Английский язык с Крестным Отцом

Метод чтения Ильи Франка

Книгу подготовил Илья Франк

Mario Puzo 
The Godfather

Chapter 12

   Johnny Fontane waved a casual dismissal to the manservant and said, "See you in

1

the morning, Billy." The colored butler bowed his way out of the huge dining room-living
room with its view of the Pacific Ocean. It was a friendly-good-bye sort of bow, not a
servant's bow, and given only because Johnny Fontane had company for dinner.
   Johnny's company was a girl named Sharon Moore, a New York City Greenwich
Village girl in Hollywood to try for a small part in a movie being produced by an old
flame who had made the big time. She had visited the set while Johnny was acting in
the Woltz movie. Johnny had found her young and fresh and charming and witty, and
had asked her to come to his place for dinner that evening. His invitations to dinner
were always famous and had the force of royalty and of course she said yes.
   Sharon Moore obviously expected him to come on very strong because of his
reputation, but Johnny hated the Hollywood "piece of meat" approach. He never slept
with any girl unless there was something about her he really liked. Except, of course,
sometimes when he was very drunk and found himself in bed with a girl he didn't even
remember meeting or seeing before. And now that he was thirty-five years old, divorced
once, estranged (отделен, отдален) from his second wife, with maybe a thousand
pubic scalps dangling from his belt, he simply wasn't that eager. But there, was

    	   

something about Sharon Moore that aroused affection in him and so he had invited her
to dinner.

2

   He never ate much but he knew young pretty girls ambitiously starved themselves for
pretty clothes and were usually big eaters on a date so there was plenty of food on the
table. There was also plenty of liquor; champagne in a bucket, scotch, rye (хлебная
водка), brandy and liqueurs on the sideboard. Johnny served the drinks and the plates
of food already prepared. When they had finished eating he led her into the huge living
room with its glass wall that looked out onto the Pacific. He put a stack of Ella Fitzgerald
records on the hi-fi and settled on the couch with Sharon. He made a little small talk
with her, found out about what she had been like as a kid, whether she had been a
tomboy (девчонка-сорванец) or boy crazy, whether she had been homely or pretty,
lonely or gay. He always found these details touching, it always evoked the tenderness
he needed to make love.
   They nestled together on the sofa, very friendly, very comfortable. He kissed her on
the lips, a cool friendly kiss, and when she kept it that way he left it that way. Outside
the huge picture window he could see the dark blue sheet of the Pacific lying flat
beneath the moonlight.
   "How come you're not playing any of your records?" Sharon asked him. Her voice was
teasing. Johnny smiled at her. He was amused by her teasing him. "I'm not that
Hollywood," he said.
   "Play some for me," she said. "Or sing for me. You know, like the movies. I'll bubble
up and melt all over you just like those girls do on the screen."
   Johnny laughed outright. When he had been younger, he had done just such things
and the result had always been stagy (неестественный, театральный), the girls trying
to look sexy and melting, making their eyes swim with desire for an imagined fantasy
camera. He would never dream of singing to a girl now; for one thing, he hadn't sung for
months, he didn't trust his voice. For another thing, amateurs didn't realize how much
professionals depended on technical help to sound as good as they did. He could have
played his records but he felt the same shyness about hearing his youthful passionate
voice as an aging, balding man running to fat feels about showing pictures of himself as
a youth in the full bloom of manhood.
   "My voice is out of shape," he said. "And honestly, I'm sick of hearing myself sing."
   They both sipped their drinks. "I hear you're great in this picture," she said. "Is it true
you did it for nothing?" 
   "Just a token payment," Johnny said.

   He got up to give her a refill on her brandy glass, gave her a gold-monogrammed
cigarette and flashed his lighter out to hold the light for her. She puffed on the cigarette
and sipped her drink and he sat down beside her again. His glass had considerably
more brandy in it than hers, he needed it to warm himself, to cheer himself, to charge

3

himself up. His situation was the reverse of the lover's usual one. He had to get himself
drunk instead of the girl. The girl was usually too willing where he was not. The last two
years had been hell on his ego, and he used this simple way to restore it, sleeping with
a young fresh girl for one night, taking her to dinner a few times, giving her an
expensive present and then brushing her off in the nicest way possible so that her
feelings wouldn't be hurt. And then they could always say they had had a thing with the
great Johnny Fontane. It wasn't true love, but you couldn't knock it if the girl was
beautiful and genuinely nice. He hated the hard, bitchy ones, the ones who screwed for
him and then rushed off to tell their friends that they'd screwed the great Johnny
Fontane, always adding that they'd had better. What amazed him more than anything
else in his career were the complaisant (обходительный, неконфликтный
[k∂m'pleız∂nt]) husbands who almost told him to his face that they forgave their wives
since it was allowed for even the most virtuous matron to be unfaithful with a great
singing and movie star like Johnny Fontane. That really floored (to floor – валить
наземь, сбивать с ног; смущать, поражать) him.
   He loved Ella Fitzgerald on records. He loved that kind of clean singing, that kind of
clean phrasing. It was the only thing in life he really understood and he knew he
understood it better than anyone else on earth. Now lying back on the couch, the
brandy warming his throat, he felt a desire to sing, not music, but to phrase with the
records, yet it was something impossible to do in front of a stranger. He put his free
hand in Sharon's lap, sipping his drink from his other hand. Without any slyness but with
the sensualness of a child seeking warmth, his hand in her lap pulled up the silk of her
dress to show milky white thigh above the sheer netted gold of her stockings and as
always, despite all the women, all the years, all the familiarity, Johnny felt the fluid sticky
warmness flooding through his body at that sight. The miracle still happened, and what
would he do when that failed him as his voice had?
   He was ready now. He put his drink down on the long inlaid (мозаичный,
инкрустированный) cocktail table and turned his body toward her. He was very sure,
very deliberate, and yet tender. There was nothing sly or lecherously lascivious 
(похотливый, сладострастный [l∂’sıvıj∂s]) in his caresses. He kissed her on the lips
while his hands rose to her breasts. His hand fell to her warm thighs, the skin so silky to

his touch. Her returning kiss was warm but not passionate and he preferred it that way
right now. He hated girls who turned on all of a sudden as if their bodies were motors
galvanized into erotic pumpings by the touching of a hairy switch.
   Then he did something he always did, something that had never yet failed to arouse
him. Delicately and as lightly as it was possible to do so and still feel something, he
brushed the tip of his middle finger deep down between her thighs. Some girls never

4

even felt that initial move toward lovemaking. Some were distracted by it, not sure it was
a physical touch because at the same time he always kissed them deeply on the mouth.
Still others seemed to suck in his finger or gobble it up (жадно есть, заглатывать) with
a pelvic (тазовый) thrust. And of course before he became famous, some girls had
slapped his face. It was his whole technique and usually it served him well enough.
   Sharon's reaction was unusual. She accepted it all, the touch, the kiss, then shifted
her mouth off his, shifted her body ever so slightly back along the couch and picked up
her drink. It was a cool but definite refusal. It happened sometimes. Rarely; but it
happened. Johnny picked up his drink and lit a cigarette.
   She was saying something very sweetly, very lightly. "It's not that I don't like you,
Johnny, you're much nicer than I thought you'd be. And it's not because I'm not that kind
of a girl. It's just that I have to be turned on to do it with a guy, you know what I mean?"
   Johnny Fontane smiled at her. He still liked her. "And I don't turn you on?"
   She was a little embarrassed. "Well, you know, when you were so great singing and
all, I was still a little kid. I sort of just missed you, I was the next generation. Honest, it's
not that I'm goody-goody (паинька). If you were a movie star I grew up on, I'd have my
panties off in a second."
   He didn't like her quite so much now. She was sweet, she was witty, she was
intelligent. She hadn't fallen all over herself to screw for him or try to hustle (толкать,
пихать; добиваться чего-либо напористыми, не всегда честными действиями) him
because his connections would help her in show biz. She was really a straight kid. But
there was something else he recognized. It had happened a few times before. The girl
who went on a date with her mind all made up not to go to bed with him, no matter how
much she liked him, just so that she could tell her friends, and even more, herself, that
she had turned down a chance to screw for the great Johnny Fontane. It was something
he understood now that he was older and he wasn't angry. He just didn't like her quite
that much and he had really liked her a lot.
   And now that he didn't like her quite so much, he relaxed more. He sipped his drink
and watched the Pacific Ocean. She said, "I hope you're not sore, Johnny. I guess I'm

being square, I guess in Hollywood a girl's supposed to put out just as casually as
kissing a beau (щеголь; здесь: кавалер [b∂u]) good night. I just haven't been around
long enough."
   Johnny smiled at her and patted her cheek. His hand fell down to pull her skirt

5

discreetly over her rounded silken knees. "I'm not sore," he said. "It's nice having an old-
fashioned date." Not telling what he felt: the relief at not having to prove himself a great
lover, not having to live up (быть достойным /чего-либо/, тянуться) to his screened,
godlike image. Not having to listen to the girl trying to react as if he really had lived up to
that image, making more out of a very simple, routine piece of ass than it really was.
   They had another drink, shared a few more cool kisses and then she decided to go.
Johnny said politely, "Can I call you for dinner some night?"
   She played it frank and honest to the end. "I know you don't want to waste your time
and then get disappointed," she said. "Thanks for a wonderful evening. Someday I'll tell
my children I had supper with the great Johnny Fontane all alone in his apartment."
   He smiled at her. "And that you didn't give in (уступить, сдаться)," he said. They both
laughed. "They'll never believe that," she said. And then Johnny, being a little phony 
(фальшивый, притворяющийся) in his turn, said, "I'll give it to you in writing, want me
to?" She shook her head. He continued on. "Anybody doubts you, give me a buzz on
the phone, I'll straighten them right out. I'll tell them how I chased you all around the
apartment but you kept your honor. OK?"
   He had, finally, been a little too cruel and he felt stricken at the hurt on her young face.
She understood that he was telling her that he hadn't tried too hard. He had taken the
sweetness of her victory away from her. Now she would feel that it had been her lack of
charm or attractiveness that had made her the victor this night. And being the girl she
was, when she told the story of how she resisted the great Johnny Fontane, she would
always have to add with a wry little smile, "Of course, he didn't try very hard." So now
taking pity on her, he said, "If you ever feel real down, give me a ring. OK? I don't have
to shack up (сожительствовать, переспать) every girl I know."
   "I will," she said. She went out the door.
   He was left with a long evening before him. He could have used what Jack Woltz
called the "meat factory," the stable of willing starlets, but he wanted human
companionship. He wanted to talk like a human being. He thought of his first wife,
Virginia. Now that the work on the picture was finished he would have more time for the
kids. He wanted to become part of their life again. And he worried about Virginia too.
She wasn't equipped to handle the Hollywood sharpies (sharpy – жулик, мошенник;

энергичный человек) who might come after her just so that they could brag about
having screwed Johnny Fontane's first wife. As far as he knew, nobody could say that
yet. Everybody could say it about his second wife though, he thought wryly. He picked
up the phone.

6

   He recognized her voice immediately and that was not surprising. He had heard it the
first time when he was ten years old and they had been in 4B together. "Hi, Ginny," he
said, "you busy tonight? Can I come over for a little while?"
   "All right," she said. "The kids are sleeping though; I don't want to wake them up."
   "That's OK," he said. "I just wanted to talk to you."
   Her voice hesitated slightly, then carefully controlled not to show any concern, she
asked, "Is it anything serious, anything important?"
   "No," Johnny said. "I finished the picture today and I thought maybe I could just see
you and talk to you. Maybe I could take a look at the kids if you're sure they won't wake
up."
   "OK," she said. "I'm glad you got that part you wanted."
   "Thanks," he said. "I'll see you in about a half hour."
   When he got to what had been his home in Beverly Hills, Johnny Fontane sat in the
car for a moment staring at the house. He remembered what his Godfather had said,
that he could make his own life what he wanted. Great chance if you knew what you
wanted. But what did he want?
   His first wife was waiting for him at the door. She was pretty, petite (маленького
роста, изящная [p∂'ti:t]) and brunette, a nice Italian girl, the girl next door who would
never fool around with another man and that had been important to him. Did he still
want her, he asked himself, and the answer was no. For one thing, he could no longer
make love to her, their affection had grown too old. And there were some things,
nothing to do with sex, she could never forgive him. But they were no longer enemies.
   She made him coffee and served him homemade cookies in the living room. "Stretch
out on the sofa," she said, "you look tired." He took off his jacket and his shoes and
loosened his tie while she sat in the chair opposite him with a grave little smile on her
face. "It's funny," she said.
   "What's funny?" he asked her, sipping coffee and spilling some of it on his shirt.
   "The great Johnny Fontane stuck (to stick – завязнуть, застрять) without a date," she
said.
   "The great Johnny Fontane is lucky if he can even get it up anymore," he said.

    	   

   It was unusual for him to be so direct. Ginny asked, "Is there something really the
matter?"
   Johnny grinned at her. "I had a date with a girl in my apartment and she brushed me
off. And you know, I was relieved."
   To his surprise he saw a look of anger pass over Ginny's face. "Don't worry about
those little tramps," she said. "She must have thought that was the way to get you
interested in her," And Johnny realized with amusement that Ginny was actually angry
with the girl who had turned him down.
   "Ah, what the hell," he said. "I'm tired of that stuff. I have to grow up sometime. And

7

now that I can't sing anymore I guess I'll have a tough time with dames. I never got in on
my looks, you know."
She said loyally, "You were always better looking than you photographed."
   Johnny shook his head. "I'm getting fat and I'm getting bald. Hell, if this picture doesn't
make me big again I better learn how to bake pizzas. Or maybe we'll put you in the
movies, you look great."
   She looked thirty-five, A good thirty-five, but thirty-five. And out here in Hollywood that
might as well be a hundred. The young beautiful girls thronged through the city like
lemmings (лемминг, пеструшка /зоол./), lasting one year, some two, Some of them so
beautiful they could make a man's heart almost stop beating until they opened their
mouths, until the greedy hopes for success clouded the loveliness of their eyes.
Ordinary women could never hope to compete with them on a physical level. And you
could talk all you wanted to about charm, about intelligence, about chic, about poise, the
raw beauty of these girls overpowered everything else. Perhaps if there were not so
many of them there might be a chance for an ordinary, nice-looking woman. And since
Johnny Fontane could have all of them, or nearly all of them, Ginny knew that he was
saying all this just to flatter her. He had always been nice that way. He had always been
polite to women even at the height of his fame, paying them compliments, holding lights
for their cigarettes, opening doors. And since all this was usually done for him, it made it
even more impressive to the girls he went out with. And he did it with all girls, even the
one-night stands, I-don't-know-your-name girls.
   She smiled at him, a friendly smile. "You already made me, Johnny, remember? For
twelve years. You don't have to give me your line."
   He sighed and stretched out on the sofa. "No kidding, Ginny, you look good. I wish I
looked that good."

    	   

   She didn't answer him. She could see he was depressed. "Do you think the picture is
OK? Will it do you some good?" she asked.
   Johnny nodded. "Yeah. It could bring me all the way back. If I get the Academy thing

8

and play my cards right, I can make it big again even without the singing. Then maybe I
can give you and the kids more dough (тесто; деньги /сленг/ [d∂u])."
   "We have more than enough," Ginny said.
   "I wanta see more of the kids too," Johnny said. "I want to settle down a little bit. Why
can't I come every Friday night for dinner here? I swear I'll never miss one Friday, I don't
care how far away I am or how busy I am. And then whenever I can I'll spend weekends
or maybe the kids can spend some part of their vacations with me."
   Ginny put an ashtray on his chest. "It's OK with me," she said. "I never got married
because I wanted you to keep being their father." She said this without any kind of
emotion, but Johnny Fontane, staring up at the ceiling, knew she said it as an
atonement (компенсация, возмещение) for those other things, the cruel things she had
once said to him when their marriage had broken up, when his career had started going
down the drain (дренажная канава, водосток, канализация).
   "By the way, guess who called me," she said.
   Johnny wouldn't play that game, he never did. "Who?" he asked.
   Ginny said, "You could take at least one lousy guess." Johnny didn't answer. "Your
Godfather," she said.
   Johnny was really surprised. "He never talks to anybody on the phone. What did he
say to you?"
   "He told me to help you," Ginny said. "He said you could be as big as you ever were,
that you were on your way back, but that you needed people to believe in you. I asked
him why should I? And he said because you're the father of my children. He's such a
sweet old guy and they tell such horrible stories about him."
   Virginia hated phones and she had had all the extensions (удлинение, расширение;
удлинитель, добавочный телефон) taken out except for the one in her bedroom and
one in the kitchen. Now they could hear the kitchen phone ringing. She went to answer
it. When she came back into the living room there was a look of surprise on her face.
"It's for you, Johnny," she said. "It's Tom Hagen. He says it's important."
   Johnny went into the kitchen and picked up the phone. "Yeah, Tom," he said.  
   Tom Hagen's voice was cool. "Johnny, the Godfather wants me to come out and see
you and set some things up that can help you out now that the picture is finished. He
wants me to catch the morning plane. Can you meet it in Los Angeles? I have to fly

back to New York the same night so you won't have to worry about keeping your night
free for me."
   "Sure, Tom," Johnny said. "And don't worry about me losing a night. Stay over and
relax a bit. I'll throw a party and you can meet some movie people." He always made

9

that offer, he didn't want the folks from his old neighborhood to think he was ashamed of
them.
   "Thanks," Hagen said, "but I really have to catch the early morning plane back. OK,
you'll meet the eleven-thirty A.M. out of New York?"
   "Sure," Johnny said. 
   "Stay in your car," Hagen said. "Send one of your people to meet me when I get off
the plane and bring me to you."  
   "Right," Johnny said. 
   He went back to the living room and Ginny looked at him inquiringly. "My Godfather
has some plan for me, to help me out," Johnny said. "He got me the part in the movie, I
don't know how. But I wish he'd stay out of the rest of it."
   He went back onto the sofa. He felt very tired. Ginny said, "Why don't you sleep in the
guest bedroom tonight instead of going home? You can have breakfast with the kids
and you won't have to drive home so late. I hate to think of you all alone in that house of
yours anyway. Don't you get lonely?"
   "I don't stay home much," Johnny said.
   She laughed and said, "Then you haven't changed much." She paused and then said,
"Shall I fix up the other bedroom?"
   Johnny said, "Why can't I sleep in your bedroom?"
She flushed. "No," she said. She smiled at him and he smiled back. They were still
friends.
When Johnny woke up the next morning it was late, he could tell by the sun coming in
through the drawn blinds. It never came in that way unless it was in the afternoon. He
yelled, "Hey, Ginny, do I still rate (заслуживать, удоставиваться) breakfast?" And far
away he heard her voice call, "Just a second."
And it was just a second. She must have had everything ready, hot in the oven, the tray
waiting to be loaded, because as Johnny lit his first cigarette of the day, the door of the
bedroom opened and his two small daughters came in wheeling the breakfast cart 
(тележка, тачка; здесь: поднос на колесиках).
   They were so beautiful it broke his heart. Their faces were shining and clear, their
eyes alive with curiosity and the eager desire to run to him. They wore their hair braided

old-fashioned in long pigtails and they wore old-fashioned frocks and white patent-
leather (лакированный) shoes. They stood by the breakfast cart watching him as he
stubbed out his cigarette and waited for him to call and hold his arms wide. Then they

10

came running to him. He pressed his face between their two fresh fragrant cheeks and
scraped them with his beard so that they shrieked. Ginny appeared in the bedroom door
and wheeled the breakfast cart the rest of the way so that he could eat in bed. She sat
beside him on the edge of the bed, pouring his coffee, buttering his toast. The two
young daughters sat on the bedroom couch watching him. They were too old now for
pillow fights or to be tossed (to toss – бросать, кидать, подбрасывать) around. They
were already smoothing their mussed (to muss – приводить в беспорядок, путать)
hair. Oh, Christ, he thought, pretty soon they'll be all grown up, Hollywood punks will be
out after them.
   He shared his toast and bacon with them as he ate, gave them sips of coffee. It was a
habit left over from when he had been singing with the band and rarely ate with them so
they liked to share his food when he had his odd-hour meals like afternoon breakfasts
or morning suppers. The change-around in food delighted them – to eat steak and
french fries (картофель фри, чипсы) at seven in the morning, bacon and eggs in the
afternoon.
   Only Ginny and a few of his close friends knew how much he idolized his daughters.
That had been the worst thing about the divorce and leaving home. The one thing he
had fought about, and for, was his position as a father to them. In a very sly way he had
made Ginny understand he would not be pleased by her remarrying, not because he
was jealous of her, but because he was jealous of his position as a father. He had
arranged the money to be paid to her so it would be enormously to her advantage
financially not to remarry. It was understood that she could have lovers as long as they
were not introduced into her home life. But on this score he had absolute faith in her.
She had always been amazingly shy and old-fashioned in sex. The Hollywood gigolos
had batted zero (выбивали ноль = ничего не могли добиться; bat – бита /в
бейсболе/) when they started swarming around her, sniffing for the financial settlement
and the favors they could get from her famous husband.
   He had no fear that she expected a reconciliation because he had wanted to sleep
with her the night before. Neither one of them wanted to renew their old marriage. She
understood his hunger for beauty, his irresistible impulse toward young women far more
beautiful than she. It was known that he always slept with his movie co-stars at least
once. His boyish charm was irresistible to them, as their beauty was to him.  

   "You'll have to start getting dressed pretty soon," Ginny said. "Tom's plane will be
getting in." She shooed the daughters out of the room.  
   "Yeah," Johnny said. "By the way, Ginny, you know I'm getting divorced? I'm gonna
be a free man again."
   She watched him getting dressed. He always kept fresh clothes at her house ever
since they had come to their new arrangement after the wedding of Don Corleone's
daughter. "Christmas is only two weeks away," she said. "Shall I plan on you being
here?"
   It was the first time he had even thought about the holidays. When his voice was in

11

shape, holidays were lucrative singing dates but even then Christmas was sacred. If he
missed this one, it would be the second one. Last year he had been courting his second
wife in Spain, trying to get her to marry him.
   "Yeah," he said. "Christmas Eve and Christmas." He didn't mention New Year's Eve.
That would be one of the wild nights he needed every once in a while, to get drunk with
his friends, and he didn't want a wife along then. He didn't feel guilty about it.
   She helped him put on his jacket and brushed it off. He was always fastidiously 
(fastidious [f∂s’tıdıj∂s] – привередливо, разборчиво, изощренно) neat. She could see
him frowning because the shirt he had put on was not laundered (to launder ['lo:nd∂] –
стирать и гладить /белье/) to his taste, the cuff links (запонки; cuff – манжета), a pair
he had not worn for some time, were a little too loud for the way he liked to dress now.
She laughed softly and said, "Tom won't notice the difference."
   The three women of the family walked him to the door and out on the driveway to his
car. The two little girls held his hands, one on each side. His wife walked a little behind
him. She was getting pleasure out of how happy he looked. When he reached his car he
turned around and swung each girl in turn high up in the air and kissed her on the way
down. Then he kissed his wife and got into the car. He never liked drawn-out good-byes. 

