“Who’s that pig Capone sending?” Sonny yelled, leaning out of his chair toward Frankie. “That fat slob!” Sonny pointed at Frankie angrily, as if accusing him. “How’d you get word?” he demanded. “Who told you?”
“Sonny,” Vito said, before Frankie could respond. “Go stand outside the door. Make sure nobody comes in.”
“Pop—”
Sonny was cut off by Clemenza, who jumped up from his seat on the file cabinet, red faced. “Shut up and go stand outside the fuckin’ door like your don just told you to, Sonny, or I swear to God!” He raised his fist and took a step toward the desk.
“Cazzo.” Sonny looked surprised by Clemenza’s outburst.
Vito said again, still leaning back in his seat, “Sonny, go stand outside the door and make sure nobody comes in.”
“Pop,” Sonny said, containing himself, “there’s nobody out there.” When Vito only stared at him, Sonny threw up his hands in frustration and left the room, snapping the door closed behind him.
Loudly, so that Sonny had to hear, Vito said, “Frankie Pentangeli, please forgive my thickheaded son. He has a good heart, but unfortunately he’s also stupid and he doesn’t listen. Still, he’s my son, and so I try to teach him. But I ask you again, please forgive him. I’m sure he’ll apologize for speaking to you as he did.”
“Hey,” Frankie said, dismissing and forgiving Sonny’s behavior with a single syllable. “He’s young and he’s worried for his father.” He shrugged off the whole thing.
Vito offered Frankie the slightest nod, a gesture that said “thank you” with great if silent clarity. “Does Mariposa know you tipped us off?” he asked, getting back to business.
“He don’t know nothin’ for sure yet,” Frankie answered. He reached into his jacket pocket for a cigar. “All he knows, the Anthonys are dead and Genco and Clemenza aren’t.”
“But does he suspect you?” Vito asked.
“He don’t trust me,” Frankie said, holding the unlit cigar out in front of him. “He knows our families go way back.”
Vito looked to Clemenza and then Tessio, as if seeking confirmation for something, and the three men appeared to have a brief, wordless conversation. After another moment of thought, Vito said to Frankie, “I don’t want you to go back to Mariposa. It’s too dangerous. An animale like Giuseppe, he’ll kill you just out of suspicion.”
“But, Vito,” Genco said, imploring, “we need someone inside Joe’s organization. He’s too valuable to us.”
“I’ve got somebody close to Joe I can trust,” Frankie said. “Somebody hates him almost as much as I do.” To Vito he said, “I’m tired of working for that clown. I want to be part of your family, Don Corleone.”
“But with Frankie on the inside,” Genco argued to Vito, “we can get to Mariposa if that has to be, if that’s what we have to do.”
“No,” Vito said, raising a hand to Genco, ending the debate. “Frankie Pentangeli is a man close to our heart. We won’t let him risk his life for us any more than he already has.”
Frankie said, “Thank you, Don Corleone.” To Genco he added, “Don’t kid yourself about ‘if that has to be.’ You’re in a war now, and it won’t be over until Giuseppe Mariposa is dead.”
Luca Brasi, whose vacant stare had seemed to make him disappear, spoke up, startling everyone, seemingly, but Vito, who turned his head calmly to Luca, almost as if he’d been expecting him to speak. “Don Corleone,” Luca said, his voice and manner sounding especially slow-witted, “may I suggest that—you let me kill Giuseppe Mariposa. Give me the word—and I’ll give you—my word, Giuseppe Mariposa will—be a dead man—very soon.”
The men in the room all watched Luca while he spoke, and then turned to Vito, waiting for his reply. “Luca,” Vito said, “you’re too valuable to me now to let you risk your life, as I know you would, to kill Giuseppe. I have no doubt that you would either kill him or get yourself killed trying—and the time may yet come that I have no choice but to ask for your services in that regard.” He reached into the top drawer of his desk and came back with a cigar. “For now, though,” he continued, “you can serve me best by taking care of these two killers Capone is sending for me.”
Luca said, “That I will be happy—to do for you, Don Corleone.” He leaned back against the wall again and quickly drifted off into his blank stare.
