right. He treats me like I’m some giamope, him and Clemenza, too. Both of them.”
“Giamope?”
“Jerk.”
“This is because you run around after women?”
“It don’t help.”
“And does it matter to you, Sonny?” Eileen asked. She laid a hand on his thigh. “Is it important to you, what your father thinks?”
“Jeez,” Sonny said. “Sure. Sure it’s important to me.”
Eileen slid away from him. She found a slip on the floor beside the bed and pulled it on over her head. “Forgive me, Sonny…” she said, not looking at him. Then she was quiet a second, the patter of the rain the only sound in the bedroom. “Ah, Sonny,” she went on, “your father’s a gangster, now, isn’t he?”
Sonny answered with a shrug. He threw his legs over the side of the bed and looked around for his underwear.
“What do you have to do to gain the approval of a gangster,” Eileen asked, a sudden touch of anger in her voice, “kill somebody?”
“Wouldn’t hurt, if it was the right person.”
“Jesus Christ,” Eileen said. She sounded furious. An instant later she laughed, as if she had just remembered that this wasn’t any of her business. “Sonny Corleone,” she said, and she watched his back as he pulled on his pants. “All this will get you is heartache.”
“All what will get me?”
Eileen crawled across the bed and wrapped her arms around him. She kissed him on the neck. “You’re a beautiful boy.”
Sonny reached behind him to pat her leg. “I’m no boy.”
“I forgot,” Eileen said, “you’re eighteen now.”
“Don’t make fun of me.” Sonny went about putting on his shoes with Eileen hanging on his back.
“If you don’t want your father to think of you as a sciupafemmine,” Eileen said, mimicking Sonny’s pronunciation of the word exactly, “then marry your sixteen-year-old beauty—”
“Seventeen now,” Sonny said, and he tied his shoelace in a neat bow.
“So marry her,” Eileen repeated, “or get engaged—and then keep that sausage in your pants, or at least be discreet.”
“Be what?”
“Don’t get caught.”
Sonny stopped what he was doing and spun around in Eileen’s arms so that he was facing her. “How do you know when you’re in love with someone?”
“If you have to ask,” she said, and kissed him on the forehead, “you’re not.” She held his cheeks, kissed him again, and then was off the bed and out of the room.
When Sonny finished dressing, he found her at the sink, washing dishes. With the light of the kitchen window behind her, he could see her body’s outline beneath the white cotton slip hanging loosely from her shoulders. She may have been ten years older than Sonny, and she may have been Caitlin’s mother—but hell if he could tell by looking at her. After watching her for only a few seconds, he knew what he really wanted was to get her back in the bedroom.
“What are you staring at?” Eileen asked, without looking up from the pot she was scrubbing. When Sonny didn’t answer, she turned to him, saw the grin on his face, and then looked to the window and down at her slip. “Getting a show, are you?” She rinsed off the dish and placed it in the tub next to the sink.
Sonny came up behind her and kissed her on the back of the neck. “What if I’m in love with you?” he asked.
“You’re not in love with me,” Eileen said. She spun around, wrapped her arms around his waist, and kissed him. “I’m the floozy you’re sowing your wild oats with. You don’t marry a woman like me. You have some fun with her is all.”