   Arrangements had been made by his PR (public relations – связь с
общественностью) man and aide. At his house a chauffeured car was waiting, a rented
car. In it were the PR man and another member of his entourage. Johnny parked his car
and hopped in and they were on their way to the airport. He waited inside the car while
the PR man went out to meet Tom Hagen's plane. When Tom got into the car they
shook hands and drove back to his house.
   Finally he and Tom were alone in the living room. There was a coolness between
them. Johnny had never forgiven Hagen for acting as a barrier to his getting in touch

with the Don when the Don was angry with him, in those bad days before Connie's

12

wedding. Hagen never made excuses for his actions. He could not. It was part of his job
to act as a lightning rod for resentments which people were too awed to feel toward the
Don himself though he had earned them.
   "Your Godfather sent me out here to give you a hand (помочь) on some things,"
Hagen said. "I wanted to get it out of the way before Christmas."
   Johnny Fontane shrugged. "The picture is finished. The director was a square guy
and treated me right. My scenes are too important to be left on the cutting-room floor
just for Woltz to pay me off. He can't ruin a ten-million-dollar picture. So now everything
depends on how good people think I am in the movie."
   Hagen said cautiously, "Is winning this Academy Award so terribly important to an
actor's career, or is it just the usual publicity crap that really doesn't mean anything one
way or the other?" He paused and added hastily, "Except of course the glory, everybody
likes glory."
   Johnny Fontane grinned at him. "Except my Godfather. And you. No, Tom, it's not a
lot of crap. An Academy Award can make an actor for ten years. He can get his pick 
(выбор; лучшая, отборная часть /чего-либо/) of roles. The public goes to see him. It's
not everything, but for an actor it's the most important thing in the business. I'm counting
on winning it. Not because I'm such a great actor but because I'm known primarily as a
singer and the part is foolproof («защищенный от дурака» = элементарный в
обращении; надежный /без риска неудачи/). And I'm pretty good too, no kidding."
   Tom Hagen shrugged and said, "Your Godfather tells me that the way things stand
now, you don't have a chance of winning the award."
   Johnny Fontane was angry. "What the hell are you talking about? The picture hasn't
even been cut yet, much less shown. And the Don isn't even in the movie business.
Why the hell did you fly the three thousand miles just to tell me that shit?" He was so
shaken he was almost in tears.
   Hagen said worriedly, "Johnny, I don't know a damn thing about all this movie stuff.
Remember, I'm just a messenger boy for the Don. But we have discussed this whole
business of yours many times. He worries about you, about your future. He feels you
still need his help and he wants to settle your problem once and for all. That's why I'm
here now, to get things rolling. But you have to start growing up, Johnny. You have to
stop thinking about yourself as a singer or an actor. You've got to start thinking about
yourself as a prime mover (первичный двигатель; буксир, тягач), as a guy with
muscle."

   Johnny Fontane laughed and filled his glass. "If I don't win that Oscar I'll have as

13

much muscle as one of my daughters. My voice is gone; if I had that back I could make
some moves. Oh, hell. How does my Godfather know I won't win it? OK, I believe he
knows. He's never been wrong."
   Hagen lit a thin cigar. "We got the word that Jack Woltz won't spend studio money to
support your candidacy. In fact he's sent the word out to everybody who votes that he
does not want you to win. But holding back the money for ads (ad – сокр. от
advertisment – реклама) and all that may do it. He's also arranging to have one other
guy get as much of the opposition votes as he can swing. He's using all sorts of bribes-
jobs, money, broads, everything. And he's trying to do it without hurting the picture or
hurting it as little as possible."
   Johnny Fontane shrugged. He filled his glass with whiskey and downed it. "Then I'm
dead."
   Hagen was watching him with his mouth curled up with distaste. "Drinking won't help
your voice," he said.
   "Fuck you," Johnny said.
   Hagen's face suddenly became smoothly impassive. Then he said, "OK, I'll keep this
purely business."
   Johnny Fontane put his drink down and went over to stand in front of Hagen. "I'm
sorry I said that, Tom," he said. "Christ, I'm sorry. I'm taking it out on you because I
wanta kill that bastard Jack Woltz and I'm afraid to tell off (отчитывать, бранить,
разносить) my Godfather. So I get sore at you." There were tears in his eyes. He threw
the empty whiskey glass against the wall but so weakly that the heavy shot glass did not
even shatter and rolled along the floor back to him so that he looked down at it in baffled 
(озадаченный, сбитый с толку) fury. Then he laughed. "Jesus Christ," he said.
He walked over to the other side of the room and sat opposite Hagen. "You know, I had
everything my own way for a long time. Then I divorced Ginny and everything started
going sour. I lost my voice. My records stopped selling. I didn't get any more movie work. 
And then my Godfather got sore at me and wouldn't talk to me on the phone or see me
when I came into New York. You were always the guy barring the path and I blamed
you, but I knew you wouldn't do it without orders from the Don. But you can't get sore at
him. It's like getting sore at God. So I curse you. But you've been right all along the line.
And to show you I mean my apology I'm taking your advice. No more booze until I get
my voice back. OK?"

    	   

   The apology was sincere. Hagen forgot his anger. There must be something to this
thirty-five-year-old boy or the Don would not be so fond of him. He said, "Forget it,

14

Johnny." He was embarrassed at the depth of Johnny's feeling and embarrassed by the
suspicion that it might have been inspired by fear, fear that he might turn the Don
against him. And of course the Don could never be turned by anyone for any reason.
His affection was mutable only by himself.
   "Things aren't so bad," he told Johnny. "The Don says he can cancel out everything
Woltz does against you. That you will almost certainly win the Award. But he feels that
won't solve your problem. He wants to know if you have the brains and balls to become
a producer on your own, make your own movies from top to bottom."
   "How the hell is he going to get me the Award?" Johnny asked incredulously.
   Hagen said sharply, "How do you find it so easy to believe that Woltz can finagle 
(добиваться чего-либо нечестными или обходными путями, жульничать [fı'neıgl]) it
and your Godfather can't? Now since it's necessary to get your faith for the other part of
our deal I must tell you this. Just keep it to yourself. Your Godfather is a much more
powerful man than Jack Woltz. And he is much more powerful in areas far more critical.
How can he swing the Award? He controls, or controls the people who control, all the
labor unions in the industry, all the people or nearly all the people who vote. Of course
you have to be good, you have to be in contention (конкуренция; спор) on your own
merits. And your Godfather has more brains than Jack Woltz. He doesn't go up to these
people and put a gun to their heads and say, 'Vote for Johnny Fontane or you are out of
a job.' He doesn't strong-man where strong-arm doesn't work or leaves too many hard
feelings. He'll make those people vote for you because they want to. But they won't
want to unless he takes an interest. Now just take my word for it that he can get you the
Award. And that if he doesn't do it, you won't get it."
   "OK," Johnny said. "I believe you. And I have the balls and brains to be a producer but
I don't have the money. No bank would finance me. It takes millions to support a movie."
   Hagen said dryly, "When you get the Award, start making plans to produce three of
your own movies. Hire the best people in the business, the best technicians, the best
stars, whoever you need. Plan on three to five movies."
   "You're crazy," Johnny said. "That many movies could mean twenty million bucks."
"When you need the money," Hagen said, "get in touch with me. I'll give you the name
of the bank out here in California to ask for financing. Don't worry, they finance movies
all the time. Just ask them for the money in the ordinary way, with the proper

    	   

justifications, like a regular business deal. They will approve. But first you have to see
me and tell me the figures and the plans. OK?"
   Johnny was silent for a long time. Then he said quietly, "Is there anything else?"

15

   Hagen smiled. "You mean, do you have to do any favors in return for a loan of twenty
million dollars? Sure you will." He waited for Johnny to say something. "Nothing you
wouldn't do anyway if the Don asked you to do it for him."
   Johnny said, "The Don has to ask me himself if it's something serious, you know what
I mean? I won't take your word or Sonny's for it."
   Hagen was surprised by this good sense. Fontane had some brains after all. He had
sense to know that the Don was too fond of him, and too smart, to ask him to do
something foolishly dangerous, whereas Sonny might. He said to Johnny, "Let me
reassure you on one thing. Your Godfather has given me and Sonny strict instructions
not to involve you in any way in anything that might get you bad publicity through our
fault. And he will never do that himself. I guarantee you that any favor he asks of you,
you will offer to do before he requests it. OK?"
   Johnny smiled. "OK," he said.
   Hagen said, "Also he has faith in you. He thinks you have brains and so he figures the
bank will make money on the investment, which means he will make money on it. So it's
really a business deal, never forget that. Don't go screwing around with the money. You
may be his favorite godson but twenty million bucks is a lot of dough. He has to stick his
neck out to make sure you get it."
   "Tell him not to worry," Johnny said. "If a guy like Jack Woltz can be a big movie
genius, anybody can."
   "That's what your Godfather figures," Hagen said. "Can you have me driven back to
the airport? I've said all I have to say. When you do start signing contracts for
everything, hire your own lawyers, I won't be in on it. But I'd like to see everything
before you sign, if that's OK with you. Also, you'll never have any labor troubles. That
will cut costs on your pictures to some extent, so when the accountants lump (lump –
глыба, кусок; to lump – смешивать, валить в одну кучу) some of that in, disregard
those figures."
   Johnny said cautiously, "Do I have to get your OK on anything else, scripts, stars, any
of that?"
   Hagen shook his head. "No," he said. "It may happen that the Don would object to
something but he'll object to you direct if he does. But I can't imagine what that would be. 

    	   

16
Movies don't affect him at all, in any way, so he has no interest. And he doesn't believe
in meddling, that I can tell you from experience."  
   "Good," Johnny said. "I'll drive you to the airport myself. And thank the Godfather for
me. I'd call him up and thank him but he never comes to the phone. Why is that, by the
way?"
   Hagen shrugged. "He hardly ever talks on the phone. He doesn't want his voice
recorded, even saying something perfectly innocent. He's afraid that they can splice 
(соединять внахлест, сращивать /концы чего-либо/ /строит./; склеивать встык
/ленту, пленку/) the words together so that it sounds as if he says something else. I
think that's what it is. Anyway his only worry is that someday he'll be framed (to frame –
фабриковать, подставлять, ложно обвинять) by the authorities. So he doesn't want to 
give them an edge (дать им себя подцепить, дать им карты в руки; edge – кромка,
край)."
   They got into Johnny's car and drove to the airport. Hagen was thinking that Johnny
was a better guy than he figured. He'd already learned something, just his driving him
personally to the airport proved that. The personal courtesy, something the Don himself
always believed in. And the apology. That had been sincere. He had known Johnny a
long time and he knew the apology would never be made out of fear. Johnny had
always had guts. That's why he had always been in trouble, with his movie bosses and
with his women. He was also one of the few people who was not afraid of the Don.
Fontane and Michael were maybe the only two men Hagen knew of whom this could be
said. So the apology was sincere, he would accept it as such. He and Johnny would
have to see a lot of each other in the next few years. And Johnny would have to pass
the next test, which would prove how smart he was. He would have to do something for
the Don that the Don would never ask him to do or insist that he do as part of the
agreement. Hagen wondered if Johnny Fontane was smart enough to figure out that
part of the bargain.

   After Johnny dropped Hagen off at the airport (Hagen insisted that Johnny not hang
around for his plane with him) he drove back to Ginny's house. She was surprised to
see him. But he wanted to stay at her place so that he would have time to think things
out, to make his plans. He knew that what Hagen had told him was extremely important,
that his whole life was being changed. He had once been a big star but now at the
young age of thirty-five he was washed up. He didn't kid himself about that. Even if he
won the Award as best actor, what the hell could it mean at the most? Nothing, if his

17
voice didn't come back. He'd be just second-rate, with no real power, no real juice. Even
that girl turning him down, she had been nice and smart and acting sort of hip (также
hep – знающий толк в чем-то, секущий; классный, стильный /сленг/), but would she
have been so cool if he had really been at the top? Now with the Don backing him with
dough he could be as big as anybody in Hollywood. He could be a king. Johnny smiled.
Hell. He could even be a Don.
   It would be nice living with Ginny again for a few weeks, maybe longer. He'd take the
kids out every day, maybe have a few friends over. He'd stop drinking and smoking,
really take care of himself. Maybe his voice would get strong again. If that happened
and with the Don's money, he'd be unbeatable. He'd really be as close to an oldtime
king or emperor as it was possible to be in America. And it wouldn't depend on his voice
holding up or how long the public cared about him as an actor. It would be an empire
rooted in money and the most special, the most coveted kind of power.
   Ginny had the guest bedroom made up for him. It was understood that he would not
share her room, that they would not live as man and wife. They could never have that
relationship again. And though the outside world of gossip columnists (корреспондент,
обозреватель /ведущий постоянную рубрику/) and movie fans gave the blame for the
failure of their marriage solely to him, yet in a curious way, between the two of them,
they both knew that she was even more to blame for their divorce.
   When Johnny Fontane became the most popular singer and movie musical comedy
star in motion pictures, it had never occurred to him to desert his wife and children. He
was too Italian, still too old-style. Naturally he had been unfaithful. That had been
impossible to avoid in his business and the temptations to which he was continually
exposed. And despite being a skinny, delicate-looking guy, he had the wiry horniness 
(horny – сексуально возбужденный, сексульно озабоченный) of many small-boned
Latin types. And women delighted him in their surprises. He loved going out with a
demure (спокойный, сдержанный, трезвый, рассудительный, притворно
застенчивый [dı'mju∂]) sweet-faced virginal-looking girl and then uncapping her breasts
to find them so unexpectedly slopingly (sloping – косой, покатый) full and rich, lewdly 
(lewd – похотливый; распутный) heavy in contrast to the cameo face. He loved to find
sexual shyness and timidity in the sexy-looking girls who were all fake (поддельный,
фальшивый) motion like a shifty basketball player, vamping (to vamp – завлекать,
соблазнять) as if they had slept with a hundred guys, and then when he got them alone
having to battle for hours to get in and do the job and finding out they were virgins.

    	   

18
   And all these Hollywood guys laughed at his fondness for virgins. They called it an old
guinea taste, square, and look how long it took to make a virgin give you a blow job 
(феллация) with all the aggravation and then they usually turned out to be a lousy
piece of ass. But Johnny knew that it was how you handled a young girl. You had to
come on to her the right way and then what could be greater than a girl who was tasting
her first dick and loving it? Ab, it was so great breaking them in. It was so great having
them wrap their legs around you. Their thighs were all different shapes, their asses
were different, their skins were all different colors and shades of white and brown and
tan and when he had slept with that young colored girl in Detroit, a good girl, not a
hustler, the young daughter of a jazz singer on the same nightclub bill with him, she had
been one of the sweetest things he had ever had. Her lips had really tasted like warm
honey with pepper mixed in it, her dark brown skin was rich, creamy, and she had been
as sweet as God had ever made any woman and she had been a virgin.
   And the other guys were always talking about blow jobs, this and other variations, and
he really didn't enjoy that stuff so much. He never liked a girl that much after they tried it
that way, it just didn't satisfy him right. He and his second wife had finally not got along,
because she preferred the old sixty-nine too much to a point where she didn't want
anything else and he had to fight to stick it in. She began making fun of him and calling
him a square and the word got around that he made love like a kid. Maybe that was why
that girl last night had turned him down. Well, the hell with it, she wouldn't be too great
in the sack (гамак; койка) anyway. You could tell (можно различить, распознать) a girl
who really liked to fuck and they were always the best. Especially the ones who hadn't
been at it too long. What he really hated were the ones who had started screwing at
twelve and were all fucked out by the time they were twenty and just going through the
motions and some of them were the prettiest of all and could fake you out.
   Ginny brought coffee and cake into his bedroom and put it on the long table in the
sitting room part. He told her simply that Hagen was helping him put together the money
credit for a producing package and she was excited about that. He would be important
again. But she had no idea of how powerful Don Corleone really was so she didn't
understand the significance of Hagen coming from New York. He told her Hagen was
also helping with legal details.
   When they had finished the coffee he told her he was going to work that night, and
make phone calls and plans for the future. "Half of all this will be in the kids' names," he
told her. She gave him a grateful smile and kissed him good night before she left his
room.

  There was a glass dish full of his favorite monogrammed cigarettes, a humidor 

19

(коробка для хранения сигар с увлажнителем) with pencil-thin black Cuban cigars on
his writing desk. Johnny tilted back (откинулся) and started making calls. His brain was
really whirring (to whirr – жужжать, шуметь) along. He called the author of the book,
the best-selling novel, on which his new film was based. The author was a guy his own
age who had come up the hard way and was now a celebrity in the literary world. He
had come out to Hollywood expecting to be treated like a wheel (что с ним будут
обращаться как с королем) and, like most authors, had been treated like shit. Johnny
had seen the humiliation of the author one night at the Brown Derby. The writer had
been fixed up with a well-known bosomy starlet for a date on the town and a sure
shack-up later. But while they were at dinner the starlet had deserted the famous author
because a ratty-looking movie comic had waggled (to waggle – помахивать,
покачивать) his finger at her. That had given the writer the right slant (наклон, склон;
быстрый взгляд; точка зрения, подход, мнение) on just who was who in the
Hollywood pecking (to peck – клевать /клювом/) order. It didn't matter that his book
had made him world famous. A starlet would prefer the crummiest (crummy –
крошащийся, рыхлый; никудышный, несчастный; to crum – раскрошить), the rattiest,
the phoniest movie wheel.
   Now Johnny called the author at his New York home to thank him for the great part he
had written in his book for him. He flattered the shit out of the guy. Then casually he
asked him how he was doing on his next novel and what it was all about. He lit a cigar
while the author told him about a specially interesting chapter and then finally said,
"Gee, I'd like to read it when you're finished. How about sending me a copy? Maybe I
can get you a good deal for it, better than you got with Woltz."
   The eagerness in the author's voice told him that he had guessed right. Woltz had
chiseled (надул: «обработал зубилом»: chisel [t∫ızl]) the guy, given him peanuts 
(бесценок, «смешные деньги»; peanut – арахис, земляной орех) for the book.
Johnny mentioned that he might be in New York right after the holidays and would the
author want to come and have dinner with some of his friends. "I know a few good-
looking broads," Johnny said jokingly. The author laughed and said OK.
   Next Johnny called up the director and cameraman on the film he had just finished to
thank them for having helped him in the film. He told them confidentially that he knew
Woltz had been against him and he doubly appreciated their help and that if there was
ever anything he could do for them they should just call.

    	   

   Then he made the hardest call of all, the one to Jack Woltz. He thanked him for the

20

part in the picture and told him how happy he would be to work for him anytime. He did
this merely to throw Woltz off the track. He had always been very square, very straight.
In a few days Woltz would find out about his maneuvering and be astounded by the
treachery of this call, which was exactly what Johnny Fontane wanted him to feel.
   After that he sat at the desk and puffed at his cigar. There was whiskey on a side
table but he had made some sort of promise to himself and Hagen that he wouldn't
drink. He shouldn't even be smoking. It was foolish; whatever was wrong with his voice
probably wouldn't be helped by knocking off drinking and smoking. Not too much, but
what the hell, it might help and he wanted all the percentages with him, now that he had
a fighting chance.
   Now with the house quiet, his divorced wife sleeping, his beloved daughters sleeping,
he could think back to that terrible time in his life when he had deserted them. Deserted
them for a whore tramp of a bitch who was his second wife. But even now he smiled at
the thought of her, she was such a lovely broad in so many ways and, besides, the only
thing that saved his life was the day that he had made up his mind never to hate a
woman or, more specifically, the day he had decided he could not afford to hate his first
wife and his daughters, his girl friends, his second wife, and the girl friends after that,
right up to Sharon Moore brushing him off so that she could brag about refusing to
screw for the great Johnny Fontane.

   He had traveled with the band singing and then he had become a radio star and a star
of the movie stage shows and then he had finally made it in the movies. And in all that
time he had lived the way he wanted to, screwed the women he wanted to, but he had
never let it affect his personal life. Then he had fallen for his soon to be second wife,
Margot Ashton; he had gone absolutely crazy for her. His career had gone to hell, his
voice had gone to hell, his family life had gone to hell. And there had come the day
when he was left without anything.
   The thing was, he had always been generous and fair. He had given his first wife
everything he owned when he divorced her. He had made sure his two daughters would
get a piece of everything he made, every record, every movie, every club date. And
when he had been rich and famous he had refused his first wife nothing. He had helped
out all her brothers and sisters, her father and mother, the girl friends she had gone to
school with and their families. He had never been a stuck-up (высокомерный,
заносчивый, самодовольный) celebrity. He had sung at the weddings of his wife's two

younger sisters, something he hated to do. He had never refused her anything except
the complete surrender of his own personality. 
   And then when he had touched bottom, when he could no longer get movie work,

21

when he could no longer sing, when his second wife had betrayed him, he had gone to
spend a few days with Ginny and his daughters. He had more or less flung himself on
her mercy (сдался ей на милость) one night because he felt so lousy. That day he had
heard one of his recordings and he had sounded so terrible that he accused the sound
technicians of sabotaging the record. Until finally he had become convinced that that
was what his voice really sounded like. He had smashed the master record and refused
to sing anymore. He was so ashamed that he had not sung a note except with Nino at
Connie Corleone's wedding.
   He had never forgotten the look on Ginny's face when she found out about all his
misfortunes. It had passed over her face only for a second but that was enough for him
never to forget it. It was a look of savage and joyful satisfaction. It was a look that could
only make him believe that she had contemptuously hated him all these years. She
quickly recovered and offered him cool but polite sympathy. He had pretended to accept
it. During the next few days he had gone to see three of the girls he had liked the most
over the years, girls he had remained friends with and sometimes still slept with in a
comradely way, girls that he had done everything in his power to help, girls to whom he
had given the equivalent of hundreds of thousands of dollars in gifts or job opportunities.
On their faces he had caught that same fleeting (to fleet – быстро двигаться,
проходить; скользить по поверхности) look of savage satisfaction.
   It was during that time that he knew he had to make a decision. He could become like
a great many other men in Hollywood, successful producers, writers, directors, actors,
who preyed (to prey – охотиться; prey – добыча) on beautiful women with lustful
hatred. He could use power and monetary favors grudgingly, always alert for treason,
always believing that women would betray and desert him, adversaries to be bested 
(противники, над которыми нужно взять верх, которых надо перехитрить). Or he
could refuse to hate women and continue to believe in them.
   He knew he could not afford not to love them, that something of his spirit would die if
he did not continue to love women no matter how treacherous and unfaithful they were.
It didn't matter that the women he loved most in the world were secretly glad to see him
crushed, humiliated, by a wayward (своенравный, капризный, несговорчивый) fortune; 
it did not matter that in the most awful way, not sexually, they had been unfaithful to him.
He had no choice. He had to accept them. And so he made love to all of them, gave

them presents, hid the hurt their enjoyment of his misfortunes gave him. He forgave
them knowing he was being paid back for having lived in the utmost freedom from

22

women and in the fullest flush (внезапный прилив; буйный рост, расцвет; изобилие)
of their flavor. But now he never felt guilty about being untrue to them. He never felt
guilty about how he treated Ginny, insisting on remaining the sole father of his children,
yet never even considering remarrying her, and letting her know that too. That was one
thing he had salvaged (to salvage [‘sжlvıdG] – спасать имущество /при
кораблекрушении, пожаре/) out of his fall from the top. He had grown a thick skin
about the hurts he gave women.
   He was tired and ready for bed but one note of memory stuck with him: singing with
Nino Valenti. And suddenly he knew what would please Don Corleone more than
anything else. He picked up the phone and told the operator to get him New York. He
called Sonny Corleone and asked him for Nino Valenti's number. Then he called Nino.
Nino sounded a little drunk as usual.
   "Hey, Nino, how'd you like to come out here and work for me," Johnny said. "I need a
guy I can trust."
   Nino, kidding around, said, "Gee, I don't know, Johnny, I got a good job on the truck,
boffing (boff – зад /сленг/; to boff – хлопнуть, шлепнуть; трахнуть, перепихнуться
/мягкое выражение/) housewives along my route, picking up a clear hundred-fifty every
week. What you got to offer?"
   "I can start you at five hundred and get you blind dates with movie stars, how's that?"
Johnny said. "And maybe I'll let you sing at my parties."
   "Yeah, OK, let me think about it." Nino said. "Let me talk it over with my lawyer and
my accountant and my helper on the truck."
   "Hey, no kidding around, Nino," Johnny said. "I need you out here. I want you to fly
out tomorrow morning and sign a personal contract for five hundred a week for a year.
Then if you steal one of my broads and I fire you, you pick up at least a year's salary.
OK?"
   There was a long pause. Nino's voice was sober. "Hey, Johnny, you kidding?"
   Johnny said, "I'm serious, kid. Go to my agent's office in New York. They'll have your
plane ticket and some cash. I'm gonna call them first thing in the morning. So you go up
there in the afternoon. OK? Then I'll have somebody meet you at the plane and bring
you out to the house."
   Again there was a long pause and then Nino's voice, very subdued (приглушенный,
смягченный), uncertain, said, "OK, Johnny." He didn't sound drunk anymore.