“Frankie,” Vito asked, “will your man be able to help us with this Capone matter?”
Frankie nodded. “If it gets too hot for him, though, we’ll need to take him in. He’s a good kid, Vito. I wouldn’t want to see anything happen to him.”
“Of course,” Vito said. “You can bring him into your family with our blessing when the time comes.”
“Good. Soon as he finds out something, I’ll know about it.” Frankie found matches in his jacket pocket and lit the cigar he’d been toying with.
“What happened tonight at Angelo’s,” Genco said, “won’t look good for Mariposa with the rest of the families. By coming at us so soon after Saint Francis, he showed them all that his word is worth nothing.”
“Plus,” Tessio said, in a voice as lugubrious as always, “we outmaneuvered him, which won’t look good for Joe either.”
“My guys,” Frankie said, cigar in mouth, “small as we are, still, they’ll know my guys are with you.”
“All this is good,” Genco said, and he raised a hand palm out, as if to slow things down. “We’ve won the first battle, but Mariposa remains much stronger than we are.”
“Still,” Vito said, “we have our advantages.” He looked at the cigar he’d been holding and then placed it on the desk. “Giuseppe is stupid—”
“But his caporegimes aren’t,” Clemenza interrupted.
“Sì,” Vito said. “But Giuseppe calls the shots.” He rolled the cigar across the desk, as if flipping aside Clemenza’s objection. “With Tessio’s regime in reserve,” he went on, “we’re stronger than Giuseppe realizes—and we have more cops, judges, and politicians in our pocket than he dreams.” He touched the rim of an empty glass on his desk and then tapped it twice, as if calling the room to attention. “Most important of all,” he said, “we have the respect of the other families, which Giuseppe does not.” He looked over the men gathered around him. “The families know they can deal with us,” he said, tapping the glass again, “because our word is good. Mark what I say,” he added. “If we show enough strength in this war, the other families will come around to our side.”
“I agree with Vito,” Genco said, looking at Vito but speaking to the others. “I think we can win.”
Vito was quiet as he waited for any possible objections from Tessio or Clemenza. When neither man spoke, it was as if a vote had been taken and a decision to aggressively pursue a war with Giuseppe Mariposa had been reached. “Luca will be my bodyguard,” Vito said, moving on to details. “When he’s busy with other matters, Santino will take his place. You, Genco,” he said, gesturing to his caporegime, “you’ll be guarded by Clemenza’s men. Frankie,” he went on, giving orders, “you and your regime, I want you to hit Mariposa’s operations in gambling and the unions. We’ll drive him out of the unions completely. He should lose some of his key men—but not the Rosato brothers or the Barzini brothers. When we win this war, we’ll need them.”
“I know Joe’s gambling operations,” Frankie said. “That I can handle. For the unions, I need some help.”
“I can tell you what you need to know,” Tessio said.
“The gambling operation…” Frankie tilted his head as if already thinking through the details. “Some of our friends, they may object.”
“That’s to be expected,” Vito said. “You know Giuseppe’s operations best, and so you know who can go and leave us with the least bad blood. Confirm everything with Genco,” Vito added, “but I’m inclined to trust your judgment in this matter.”
Genco patted Frankie’s wrist, as if to reassure him of his help and guidance.
“Tessio,” Vito said,
moving on, “I want you to sound out the Tattaglia family. See if there are any weak links. Joe doesn’t go anywhere without making enemies. Also, sound out Carmine Rosato. At Saint Francis, he squeezed my hand a little too warmly for one of Giuseppe’s men.” Vito was quiet again, as if thinking back to the Saint Francis meeting. “Ah,” he said, dismissing his thoughts. “Let’s all think about how we can end this war as quickly as possible, and get back to our businesses and our families.”
“First,” Genco said. He shifted his chair closer to the desk and turned it around so that he was facing everyone. “First,” he repeated, “we need to take care of Capone’s torpedoes. Then,” he said, and he touched the tip of his nose before he spoke, as if he was trying to make a final decision about something. “Frankie’s right about this: We have to take care of Mariposa.” He shrugged, as if having to bump off Mariposa was a problem but necessary. “If we can do those two things soon as possible,” he added, “maybe the rest of the families will come around to join us.”
