Mario Pyuzo - The Family Corleone

Giuseppe Mariposa waited at the window with his hands on his hips and his eyes on the Empire State Building. To see the top of the building, the needlelike antenna piercing a pale blue sky, he leaned into the window frame and pressed his face against the glass. He had watched the building go up from the ground, and he liked to tell the boys how hed been one of the last men to have dinner at the old Waldorf-Astoria, that magnificent hotel that once stood where the worlds tallest building now loomed. He stepped back from the window and brushed dust from his suit jacket.

Below him, on the street, a big man in work clothes sat atop a junk cart traveling lazily toward the corner. He carried a black derby riding on his knee as he jangled a set of worn leather reins over the flank of a swayback horse. Giuseppe watched the wagon roll by. When it turned the corner, he took his hat from the window ledge, held it to his heart, and looked at his reflection in a pane of glass. His hair was white now, but still thick and full, and he brushed it back with the palm of his hand. He adjusted the knot and straightened his tie where it had bunched up slightly as it disappeared into his vest. In a shadowy corner of the empty apartment behind him, Jake LaConti tried to speak, but all Giuseppe heard was a guttural mumbling. When he turned around, Tomasino came through the apartment door and lumbered into the room carrying a brown paper bag. His hair was unkempt as always, though Giuseppe had told him a hundred times to keep it combedand he needed a shave, as always. Everything about Tomasino was messy. Giuseppe fixed him with a look of contempt that Tomasino, as usual, didnt notice. His tie was loose, his shirt collar unbuttoned, and there was blood on his wrinkled jacket. Tufts of curly black hair stuck out from his open collar.

He say anything? Tomasino pulled a bottle of scotch out of the paper bag, unscrewed the cap, and took a swig.

Giuseppe looked at his wristwatch. It was eight thirty in the morning. Does he look like he can say anything, Tommy? Jakes face was battered. His jaw dangled toward his chest.

Tomasino said, I didnt mean to break his jaw.

Give him a drink, Giuseppe said. See if that helps.

Jake was sprawled out with his torso propped up against the wall and his legs twisted under him. Tommy had pulled him out of his hotel room at six in the morning, and he still had on the black-and-white-striped silk pajamas he had worn to bed the night before, only now the top two buttons had been ripped away to reveal the muscular chest of a man in his thirties, about half Giuseppes age. As Tommy knelt to Jake and lifted him slightly, positioning his head so that he could pour scotch down his throat, Giuseppe watched with interest and waited to see if the liquor would help. He had sent Tommy down to the car for the scotch after Jake had passed out. The kid coughed, sending a spattering of blood down his chest. He squinted through swollen eyes and said something that would have been impossible to make out had he not been saying the same three words over and over throughout the beating. Hes my father, he said, though it came out as E mah fad.

Yeah, we know. Tommy looked to Giuseppe. You got to give it to him, he said. The kids loyal.

Giuseppe knelt beside Tomasino. Jake, he said. Giacomo. Ill find him anyway. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to keep his hands from getting bloody as he turned the kids face to look at him. Your old man, he said, Rosarios day has come. Theres nothing you can do. Rosario, his day is over. You understand me, Jake?

S, Giacomo said, the single syllable coming out clearly.

Good, Giuseppe said. Where is he? Wheres the son of a bitch hiding?

Giacomo tried to move his right arm, which was broken, and groaned at the pain.

Tommy yelled, Tell us where he is, Jake! What the hells wrong with you!

Giacomo tried to open his eyes, as if straining to see who was yelling at him. E mah fad, he said.

Che cazzo! Giuseppe threw up his hands. He watched Jake and listened to his strained breathing. The shouts of children playing came up loud from the street and then faded. He looked to Tomasino before he exited the apartment. In the hall, he waited at the door until he heard the muffled report of a silencer, a sound like a hammer striking wood. When Tommy joined him, Giuseppe said, Are you sure you finished him? He put on his hat and fixed it the way he liked, with the brim down.

What do you think, Joe? Tommy asked. I dont know what Im doing? When Giuseppe didnt answer, he rolled his eyes. The top of his heads gone. His brains are all over the floor.

At the stairwell, atop the single flight of steps down to the street, Giuseppe stopped and said, He wouldnt betray his father. You gotta respect him for that.

He was tough, Tommy said. I still think you shouldve let me work on his teeth. Im telling you, aint nobody wont talk after a little of that.

Giuseppe shrugged, admitting Tommy might have been right. Theres still the other son, he said. We making any progress on that?

Not yet, Tommy said. Could be hes hiding out with Rosario.

Giuseppe considered Rosarios other son for a heartbeat before his thoughts shifted back to Jake LaConti and how the kid couldnt be beaten into betraying his father. You know what? he said to Tomasino. Call the mother and tell her where to find him. He paused, thinking, and added, Theyll get a good undertaker, theyll fix him up nice, they can have a big funeral.

Tommy said, I dont know about fixing him up, Joe.

Whats the name of the undertaker did such a good job on OBanion? Giuseppe asked.

Yeah, I know the guy you mean.

Get him, Giuseppe said, and he tapped Tommy on the chest. Ill take care of it myself, out of my own pocket. The family dont have to know. Tell him to offer them his services for free, hes a friend of Jakes, and so on. We can do that, right?

Sure, Tommy said. Thats good of you, Joe. He patted Giuseppes arm.

All right, Giuseppe said. So thats that, and he started down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, like a kid.

Sonny settled into the front seat of a truck and tilted the brim of his fedora down. It wasnt his truck, but there was no one around to ask questions. At two in the morning this stretch of Eleventh Avenue was quiet except for an occasional drunk stumbling along the wide sidewalk. Thered be a beat cop along at some point, but Sonny figured hed slink down in the seat, and even if the cop noticed him, which was unlikely, hed peg him for some mug sleeping off a drunk on a Saturday nightwhich wouldnt be all that far from the truth since hed been drinking hard. But he wasnt drunk. He was a big guy, already six feet tall at seventeen, brawny and big-shouldered, and he didnt get drunk easily. He rolled down the side window and let a crisp fall breeze off the Hudson help keep him awake. He was tired, and as soon as he relaxed behind the wide circle of the trucks steering wheel, sleep started to creep up on him.