   Johnny hung up the phone and got ready for bed. He felt better than any time since
he had smashed that master record.

Chapter 13

   Johnny Fontane sat in the huge recording studio and figured costs on a yellow pad.

23

Musicians were filing in, all of them friends he had known since he was a kid singer with
the bands. The conductor, top man in the business of pop accompaniment and a man
who had been kind to him when things went sour, was giving each musician bundles of
music and verbal instructions. His name was Eddie Neils. He had taken on this
recording as a favor to Johnny, though his schedule (расписание, график [‘∫edju:l]) was
crowded.
   Nino Valenti was sitting at a piano fooling around nervously with the keys. He was
also sipping from a huge glass of rye. Johnny didn't mind that. He knew Nino sang just
as well drunk as sober and what they were doing today wouldn't require any real
musicianship on Nino's part.
   Eddie Neils had made special arrangements of some old Italian and Sicilian songs,
and a special job on the duel-duet song that Nino and Johnny had sung at Connie
Corleone's wedding. Johnny was making the record primarily because he knew that the
Don loved such songs and it would be a perfect Christmas gift for him. He also had a
hunch (горб; предчувствие) that the record would sell in the high numbers, not a
million, of course. And he had figured out that helping Nino was how the Don wanted his
payoff. Nino was, after all, another one of the Don's godchildren.
   Johnny put his clipboard and yellow pad on the folding chair beside him and got up to
stand beside the piano. He said, "Hey, paisan (земляк –сицилийск.)," and Nino
glanced up and tried to smile. He looked a little sick. Johnny leaned over and rubbed his
shoulder blades. "Relax, kid," he said. "Do a good job today and I'll fix you up with the
best and most famous piece of ass in Hollywood."
   Nino took a gulp of whiskey. "Who's that, Lassie?"
   Johnny laughed. "No, Deanna Dunn. I guarantee the goods (the goods – требуемые
качества; именно то, что нужно)."
   Nino was impressed but couldn't help saying with pseudo-hopefulness, "You can't get
me Lassie?"
   The orchestra swung into the opening song of the medley (смесь; попурри). Johnny
Fontane listened intently. Eddie Neils would play all the songs through in their special

arrangements. Then would come the first take (выручка) for the record. As Johnny
listened he made mental notes on exactly how he would handle each phrase, how he
would come into each song. He knew his voice wouldn't last long, but Nino would be

24

doing most of the singing, Johnny would be singing under him. Except of course in the
duet-duel song. He would have to save himself for that.
   He pulled Nino to his feet and they both stood by their microphones. Nino flubbed (to
flub – сделать неудачно, совершить промах) the opening, flubbed it again. His face
was beginning to get red with embarrassment. Johnny kidded him, "Hey, you stalling (to
stall – ставить в стойло; застревать; останавливать, задерживать) for overtime?"
   "I don't feel natural without my mandolin," Nino said.
   Johnny thought that over for a moment. "Hold that glass of booze in your hand," he
said. It seemed to do the trick. Nino kept drinking from the glass as he sang but he was
doing fine. Johnny sang easily, not straining, his voice merely dancing around Nino's
main melody. There was no emotional satisfaction in this kind of singing but he was
amazed at his own technical skill. Ten years of vocalizing had taught him something.
   When they came to the duet-duel song that ended the record, Johnny let his voice go
and when they finished his vocal chords ached. The musicians had been carried away
by the last song, a rare thing for these calloused (callous ['kжl∂s] – огрубелый:
«мозолистый») veterans. They hammered down their instruments and stamped their
feet in approval as applause. The drummer gave them a ruffle (дробь барабана) of
drums.
   With stops and conferences they worked nearly four hours before they quit. Eddie
Neils came over to Johnny and said quietly, "You sounded pretty good, kid. Maybe
you're ready to do a record. I have a new song that's perfect for you."
   Johnny shook his head. "Come on, Eddie, don't kid me. Besides in a couple of hours
I'll be too hoarse to even talk. Do you think we'll have to fix up much of the stuff we did
today?"
Eddie said thoughtfully, "Nino will have to come into the studio tomorrow. He made
some mistakes. But he's much better than I thought he would be. As for your stuff, I'll
have the sound engineers fix anything I don't like. OK?"
   "OK," Johnny said. "When can I hear the pressing (запись /на пластинку,
граммофонную/)?"  
   "Tomorrow night," Eddie Neils said. "Your place?"
   "Yeah," Johnny said. "Thanks, Eddie. See you tomorrow." He took Nino by the arm
and walked out of the studio. They went to his house instead of Ginny's.

25
   By this time it was late afternoon. Nino was still more than half-drunk. Johnny told him
to get under the shower and then take a snooze (короткий сон /днем/). They had to be
at a big party at eleven that night.
   When Nino woke up, Johnny briefed him. "This party is a movie star Lonely Hearts
Club," he said. "These broads tonight are dames you've seen in the movies as glamour 
(чары; романтический ореол, очарование; эффектный ['glжm∂]) queens millions of
guys would give their right arms to screw. And the only reason they'll be at the party
tonight is to find somebody to shack them up. Do you know why? Because they are
hungry for it, they are just a little old. And just like every dame, they want it with a little
bit of class."  
   "What's the matter with your voice?" Nino asked.  
   Johnny had been speaking almost in a whisper. "Every time after I sing a little bit that
happens. I won't be able to sing for a month now. But I'll get over the hoarseness in a
couple of days."
   Nino said thoughtfully, "Tough, huh?"
   Johnny shrugged. "Listen, Nino, don't get too drunk tonight. You have to show these
Hollywood broads that my paisan buddy ain't weak in the poop (корма). You gotta come
across. Remember, some of these dames are very powerful in movies, they can get you
work. It doesn't hurt to be charming after you knock off a piece (кое-что урвешь)."
   Nino was already pouring himself a drink. "I'm always charming," he said. He drained
the glass. Grinning, he asked, "No kidding, can you really get me close to Deanna
Dunn?"  
   "Don't be so anxious," Johnny said. "It's not going to be like you think."  

   The Hollywood Movie Star Lonely Hearts Club (so called by the young juvenile leads
whose attendance was mandatory (обязательный, принудительный)) met every
Friday night at the palatial, studio-owned home of Roy McElroy, press agent or rather
public relations counsel for the Woltz International Film Corporation. Actually, though it
was McElroy's open house party, the idea had come from the practical brain of Jack
Woltz himself. Some of his money-making movie stars were getting older now. Without
the help of special lights and genius makeup men they looked their age. They were
having problems. They had also become, to some extent, desensitized (стали
бесчувственны, чувства их атрофировались, притупились) physically and mentally.
They could no longer "fall in love." They could no longer assume the role of hunted
women. They had been made too imperious; by money, by fame, by their former beauty.

Woltz gave his parties so that it would be easier for them to pick up lovers, one-night
stands, who, if they had the stuff (если окажутся способны, если есть в них этот

26

талант), could graduate into full-time bed partners and so work their way upward. Since
the action sometimes degenerated into brawls (brawl – шумная ссора, скандал) or
sexual excess that led to trouble with the police, Woltz decided to hold the parties in the
house of the public relations counselor, who would be right there to fix things up, pay off
newsmen and police officers and keep everything quiet.
   For certain virile young male actors on the studio payroll who had not yet achieved
stardom (положение ‘звезды’) or featured roles (feature – полнометражный фильм),
attendance at the Friday night parties was not always pleasant duty. This was explained
by the fact that a new film yet to be released by the studio would be shown at the party.
In fact that was the excuse for the party itself. People would say, "Let's go over to see
what the new picture so and so made is like." And so it was put in a professional context.
   Young female starlets were forbidden to attend the Friday night parties. Or rather
discouraged. Most of them took the hint.
   Screenings (screening – демонстрация фильма; screen – ширма; экран) of the new
movies took place at midnight and Johnny and Nino arrived at eleven. Roy McElroy
proved to be, at first sight, an enormously likable man, well-groomed (хорошо
ухоженный /о лошади/; холеный), beautifully dressed. He greeted Johnny Fontane
with a surprised cry of delight. "What the hell are you doing here?" he said with genuine
astonishment.
   Johnny shook his hand. "I'm showing my country cousin the sights. Meet Nino."
   McElroy shook hands with Nino and gazed at him appraisingly. "They'll eat him up
alive," he said to Johnny. He led them to the rear patio.
   The rear patio was really a series of huge rooms whose glass doors had been opened
to a garden and pool. There were almost a hundred people milling around (двигались
кругом, кружили; to mill – молоть; mill – мельница), all with drinks in their hands. The
patio lighting was artfully arranged to flatter feminine faces and skin. These were 
women Nino had seen on the darkened movie screens when he had been a teenager.
They had played their part in his erotic dreams of adolescence. But seeing them now in
the flesh was like seeing them in some horrible makeup. Nothing could hide the
tiredness of their spirit and their flesh; time had eroded (to erode – разъедать,
разрушать) their godhead. They posed and moved as charmingly as he remembered
but they were like wax fruit, they could not lubricate his glands («смазать» его железы,
гланды). Nino took two drinks, wandered to a table where he could stand next to a nest

of bottles. Johnny moved with him. They drank together until behind them came the
magic voice of Deanna Dunn.

27

   Nino, like millions of other men, had that voice imprinted on his brain forever. Deanna
Dunn had won two Academy Awards, had been in the biggest movie grosser (фильм,
приносящий огромный доход) made in Hollywood. On the screen she had a feline 
(кошачий ['fi:laın]) feminine charm that made her irresistible to all men. But the words
she was saying had never been heard on the silver screen. "Johnny, you bastard, I had
to go to my psychiatrist again because you gave me a one-night stand. How come you
never came back for seconds?" 
   Johnny kissed her on her proffered (to proffer – предлагать) cheek. "You wore me
out for a month," he said. "I want you to meet my cousin Nino. A nice strong Italian boy.
Maybe he can keep up with you (держаться наравне; составить компанию)."
   Deanna Dunn turned to give Nino a cool look. "Does he like to watch previews?"
   Johnny laughed. "I don't think he's ever had the chance. Why don't you break him in?"
   Nino had to take a big drink when he was alone with Deanna Dunn. He was trying to
be nonchalant (беспечный, беззаботный ['non∫∂l∂nt]) but it was hard. Deanna Dunn
had the upturned nose, the clean-cut classical features of the Anglo-Saxon beauty. And
he knew her so well. He had seen her alone in a bedroom, heart-broken, weeping over
her dead flier husband who had left her with fatherless children. He had seen her angry,
hurt, humiliated, yet with a shining dignity when a caddish (грубый, вульгарный) Clark
Gable had taken advantage of her, then left her for a sexpot (сексуально
привлекательная женщина, «секс-бомба»). (Deanna Dunn never played sexpots in
the movies.) He had seen her flushed with requited (to requite – отплачивать,
вознаграждать) love, writhing in the embrace of the man she adored and he had seen
her die beautifully at least a half dozen times. He had seen her and heard her and
dreamed about her and yet he was not prepared for the first thing she said to him alone.
   "Johnny is one of the few men with balls in this town," she said. "The rest are all fags 
(fag – младший ученик, оказывающий услуги старшим товращам /в английских
школах/) and sick morons (moron [‘mo:ron] – слабоумный, идиот) who couldn't get it
up with a broad if you pumped a truckload of Spanish fly into their scrotums (scrotum
[‘skr∂ut∂m] – мошонка)." She took Nino by the hand and led him into a corner of the
room, out of traffic and out of competition.
   Then still coolly charming, she asked him about himself. He saw through her. He saw
that she was playing the role of the rich society girl who is being kind to the stableboy or
the chauffeur, but who in the movie would either discourage his amatory interest (if the

28
part were played by Spencer Tracy), or throw up everything in her mad desire for him (if
the part were played by Clark Gable). But it didn't matter. He found himself telling her
about how he and Johnny had grown up together in New York, about how he and
Johnny had sung together on little club dates. He found her marvelously sympathetic
and interested. Once she asked casually, "Do you know how Johnny made that bastard
Jack Woltz give him the part?" Nino froze and shook his head. She didn't pursue it.
   The time had come to see the preview of a new Woltz movie. Deanna Dunn led Nino,
her warm hand imprisoning his, to an interior room of the mansion that had no windows
but was furnished with about fifty small two-person couches scattered around in such a
way as to give each one a little island of semiprivacy.
   Nino saw there was a small table beside the couch and on the table were an ice bowl,
glasses and bottles of liquor plus a tray of cigarettes. He gave Deanna Dunn a cigarette,
lit it and then mixed them both drinks. They didn't speak to each other. After a few
minutes the lights went out.
   He had been expecting something outrageous (возмутительный). After all, he had
heard the legends of Hollywood depravity (развращенность). But he was not quite
prepared for Deanna Dunn's voracious plummet (жадный натиск, «ныряние»;
voracious [v∂’reı∫∂s] – прожорливый; жадный, ненасытный; plummet – свинцовый
отвес, гирька отвеса; to plummet – нырять, погружаться) on his sexual organ without 
even a courteous and friendly word of preparation. He kept sipping his drink and
watching the movie, but not tasting, not seeing. He was excited in a way he had never
been before but part of it was because this woman servicing him in the dark had been
the object of his adolescent dreams.
   Yet in a way his masculinity was insulted. So when the world-famous Deanna Dunn
was sated (насыщена, пресыщена) and had tidied him up, he very coolly fixed her a
fresh drink in the darkness and lit her a fresh cigarette and said in the most relaxed
voice imaginable, "This looks like a pretty good movie."  
   He felt her stiffen beside him on the couch. Could it be she was waiting for some sort
of compliment? Nino poured his glass full from the nearest bottle his hand touched in
the darkness. The hell with that. She'd treated him like a god damn male whore. For
some reason now he felt a cold anger at all these women. They watched the picture for
another fifteen minutes. He leaned away from her so their bodies did not touch.
   Finally she said in a low harsh whisper, "Don't be such a snotty (сопливый) punk, you
liked it. You were as big as a house."

    	   

   Nino sipped his drink and said in his natural off-hand manner (бесцеремонная,

29

развязная манера), "That's the way it always is. You should see it when I get excited."
   She laughed a little and kept quiet for the rest of the picture. Finally it was over and
the lights went on. Nino took a look around. He could see there had been a ball here in
the darkness though oddly enough he hadn't heard a thing. But some of the dames had
that hard, shiny, bright-eyed look of women who had just been worked over real good.
They sauntered out of the projection room. Deanna Dunn left him immediately to go
over and talk to an older man Nino recognized as a famous featured player, only now,
seeing the guy in person, he realized that he was a fag. He sipped his drink thoughtfully.
   Johnny Fontane came up beside him and said, "Hi, old buddy, having a good time?"
   Nino grinned. "I don't know. It's different. Now when I go back to the old neighborhood
I can say Deanna Dunn had me."
   Johnny laughed. "She can be better than that if she invites you home with her. Did
she?"
   Nino shook his head. "I got too interested in the movie," he said. But this time Johnny
didn't laugh.  
   "Get serious, kid," he said. "A dame like that can do you a lot of good. And you used
to boff anything. Man, sometimes I still get nightmares when I remember those ugly
broads you used to bang (трахал; to bang – стукнуть, хлопнуть)."
   Nino waved his glass drunkenly and said very loud, "Yeah, they were ugly but they
were women." Deanna Dunn, in the corner, turned her head to look at them. Nino
waved his glass at her in greeting.
   Johnny Fontane sighed. "OK, you're just a guinea peasant."
   "And I ain't gonna change," Nino said with his charmingly drunken smile.
   Johnny understood him perfectly. He knew Nino was not as drunk as he pretended.
He knew that Nino was only pretending so that he could say things which he felt were
too rude to say to his new Hollywood padrone when sober. He put his arm around
Nino's neck and said affectionately, "You wise guy bum (задница; лодырь), you know
you got an ironclad (покрытый броней; жесткий, твердый) contract for a year and you
can say and do anything you want and I can't fire you."
   "You can't fire me?" Nino said with drunken cunning. 
   "No," Johnny said.
   "Then fuck you," Nino said.
   For a moment Johnny was surprised into anger. He saw the careless grin on Nino's
face. But in the past few years he must have gotten smarter, or his own descent from

stardom had made him more sensitive. In that moment he understood Nino, why his
boyhood singing partner had never become successful, why he was trying to destroy

30

any chance of success now. That Nino was reacting away from all the prices of success, 
that in some way he felt insulted by everything that was being done for him.
   Johnny took Nino by the arm and led him out of the house. Nino could barely walk
now. Johnny was talking to him soothingly. "OK, kid, you just sing for me, I wanta make
dough on you. I won't try to run your life. You do whatever you wanta do. OK, paisan?
All you gotta do is sing for me and earn me money now that I can't sing anymore. You
got that, old buddy?"
   Nino straightened up. "I'll sing for you, Johnny," he said, his voice slurring (to slur –
произносить невнятно; slur – /расплывшееся/ пятно) so that he could barely be
understood. "I'm a better singer than you now. I was always a better singer than you,
You know that?"
Johnny stood there thinking; so that was it. He knew that when his voice was healthy
Nino simply wasn't in the same league with him, never had been in those years they
had sung together as kids. He saw Nino was waiting for an answer, weaving drunkenly
in the California moonlight. "Fuck you," he said gently, and they both laughed together
like the old days when they had both been equally young.

   When Johnny Fontane got word about the shooting of Don Corleone he not only
worried about his Godfather, but also wondered whether the financing for his movie was
still alive. He had wanted to go to New York to pay his respects to his Godfather in the
hospital but he had been told not to get any bad publicity, that was the last thing Don
Corleone would want. So he waited. A week later a messenger came from Tom Hagen.
The financing was still on but for only one picture at a time.  
Meanwhile Johnny let Nino go his own way in Hollywood and California, and Nino was
doing all right with the young starlets. Sometimes Johnny called him up for a night out
together but never leaned on him (to lean on – опираться, полагаться; to lean –
наклоняться; прислоняться). When they talked about the Don getting shot, Nino said
to Johnny, "You know, once I asked the Don for a job in his organization and he
wouldn't give it to me. I was tired of driving a truck and I wanted to make a lot of dough.
You know what he told me? He says every man has only one destiny and that my
destiny was to be an artist. Meaning that I couldn't be a racket guy."
   Johnny thought that one over. The Godfather must be just about the smartest guy in
the world. He'd known immediately that Nino could never make a racket guy, would only

get himself in trouble or get killed. Get killed with just one of his wisecracks (удачная

31

острота, саркастическое замечание). But how did the Don know that he would be an
artist? Because, goddamn it, he figured that someday I'd help Nino. And how did he
figure that? Because he would drop the word to me and I would try to show my gratitude. 
Of course he never asked me to do it. He just let me know it would make him happy if I
did it. Johnny Fontane sighed. Now the Godfather was hurt, in trouble, and he could
kiss the Academy Award good-bye with Woltz working against him and no help on his
side. Only the Don had the personal contacts that could apply pressure and the
Corleone Family had other things to think about. Johnny had offered to help, Hagen had
given him a curt no.
   Johnny was busy getting his own picture going. The author of the book he had starred
in had finished his new novel and came west on Johnny's invitation, to talk it over
without agents or studios getting into the act. The second book was perfect for what
Johnny wanted. He wouldn't have to sing, it had a good gutsy (отважный; сочный,
полнокровный, сильный) story with plenty of dames and sex and it had a part that
Johnny instantly recognized as tailor-made for Nino. The character talked like Nino,
acted like him, even looked like him. It was uncanny. All Nino would have to do would
be to get up on the screen and be himself.
Johnny worked fast. He found that he knew a lot more about production than he thought
he did, but he hired an executive producer, a man who knew his stuff but had trouble
finding work because of the blacklist. Johnny didn't take advantage but gave the man a
fair contract. "I expect you to save me more dough this way," he told the man frankly.
   So he was surprised when the executive producer came to him and told him the union
rep (= representative – представитель) had to be taken care of to the tune (за сумму;
tune – мелодия) of fifty thousand dollars. There were a lot of problems dealing with
overtime and hiring and the fifty thousand dollars would be well spent. Johnny debated
whether the executive producer was hustling him and then said, "Send the union guy to
me."
   The union guy was Billy Goff. Johnny said to him, "I thought the union stuff was fixed
by my friends. I was told not to worry about it. At all."
   Goff said, "Who told you that?"
   Johnny said, "You know goddamn well who told me. I won't say his name but if he
tells me something that's it."
   Goff said, "Things have changed. Your friend is in trouble and his word don't go this
far west anymore."

   Johnny shrugged. "See me in a couple of days. OK?"