“They won’t be happy with Mariposa for going to Capone,” Clemenza said, shifting his weight on the file cabinet. “Calling in a Napolitan’ against a Sicilian…” He waved his finger. “They won’t like that.”
“Luca,” Genco said, “we’ll leave Capone’s men to you. Frankie,” he went on, “you give Luca everything you know.” He folded his arms over his chest as he sat back in his chair. “Let me say again, even though we’re outmanned, I think our chances are good. For now, though, and until things settle, we stay out of sight. I’ve already had some of our boys fix up rooms at the compound on Long Island. The houses aren’t finished, the wall isn’t completed, but it’s close. For right now, we, all of us and all of our key men, we’ll be living at the compound.”
Richie Gatto, who usually knew better than to speak at a meeting like this, said, “Right now? My wife needs—” He sounded as if he was about to explain the difficulty of having to go immediately to the compound before he caught himself.
“Richie!” Clemenza said. “What your wife doesn’t need is to be a widow, am I right?”
Vito got up from his desk seat and approached Richie. “I have complete faith in Genco Abbandando,” he said to everyone. “He’s a Sicilian, and who’s better than a Sicilian as a wartime consigliere?” Vito put an arm around Richie’s shoulder. “Your wife and children will be taken care of,” he said, and he gave Richie an affectionate squeeze as he led him to the door. “Your wife, Ursula, your son, Paulie, we’ll take care of them as if they were our own blood. On this, Richie, you have our word.”
“Thank you, Don Corleone.” Richie glanced at Clemenza.
“Go get the rest of the boys,” Clemenza said to Richie, and then he stood and joined Luca and the others as they filed out of the office. At the door, Clemenza embraced Vito, as had Tessio and Frankie before him.
Genco watched as Clemenza closed the door. “Vito,” he asked, “what should we do about the parade?”
“Ah,” Vito said, and tapped his forehead with a fingertip, as if jogging loose the details of the parade. “Councilman Fischer,” he said.
“Sì,” Genco said. “The mayor’s going to be there. Every pezzonovante in the city’s marching.”
Vito stroked his throat and looked up to the ceiling, stretching and thinking. “At an event like this,” he said, “where even our fat Napolitan’ mayor will be present… plus congressmen, cops, judges, the newspapers… No.” Vito looked to Genco. “Mariposa won’t do anything at an event of this nature. He would risk bringing all the families together against him, from all over the country. The cops would shut down all his businesses, and even his judges wouldn’t be able to help him. He’s stupid, but he’s not that stupid. No, we can go ahead with the parade.”
“I agree,” Genco said. “To be safe, though, we should have our men along the parade route, on the sidewalks.” When Vito nodded in agreement, Genco embraced him and then left the office.
Once Genco disappeared among the crates and shadows of the warehouse, Sonny stepped into the office and closed the door. “Pop,” he said, “I need to talk to you for a minute.”
Vito fell back into his office chair and looked up at Sonny. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “You talk to a man of honor like Pentangeli as if he’s a nobody? You raise your voice and point your finger at such a man?”
“I’m sorry, Pop. I lost my temper.”
“You lost your temper,” Vito repeated. He sighed and turned away from Sonny. He looked out over the office, at the empty folding chairs and bare walls. Somewhere outside, a truck rumbled by, the groan of its engine audible over the background murmur of traffic. In the warehouse, doors opened and closed, and the sound of voices and quick conversations floated in the air, muted and cryptic. Vito touched the knot of his tie and then loosened it a little. When he turned back to Sonny, he said, “You wanted to be in your father’s business? Now you’re in it.” He raised a finger in emphasis, signaling Sonny to pay attention. “You’re not to say another word in one of our meetings until I tell you otherwise, or unless I ask you to speak. Do you understand?”
“Jesus, Pop—”
Vito jumped up from his seat and grasped Sonny by the collar. “Don’t argue with me! I asked you, do you understand?”
“Jesus, yeah, sure, I understand.” Sonny stepped back out of his father’s grasp and straightened out his shirt.
“Go on,” Vito said, and he pointed to the door. “Go.”
Sonny hesitated, then went to the door and grasped the knob before he turned around again to find Vito glaring at him. “Pop,” he said, as if nothing had happened, as if in the time it took him to turn away from Vito and then back to face him, he had forgotten his father’s anger. “I wanted to tell you,” he said, “I’ve asked Sandra to marry me.”
In the long silence that followed Sonny’s announcement, Vito continued to stare at him, the glare slowly dissipating to be replaced by a look that was more curious than angry. Finally, he said, “So now you’ll have a wife to care for, and soon after, children.” Though he was addressing Sonny, Vito sounded like he was talking to himself. “Maybe a wife will teach you to listen,” he said. “Maybe children will teach you patience.”
“Who knows?” Sonny said, and laughed. “I guess anything’s possible.”
Vito looked Sonny over. “Come here,” he said, and he opened his arms to him.
Sonny embraced his father and then stepped back. “I’m still young,” he said, excusing himself for everything about him that angered Vito, “but I can learn, Pop. I can learn from you. And now that I’m getting married… I’ll have my own family…”
Vito grasped Sonny by the back of the head, taking a handful of his thick hair in his hand. “A war like this,” he said, “it’s what I wanted to protect you from.” He watched Sonny’s eyes and then pulled him close and kissed his forehead. “But at that I failed,” he said, “and I must accept it.” He turned Sonny loose with a gentle slap on the cheek. “With this good news,” he said, “at least I’ll have something to tell your mother that will balance her fear at the prospect of a war.”
“Does Mama have to know about the war?” Sonny asked. He went to the hall tree and brought back Vito’s hat, coat, and scarf.
Vito sighed at the thickheadedness of Sonny’s question. “We’ll be staying on Long Island with the rest of the men,” he said. “Take me home now, and we’ll get packed.”
“So, Pop,” Sonny said, after helping Vito into his coat and getting the door for him. “Do you still want me to shut up like you said, when there’s a meeting?”
“I don’t want to hear a word from you,” Vito said, and repeated his order, “until I tell you otherwise or unless I ask you to speak.”
“Okay, Pop.” Sonny opened his hands signaling that he accepted his father’s word. “If that’s what you want.”
Vito hesitated and watched Sonny, as if trying to see him anew. “Let’s go,” he said, and he put his arm around Sonny and led him ou
t the door.
21.
Benny Amato said, “Little Carmine. I’ve known him since he was a kid.” He was talking to Joey Daniello, one of Frank Nitti’s boys. It was nine in the morning and they’d just gotten off the train from Chicago. They were walking along the platform, each carrying a suitcase, behind a dozen or so citizens all heading toward Grand Central’s main concourse.
“You sure you’re gonna reco’nize him?” Joey asked. He had asked Benny the same question a dozen times already. He was a skinny guy, looked like a bag of bones. He and Benny were both dressed like working stiffs in khaki slacks and cheap shirts under frayed Windbreakers. Both had on knit caps pulled down low on their foreheads.
“Sure I’ll recognize him. Didn’t I say I knew him since he was a kid?” Benny pulled off his cap, ran his fingers through his hair, and then yanked the cap back into place. He was also thin, but wiry and strong, with knots of muscles in his arms that showed through his shirtsleeves. Joey, on the other hand, looked like he’d shatter into a million pieces if someone punched him hard enough. “Anybody ever tell you you worry a lot, Joey?” Benny asked. He said it good-naturedly, but Joey didn’t laugh.
“The two Anthonys should’ve worried like me,” Joey said.
“Those Cleveland guys? They’re all amateurs over there. Jesus,” Benny said, “it’s fuckin’ Cleveland.”
In front of the two men, an archway led out onto the cavernous main concourse of Grand Central, where wide beams of sunlight spilled down from immense windows and splashed onto the floor. Scores of travelers moved toward ticket windows or the information booth or the street, but in the massiveness of the space they all looked lost. In the center of a shaft of sunlight toward the middle of the concourse, a pair of stout women with wash buckets and mops went about sloshing soapy water over the floor where a little girl had vomited. A young woman held the child in her arms while the women mopped, a cloying, minty smell rising up from their washing as Joey and Benny walked past.