32

   Goff smiled. "Sure, Johnny," he said. "But calling in New York ain't going to help you."
   But calling New York did help. Johnny spoke to Hagen at his office. Hagen told him
bluntly not to pay. "Your Godfather will be sore as hell if you pay that bastard a dime 
(монета в 10 центов)," he told Johnny. "It will make the Don lose respect and right now
he can't afford that."
   "Can I talk to the Don?" Johnny asked. "Will you talk to him? I gotta get the picture
rolling."
   "Nobody can talk to the Don right now," Hagen said. "He's too sick. I'll talk to Sonny
about fixing things up. But I'll make the decision on this. Don't pay that smart bastard a
dime. If anything changes, I'll let you know."
   Annoyed, Johnny hung up. Union trouble could add a fortune to making the film and
screw up the works generally. For a moment he debated slipping Goff the fifty grand on
the quiet. After all, the Don telling him something and Hagen telling him something and
giving him orders were two different things. But he decided to wait for a few days.
   By waiting he saved fifty thousand dollars. Two nights later, Goff was found shot to
death in his home in Glendale. There was no more talk of union trouble. Johnny was a
little shaken by the killing. It was the first time the long arm of the Don had struck such a
lethal blow so close to him.  
   As the weeks went by and he became busier and busier with getting the script 
(сценарий) ready, casting the movie and working out production details, Johnny
Fontane forgot about his voice, his not being able to sing. Yet when the Academy
Award nominations came out and he found himself one of the candidates, he was
depressed because he was not asked to sing one of the songs nominated for the Oscar
at the ceremony that would be televised nationally. But he shrugged it off and kept
working. He had no hope of winning the Academy Award now that his Godfather was no
longer able to put pressure on, but getting the nomination had some value.  
   The record he and Nino had cut, the one of Italian songs, was selling much better
than anything he had cut lately, but he knew that it was Nino's success more than his.
He resigned himself to never being able to again sing professionally.
   Once a week he had dinner with Ginny and the kids. No matter how hectic 
(лихорадочный, возбужденный: «чахоточный»; здесь: суетливый, оживленный)
things got he never skipped that duty. But he didn't sleep with Ginny. Meanwhile his
second wife had finagled a Mexican divorce and so he was a bachelor (холостяк
['bжt∫∂l∂]) again. Oddly enough he was not that frantic to bang starlets who would have

33
been easy meat. He was too snobbish really. He was hurt that none of the young stars,
the actresses who were still on top, ever gave him a tumble (не проявляли к нему
интереса; to tumble – валиться вниз; понять что-либо /сленг/). But it was good to
work hard. Most nights he would go home alone, put his old records on the player, have
a drink and hum along with them for a few bars (несколько тактов). He had been good,
damn good. He hadn't realized how good he was. Even aside from the special voice,
which could have happened to anybody, he was good. He had been a real artist and
never knew it, and never knew how much he loved it. He'd ruined his voice with booze
and tobacco and broads just when he really knew what it was all about.
Sometimes Nino came over for a drink and listened with him and Johnny would say to
him scornfully, "You guinea bastard, you never sang like that in your life." And Nino
would give him that curiously charming smile and shake his head and say, "No, and I
never will," in a sympathetic voice, as if he knew what Johnny was thinking.
   Finally, a week before shooting the new picture, the Academy Award night rolled
around. Johnny invited Nino to come along but Nino refused. Johnny said, "Buddy, I
never asked you a favor, right? Do me a favor tonight and come with me. You're the
only guy who'll really feel sorry for me if I don't win."
   For one moment Nino looked startled. Then he said, "Sure, old buddy, I can make it."
He paused for a moment and said, "If you don't win, forget it. Just get as drunk as you
can get and I'll take care of you. Hell, I won't even drink myself tonight. How about that
for being a buddy (ну как, разве я не настоящий друг)?" 
   "Man," Johnny Fontane said, "that's some buddy."
   The Academy Award night came and Nino kept his promise. He came to Johnny's
house dead sober and they left for the presentation theater together. Nino wondered
why Johnny hadn't invited any of his girls or his ex-wives to the Award dinner.
Especially Ginny. Didn't he think Ginny would root for (поддерживать, ободрять) him?
Nino wished he could have just one drink, it looked like a long bad night.
   Nino Valenti found the whole Academy Award affair a bore until the winner of the best
male actor was announced. When he heard the words "Johnny Fontane," he found
himself jumping into the air and applauding. Johnny reached out a hand for him to
shake and Nino shook it. He knew his buddy needed human contact with someone he
trusted and Nino felt an enormous sadness that Johnny didn't have anyone better than
himself to touch in his moment of glory.
   What followed was an absolute nightmare. Jack Woltz's picture had swept all the
major awards and so the studio's party was swamped (to swamp [swomp] – заливать,

затоплять; swamp – болото, топь) with newspaper people and all the on-the-make 
(старающийся улучшить свое положение /обычно за счет других/; ищущий

34

любовного приключения) hustlers, male and female. Nino kept his promise to remain
sober, and he tried to watch over Johnny. But the women of the party kept pulling
Johnny Fontane into bedrooms for a little chat and Johnny kept getting drunker and
drunker.
   Meanwhile the woman who had won the award for the best actress was suffering the
same fate but loving it more and handling it better. Nino turned her down (отверг), the
only man at the party to do so.
   Finally somebody had a great idea. The public mating (совокупление; to mate –
сочетаться /браком/; спариваться /о птицах/) of the two winners, everybody else at
the party to be spectators in the stands. The actress was stripped down and the other
women started to undress Johnny Fontane. It was then that Nino, the only sober person
there, grabbed the half-clothed Johnny and slung (to sling – швырять; вешать через
плечо) him over his shoulder and fought his way out of the house and to their car. As
he drove Johnny home, Nino thought that if that was success, he didn't want it.

Book 3

Chapter 14

   The Don was a real man at the age of twelve. Short, dark, slender, living in the
strange Moorish-looking (выглядящий по-мавритански, напоминающий что-то
мавританское) village of Corleone in Sicily, he had been born Vito Andolini, but when
strange men came to kill the son of the man they had murdered, his mother sent the
young boy to America to stay with friends. And in the new land he changed his name to
Corleone to preserve some tie with his native village. It was one of the few gestures of
sentiment he was ever to make.
   In Sicily at the turn of the century the Mafia was the second government, far more
powerful than the official one in Rome. Vito Corleone's father became involved in a feud 
(наследственная вражда, междоусобица; кровная месть [fju:d]) with another villager
who took his case to the Mafia. The father refused to knuckle under (покориться) and in
a public quarrel killed the local Mafia chief. A week later he himself was found dead, his
body torn apart by lupara blasts. A month after the funeral Mafia gunmen came inquiring
after the young boy, Vito. They had decided that he was too close to manhood, that he

might try to avenge the death of his father in the years to come. The twelve-year-old
Vito was hidden by relatives and shipped to America. There he was boarded with the
Abbandandos, whose son Genco was later to become Consigliori to his Don.
   Young Vito went to work in the Abbandando grocery store on Ninth Avenue in New
York's Hell's Kitchen. At the age of eighteen Vito married an Italian girl freshly arrived
from Sicily, a girl of only sixteen but a skilled cook, a good housewife. They settled
down in a tenement (многоквартирный дом, сдаваемый в аренду ['tenım∂nt]) on
Tenth Avenue, near 35th Street, only a few blocks from where Vito worked, and two
years later were blessed with their first child, Santino, called by all his friends Sonny
because of his devotion to his father.
   In the neighborhood lived a man called Fanucci. He was a heavy-set, fierce-looking
Italian who wore expensive light-colored suits and a cream-colored fedora. This man
was reputed to be of the "Black Hand," an offshoot (ответвление, боковая ветвь) of
the Mafia which extorted money from families and storekeepers by threat of physical
violence. However, since most of the inhabitants of the neighborhood were violent
themselves, Fanucci's threats of bodily harm were effective only with elderly couples

35

without male children to defend them. Some of the storekeepers paid him trifling sums
as a matter of convenience. However, Fanucci was also a scavenger (уборщик мусора;
животное или птица, питающееся падалью ['skжvındG∂]) on fellow criminals, people
who illegally sold Italian lottery or ran gambling games in their homes. The Abbandando
grocery gave him a small tribute, this despite the protests of young Genco, who told his
father he would settle the Fanucci hash (заставит его замолчать, разделается с ним;
hash – блюдо из мелко нарезанного мяса и овощей; мешанина, путаница). His
father forbade him. Vito Corleone observed all this without feeling in any way involved.
   One day Fanucci was set upon by three young men who cut his throat from ear to ear,
not deeply enough to kill him, but enough to frighten him and make him bleed a great
deal. Vito saw Fanucci fleeing from his punishers, the circular slash flowing red. What
he never forgot was Fanucci holding the cream-colored fedora under his chin to catch
the dripping blood as he ran. As if he did not want his suit soiled or did not want to leave
a shameful trail of carmine.
But this attack proved a blessing in disguise for Fanucci. The three young men were not
murderers, merely tough young boys determined to teach him a lesson and stop him
from scavenging. Fanucci proved himself a murderer. A few weeks later the knife-
wielder was shot to death and the families of the other two young men paid an 
indemnity (возмещение, компенсация) to Fanucci to make him forswear his

vengeance (отказаться от мести). After that the tributes became higher and Fanucci
became a partner in the neighborhood gambling games. As for Vito Corleone, it was
none of his affair. He forgot about it immediately.

36

   During World War I, when imported olive oil became scarce, Fanucci acquired a part-
interest in the Abbandando grocery store by supplying it not only with oil, but imported
Italian salami, hams and cheeses. He then moved a nephew into the store and Vito
Corleone found himself out of a job.
   By this time, the second child, Frederico, had arrived and Vito Corleone had four
mouths to feed. Up to this time he had been a quiet, very contained young man who
kept his thoughts to himself. The son of the grocery store owner, young Genco
Abbandando, was his closest friend, and to the surprise of both of them, Vito
reproached his friend for his father's deed. Genco, flushed with shame, vowed to Vito
that he would not have to worry about food. That he, Genco, would steal food from the
grocery to supply his friend's needs. This offer though was sternly refused by Vito as too
shameful, a son stealing from his father.
   The young Vito, however, felt a cold anger for the dreaded Fanucci. He never showed
this anger in any way but bided his time (выжидал благоприятного случая). He
worked in the railroad for a few months and then, when the war ended, work became
slow and he could earn only a few days' pay a month. Also, most of the foremen were
Irish and American and abused the workmen in the foulest language, which Vito always 
bore stone-faced as if he did not comprehend, though he understood English very well
despite his accent.
   One evening as Vito was having supper with his family there was a knock on the
window that led to the open air shaft (шахта; проход) that separated them from the next
building. When Vito pulled aside the curtain he saw to his astonishment one of the
young men in the neighborhood, Peter Clemenza, leaning out from a window on the
other side of the air shaft. He was extending a white-sheeted bundle.  
   "Hey, paisan," Clemenza said. "Hold these for me until I ask for them. Hurry up."
Automatically Vito reached over the empty space of the air shaft and took the bundle.
Clemenza's face was strained and urgent. He was in some sort of trouble and Vito's
helping action was instinctive. But when he untied the bundle in his kitchen, there were
five oily guns staining the white cloth. He put them in his bedroom closet and waited. He
learned that Clemenza had been taken away by the police. They must have been
knocking on his door when he handed the guns over the air shaft.

    	   

   Vito never said a word to anyone and of course his terrified wife dared not open her
lips even in gossip for fear her own husband would be sent to prison. Two days later
Peter Clemenza reappeared in the neighborhood and asked Vito casually, "Do you
have my goods still?" 
Vito nodded. He was in the habit of talking little.

37

   Clemenza came up to his tenement flat and was given a glass of wine while Vito dug
the bundle out of his bedroom closet.
   Clemenza drank his wine, his heavy good-natured face alertly watching Vito. "Did you
look inside?"
   Vito, his face impassive, shook his head. "I'm not interested in things that don't
concern me," he said.
   They drank wine together the rest of the evening. They found each other congenial.
Clemenza was a storyteller; Vito Corleone was a listener to storytellers. They became
casual friends.
   A few days later Clemenza asked the wife of Vito Corleone if she would like a fine rug
for her living room floor. He took Vito with him to help carry the rug. Clemenza led Vito
to an apartment house with two marble pillars and a white marble stoop (крыльцо со
ступенями; открытая веранда). He used a key to open the door and they were inside
a plush apartment. Clemenza grunted, "Go on the other side of the room and help me
roll it up."
   The rug was a rich red wool. Vito Corleone was astonished by Clemenza's generosity.
Together they rolled the rug into a pile and Clemenza took one end while Vito took the
other. They lifted it and started carrying it toward the door.
   At that moment the apartment bell rang. Clemenza immediately dropped the rug and
strode to the window. He pulled the drape aside slightly and what he saw made him
draw a gun from inside his jacket. It was only at that moment the astonished Vito
Corleone realized that they were stealing the rug from some stranger's apartment.
   The apartment bell rang again. Vito went up alongside Clemenza so that he too could
see what was happening. At the door was a uniformed policeman. As they watched, the
policeman gave the doorbell a final push, then shrugged and walked away down the
marble steps and down the street.
   Clemenza grunted in a satisfied way and said, "Come on, let's go." He picked up his
end of the rug and Vito picked up the other end. The policeman had barely turned the
comer before they were edging out the heavy oaken door and into the street with the
rug between them. Thirty minutes later they were cutting the rug to fit the living room of

38
Vito Corleone's apartment. They had enough left over for the bedroom. Clemenza was
an expert workman and from the pockets of his wide, ill-fitting jacket (even then he liked
to wear loose clothes though he was not so fat), he had the necessary carpet-cutting
tools.
   Time went on, things did not improve. The Corleone family could not eat the beautiful
rug. Very well, there was no work, his wife and children must starve. Vito took some
parcels of food from his friend Genco while he thought things out. Finally he was
approached by Clemenza and Tessio, another young tough of the neighborhood. They
were men who thought well of him, the way he carried himself, and they knew he was
desperate. They proposed to him that he become one of their gang which specialized in
hijacking (to hijack – грабить) trucks of silk dresses after those trucks were loaded up at
the factory on 31st Street. There was no risk. The truck drivers were sensible
workingmen who at the sight of a gun flopped (быстренько спрыгнули; to flop –
шлепнуться, плюхнуться) on the sidewalk like angels while the hijackers drove the
truck away to be unloaded at a friend's warehouse. Some of the merchandise would be
sold to an Italian wholesaler (оптовый торговец), part of the loot (добыча,
награбленное) would be sold door-to-door in the Italian neighborhoods – Arthur
Avenue in the Bronx, Mulberry Street, and the Chelsea district in Manhattan – all to poor
Italian families looking for a bargain, whose daughters could never be able to afford
such fine apparel (наряд, одеяние [∂‘pжr∂l]). Clemenza and Tessio needed Vito to
drive since they knew he chauffeured the Abbandando grocery store delivery truck. In
1919, skilled automobile drivers were at a premium (в большом почете, в большом
спросе).
   Against his better judgment, Vito Corleone accepted their offer. The clinching 
(решающий; clinch – зажим, скоба; заклепка; to clinch – прибивать гвоздем, загибая
его шляпку, заклепывать; окончательно решать, договариваться) argument was
that he would clear (получить чистую прибыль) at least a thousand dollars for his
share of the job. But his young companions struck him as rash, the planning of the job
haphazard (наудачу; случайно), the distribution of the loot foolhardy (рискованный,
безрассудный). Their whole approach was too careless for his taste. But he thought
them of good, sound character. Peter Clemenza, already burly, inspired a certain trust,
and the lean saturnine (мрачный, угрюмый ['sжt∂:naın]) Tessio inspired confidence.
   The job itself went off without a hitch (зацепка, заминка). Vito Corleone felt no fear,
much to his astonishment, when his two comrades flashed guns and made the driver
get out of the silk truck. He was also impressed with the coolness of Clemenza and

Tessio. They didn't get excited but joked with the driver, told him if he was a good lad

39

they'd send his wife a few dresses. Because Vito thought it stupid to peddle (торговать
вразнос) dresses himself and so gave his whole share of stock to the fence (забор,
ограда; укрыватель или скупщик краденого /сленг/), he made only seven hundred
dollars. But this was a considerable sum of money in 1919.
   The next day on the street, Vito Corleone was stopped by the cream-suited, white-
fedoraed Fanucci. Fanucci was a brutal-looking man and he had done nothing to
disguise the circular scar that stretched in a white semicircle from ear to ear, looping 
(loop – петля; to loop – делать петлю) under his chin. He had heavy black brows and
coarse features which, when he smiled, were in some odd way amiable.
   He spoke with a very thick Sicilian accent. "Ah, young fellow," he said to Vito. "People
tell me you're rich. You and your two friends. But don't you think you've treated me a
little shabbily (shabby – протертый, потрепанный; низкий, подлый)? After all, this is
my neighborhood and you should let me wet my beak (клюв)." He used the Sicilian
phrase of the Mafia, "Fari vagnari a pizzu." Pizzu means the beak of any small bird such 
as a canary. The phrase itself was a demand for part of the loot.
   As was his habit, Vito Corleone did not answer. He understood the implication (намек,
подтекст; to implicate – вовлекать, впутывать; заключать в себе, подразумевать)
immediately and was waiting for a definite demand.
   Fanucci smiled at him, showing gold teeth and stretching his noose-like scar tight
around his face. He mopped his face with a handkerchief and unbuttoned his jacket for
a moment as if to cool himself but really to show the gun he carried stuck in the
waistband of his comfortably wide trousers. Then he sighed and said, "Give me five
hundred dollars and I'll forget the insult. After all, young people don't know the
courtesies due a man like myself."
   Vito Corleone smiled at him and even as a young man still unblooded (еще не
запятнанный кровью), there was something so chilling in his smile that Fanucci
hesitated a moment before going on. "Otherwise the police will come to see you, your
wife and children will be shamed and destitute (останется без средств; destitute –
лишенный средств /к существованию/). Of course if my information as to your gains is 
incorrect I'll dip (погружать /в жидкость/, окунать) my beak just a little. But no less than
three hundred dollars. And don't try to deceive me."
   For the first time Vito Corleone spoke. His voice was reasonable, showed no anger. It
was courteous, as befitted a young man speaking to an older man of Fanucci's 

    	   

eminence (высота; высокое положение). He said softly, "My two friends have my
share of the money, I'll have to speak to them."

40

   Fanucci was reassured. "You can tell your two friends that I expect them to let me wet
my beak in the same manner. Don't be afraid to tell them," he added reassuringly.
"Clemenza and I know each other well, he understands these things. Let yourself be
guided by him. He has more experience in these matters."
   Vito Corleone shrugged. He tried to look a little embarrassed. "Of course," he said.
"You understand this is all new to me. Thank you for speaking to me as a godfather."
   Fanucci was impressed. "You're a good fellow," he said. He took Vito's hand and
clasped it in both of his hairy ones. "You have respect," he said. "A fine thing in the
young. Next time speak to me first, eh? Perhaps I can help you in your plans."
   In later years Vito Corleone understood that what had made him act in such a perfect,
tactical way with Fanucci was the death of his own hot-tempered father who had been
killed by the Mafia in Sicily. But at that time all he felt was an icy rage that this man
planned to rob him of the money he had risked his life and freedom to earn. He had not
been afraid. Indeed he thought, at that moment, that Fanucci was a crazy fool. From
what he had seen of Clemenza, that burly Sicilian would sooner give up his life than a
penny of his loot. After all, Clemenza had been ready to kill a policeman merely to steal
a rug. And the slender Tessio had the deadly air of a viper (гадюка ['vaıp∂]).
   But later that night, in Clemenza's tenement apartment across the air shaft, Vito
Corleone received another lesson in the education he had just begun. Clemenza cursed,
Tessio scowled (to scowl [skaul] – хмуриться, смотреть сердито), but then both men
started talking about whether Fanucci would be satisfied with two hundred dollars.
Tessio thought he might.
   Clemenza was positive. "No, that scarface bastard must have found out what we
made from the wholesaler who bought the dresses. Fanucci won't take a dime less than
three hundred dollars. We'll have to pay."
   Vito was astonished but was careful not to show his astonishment. "Why do we have
to pay him? What can he do to the three of us? We're stronger than him. We have guns.
Why do we have to hand over the money we earned?"
   Clemenza explained patiently. "Fanucci has friends, real brutes. He has connections
with the police. He'd like us to tell him our plans because he could set us up for the cops
and earn their gratitude. Then they would owe him a favor. That’s how he operates. And
he has a license from Maranzalla himself to work this neighborhood." Maranzalla was a

    	   

gangster often in the newspapers, reputed to be the leader of a criminal ring
specializing in extortion, gambling and armed robbery.
   Clemenza served wine that he had made himself. His wife, after putting a plate of

41

salami, olives and a loaf of Italian bread on the table, went down to sit with her women
cronies in front of the building, carrying her chair with her. She was a young Italian girl
only a few years in the country and did not yet understand English.
   Vito Corleone sat with his two friends and drank wine. He had never used his
intelligence before as he was using it now. He was surprised at how clearly he could
think. He recalled everything he knew about Fanucci. He remembered the day the man
had had his throat cut and had run down the street holding his fedora under his chin to
catch the dripping blood. He remembered the murder of the man who had wielded the
knife and the other two having their sentences removed by paying an indemnity. And
suddenly he was sure that Fanucci had no great connections, could not possibly have.
Not a man who informed to the police. Not a man who allowed his vengeance to be
bought off. A real Mafioso chief would have had the other two men killed also. No.
Fanucci had got lucky and killed one man but had known he could not kill the other two
after they were alerted. And so he had allowed himself to be paid. It was the personal
brutal force of the man that allowed him to levy tribute (взимать налог: levy [‘levı]) on
the shopkeepers, the gambling games that ran in the tenement apartments. But Vito
Corleone knew of at least one gambling game that had never paid Fanucci tributes and 
nothing had ever happened to the man running it.
   And so it was Fanucci alone. Or Fanucci with some gunmen hired for special jobs on
a strictly cash basis. Which left Vito Corleone with another decision. The course his own
life must take.
   It was from this experience came his oft-repeated belief that every man has but one
destiny. On that night he could have paid Fanucci the tribute and have become again a 
grocery clerk with perhaps his own grocery store in the years to come. But destiny had 
decided that he was to become a Don and had brought Fanucci to him to set him on his
destined path.
   When they finished the bottle of wine, Vito said cautiously to Clemenza and Tessio, "If
you like, why not give me two hundred dollars each to pay to Fanucci? I guarantee he
will accept that amount from me. Then leave everything in my hands. I'll settle this
problem to your satisfaction."
   At once Clemenza's eyes gleamed with suspicion. Vito said to him coldly, "I never lie
to people I have accepted as my friends. Speak to Fanucci yourself tomorrow. Let him

ask you for the money. But don't pay him. And don't in any way quarrel with him. Tell
him you have to get the money and will give it to me to give him. Let him understand
that you are willing to pay what he asks. Don't bargain. I'll quarrel over the price with

42

him. There's no point making him angry with us if he's as dangerous a man as you say
he is."
   They left it at that. The next day Clemenza spoke with Fanucci to make sure that Vito
was not making up the story. Then Clemenza came to Vito's apartment and gave him
the two hundred dollars. He peered (to peer – вглядываться, всматриваться) at Vito
Corleone and said, "Fanucci told me nothing below three hundred dollars, how will you
make him take less?"
   Vito Corleone said reasonably, "Surely that's no concern of yours (не твоя забота).
Just remember that I've done you a service."
   Tessio came later. Tessio was more reserved than Clemenza, sharper, more clever
but with less force. He sensed something amiss, something not quite right. He was a
little worried. He said to Vito Corleone, "Watch yourself with that bastard of a Black
Hand, he's tricky as a priest. Do you want me to be here when you hand him the money, 
as a witness?"
   Vito Corleone shook his head. He didn't even bother to answer. He merely said to
Tessio, "Tell Fanucci I'll pay him the money here in my house at nine o'clock tonight. I'll
have to give him a glass of wine and talk, reason with him to take the lesser sum. "
   Tessio shook his head. "You won't have much luck. Fanucci never retreats."
   "I'll reason with him," Vito Corleone said. It was to become a famous phrase in the
years to come. It was to become the warning rattle (предупреждающий треск) before a
deadly strike. When he became a Don and asked opponents to sit down and reason
with him, they understood it was the last chance to resolve an affair without bloodshed
and murder.
   Vito Corleone told his wife to take the two children, Sonny and Fredo, down into the
street after supper and on no account to let them come up to the house until he gave
her permission. She was to sit on guard at the tenement door. He had some private
business with Fanucci that could not be interrupted. He saw the look of fear on her face
and was angry. He said to her quietly, "Do you think you've married a fool?" She didn't
answer. She did not answer because she was frightened, not of Fanucci now, but of her
husband. He was changing visibly before her eyes, hour by hour, into a man who
radiated some dangerous force. He had always been quiet, speaking little, but always
gentle, always reasonable, which was extraordinary in a young Sicilian male. What she

43
was seeing was the shedding (to shed – ронять, терять, сбрасывать /одежду, кожу/)
of his protective coloration of a harmless nobody now that he was ready to start on his
destiny (судьба). He had started late, he was twenty-five years old, but he was to start
with a flourish.  
   Vito Corleone had decided to murder Fanucci. By doing so he would have an extra
seven hundred dollars in his bankroll (roll – свиток, сверток; /сленг/ пачка денег). The
three hundred dollars he himself would have to pay the Black Hand terrorist and the two
hundred dollars from Tessio and the two hundred dollars from Clemenza. If he did not
kill Fanucci, he would have to pay the man seven hundred dollars cold cash. Fanucci
alive was not worth seven hundred dollars to him. He would not pay seven hundred
dollars to keep Fanucci alive. If Fanucci needed seven hundred dollars for an operation
to save his life, he would not give Fanucci seven hundred dollars for the surgeon. He
owed Fanucci no personal debt of gratitude, they were not blood relatives, he did not
love Fanucci. Whyfore, then, should he give Fanucci seven hundred dollars?
   And it followed inevitably, that since Fanucci wished to take seven hundred dollars
from him by force, why should he not kill Fanucci? Surely the world could do without
such a person.  
   There were of course some practical reasons. Fanucci might indeed have powerful
friends who would seek vengeance. Fanucci himself was a dangerous man, not so
easily killed. There were the police and the electric chair. But Vito Corleone had lived
under a sentence of death since the murder of his father. As a boy of twelve he had fled
his executioners and crossed the ocean into a strange land, taking a strange name. And
years of quiet observation had convinced him that he had more intelligence and more
courage than other men, though he had never had the opportunity to use that
intelligence and courage.
   And yet he hesitated before taking the first step toward his destiny. He even packed
the seven hundred dollars in a single fold of bills and put the money in a convenient side 
pocket of his trousers. But he put the money in the left side of his trousers. In the right-
hand pocket he put the gun Clemenza had given him to use in the hijacking of the silk
truck.
   Fanucci came promptly at nine in the evening. Vito Corleone set out a jug of
homemade wine that Clemenza had given him.
   Fanucci put his white fedora on the table beside the jug of wine. He unloosened his
broad multiflowered tie, its tomato stains camouflaged by the bright patterns. The
summer night was hot, the gaslight feeble (слабый, хилый). It was very quiet in the

44
apartment. But Vito Corleone was icy. To show his good faith he handed over the roll of
bills and watched carefully as Fanucci, after counting it, took out a wide leather wallet
and stuffed the money inside. Fanucci sipped his glass of wine and said, "You still owe
me two hundred dollars." His heavy-browed face was expressionless.
   Vito Corleone said in his cool reasonable voice, "I'm a little short, I've been out of work. 
Let me owe you the money for a few weeks."
   This was a permissible (позволительный) gambit. Fanucci had the bulk (объем;
большие размеры; основная масса) of the money and would wait. He might even be
persuaded to take nothing more or to wait a little longer. He chuckled over his wine and
said, "Ah, you're a sharp young fellow. How is it I've never noticed you before? You're
too quiet a chap for your own interest. I could find some work for you to do that would
be very profitable."
   Vito Corleone showed his interest with a polite nod and filled up the man's glass from
the purple jug. But Fanucci thought better of what he was going to say and rose from his
chair and shook Vito's hand. "Good night, young fellow," he said. "No hard feelings (без
обиды), eh? If I can ever do you a service let me know. You've done a good job for
yourself tonight."
   Vito let Fanucci go down the stairs and out the building. The street was thronged with
witnesses to show that he had left the Corleone home safely. Vito watched from the
window. He saw Fanucci turn the comer toward 11th Avenue and knew he was headed
toward his apartment, probably to put away his loot before coming out on the streets
again. Perhaps to put away his gun. Vito Corleone left his apartment and ran up the
stairs to the roof. He traveled over the square block of roofs and descended down the
steps of an empty loft (чердак; верхний этаж /торгового помещения, склада/)
building fire escape that left him in the back yard. He kicked the back door open and
went through the front door. Across the street was Fanucci's tenement apartment house. 
   The village of tenements extended only as far west as Tenth Avenue. Eleventh
Avenue was mostly warehouses and lofts rented by firms who shipped by New York
Central Railroad and wanted access to the freight (фрахт, груз) yards (that
honeycombed (honeycomb – медовые соты; to honeycomb – изрешетить,
продырявить) the area from Eleventh Avenue to the Hudson River. Fanucci's
apartment house was one of the few left standing in this wilderness and was occupied
mostly by bachelor trainmen, yard workers, and the cheapest prostitutes. These people
did not sit in the street and gossip like honest Italians, they sat in beer taverns guzzling 
(to guzzle – жадно глотать; пропивать) their pay. So Vito Corleone found it an easy

45
matter to slip across the deserted Eleventh Avenue and into the vestibule of Fanucci's
apartment house. There he drew the gun he had never fired and waited for Fanucci.
   He watched through the glass door of the vestibule, knowing Fanucci would come
down from Tenth Avenue. Clemenza had showed him the safety on the gun and he had
triggered it empty. But as a young boy in Sicily at the early age of nine, he had often
gone hunting with his father, had often fired the heavy shotgun called the lupara. It was
his skill with the lupara even as a small boy that had brought the sentence of death
upon him by his father's murderers.  
   Now waiting in the darkened hallway, he saw the white blob (капля; маленький
шарик /земли, глины/) of Fanucci crossing the street toward the doorway. Vito stepped
back, shoulders pressed against the inner door that led to the stairs. He held his gun out
to fire. His extended hand was only two paces from the outside door. The door swung in.
Fanucci, white, broad, smelly, filled the square of light. Vito Corleone fired.
   The opened door let some of the sound escape into the street, the rest of the gun's
explosion shook the building. Fanucci was holding on to the sides of the door, trying to
stand erect, trying to reach for his gun. The force of his struggle had torn the buttons off
his jacket and made it swing loose. His gun was exposed but so was a spidery vein 
(вена; жилка [veın]) of red on the white shirtfront of his stomach. Very carefully, as if he
were plunging a needle into a vein, Vito Corleone fired his second bullet into that red
web.
   Fanucci fell to his knees, propping the door open. He let out a terrible groan. the
groan of a man in great physical distress that was almost comical. He kept giving these
groans; Vito remembered hearing at least three of them before he put the gun against
Fanucci's sweaty, suety (сальный; suet [sjuıt] – почечное или нутряное сало) cheek
and fired into his brain. No more than five seconds had passed when Fanucci slumped 
(to slump – резко падать, тяжело опускаться) into death, jamming (to jam – зажимать;
впихивать) the door open with his body.
   Very carefully Vito took the wide wallet out of the dead man's jacket pocket and put it
inside his shirt. Then he walked across the street into the loft building, through that into
the yard and climbed the fire escape to the roof. From there he surveyed the street.
Fanucci's body was still lying in the doorway but there was no sign of any other person.
Two windows had gone up in the tenement and he could see dark heads poked out but
since he could not see their features they had certainly not seen his. And such men
would not give information to the police. Fanucci might lie there until dawn or until a
patrolman making the rounds stumbled on his body. No person in that house would

deliberately (сознательно, осознанно; нарочно = по собственной воле) expose

46

himself to police suspicion or questioning. They would lock their doors and pretend they
had heard nothing.
   He could take his time. He traveled over the rooftops to his own roof door and down to
his own flat. He unlocked the door, went inside and then locked the door behind him. He
rifled (to rifle – обыскивать в целях грабежа) the dead man's wallet. Besides the seven
hundred dollars he had given Fanucci there were only some singles and a five-dollar
note.
   Tucked (to tuck – делать складки /на платье/; подгибать; засовывать, прятать;
tuck – складка) inside the flap (клапан, заслонка, /боковое/ отделение) was an old
five-dollar gold piece, probably a luck token (знак, примета; здесь: талисман). If
Fanucci was a rich gangster, he certainly did not carry his wealth with him. This
confirmed some of Vito's suspicions.
   He knew he had to get rid of the wallet and the gun (knowing enough even then that
he must leave the gold piece in the wallet). He went up on the roof again and traveled
over a few ledges (ledge – планка, рейка). He threw the wallet down one air shaft and
then he emptied the gun of bullets and smashed its barrel against the roof ledge. The
barrel wouldn't break. He reversed it in his hand and smashed the butt against the side
of a chimney. The butt split into two halves. He smashed it again and the pistol broke
into barrel and handle, two separate pieces. He used a separate air shaft for each. They
made no sound when they struck the earth five stories below, but sank into the soft hill
of garbage that had accumulated there. In the morning more garbage would be thrown
out of the windows and, with luck, would cover everything. Vito returned to his
apartment.
   He was trembling a little but was absolutely under control. He changed his clothes and
fearful that some blood might have splattered on them, he threw them into a metal tub
his wife used for washing. He took lye (щёлок) and heavy brown laundry soap to soak
the clothes and scrubbed them with the metal wash board beneath the sink. Then he
scoured (to scour – отчищать, оттирать) tub and sink with lye and soap. He found a
bundle of newly washed clothes in the corner of the bedroom and mingled his own
clothes with these. Then he put on a fresh shirt and trousers and went down to join his
wife and children and neighbors in front of the tenement.
   All these precautions proved to be unnecessary. The police, after discovering the
dead body at dawn, never questioned Vito Corleone. Indeed he was astonished that
they never learned about Fanucci's visit to his home on the night he was shot to death.

47
He had counted on that for an alibi, Fanucci leaving the tenement alive. He only learned
later that the police had been delighted with the murder of Fanucci and not too anxious
to pursue his killers. They had assumed it was another gang execution, and had
questioned hoodlums with records in the rackets and a history of strong-arm. Since Vito
had never been in trouble he never came into the picture.
   But if he had outwitted the police, his partners were another matter. Pete Clemenza
and Tessio avoided him for the next week, for the next two weeks, then they came to
call on him one evening. They came with obvious respect. Vito Corleone greeted them
with impassive courtesy and served them wine.
   Clemenza spoke first. He said softly, "Nobody is collecting from the store owners on
Ninth Avenue. Nobody is collecting from the card games and gambling in the
neighborhood."
   Vito Corleone gazed at both men steadily but did not reply. Tessio spoke. "We could
take over Fanucci's customers. They would pay us."
   Vito Corleone shrugged. "Why come to me? I have no interest in such things."
   Clemenza laughed. Even in his youth, before growing his enormous belly, he had a fat
man's laugh. He said now to Vito Corleone, "How about that gun I gave you for the truck
job? Since you won't need it any more you can give it back to me."
   Very slowly and deliberately Vito Corleone took a wad of bills out of his side pocket
and peeled off five tens. "Here, I'll pay you. I threw the gun away after the truck job." He
smiled at the two men.
   At that time Vito Corleone did not know the effect of this smile. It was chilling because
it attempted no menace. He smiled as if it was some private joke only he himself could
appreciate. But since he smiled in that fashion only in affairs that were lethal, and since
the joke was not really private and since his eyes did not smile, and since his outward
character was usually so reasonable and quiet, the sudden unmasking of his true self
was frightening.
   Clemenza shook his head. "I don't want the money," he said. Vito pocketed the bills.
He waited. They all understood each other. They knew he had killed Fanucci and
though they never spoke about it to anyone the whole neighborhood, within a few
weeks, also knew. Vito Corleone was treated as a "man of respect" by everyone. But he
made no attempt to take over the Fanucci rackets and tributes.
   What followed then was inevitable. One night Vito's wife brought a neighbor, a widow,
to the flat. The woman was Italian and of unimpeachable (безупречный,
безукоризненный; to impeach – брать под сомнение, бросать тень; порицать)

character. She worked hard to keep a home for her fatherless children. Her sixteen-
year-old son brought home his pay envelope sealed, to hand over to her in the old-

48

country style; her seventeen-year-old daughter, a dressmaker, did the same. The whole
family sewed buttons on cards at night at slave labor piece rates. The woman's name
was Signora Colombo. 
   Vito Corleone's wife said, "The Signora has a favor to ask of you. She is having some
trouble."
   Vito Corleone expected to be asked for money, which he was ready to give. But it
seemed that Mrs. Colombo owned a dog which her youngest son adored. The landlord
had received complaints on the dog barking at night and had told Mrs. Colombo to get
rid of it. She had pretended to do so. The landlord had found out that she had deceived
him and had ordered her to vacate her apartment. She had promised this time to truly
get rid of the dog and she had done so. But the landlord was so angry that he would not
revoke (отменить, взять назад) his order. She had to get out or the police would be
summoned (to summon [‘sΛm∂n] – требовать исполнения) to put her out. And her
poor little boy had cried so when they had given the dog away to relatives who lived in
Long Island. All for nothing (ни за что ни про что), they would lose their home.
   Vito Corleone asked her gently, "Why do you ask me to help you?"
   Mrs. Colombo nodded toward his wife. "She told me to ask you."
   He was surprised. His wife had never questioned him about the clothes he had
washed the night he had murdered Fanucci. Had never asked him where all the money
came from when he was not working. Even now her face was impassive. Vito said to
Mrs Colombo, "I can give you some money to help you move, is that what you want?"
   The woman shook her head, she was in tears. "All my friends are here, all the girls I
grew up with in Italy. How can I move to another neighborhood with strangers? I want
you to speak to the landlord to let me stay."
   Vito nodded. "It's done then. You won't have to move. I'll speak to him tomorrow
morning."
   His wife gave him a smile which he did not acknowledge, but he felt pleased. Mrs.
Colombo looked a little uncertain. "You're sure he'll say yes, the landlord?" she asked.
   "Signor Roberto?" Vito said in a surprised voice. "Of course he will. He's a good-
hearted fellow. Once I explain how things are with you he'll take pity on your
misfortunes. Now don't let it trouble you any more. Don't get so upset. Guard your
health, for the sake of your children."

    	   

49
   The landlord, Mr. Roberto, came to the neighborhood every day to check on the row
of five tenements that he owned. He was a padrone, a man who sold Italian laborers
just off the boat to the big corporations. With his profits he had bought the tenements
one by one. An educated man from the North of Italy, he felt only contempt for these
illiterate (неграмотные, бескультурные) Southerners from Sicily and Naples, who
swarmed (to swarm – кишеть, роиться; swarm – рой, стая) like vermin (паразиты
['v∂:mın]) through his buildings, who threw garbage down the air shafts, who let
cockroaches (тараканы) and rats eat away his walls without lifting a hand to preserve
his property. He was not a bad man, he was a good husband and father, but constant
worry about his investments, about the money he earned, about the inevitable expenses 
that came with being a man of property had worn his nerves to a frazzle (потертые или
обтрепанные края платья) so that he was in a constant state of irritation. When Vito
Corleone stopped him on the street to ask for a word, Mr. Roberto was brusque 
(отрывистый, резкий, бесцеремонный [brusk]). Not rude, since anyone of these
Southerners might stick a knife into you if rubbed the wrong way, though this young
man looked like a quiet fellow.
   "Signor Roberto," said Vito Corleone, "the friend of my wife, a poor widow with no man
to protect her, tells me that for some reason she has been ordered to move from her
apartment in your building. She is in despair. She has no money, she has no friends
except those that live here. I told her that I would speak to you, that you are a
reasonable man who acted out of some misunderstanding. She has gotten rid of the
animal that caused all the trouble and so why shouldn't she stay? As one Italian to
another, I ask you the favor."
   Signor Roberto studied the young man in front of him. He saw a man of medium
stature but strongly built, a peasant but not a bandit, though he so laughably dared to
call himself an Italian. Roberto shrugged. "I have already rented the apartment to
another family for higher rent," he said. "I cannot disappoint them for the sake of your
friend."
   Vito Corleone nodded in agreeable understanding. "How much more a month?" he
asked.
   "Five dollars," Mr. Roberto said. This was a lie. The railway flat, four dark rooms,
rented for twelve dollars a month to the widow and he had not been able to get more
than that from the new tenant.

    	   

   Vito Corleone took a roll of bills out of his pocket and peeled off three tens. "Here is
the six months' increase in advance. You needn't speak to her about it, she's a proud

50

woman. See me again in another six months. But of course you'll let her keep her dog."
   "Like hell," Mr. Roberto said. "And who the hell are you to give me orders. Watch your
manners or you'll be out on your Sicilian ass in the street there."
   Vito Corleone raised his hands in surprise. "I'm asking you a favor, only that. One
never knows when one might need a friend, isn't that true? Here, take this money as a
sign of my goodwill and make your own decision. I wouldn't dare to quarrel with it." He
thrust the money into Mr. Roberto's hand. "Do me this little favor, just take the money
and think things over. Tomorrow morning if you want to give me the money back by all
means (любым способом, во что бы то ни стало; /здесь/ конечно же, пожалуйста,
ради Бога) do so. If you want the woman out of your house, how can I stop you? It's
your property, after all. If you don't want the dog in there, I can understand. I dislike
animals myself." He patted Mr. Roberto on the shoulder. "Do me this service, eh? I
won't forget it. Ask your friends in the neighborhood about me, they'll tell you I'm a man
who believes in showing his gratitude."
   But of course Mr. Roberto had already begun to understand. That evening he made
inquiries about Vito Corleone. He did not wait until the next morning. He knocked on the
Corleone door that very night, apologizing for the lateness of the hour and accepted a
glass of wine from Signora Corleone. He assured Vito Corleone that it had all been a
dreadful misunderstanding, that of course Signora Colombo could remain in the flat, of
course she could keep her dog. Who were those miserable tenants to complain about
noise from a poor animal when they paid such a low rent? At the finish he threw the
thirty dollars Vito Corleone had given him on the table and said in the most sincere
fashion, "Your good heart in helping this poor widow has shamed me and I wish to show
that I, too, have some Christian charity (милосердие). Her rent will remain what it was."
   All concerned played this comedy prettily. Vito poured wine, called for cakes, wrung
Mr. Roberto's hand and praised his warm heart. Mr. Roberto sighed and said that
having made the acquaintance of such a man as Vito Corleone restored his faith in
human nature. Finally they tore themselves away from each other. Mr. Roberto, his
bones turned to jelly with fear at his narrow escape, caught the streetcar to his home in
the Bronx and took to his bed. He did not reappear in his tenements for three days.

   Vito Corleone was now a "man of respect" in the neighborhood. He was reputed to be
a member of the Mafia of Sicily. One day a man who ran card games in a furnished

51
room came to him and voluntarily paid him twenty dollars each week for his "friendship."
He had only to visit the game once or twice a week to let the players understand they
were under his protection.
   Store owners who had problems with young hoodlums asked him to intercede 
(вмешаться). He did so and was properly rewarded. Soon he had the enormous
income for that time and place of one hundred dollars a week. Since Clemenza and
Tessio were his friends, his allies, he had to give them each part of the money, but this
he did without being asked. Finally he decided to go into the olive oil importing business
with his boyhood chum (приятель, закадычный друг), Genco Abbandando. Genco
would handle the business, the importing of the olive oil from Italy, the buying at the
proper price, the storing in his father's warehouse. Genco had the experience for this
part of the business. Clemenza and Tessio would be the salesmen. They would go to
every Italian grocery store in Manhattan, then Brooklyn, then the Bronx, to persuade
store owners to stock Genco Pura olive oil. (With typical modesty, Vito Corleone refused
to name the brand (головня; клеймо; /здесь/ фабричная марка) after himself.) Vito of
course would be the head of the firm since he was supplying most of the capital. He
also would be called in on special cases, where store owners resisted the sales talks of
Clemenza and Tessio. Then Vito Corleone would use his own formidable powers of
persuasion.
   For the next few years Vito Corleone lived that completely satisfying life of a small
businessman wholly devoted to building up his commercial enterprise in a dynamic,
expanding economy. He was a devoted father and husband but so busy he could spare
his family little of his time. As Genco Pura olive oil grew to become the bestselling
imported Italian oil in America, his organization mushroomed (быстро росла;
mushroom – гриб). Like any good salesman he came to understand the benefits of
undercutting his rivals in price, barring them from distribution outlets by persuading
store
owners to stock less of their brands. Like any good businessman he aimed at holding a
monopoly by forcing his rivals to abandon the field or by merging (to merge –
сливаться) with his own company. However, since he had started off relatively helpless,
economically, since he did not believe in advertising, relying on word of mouth and
since if truth be told, his olive oil was no better than his competitors', he could not use
the common strangleholds (stranglehold – удушение, мертвая хватка) of legitimate
businessmen. He had to rely on the force of his own personality and his reputation as a
"man of respect."

52
   Even as a young man, Vito Corleone became known as a "man of reasonableness."
He never uttered a threat. He always used logic that proved to be irresistible. He always
made certain that the other fellow got his share of profit. Nobody lost. He did this, of
course, by obvious means. Like many businessmen of genius he learned that free
competition was wasteful, monopoly efficient. And so he simply set about (начал,
приступил) achieving that efficient monopoly. There were some oil wholesalers in
Brooklyn, men of fiery temper, headstrong, not amenable (поддающийся, податливый,
сговорчивый [∂'mi:n∂bl]) to reason, who refused to see, to recognize, the vision of Vito
Corleone, even after he had explained everything to them with the utmost patience and
detail. With these men Vito Corleone threw up his hands in despair and sent Tessio to
Brooklyn to set up a headquarters and solve the problem. Warehouses were burned,
truckloads of olive-green oil were dumped to form lakes in the cobbled (cobble –
булыжник) waterfront (порт, район порта) streets. One rash man, an arrogant
Milanese with more faith in the police than a saint has in Christ, actually went to the
authorities with a complaint against his fellow Italians, breaking the ten-century-old law
of omerta. But before the matter could progress any further the wholesaler disappeared,
never to be seen again, leaving behind, deserted, his devoted wife and three children,
who, God be thanked, were fully grown and capable of taking over his business and
coming to terms (договорившись, заключив соглашение; terms – условия
соглашения, договор) with the Genco Pura Oil Company.
   But great men are not born great, they grow great, and so it was with Vito Corleone.
When prohibition (запрещение; запрещение продажи спиртных напитков (1920–33)
[pr∂uı’bı∫∂n]; to prohibit [pr∂’hıbıt] – запрещать, препятствовать) came to pass and
alcohol forbidden to be sold, Vito Corleone made the final step from a quite ordinary,
somewhat ruthless businessman to a great Don in the world of criminal enterprise. It did
not happen in a day, it did not happen in a year, but by the end of the Prohibition period
and the start of the Great Depression, Vito Corleone had become the Godfather, the
Don, Don Corleone.
   It started casually enough. By this time the Genco Pura Oil Company had a fleet of six
delivery trucks. Through Clemenza, Vito Corleone was approached by a group of Italian
bootleggers (торговец контрабандными или самогонными спиртными напитками;
bootleg – голенище) who smuggled alcohol and whiskey in from Canada. They needed
trucks and deliverymen to distribute their produce over New York City. They needed
deliverymen who were reliable, discreet and of a certain determination and force. They
were willing to pay Vito Corleone for his trucks and for his men. The fee was so

enormous that Vito Corleone cut back drastically (радикально; drastic –
сильнодействующий /о лекарстве/) on his oil business to use the trucks almost

53

exclusively for the service of the bootlegger-smugglers. This despite the fact that these
gentlemen had accompanied their offer with a silky threat. But even then Vito Corleone
was so mature a man that he did not take insult at a threat or become angry and refuse
a profitable offer because of it. He evaluated the threat, found it lacking in conviction,
and lowered his opinion of his new partners because they had been so stupid to use
threats where none were needed. This was useful information to be pondered at its
proper time.  
   Again he prospered. But, more important, he acquired knowledge and contacts and
experience. And he piled up (складывал в кучу, накапливал; pile – куча, груда, кипа)
good deeds as a banker piles up securities (ценные бумаги). For in the following years
it became clear that Vito Corleone was not only a man of talent but, in his way, a genius.
   He made himself the protector of the Italian families who set themselves up as small
speakeasies (speakeasy – бар, где незаконно торгуют спиртными напитками) in
their homes, selling whiskey at fifteen cents a glass to bachelor laborers. He became
godfather to Mrs. Colombo's youngest son when the lad made his confirmation and
gave a handsome present of a twenty-dollar gold piece. Meanwhile, since it was
inevitable that some of his trucks be stopped by the police, Genco Abbandando hired a
fine lawyer with many contacts in the Police Department and the judiciary (судебное
право; судебное ведомство [dGu:'dı∫ı∂rı]). A system of payoffs was set up and soon
the Corleone organization had a sizable "sheet," the list of officials entitled (to entitle –
давать право [ın'taıtl]) to a monthly sum. When the lawyer tried to keep this list down,
apologizing for the expense, Vito Corleone reassured him. "No, no," he said. "Get
everyone on it even if they can't help us right now. I believe in friendship and I am
willing to show my friendship first."
   As time went by the Corleone empire became larger, more trucks were added, the
"sheet" grew longer. Also the men working directly for Tessio and Clemenza grew in
number. The whole thing was becoming unwieldy (неуправляемый)). Finally Vito
Corleone worked out a system of organization. He gave Clemenza and Tessio each the
title of Caporegime, or captain, and the men who worked beneath them the rank of
soldier. He named Genco Abbandando his counselor, or Consigliori. He put layers of
insulation (слои изоляции) between himself and any operational act. When he gave an 
order it was to Genco or to one of the caporegimes alone. Rarely did he have a witness
to any order he gave any particular one of them. Then he split Tessio's group and made

it responsible for Brooklyn. He also split Tessio off from Clemenza and made it clear

54

over the years that he did not want the two men to associate even socially except when
absolutely necessary. He explained this to the more intelligent Tessio, who caught his
drift (медленное течение; направление; /здесь/ намерение) immediately, though Vito
explained it as a security measure against the law. Tessio understood that Vito did not
want his two caporegimes to have any opportunity to conspire against him and he also
understood there was no ill will involved, merely a tactical precaution. In return Vito
gave Tessio a free hand in Brooklyn while he kept Clemenza's Bronx fief (феодальное
поместье, лен [fi:f]) very much under his thumb. Clemenza was the braver, more
reckless (дерзкий, отчаянный, reckless of danger – пренебрегающий опасностью),
the crueler man despite his outward jollity (веселость; jolly – веселый, радостный),
and needed a tighter rein (повод, поводья).
   The Great Depression increased the power of Vito Corleone. And indeed it was about
that time he came to be called Don Corleone. Everywhere in the city, honest men
begged for honest work in vain. Proud men demeaned (to demean – унижать)
themselves and their families to accept official charity from contemptuous officialdom 
(от презирающих их властей). But the men of Don Corleone walked the streets with
their heads held high, their pockets stuffed with silver and paper money. With no fear of
losing their jobs. And even Don Corleone, that most modest of men, could not help
feeling a sense of pride. He was taking care of his world, his people. He had not failed
those who depended on him and gave him the sweat of their brows, risked their
freedom and their lives in his service. And when an employee of his was arrested and
sent to prison by some mischance, that unfortunate man's family received a living
allowance (пожизненное содержание); and not a miserly, beggarly, begrudging (to
begrudge – скупиться) pittance (скудное вспомоществование, жалование) but the
same amount the man earned when free.
   This of course was not pure Christian charity. Not his best friends would have called
Don Corleone a saint from heaven. There was some self-interest in this generosity. An
employee sent to prison knew he had only to keep his mouth shut and his wife and
children would be cared for. He knew that if he did not inform to the police a warm
welcome would be his when he left prison. There would be a party waiting in his home,
the best of food, homemade ravioli, wine, pastries, with all his friends and relatives
gathered to rejoice in his freedom. And sometime during the night the Consigliori,
Genco Abbandando, or perhaps even the Don himself, would drop by to pay his
respects to such a stalwart (стойкий приверженец, верный последователь ['sto:w∂t]),

take a glass of wine in his honor, and leave a handsome present of money so that he
could enjoy a week or two of leisure with his family before returning to his daily toil 
(тяжелый труд). Such was the infinite sympathy and understanding of Don Corleone.
   It was at this time that the Don got the idea that he ran his world far better than his
enemies ran the greater world which continually obstructed his path. And this feeling
was nurtured by the poor people of the neighborhood who constantly came to him for
help. To get on the home relief (облегчение; освобождение /от уплаты/), to get a
young boy a job or out of jail, to borrow a small sum of money desperately needed, to
intervene with landlords who against all reason demanded rent from jobless tenants.

55

   Don Vito Corleone helped them all. Not only that, he helped them with goodwill, with
encouraging words to take the bitter sting out of the charity he gave them. It was only
natural then that when these Italians were puzzled and confused on who to vote for to
represent them in the state legislature, in the city offices, in the Congress, they should
ask the advice of their friend Don Corleone, their Godfather. And so he became a
political power to be consulted by practical party chiefs. He consolidated this power with
a far-seeing statesmanlike intelligence; by helping brilliant boys from poor Italian
farnilies through college, boys who would later become lawyers, assistant district
attorneys, and even judges. He planned for the future of his empire with all the foresight
of a great national leader.
   The repeal (отмена) of Prohibition dealt this empire a crippling blow but again he had
taken his precautions. In 1933 he sent emissaries to the man who controlled all the
gambling activities of Manhattan, the crap games on the docks, the shylocking that went
with it as hot dogs go with baseball games, the bookmaking on sports and horses, the
illicit gambling houses that ran poker games, the policy or numbers racket of Harlem.
This man's name was Salvatore Maranzano and he was one of the acknowledged
pezzonovante, .90 calibers, or big shots of the New York underworld. The Corleone
emissaries proposed to Maranzano an equal partnership beneficial to both parties. Vito
Corleone with his organization, his police and political contacts, could give the 
Maranzano operations a stout umbrella and the new strength to expand into Brooklyn
and the Bronx. But Maranzano was a short-sighted man and spurned (to spurn –
отвергать с презрением) the Corleone offer with contempt. The great Al Capone was
Maranzano's friend and he had his own organization, his own men, plus a huge war
chest (ящик; казна). He would not brook (терпеть, выносить) this upstart (выскочка)
whose reputation was more that of a Parliamentary debator than a true Mafioso.

    	   

Maranzano's refusal touched off (его отказ вызвал, привел к) the great war of 1933
which was to change the whole structure of the underworld in New York City.
   At first glance it seemed an uneven match. Salvatore Maranzano had a powerful
organization with strong enforcers. He had a friendship with Capone in Chicago and
could call on help in that quarter. He also had a good relationship with the Tattaglia

56

Family, which controlled prostitution in the city and what there was of the thin drug traffic
at that time. He also had political contacts with powerful business leaders who used his
enforcers to terrorize the Jewish unionists in the garment center and the Italian
anarchist syndicates in the building trades.
   Against this, Don Corleone could throw two small but superbly organized regimes led
by Clemenza and Tessio. His political and police contacts were negated by the
business leaders who would support Maranzano. But in his favor was the enemy's lack
of intelligence about his organization. The underworld did not know the true strength of
his soldiers and even were deceived that Tessio in Brooklyn was a separate and
independent operation.
   And yet despite all this, it was an unequal battle until Vito Corleone evened out the
odds (сравнял счет) with one master stroke.
   Maranzano sent a call to Capone for his two best gunmen to come to New York to
eliminate the upstart. The Corleone Family had friends and intelligence in Chicago who
relayed the news that the two gunmen were arriving by train. Vito Corleone dispatched
Luca Brasi to take care of them with instructions that would liberate the strange man's
most savage instincts.
   Brasi and his people, four of them, received the Chicago hoods at the railroad station.
One of Brasi's men procured and drove a taxicab for the purpose and the station porter
carrying the bags led the Capone men to this cab. When they got in; Brasi and another
of his men crowded in after them, guns ready, and made the two Chicago boys lie on
the floor. The cab drove to a warehouse near the docks that Brasi had prepared for
them.
   The two Capone men were bound hand and foot and small bath towels were stuffed
into their mouths to keep them from crying out.
   Then Brasi took an ax (топор) from its place against the wall and started hacking at
one of the Capone men. He chopped the man's feet off, then the legs at the knees, then
the thighs where they joined the torso. Brasi was an extremely powerful man but it took
him many swings to accomplish his purpose. By that time of course the victim had given
up the ghost and the floor of the warehouse was slippery with the hacked fragments of

57
his flesh and the gouting (gout – сгусток крови) of his blood. When Brasi turned to his
second victim he found further effort unnecessary. The second Capone gunman out of
sheer terror had, impossibly, swallowed the bath towel in his mouth and suffocated. The
bath towel was found in the man's stomach when the police performed their autopsy to
determine the cause of death.
   A few days later in Chicago the Capones received a message from Vito Corleone. It
was to this effect: "You know now how I deal with enemies. Why does a Neapolitan
interfere in a quarrel between two Sicilians? If you wish me to consider you as a friend I
owe you a service which I will pay on demand. A man like yourself must know how
much more profitable it is to have a friend who, instead of calling on you for help, takes
care of his own affairs and stands ever ready to help you in some future time of trouble.
If you do not wish my friendship, so be it. But then I must tell you that the climate in this
city is damp; unhealthy for Neapolitans, and you are advised never to visit it."
   The arrogance of this letter was a calculated one. The Don held the Capones in small
esteem as stupid, obvious cutthroats. His intelligence informed him that Capone had
forfeited (to forfeit [‘fo:fıt] – расплатиться, потерять право /на что-то/; forfeit –
расплата /за проступок/; конфискация) all political influence because of his public
arrogance and the flaunting (to flaunt – гордо развеваться /о знаменах/; выставлять
напоказ, щеголять) of his criminal wealth. The Don knew, in fact was positive, that
without political influence, without the camouflage of society, Capone's world, and
others like it, could be easily destroyed. He knew Capone was on the path to
destruction. He also knew that Capone's influence did not extend beyond the
boundaries of Chicago, terrible and all-pervading as that influence there might be.
   The tactic was successful. Not so much because of its ferocity (жестокость) but
because of the chilling swiftness, the quickness of the Don's reaction. If his intelligence
was so good, any further moves would be fraught (полный, чреватый) with danger. It
was better, far wiser, to accept the offer of friendship with its implied payoff (с
предполагаемой, подразумеваемой компенсацией; to imply – заключать в себе;
предполагать, подразумевать). The Capones sent back word that they would not
interfere.
   The odds were now equal. And Vito Corleone had earned an enormous amount of
"respect" throughout the United States underworld with his humiliation of the Capones.
For six months he out-generaled Maranzano. He raided the crap games under that
man's protection, located his biggest policy banker (держатель игорного дома) in
Harlem and had him relieved of a day's play not only in money but in records. He

58
engaged his enemies on all fronts. Even in the garment centers he sent Clemenza and
his men to fight on the side of the unionists against the enforcers on the payroll of
Maranzano and the owners of the dress firms. And on all fronts his superior intelligence
and organization made him the victor. Clemenza's jolly ferocity, which Corleone
employed judiciously (рассудительно), also helped turn the tide of battle. And then Don
Corleone sent the held-back reserve of the Tessio regime after Maranzano himself.
   By this time Maranzano had dispatched emissaries suing for (to sue for – просить о
чем-либо) a peace. Vito Corleone refused to see them, put them off on one pretext or
another. The Maranzano soldiers were deserting their leader, not wishing to die in a
losing cause. Bookmakers and shylocks were paying the Corleone organization their
protection money. The war was all but over (почти окончена).
   And then finally on New Year's Eve of 1933 Tessio got inside the defenses of
Maranzano himself. The Maranzano lieutenants were anxious for a deal and agreed to
lead their chief to the slaughter. They told him that a meeting had been arranged in a
Brooklyn restaurant with Corleone and they accompanied Maranzano as his
bodyguards.
They left him sitting at a checkered (checker – шашка; checkerboard – шахматный
стол) table, morosely munching (мрачно жуя; morose [m∂’r∂us] – мрачный) a piece of
bread, and fled the restaurant as Tessio and four of his men entered. The execution
was swift and sure. Maranzano, his mouth full of half-chewed bread, was riddled with
bullets. The war was over.
   The Maranzano empire was incorporated into the Corleone operation. Don Corleone
set up a system of tribute, allowing all incumbents (incumbent – пользующийся
бенефицием священник; /здесь/ букмекер, пользующийся своим доходным местом)
to remain in their bookmaking and policy number spots. As a bonus he had a foothold 
(точка опоры) in the unions of the garment center which in later years was to prove
extremely important. And now that he had settled his business affairs the Don found
trouble at home.
   Santino Corleone, Sonny, was sixteen years old and grown to an astonishing six feet
with broad shoulders and a heavy face that was sensual but by no means effeminate.
But where Fredo was a quiet boy, and Michael, of course, a toddler (ребенок,
начинающий ходить; to toddle – ковылять; учиться ходить), Santino was constantly
in trouble. He got into fights, did badly in school and, finally, Clemenza, who was the
boy's godfather and had a duty to speak, came to Don Corleone one evening and
informed him that his son had taken part in an armed robbery, a stupid affair which

59
could have gone very badly. Sonny was obviously the ringleader, the two other boys in
the robbery his followers.
   It was one of the very few times that Vito Corleone lost his temper. Tom Hagen had
been living in his home for three years and he asked Clemenza if the orphan boy had
been involved. Clemenza shook his head. Don Corleone had a car sent to bring Santino
to his offices in the Genco Pura Olive Oil Company.
   For the first time, the Don met defeat. Alone with his son, he gave full vent to his rage,
cursing the hulking (громадный, неуклюжий, неповоротливый; hulk – большое
неповоротливое судно) Sonny in Sicilian dialect, a language so much more satisfying
than any other for expressing rage. He ended up with a question. "What gave you the
right to commit such an act? What made you wish to commit such an act?"
   Sonny stood there, angry, refusing to answer. The Don said with contempt, "And so
stupid. What did you earn for that night's work? Fifty dollars each? Twenty dollars? You
risked your life for twenty dollars, eh?"
   As if he had not heard these last words, Sonny said defiantly (с вызовом), "I saw you
kill Fanucci."
The Don said, "Ahhh" and sank back in his chair. He waited.
   Sonny said, "When Fanucci left the building, Mama said I could go up the house. I
saw you go up the roof and I followed you. I saw everything you did. I stayed up there
and I saw you throw away the wallet and the gun."
   The Don sighed. "Well, then I can't talk to you about how you should behave. Don't
you want to finish school, don't you want to be a lawyer? Lawyers can steal more
money with a briefcase than a thousand men with guns and masks."
   Sonny grinned at him and said slyly, "I want to enter the family business." When he
saw that the Don's face remained impassive, that he did not laugh at the joke, he added
hastily, "I can learn how to sell olive oil."
   Still the Don did not answer. Finally he shrugged. "Every man has one destiny," he
said. He did not add that the witnessing of Fanucci's murder had decided that of his son. 
He merely turned away and added quietly, "Come in tomorrow morning at nine o'clock.
Genco will show you what to do."
   But Genco Abbandando, with that shrewd insight that a Consigliori must have,
realized the true wish of the Don and used Sonny mostly as a bodyguard for his father,
a position in which he could also learn the subtleties (subtlety – тонкость,
изощренность, хитрость; subtle – тонкий, нежный; утонченный) of being a Don. And

    	   

60
it brought out a professorial instinct in the Don himself, who often gave lectures on how
to succeed for the benefit of his eldest son.
   Besides his oft-repeated theory that a man has but one destiny, the Don constantly
reproved Sonny for that young man's outbursts of temper. The Don considered a use of
threats the most foolish kind of exposure (выставление /на солнце, под дождь/;
подвергание /риску/; to expose – выставлять, подвергать действию /дождя, солнца/;
подвергать риску); the unleashing (to unleash – спускать с привязи) of anger without
forethought as the most dangerous indulgence (потворство своим слабостям
[ın'dΛldG∂ns]; to indulge – позволять себе удовольствие, давать себе волю). No one
had ever heard the Don utter a naked threat, no one had ever seen him in an
uncontrollable rage. It was unthinkable. And so he tried to teach Sonny his own
disciplines. He claimed that there was no greater natural advantage in life than having
an enemy overestimate your faults, unless it was to have a friend underestimate your
virtues.
   The caporegime, Clemenza, took Sonny in hand and taught him how to shoot and to
wield a garrot (владеть гарротой /шнуром для удушения/). Sonny had no taste for the
Italian rope, he was too Americanized. He preferred the simple, direct, impersonal
Anglo-Saxon gun, which saddened Clemenza. But Sonny became a constant and
welcome companion to his father, driving his car, helping him in little details. For the
next two years he seemed like the usual son entering his father's business, not too
bright, not too eager, content to hold down (удержать, не потерять) a soft job.
   Meanwhile his boyhood chum and semiadopted brother Tom Hagen was going to
college. Fredo was still in high school; Michael, the youngest brother, was in grammar
school, and baby sister Connie was a toddling girl of four. The family had long since
moved to an apartment house in the Bronx. Don Corleone was considering buying a
house in Long Island, but he wanted to fit this in with other plans he was formulating.
   Vito Corleone was a man with vision. All the great cities of America were being torn by
underworld strife (борьба, раздор). Guerrilla wars by the dozen flared up, ambitious
hoodlums trying to carve themselves a bit of empire; men like Corleone himself were
trying to keep their borders and rackets secure. Don Corleone saw that the newspapers
and government agencies were using these killings to get stricter and stricter laws, to
use harsher police methods. He foresaw that public indignation might even lead to a
suspension of democratic procedures which could be fatal to him and his people. His
own empire, internally, was secure. He decided to bring peace to all the warring factions
in New York City and then in the nation.

   He had no illusions about the dangerousness of his mission. He spent the first year
meeting with different chiefs of gangs in New York, laying the groundwork, sounding

61

them out (to sound – зондировать, измерять глубину /лотом/; испытать), proposing
spheres of influence that would be honored by a loosely bound confederated council.
But there were too many factions, too many special interests that conflicted. Agreement
was impossible. Like other great rulers and lawgivers in history Don Corleone decided
that order and peace were impossible until the number of reigning states had been
reduced to a manageable number.
   There were five or six "Families" too powerful to eliminate. But the rest, the
neighborhood Black Hand terrorists, the free-lance shylocks, the strong-arm
bookmakers operating without the proper, that is to say paid, protection of the legal
authorities, would have to go. And so he mounted what was in effect a colonial war
against these people and threw all the resources of the Corleone organization against
them.
   The pacification of the New York area took three years and had some unexpected
rewards. At first it took the form of bad luck. A group of mad-dog Irish stickup (налет,
ограбление) artists the Don had marked for extermination (уничтожение) almost
carried the day (to carry the day – одержать победу) with sheer Emerald Isle йlan (с
чисто ирландским напором, стремительностью: йlan [eı’lα:ŋ] /франц./; Emerald Isle
= Ireland). By chance, and with suicidal bravery, one of these Irish gunmen pierced the
Don's protective cordon and put a shot into his chest. The assassin was immediately
riddled with bullets but the damage was done.
   However this gave Santino Corleone his chance. With his father out of action, Sonny
took command of a troop, his own regime, with the rank of caporegime, and like a
young, untrumpeted (trumpet [‘trΛmpıt] – труба; to trumpet – трубить, возвещать,
восхвалять) Napoleon, showed a genius for city warfare. He also showed a merciless
ruthlessness, the lack of which had been Don Corleone's only fault as a conqueror.
   From 1935 to 1937 Sonny Corleone made a reputation as the most cunning and
relentless executioner the underworld had yet known. Yet for sheer terror even he was
eclipsed by the awesome man named Luca Brasi.
   It was Brasi who went after the rest of the Irish gunmen and single-handedly wiped
them out. It was Brasi, operating alone when one of the six powerful families tried to
interfere and become the protector of the independents, who assassinated the head of
the family as a warning. Shortly after, the Don recovered from his wound and made
peace with that particular family.

   By 1937 peace and harmony reigned in New York City except for minor incidents,
minor misunderstandings which were, of course, sometimes fatal.
   As the rulers of ancient cities always kept an anxious eye on the barbarian tribes
roving around their walls, so Don Corleone kept an eye on the affairs of the world
outside his world. He noted the coming of Hitler, the fall of Spain, Germany's strong-

62

arming of Britain at Munich. Unblinkered (незашоренный, неослепленный; blinkers –
наглазники, шоры) by that outside world, he saw clearly the coming global war and he
understood the implications. His own world would be more impregnable 
(непрницаемый, неприступный) than before. Not only that, fortunes could be made in
time of war by alert, foresighted folk. But to do so peace must reign in his domain while
war raged in the world outside.
   Don Corleone carried his message through the United States. He conferred with
compatriots in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Cleveland, Chicago, Philadelphia, Miami,
and Boston. He was the underworld apostle of peace and, by 1939, more successful
than any Pope, he had achieved a working agreement amongst the most powerful
underworld organizations in the country. Like the Constitution of the United States this
agreement respected fully the internal authority of each member in his state or city. The
agreement covered only spheres of influence and an agreement to enforce peace in the
underworld.
   And so when World War II broke out in 1939, when the United States joined the
conflict in 1941, the world of Don Vito Corleone was at peace, in order, fully prepared to
reap the golden harvest on equal terms with all the other industries of a booming
America. The Corleone Family had a hand in supplying black-market OPA food stamps,
gasoline stamps, even travel priorities. It could help get war contracts and then help get 
black-market materials for those garment center clothing firms who were not given
enough raw material because they did not have government contracts. He could even
get all the young men in his organization, those eligible (могущий быть избранным
['elıdG∂bl]) for Army draft (набор, призыв), excused from fighting in the foreign war. He
did this with the aid of doctors who advised what drugs had to be taken before physical
examination, or by placing the men in draft-exempt (exempt [ıg’zempt] – 
освобожденный /от чего-либо/) positions in the war industries.
   And so the Don could take pride in his rule. His world was safe for those who had
sworn loyalty to him; other men who believed in law and order were dying by the
millions. The only fly in the ointment (мазь, /здесь/ мирро /для помазания/) was that
his own son, Michael Corleone, refused to be helped, insisted on volunteering to serve

63
his own country. And to the Don's astonishment, so did a few of his other young men in
the organization. One of the men, trying to explain this to his caporegime, said, "This
country has been good to me." Upon this story being relayed to the Don he said angrily
to the caporegime, "I have been good to him." It might have gone badly for these people
but, as he had excused his son Michael, so must he excuse other young men who so
misunderstood their duty to their Don and to themselves.
   At the end of World War II Don Corleone knew that again his world would have to
change its ways, that it would have to fit itself more snugly (snug – плотно лежащий,
прилегающий) into the ways of the other, larger world. He believed he could do this
with no loss of profit.
   There was reason for this belief in his own experience. What had put him on the right
track were two personal affairs. Early in his career the then-young Nazorine, only a
baker's helper planning to get married, had come to him for assistance. He and his
future bride, a good Italian girl, had saved their money and had paid the enormous sum
of three hundred dollars to a wholesaler of furniture recommended to them. This 
wholesaler had let them pick out everything they wanted to furnish their tenement
apartment. A fine sturdy (сильный, крепкий, здоровый) bedroom set with two bureaus
and lamps. Also the living room set of heavy stuffed sofa and stuffed armchairs, all
covered with rich gold-threaded fabric. Nazorine and his fiancйe (невеста /франц./
[fı'α:nseı]) had spent a happy day picking out what they wanted from the huge
warehouse crowded with furniture. The wholesaler took their money, their three hundred
dollars wrung from the sweat of their blood, and pocketed it and promised the furniture
to be delivered within the week to the already rented flat.
   The very next week however, the firm had gone into bankruptcy. The great warehouse
stocked with furniture had been sealed shut and attached for payment of creditors. The
wholesaler had disappeared to give other creditors time to unleash their anger on the
empty air. Nazorine, one of these, went to his lawyer, who told him nothing could be
done until the case was settled in court and all creditors satisfied. This might take three
years and Nazorine would be lucky to get back ten cents on the dollar.
   Vito Corleone listened to this story with amused disbelief. It was not possible that the
law could allow such thievery. The wholesaler owned his own palatial home, an estate
in Long Island, a luxurious automobile, and was sending his children to college. How
could he keep the three hundred dollars of the poor baker Nazorine and not give him
the furniture he had paid for? But, to make sure, Vito Corleone had Genco Abbandando
check it out with the lawyers who represented the Genco Pura company.

64
   They verified the story of Nazorine. The wholesaler had all his personal wealth in his
wife's name. His furniture business was incorporated and he was not personally liable 
(ответственный). True, he had shown bad faith (вероломство) by taking the money of
Nazorine when he knew he was going to file (подать как-либо документ) bankruptcy
but this was a common practice. Under law there was nothing to be done.
   Of course the matter was easily adjusted. Don Corleone sent his Consigliori, Genco
Abbandando, to speak to the wholesaler, and as was to be expected, that wide-awake
businessman caught the drift immediately and arranged for Nazorine to get his furniture.
But it was an interesting lesson for the young Vito Corleone.
   The second incident had more far-reaching repercussions (repercussion – отдача
/после удара/; отзвук, эхо). In 1939, Don Corleone had decided to move his family out
of the city. Like any other parent he wanted his children to go to better schools and mix
with better companions. For his own personal reasons he wanted the anonymity of
surburban life where his reputation was not known. He bought the mall property in Long
Beach, which at that time had only four newly built houses but with plenty of room for
more. Sonny was formally engaged to Sandra and would soon marry, one of the houses
would be for him. One of the houses was for the Don. Another was for Genco
Abbandando and his family. The other was kept vacant at the time.
   A week after the mall was occupied, a group of three workmen came in all innocence
with their truck. They claimed to be furnace (печь, топка ['f∂:nıs]) inspectors for the
town of Long Beach. One of the Don's young bodyguards let the men in and led them to
the furnace in the basement. The Don, his wife and Sonny were in the garden taking
their ease and enjoying the salty sea air.
   Much to the Don's annoyance he was summoned into the house by his bodyguard.
The three workmen, all big burly fellows, were grouped around the furnace. They had
taken it apart, it was strewn around the cement basement floor. Their leader, an
authoritative man, said to the Don in a gruff (грубый, сердитый) voice, "Your furnace is
in lousy shape. If you want us to fix it and put it together again, it'll cost you one hundred
fifty dollars for labor and parts and then we'll pass you for county inspection." He took
out a red paper label. "We stamp this seal on it, see, then nobody from the county
bothers you again."
   The Don was amused. It had been a boring, quiet week in which he had had to
neglect his business to take care of such family details moving to a new house entailed 
(to entail – влечь за собой). In more broken English than his usual slight accent he
asked, "If I don't pay you, what happens to my furnace?"

65
   The leader of the three men shrugged. "We just leave the furnace the way it is now."
He gestured at the metal parts strewn over the floor.
   The Don said meekly, "Wait, I'll get you your money." Then he went out into the
garden and said to Sonny, "Listen, there's some men working on the furnace, I don't
understand what they want. Go in and take care of the matter." It was not simply a joke;
he was considering making his son his underboss. This was one of the tests a business 
executive had to pass.
   Sonny's solution did not altogether please his father. It was too direct, too lacking in
Sicilian subtleness. He was the Club (дубинка), not the Rapier. For as soon as Sonny
heard the leader's demand he held the three men at gunpoint and had them thoroughly 
bastinadoed (приказал как следует отколотить; bastinado [bжstı’neıd∂u]– палочные
удары) by the bodyguards. Then he made them put the furnace together again and tidy
up the basement. He searched them and found that they actually were employed by a
house-improvement firm with headquarters in Suffolk County. He learned the name of
the man who owned the firm. Then he kicked the three men to their truck. "Don't let me
see you in Long Beach again," he told them. "I'll have your balls hanging from your
ears."
   It was typical of the young Santino, before he became older and crueler, that he
extended his protection to the community he lived in. Sonny paid a personal call to the
home-improvement firm owner and told him not to send any of his men into the Long
Beach area ever again. As soon as the Corleone Family set up their usual business
liaison with the local police force they were informed of all such complaints and all
crimes by professional criminals. In less than a year Long Beach became the most
crime-free town of its size in the United States. Professional stickup artists and strong-
arms received one warning not to ply (усердно работать, заниматься чем-либо; ply –
сгиб, складка; уклон, склонность) their trade in the town. They were allowed one
offense (обида, оскорбление; проступок, нарушение; преступление). When they
committed a second they simply disappeared. The flimflam (трюк, мошенническая
проделка) home-improvement gyp (мошенничество; плут) artists, the door-to-door
con men (жулики /сленг/) were politely warned that they were not welcome in Long
Beach. Those confident con men who disregarded the warning were beaten within an 
inch of their lives (чуть не до смерти; within an inch of = closely, near to). Resident
young punks who had no respect for law and proper authority were advised in the most
fatherly fashion to run away from home. Long Beach became a model city.

    	   

   What impressed the Don was the legal validity (действительность, законность
[v∂'lıdıtı]; valid [‘vжlıd] – действительный, имеющий силу) of these sales swindles 
(swindle – надувательство). Clearly there was a place for a man of his talents in that
other world which had been closed to him as an honest youth. He took appropriate
steps to enter that world.
   And so he lived happily on the mall in Long Beach, consolidating and enlarging his

66

empire, until after the war was over, the Turk Sollozzo broke the peace and plunged the
Don's world into its own war, and brought him to his hospital bed.

Book 4

Chapter 15

   In the New Hampshire village, every foreign phenomenon was properly noticed by
housewives peering from windows, storekeepers lounging (to lounge – сидеть
развалясь, праздно проводить время) behind their doors. And so when the black
automobile bearing New York license plates stopped in front of the Adams' home, every
citizen knew about it in a matter of minutes.
   Kay Adams, really a small-town girl despite her college education, was also peering
from her bedroom window. She had been studying for her exams and preparing to go
downstairs for lunch when she spotted the car coming up the street, and for some
reason she was not surprised when it rolled to a halt (/автомобиль/ остановился) in
front of her lawn. Two men got out, big burly men who looked like gangsters in the
movies to her eyes, and she flew down the stairs to be the first at the door. She was
sure they came from Michael or his family and she didn't want them talking to her father
and mother without any introduction. It wasn't that she was ashamed of any of Mike's
friends, she thought; it was just that her mother and father were old-fashioned New
England Yankees and wouldn't understand her even knowing such people.
   She got to the door just as the bell rang and she called to her mother, "I'll get it." She
opened the door and the two big men stood there. One reached inside his breast pocket
like a gangster reaching for a gun and the move so surprised Kay that she let out a little
gasp but the man had taken out a small leather case which he flapped open to show an
identification card. "I'm Detective John Phillips from the New York Police Department,"
he said. He motioned to the other man, a dark-complexioned man with very thick, very
black eyebrows. "This is my partner, Detective Siriani. Are you Miss Kay Adams?"

   Kay nodded. Phillips said, "May we come in and talk to you for a few minutes. It's
about Michael Corleone."
   She stood aside to let them in. At that moment her father appeared in the small side
hall that led to his study. "Kay, what is it?" he asked.
   Her father was a gray-haired, slender, distinguished-looking man who not only was
the pastor of the town Baptist church but had a reputation in religious circles as a
scholar. Kay really didn't know her father well, he puzzled her, but she knew he loved

67

her even if he gave the impression he found her uninteresting as a person. Though they
had never been close, she trusted him. So she said simply, "These men are detectives
frorn New York. They want to ask me questions about a boy I know."
   Mr. Adams didn't seem surprised. "Why don't we go into my study?" he said.
   Detective Phillips said gently, "We'd rather talk to your daughter alone, Mr. Adams."
   Mr. Adams said courteously, "That depends on Kay, I think. My dear, would you rather
speak to these gentlemen alone or would you prefer to have me present? Or perhaps
your mother?"
   Kay shook her head. "I'll talk to them alone."
   Mr. Adams said to Phillips, "You can use my study. Will you stay for lunch?" The two
men shook their heads. Kay led them into the study.
   They rested uncomfortably on the edge of the couch as she sat in her father's big
leather chair. Detective Phillips opened the conversation by saying, "Miss Adams, have
you seen or heard from Michael Corleone at any time in the last three weeks?" The one 
question was enough to warn her. Three weeks ago she had read the Boston
newspapers with their headlines about the killing of a New York police captain and a
narcotics smuggler named Virgil Sollozzo. The newspaper had said it was part of the
gang war involving the Corleone Farnily.
   Kay shook her head. "No, the last time I saw him he was going to see his father in the
hospital. That was perhaps a month ago."
   The other detective said in a harsh voice, "We know all about that meeting. Have you
seen or heard from him since then?"
   "No," Kay said.
   Detective Phillips said in a polite voice, "If you do have contact with him we'd like you
to let us know. It's very important we get to talk to Michael Corleone. I must warn you
that if you do have contact with him you may be getting involved in a very dangerous
situation. If you help him in any way, you may get yourself in very serious trouble."  

    	   

   Kay sat up very straight in the chair. "Why shouldn't I help him?" she asked. "We're
going to be married, married people help each other."
   It was Detective Siriani who answered her. "If you help, you may be an accessory 
(добавочный, вспомогательный; /здесь/ соучастник [∂k'ses∂ri]) to murder. We're
looking for your boy friend because he killed a police captain in New York plus an

68

informer the police officer was contacting. We know Michael Corleone is the person who
did the shooting."
   Kay laughed. Her laughter was so unaffected, so incredulous, that the officers were
impressed. "Mike wouldn't do anything like that," she said. "He never had anything to do
with his family. When we went to his sister's wedding it was obvious that he was treated
as an outsider, almost as much as I was. If he's hiding now it's just so that he won't get
any publicity, so his name won't be dragged through all this. Mike is not a gangster. I
know him better than you or anybody else can know him. He is too nice a man to do
anything as despicable (презренный [‘despık∂bl]) as murder. He is the most law-
abiding (законопослушный) person I know, and I've never known him to lie."
   Detective Phillips asked gently, "How long have you known him?"
   "Over a year," Kay said and was surprised when the two men smiled.
   "I think there are a few things you should know," Detective Phillips said. "On the night
he left you, he went to the hospital. When he came out he got into an argument with a
police captain who had come to the hospital on official business. He assaulted that
police officer but got the worst of it. In fact he got a broken jaw and lost some teeth. His
friends took him out to the Corleone Family houses at Long Beach. The following night
the police captain he had the fight with was gunned down and Michael Corleone
disappeared. Vanished. We have our contacts, our informers. They all point the finger at
Michael Corleone but we have no evidence for a court of law. The waiter who witnessed
the shooting doesn't recognize a picture of Mike but he may recognize him in person.
And we have Sollozzo's driver, who refuses to talk, but we might make him talk if we
have Michael Corleone in our hands. So we have all our people looking for him, the FBI
is looking for him, everybody is looking for him. So far, no luck, so we thought you might
be able to give us a lead (подсказать что-то, направить нас по верному следу)."
   Kay said coldly, "I don't believe a word of it." But she felt a bit sick knowing the part
about Mike getting his jaw broken must be true. Not that that would make Mike commit
murder.
   "Will you let us know if Mike contacts you?" Phillips asked.

    	   

   Kay shook her head. The other detective, Siriani, said roughly, "We know you two
have been shacking up together. We have the hotel records and witnesses. If we let

69

that information slip to the newspapers your father and mother would feel pretty lousy.
Real respectable people like them wouldn't think much of a daughter shacking up with a
gangster. If you don't come clean right now I'll call your old man in here and give it to
him straight."
   Kay looked at him with astonishment. Then she got up and went to the door of the
study and opened it. She could see her father standing at the living-room window,
sucking at his pipe. She called out, "Dad, can you join us?" He turned, smiled at her,
and walked to the study. When he came through the door he put his arm around his
daughter's waist and faced the detectives and said, "Yes, gentlemen?"
   When they didn't answer, Kay said coolly to Detective Siriani, "Give it to him straight,
officer."
   Siriani flushed. "Mr. Adams, I'm telling you this for your daughter's good. She is mixed
up with a hoodlum we have reason to believe committed a murder on a police officer.
I'm just telling her she can get into serious trouble unless she cooperates with us. But
she doesn't seem to realize how serious this whole matter is. Maybe you can talk to
her."
   "That is quite incredible," Mr. Adams said politely.
   Siriani jutted his jaw. "Your daughter and Michael Corleone have been going out
together for over a year. They have stayed overnight in hotels together registered as
man and wife. Michael Corleone is wanted for questioning in the murder of a police
officer. Your daughter refuses to give us any information that may help us. Those are
the facts. You can call them incredible but I can back everything up."
   "I don't doubt your word, sir," Mr. Adams said gently. "What I find incredible is that my
daughter could be in serious trouble. Unless you're suggesting that she is a" – here his
face became one of scholarly doubt – "a 'moll (любовница гангстера [mol]),' I believe
it's called." 
   Kay looked at her father in astonishment. She knew he was being playful in his
donnish (педантичный, высокомерный, чванный) way and she was surprised that he
could take the whole affair so lightly.
   Mr. Adams said firmly, "However, rest assured that if the young man shows his face
here I shall immediately report his presence to the authorities. As will my daughter. Now,
if you will forgive us, our lunch is growing cold."

    	   

70
   He ushered the men out of the house with every courtesy and closed the door on their
backs gently but firmly. He took Kay by the arm and led her toward the kitchen far in the
rear of the house, "Come, my dear, your mother is waiting lunch for us."
   By the time they reached the kitchen, Kay was weeping silently, out of relief from
strain, at her father's unquestioning affection. In the kitchen her mother took no notice of
her weeping, and Kay realized that her father must have told her about the two
detectives. She sat down at her place and her mother served her silently. When all
three were at the table her father said grace (молитва /перед едой/) with bowed head. 
   Mrs. Adams was a short stout woman always neatly dressed, hair always set. Kay
had never seen her in disarray (беспорядок /в одежде/; смятение [dıs∂'reı]). Her
mother too had always been a little disinterested in her, holding her at arm's length. And
she did so now. "Kay, stop being so dramatic. I'm sure it's all a great deal of fuss about
nothing at all. After all, the boy was a Dartmouth boy, he couldn't possibly be mixed up
in anything so sordid (грязный, низкий, подлый)." 
   Kay looked up in surprise. "How did you know Mike went to Dartmouth?"
   Her mother said complacently (complacent [k∂m'pleısnt] – благодушный), "You
young people are so mysterious, you think you're so clever. We've known about him all
along, but of course we couldn't bring it up until you did."
   "But how did you know?" Kay asked. She still couldn't face her father now that he
knew about her and Mike sleeping together. So she didn't see the smile on his face
when he said, "We opened your mail, of course."
Kay was horrified and angry. Now she could face him. What he had done was more
shameful than her own sin. She could never believe it of him. "Father, you didn't, you
couldn't have."
   Mr. Adams smiled at her. "I debated which was the greater sin, opening your mail, or
going in ignorance of some hazard my only child might be incurring (to incur [ın'k∂:] – 
подвергаться /чему-либо/; навлечь на себя). The choice was simple, and virtuous."
   Mrs. Adams said between mouthfuls of boiled chicken, "After all, my dear, you are
terribly innocent for your age. We had to be aware. And you never spoke about him."
   For the first time Kay was grateful that Michael was never affectionate in his letters.
She was grateful that her parents hadn't seen some of her letters. "I never told you
about him because I thought you'd be horrified about his family."
   "We were," Mr. Adams said cheerfully. "By the way, has Michael gotten in touch with
you?"
   Kay shook her head. "I don't believe he's guilty of anything."

71
   She saw her parents exchange a glance over the table. Then Mr. Adams said gently,
"If he's not guilty and he's vanished, then perhaps something else happened to him."
   At first Kay didn't understand. Then she got up from the table and ran to her room.

   Three days later Kay Adams got out of a taxi in front of the Corleone mall in Long
Beach. She had phoned, she was expected. Tom Hagen met her at the door and she
was disappointed that it was him. She knew he would tell her nothing.
   In the living room he gave her a drink. She had seen a couple of other men lounging
around the house but not Sonny. She asked Tom Hagen directly, "Do you know where
Mike is? Do you know where I can get in touch with him?"
   Hagen said smoothly, "We know he's all right but we don't know where he is right now. 
When he heard about that captain being shot he was afraid they'd accuse him. So he
just decided to disappear. He told me he'd get in touch in a few months."
The story was not only false but meant to be seen through, he was giving her that much.
"Did that captain really break his jaw?" Kay asked.
   "I'm afraid that's true," Tom said. "But Mike was never a vindictive (мстительный
[vın’dıktıv]) man. I'm sure that had nothing to do with what happened."
   Kay opened her purse and took out a letter. "Will you deliver this to him if he gets in
touch with you?"
   Hagen shook his head. "If I accepted that letter and you told a court of law I accepted
that letter, it might be interpreted as my having knowledge of his whereabouts 
(местонахождение). Why don't you just wait a bit? I'm sure Mike will get in touch."
   She finished her drink and got up to leave. Hagen escorted her to the hall but as he
opened the door, a woman came in from outside. A short, stout woman dressed in black. 
Kay recognized her as Michael's mother. She held out her hand and said, "How are you,
Mrs. Corleone?"
   The woman's small black eyes darted at her for a moment, then the wrinkled, leathery,
olive-skinned face broke into a small curt smile of greeting that was yet in some curious
way truly friendly. "Ah, you Mikey's little girl," Mrs. Corleone said. She had a heavy
Italian accent, Kay could barely understand her. "You eat something?" Kay said no,
meaning she didn't want anything to eat, but Mrs. Corleone turned furiously on Tom
Hagen and berated (to berate – ругать, бранить) him in Italian ending with, "You don't
even give this poor girl coffee, you disgrazia." She took Kay by the hand, the old
woman's hand surprisingly warm and alive, and led her into the kitchen. "You have
coffee and eat something, then somebody drive you home. A nice girl like you, I don't

72
want you to take the train." She made Kay sit down and bustled (to bustle – торопиться,
суетиться) around the kitchen, tearing off her coat and hat and draping them over a
chair. In a few seconds there was bread and cheese and salami on the table and coffee
perking (to perk – вскидывать голову; подаваться вперед; /здесь/ возвышаться,
быть установленым наверху) on the stove.
   Kay said timidly, "I came to ask about Mike, I haven't heard from him. Mr. Hagen said
nobody knows where he is, that he'll turn up in a little while."
   Hagen spoke quickly, "That's all we can tell her now, Ma."
   Mrs. Corleone gave him a look of withering contempt (с «уничтожающим»
презрением; to wither [‘wıр∂] – вянуть; иссушать). "Now you gonna tell me what to do?
My husband don't tell me what to do, God have mercy on him." She crossed herself.
   "Is Mr. Corleone all right?" Kay asked.
   "Fine," Mrs. Corleone said. "Fine. He's getting old, he's getting foolish to let something
like that happen." She tapped her head disrespectfully. She poured the coffee and
forced Kay to eat some bread and cheese.
   After they drank their coffee Mrs. Corleone took one of Kay's hands in her two brown
ones. She said quietly, "Mikey no gonna write you, you no gonna hear from Mikey. He
hide two – three years. Maybe more, maybe much more. You go home to your family
and find a nice young fellow and get married."
   Kay took the letter out of her purse. "Will you send this to him?"
   The old lady took the letter and patted Kay on the cheek. "Sure, sure," she said.
Hagen started to protest and she screamed at him in Italian. Then she led Kay to the
door. There she kissed her on the cheek very quickly and said, "You forget about Mikey,
he no the man for you anymore."
   There was a car waiting for her with two men up front. They drove her all the way to
her hotel in New York never saying a word. Neither did Kay. She was trying to get used
to the fact that the young man she had loved was a cold-blooded murderer. And that
she had been told by the most unimpeachable source: his mother.

Chapter 16

    Carlo Rizzi was punk sore at the world. Once married into the Corleone Family, he'd
been shunted aside (to shunt – переводить на запасный путь; /здесь/ откладывать в
сторону, оставить не у дел) with a small bookmaker's business on the Upper East
Side of Manhattan. He'd counted on one of the houses in the mall on Long Beach, he

73
knew the Don could move retainer families out when he pleased and he had been sure
it would happen and he would be on the inside of everything. But the Don wasn't
treating him right. The "Great Don," he thought with scorn. An old Moustache Pete
who'd been caught out on the street by gunmen like any dumb small-time (мелкий,
незначительный, второсортный) hood. He hoped the old bastard croaked (to croak –
каркать; /разг./ умереть). Sonny had been his friend once and if Sonny became the
head of the Family maybe he'd get a break, get on the inside.
   He watched his wife pour his coffee. Christ, what a mess she turned out to be. Five
months of marriage and she was already spreading, besides blowing up. Real guinea
broads all these Italians in the East.
    He reached out and felt Connie's soft spreading buttocks. She smiled at him and he
said contemptuously, "You got more ham than a hog." It pleased him to see the hurt
look on her face, the tears springing into her eyes. She might be a daughter of the Great
Don but she was his wife, she was his property now and he could treat her as he
pleased. It made him feel powerful that one of the Corleones was his doormat (половик
для вытирания ног).
   He had started her off just right. She had tried to keep that purse full of money
presents for herself and he had given her a nice black eye and taken the money from
her. Never told her what he'd done with it, either. That might have really caused some
trouble. Even now he felt just the slightest twinge of remorse (угрызения совести;
twinge – приступ боли). Christ, he'd blown nearly fifteen grand on the track (играя на
скачках) and show girl bimbos (bimbo – глупая красотка легкого поведения).
   He could feel Connie watching his back and so he flexed his muscles as he reached
for the plate of sweet buns on the other side of the table. He'd just polished off ham and
eggs but he was a big man and needed a big breakfast. He was pleased with the
picture he knew he presented to his wife. Not the usual greasy dark guinzo husband
(guinzo – итальяшка) but crew-cut blond, huge golden-haired forearms and broad
shoulders and thin waist. And he knew he was physically stronger than any of those so
called hard guys that worked for the family. Guys like Clemenza, Tessio, Rocco
Lampone, and that guy Paulie that somebody had knocked off. He wondered what the
story was about that. Then for some reason he thought about Sonny. Man to man he
could take Sonny, he thought, even though Sonny was a little bigger and a little heavier.
But what scared him was Sonny's rep, though he himself had never seen Sonny
anything but good-natured and kidding around. Yeah, Sonny was his buddy. Maybe with
the old Don gone, things would open up.  

74
   He dawdled (to dawdle – тратить, тянуть время, бездельничать) over his coffee. He
hated this apartment. He was used to the bigger living quarters of the West and in a
little while he would have to go crosstown to his "book" to run the noontime action. It
was a Sunday, the heaviest action of the week what with baseball going already and the
tail end of basketball and the night trotters (trotter – рысак) starting up. Gradually he
became aware of Connie bustling around behind him and he turned his head to watch
her.
   She was getting dressed up in the real New York City guinzo style that he hated. A
silk flowered-pattern dress with belt, showy bracelet and earrings, flouncy (flounce –
оборка) sleeves. She looked twenty years older. "Where the hell are you going?" he
asked.
   She answered him coldly, "To see my father out in Long Beach. He still can't get out
of bed and he needs company."
   Carlo was curious. "Is Sonny still running the show?" 
   Connie gave him a bland look. "What show?"
    He was furious. "You lousy little guinea bitch, don't talk to me like that or I'll beat that
kid right out of your belly." She looked frightened and this enraged him even more. He
sprang from his chair and slapped her across the face, the blow leaving a red welt 
(след, рубец /от удара/). With quick precision he slapped her three more times. He
saw her upper lip split bloody and puff up. That stopped him. He didn't want to leave a
mark. She ran into the bedroom and slammed the door and he heard the key turning in
the lock. He laughed and returned to his coffee.
   He smoked until it was time for him to dress. He knocked on the door and said, "Open
it up before I kick it in." There was no answer. "Come on, I gotta get dressed," he said in
a loud voice. He could hear her getting up off the bed and coming toward the door, then
the key turned in the lock. When he entered she had her back to him, walking back
toward the bed, lying down on it with her face turned away to the wall.
   He dressed quickly and then saw she was in her slip. He wanted her to go visit her
father, he hoped she would bring back information. "What's the matter, a few slaps take
all the energy out of you?" She was a lazy slut.
   "I don't wanna go." Her voice was tearful, the words mumbled. He reached out
impatiently and pulled her around to face him. And then he saw why she didn't want to
go and thought maybe it was just at well.

    	   

   He must have slapped her harder than he figured. Her left cheek was blown up, the
cut upper lip ballooned grotesquely puffy and white beneath her nose. "OK," he said,
"but I won't be home until late. Sunday is my busy day."  
He left the apartment and found a parking ticket on his car, a fifteen-dollar green one.
He put it in the glove compartment with the stack of others. He was in a good humor.

75

Slapping the spoiled little bitch around always made him feel good. It dissolved some of
the frustration (досада, расстройство /планов/, разочарование) he felt at being
treated so badly by the Corleones.
   The first time he had marked her up, he'd been a little worried. She had gone right out
to Long Beach to complain to her mother and father and to show her black eye. He had
really sweated it out. But when she came back she had been surprisingly meek, the
dutiful little Italian wife. He had made it a point to be the perfect husband over the next
few weeks, treating her well in every way, being lovey and nice with her, banging her
every day, morning and night. Finally she had told him what had happened since she
thought he would never act that way again.
   She had found her parents coolly unsympathetic and curiously amused. Her mother
had had a little sympathy and had even asked her father to speak to Carlo Rizzi. Her
father had refused. "She is my daughter," he had said, "but now she belongs to her
husband. He knows his duties. Even the King of Italy didn't dare to meddle with the
relationship of husband and wife. Go home and learn how to behave so that he will not
beat you."
   Connie had said angrily to her father, "Did you ever hit your wife?" She was his
favorite and could speak to him so impudently. He had answered, "She never gave me
reason to beat her." And her mother had nodded and smiled.
   She told them how her husband had taken the wedding present money and never told
her what he did with it. Her father had shrugged and said, "I would have done the same
if my wife had been as presumptuous (самонадеянный, дерзкий, нахальный
[prı’zΛmptju∂s]) as you."
   And so she had returned home, a little bewildered, a little frightened. She had always
been her father's favorite and she could not understand his coldness now.
   But the Don had not been so unsympathetic as he pretended. He made inquiries and
found out what Carlo Rizzi had done with the wedding present money. He had men
assigned to Carlo Rizzi's bookmaking operation who would report to Hagen everything
Rizzi did on the job. But the Don could not interfere. How expect a man to discharge his
husbandly duties to a wife whose family he feared? It was an impossible situation and

he dared not meddle. Then when Connie became pregnant he was convinced of the
wisdom of his decision and felt he never could interfere though Connie complained to
her mother about a few more beatings and the mother finally became concerned

76

enough to mention it to the Don. Connie even hinted that she might want a divorce. For
the first time in her life the Don was angry with her. "He is the father of your child. What
can a child come to in this world if he has no father?" he said to Connie.
   Learning all this, Carlo Rizzi grew confident. He was perfectly safe. In fact he bragged 
(to brag – похваляться, хвастаться) to his two "writers" on the book, Sally Rags and
Coach, about how he bounced his wife around when she got snotty and saw their looks
of respect that he had the guts (имеет смелость, не боится; gut – кишка) to
manhandle (тащить, передвигать вручную; грубо обращаться, избивать) the
daughter of the great Don Corleone.
   But Rizzi would not have felt so safe if he had known that when Sonny Corleone
learned of the beatings he had flown into a murderous rage and had been restrained
only by the sternest and most imperious command of the Don himself, a command that
even Sonny dared not disobey. Which was why Sonny avoided Rizzi, not trusting
himself to control his temper.
   So feeling perfectly safe on this beautiful Sunday morning, Carlo Rizzi sped crosstown
on 96th Street to the East Side. He did not see Sonny's car coming the opposite way
toward his house.

   Sonny Corleone had left the protection of the mall and spent the night with Lucy
Mancini in town. Now on the way home he was traveling with four bodyguards, two in
front and two behind. He didn't need guards right beside him, he could take care of a
single direct assault. The other men traveled in their own cars and had apartments on
either side of Lucy's apartment. It was safe to visit her as long as he didn't do it too often.
But now that he was in town he figured he would pick up his sister Connie and take her
out to Long Beach. He knew Carlo would be working at his book and the cheap bastard
wouldn't get her a car. So he'd give his sister a lift out.
   He waited for the two men in front to go into the building and then followed them. He
saw the two men in back pull up behind his car and get out to watch the streets. He kept
his own eyes open. It was a million-to-one shot that the opposition even knew he was in
town but he was always careful. He had learned that in the 1930's war.  
   He never used elevators. They were death traps. He climbed the eight flights to
Connie's apartment, going fast. He knocked on her door. He had seen Carlo's car go by

and knew she would be alone. There was no answer. He knocked again and then he
heard his sister's voice, frightened, timid, asking, "Who is it?"
   The fright in the voice stunned him. His kid sister had always been fresh and snotty,
tough as anybody in the family. What the hell had happened to her? He said, "It's
Sonny." The bolt inside slid back and the door opened and Connie was in his arms
sobbing. He was so surprised he just stood there. He pushed her away from him and
saw her swollen face and he understood what had happened.

77

  He pulled away from her to run down the stairs and go after her husband. Rage flamed
up in him, contorting his own face. Connie saw the rage and clung to him, not letting him
go, making him come into the apartment. She was weeping out of terror now. She knew
her older brother's temper and feared it. She had never complained to him about Carlo
for that reason. Now she made him come into the apartment with her.
   "It was my fault," she said. "I started a fight with him and I tried to hit him so he hit me.
He really didn't try to hit me that hard. I walked into it."
   Sonny's heavy Cupid face was under control. "You going to see the old man today?"
   She didn't answer, so he added, "I thought you were, so I dropped over to give you a
lift. I was in the city anyway."
   She shook her head. "I don't want them to see me this way. I'll come next week."
   "OK," Sonny said. He picked up her kitchen phone and dialed a number. "I'm getting a
doctor to come over here and take a look at you and fix you up. In your condition you
have to be careful. How many months before you have the kid?"
   "Two months," Connie said. "Sonny, please don't do anything. Please don't."
Sonny laughed. His face was cruelly intent (полный решимости; пристальный;
погруженный во что-либо [ın'tent]) when he said, "Don't worry, I won't make your kid
an orphan before he's born." He left the apartment after kissing her lightly on her
uninjured cheek.

   On East 112th Street a long line of cars were double-parked in front of a candy store
that was the headquarters of Carlo Rizzi's book. On the sidewalk in front of the store,
fathers played catch with small children they had taken for a Sunday morning ride and
to keep them company as they placed their bets (делали ставки). When they saw Carlo
Rizzi coming they stopped playing ball and bought their kids ice cream to keep them
quiet. Then they started studying the newspapers that gave the starting pitchers (pitcher
– подающий мяч; to pitch – бросать, кидать; /спорт./ подавать), trying to pick out
winning baseball bets for the day.

78
   Carlo went into the large room in the back of the store. His two "writers," a small wiry
man called Sally Rags and a big husky fellow called Coach, were already waiting for the
action to start. They had their huge, lined pads in front of them ready to write down bets.
On a wooden stand was a blackboard with the names of the sixteen big league baseball
teams chalked on it, paired to show who was playing against who. Against each pairing
was a blocked-out square to enter the odds.
   Carlo asked Coach, "Is the store phone tapped (to tap the line – подслушивать
телефонный разговор; tap – пробка, затычка; кран; to tap – вставлять кран,
снабжать втулкой; вынимать пробку) today?"
   Coach shook his head. "The tap is still off."
   Carlo went to the wall phone and dialed a number. Sally Rags and Coach watched
him impassively as he jotted down the "line," the odds on all the baseball games for that
day. They watched him as he hung up the phone and walked over to the blackboard
and chalked up the odds against each game. Though Carlo did not know it, they had
already gotten the line and were checking his work. In the first week in his job Carlo had
made a mistake in transposing the odds onto the blackboard and had created that
dream of all gamblers, a "middle." That is, by betting the odds with him and then betting
against the same team with another bookmaker at the correct odds, the gambler could
not lose. The only one who could lose was Carlo's book. That mistake had caused a
six-thousand-dollar loss in the book for the week and confirmed the Don's judgment
about his son-in-law. He had given the word that all of Carlo's work was to be checked.  
   Normally the highly placed members of the Corleone Family would never be
concerned with such an operational detail. There was at least a five-layer insulation to
their level. But since the book was being used as a testing ground for the son-in-law, it
had been placed under the direct scrutiny of Tom Hagen, to whom a report was sent
every day.
   Now with the line posted, the gamblers were thronging into the back room of the
candy store to jot down the odds on their newspapers next to the games printed there
with probable pitchers. Some of them held their little children by the hand as they looked
up at the blackboard. One guy who made big bets looked down at the little girl he was
holding by the hand and said teasingly, "Who do you like today, Honey, Giants or the
Pirates?" The little girl, fascinated by the colorful names, said, "Are Giants stronger than
Pirates?" The father laughed.
   A line began to form in front of the two writers. When a writer filled one of his sheets
he tore it off, wrapped the money he had collected in it and handed it to Carlo. Carlo

went out the back exit of the room and up a flight of steps to an apartment which
housed the candy store owner's family. He called in the bets to his central exchange

79

and put the money in a small wall safe that was hidden by an extended window drape.
Then he went back down into the candy store after having first burned the bet sheet and
flushed (to flush – спускать; бить струей) its ashes down the toilet bowl.
   None of the Sunday games started before two P.M. because of the blue laws, so after
the first crowd of bettors, family men who had to get their bets in and rush home to take
their families to the beach, came the trickling (trickle – струйка) of bachelor gamblers or
the die-hards (die-hard – твердолобый человек; консерватор) who condemned their
families to Sundays in the hot city apartments. These bachelor bettors were the big
gamblers, they bet heavier and came back around four o'clock to bet the second games 
of doubleheaders (две игры, следующие непосредственно друг за другом). They
were the ones who made Carlo's Sundays a full-time day with overtime, though some
married men called in from the beach to try and recoup (компенсировать, возмещать
[rı'ku:p]) their losses.
   By one-thirty the betting had trickled off so that Carlo and Sally Rags could go out and
sit on the stoop (крыльцо со ступенями; открытая веранда) beside the candy store
and get some fresh air. They watched the stickball (stickball – a form of baseball played
in the streets, on playgrounds, etc., in which a rubber ball and a broomstick or the like
are used in place of a baseball and bat) game the kids were having. A police car went
by. They ignored it. This book had very heavy protection at the precinct and couldn't be
touched on a local level. A raid would have to be ordered from the very top and even
then a warning would come through in plenty of time.
   Coach came out and sat beside them. They gossiped a while about baseball and
women. Carlo said laughingly, "I had to bat (бить палкой, битой; bat – бита; дубина,
било /для льна/) my wife around again today, teach her who's boss."
  Coach said casually, "She's knocked up pretty big now, ain't she?"
"Ahh, I just slapped her face a few times," Carlo said.
   "I didn't hurt her." He brooded for a moment. "She thinks she can boss me around, I
don't stand for that (не потерплю этого)."
   There were still a few bettors hanging around shooting the breeze (to shoot the
breeze – трепаться, болтать /сленг/; breeze – легкий ветерок; новость, слух), talking
baseball, some of them sitting on the steps above the two writers and Carlo. Suddenly
the kids playing stickball in the street scattered. A car came screeching (to screech –
скрипеть, визжать) up the block and to a halt in front of the candy store. It stopped so

80
abruptly that the tires screamed and before it had stopped, almost, a man came hurtling
out (to hurtle – пролетать, нестись со свистом; сильно бросать) of the driver's seat,
moving so fast that everybody was paralyzed. The man was Sonny Corleone. 
   His heavy Cupid-featured face with its thick, curved mouth was an ugly mask of fury.
In a split second he was at the stoop and had grabbed Carlo Rizzi by the throat. He
pulled Carlo away from the others, trying to drag him into the street, but Carlo wrapped
his huge muscular arms around the iron railings of the stoop and hung on. He cringed 
(to cringe – съеживаться /от страха/) away, trying to hide his head and face in the
hollow of his shoulders. His shirt ripped away in Sonny's hand.
   What followed then was sickening. Sonny began beating the cowering Carlo with his
fists, cursing him in a thick, rage-choked voice. Carlo, despite his tremendous physique,
offered no resistance, gave no cry for mercy or protest. Coach and Sally Rags dared not
interfere. They thought Sonny meant to kill his brother-in-law and had no desire to share
his fate. The kids playing stickball gathered to curse the driver who had made them
scatter, but now were watching with awestruck interest. They were tough kids but the
sight of Sonny in his rage silenced them. Meanwhile another car had drawn up behind
Sonny's and two of his bodyguards jumped out. When they saw what was happening
they too dared not interfere. They stood alert, ready to protect their chief if any
bystanders had the stupidity to try to help Carlo.
   What made the sight sickening was Carlo's complete subjection, but it was perhaps
this that saved his life. He clung to the iron railings with his hands so that Sonny could
not drag him into the street and despite his obvious equal strength, still refused to fight
back. He let the blows rain on his unprotected head and neck until Sonny's rage ebbed.
Finally, his chest heaving, Sonny looked down at him and said, "You dirty bastard, you
ever beat up my sister again I'll kill you."
   These words released the tension. Because of course, if Sonny intended to kill the
man he would never have uttered the threat. He uttered it in frustration because he
could not carry it out. Carlo refused to look at Sonny. He kept his head down and his
hands and arms entwined in the iron railing. He stayed that way until the car roared off
and he heard Coach say in his curiously paternal voice, "OK, Carlo, come on into the
store. Let's get out of sight."
   It was only then that Carlo dared to get out of his crouch against the stone steps of the
stoop and unlock his hands from the railing. Standing up, he could see the kids look at
him with the staring, sickened faces of people who had witnessed the degradation of a
fellow human being. He was a little dizzy but it was more from shock, the raw fear that

had taken command of his body; he was not badly hurt despite the shower of heavy

81

blows. He let Coach lead him by the arm into the back room of the candy store and put
ice on his face, which, though it was not cut or bleeding, was lumpy with swelling
bruises. The fear was subsiding now and the humiliation he had suffered made him sick
to his stomach so that he had to throw up (вырвать). Coach held his head over the sink,
supported him as if he were drunk, then helped him upstairs to the apartment and made
him lie down in one of the bedrooms. Carlo never noticed that Sally Rags had
disappeared.
   Sally Rags had walked down to Third Avenue and called Rocco Lampone to report
what had happened. Rocco took the news calmly and in his turn called his caporegime,
Pete Clemenza. Clemenza groaned and said, "Oh, Christ, that goddamn Sonny and his
temper," but his finger had prudently clicked down on the hook so that Rocco never
heard his remark.
   Clemenza called the house in Long Beach and got Tom Hagen. Hagen was silent for
a moment and then he said, "Send some of your people and cars out on the road to
Long Beach as soon as you can, just in case Sonny gets held up by traffic or an
accident. When he gets sore like that he doesn't know what the hell he's doing. Maybe
some of our friends on the other side will hear he was in town. You never can tell."
   Clemenza said doubtfully, "By the time I could get anybody on the road, Sonny will be
home. That goes for the Tattaglias too."
   "I know," Hagen said patiently. "But if something out of the ordinary happens, Sonny
may be held up. Do the best you can, Pete."
   Grudgingly Clemenza called Rocco Lampone and told him to get a few people and
cars and cover the road to Long Beach. He himself went out to his beloved Cadillac and
with three of the platoon (взвод; полицейский отряд [pl∂’tu:n]) of guards who now
garrisoned his home, started over the Atlantic Beach Bridge, toward New York City.
   One of the hangers-on (hanger-on – прихлебатель, приспешник) around the candy
store, a small bettor on the payroll of the Tattaglia Family as an informer, called the
contact he had with his people. But the Tattaglia Family had not streamlined (to
streamline – придавать обтекаемую форму; хорошо налаживать, подготовить) itself
for the war, the contact still had to go all the way through the insulation layers before he
finally got to the caporegime who contacted the Tattaglia chief. By that time Sonny
Corleone was safely back in the mall, in his father's house, in Long Beach, about to face
his father's wrath.

    	   

Chapter 18

   The war of 1947 between the Corleone Family and the Five Families combined
against them proved to be expensive for both sides. It was complicated by the police
pressure put on everybody to solve the murder of Captain McCluskey. It was rare that
operating officials of the Police Department ignored political muscle that protected
gambling and vice operations, but in this case the politicians were as helpless as the
general staff of a rampaging (to rampage [rжm’peıdG] – неистовствовать,
буйствовать), looting army whose field officers refuse to follow orders.
   This lack of protection did not hurt the Corleone Family as much as it did their

82

opponents. The Corleone group depended on gambling for most of its income, and was
hit especially hard in its "numbers" or "policy" branch of operations. The runners who
picked up the action were swept into police nets and usually given a medium
shellacking (полное поражение; основательная порка) before being booked. Even
some of the "banks" were located and raided, with heavy financial loss. The
"bankers," .90 calibers in their own right, complained to the caporegimes, who brought
their complaints to the family council table. But there was nothing to be done. The
bankers were told to go out of business. Local Negro free-lancers were allowed to take
over the operation in Harlem, the richest territory, and they operated in such scattered
fashion that the police found it hard to pin them down.
   After the death of Captain McCluskey, some newspapers printed stories involving him
with Sollozzo. They published proof that McCluskey had received large sums of money
in cash, shortly before his death. These stories had been planted by Hagen, the
information supplied by him. The Police Department refused to confirm or deny these
stories, but they were taking effect. The police force got the word through informers,
through police on the Family payroll, that McCluskey had been a rogue cop 
(продажный полицейский; rogue [r∂ug] – жулик, мошенник).
   Not that he had taken money or clean graft (взятка, подкуп), there was no rank-and-
file onus to that (за это бы никто не бросил в него камень; rank-and-file – члены
какой-либо организации /исключая руководителей или офицеров/, рядовые члены;
onus – бремя; ответственность, долг ['∂un∂s]). But that he had taken the dirtiest of
dirty money; murder and drugs money. And in the morality of policemen, this was
unforgivable.
   Hagen understood that the policeman believes in law and order in a curiously
innocent way. He believes in it more than does the public he serves. Law and order is,

after all, the magic from which he derives his power, individual power which he
cherishes as nearly all men cherish individual power. And yet there is always the

83

smoldering resentment (тлеющее, теплящееся негодование, возмущение, чувство
обиды [rı'zentm∂nt]) against the public he serves. They are at the same time his ward 
(опека, подопечный) and his prey (добыча). As wards they are ungrateful, abusive 
(оскорбительный, бранный; /здесь/ оскорбляющие [∂'bju:sıv]; to abuse [∂'bju:z] – 
оскорблять, ругать) and demanding. As prey they are slippery and dangerous, full of
guile (обман, хитрость, вероломство [gaıl]). As soon as one is in the policeman's
clutches (когти, лапы) the mechanism of the society the policeman defends marshals 
(выстраивать /войска/) all its resources to cheat him of his prize. The fix is put in by
politicians. Judges give lenient (мягкий, снисходительный [‘li:nj∂nt]) suspended
sentences to the worst hoodlums. Governors of the States and the President of the
United States himself give full pardons, assuming that respected lawyers have not
already won his acquittal (оправдание /юр./ [∂'kwıtl]). After a time the cop learns. Why
should he not collect the fees these hoodlums are paying? He needs it more. His
children, why should they not go to college? Why shouldn't his wife shop in more
expensive places? Why shouldn't he himself get the sun with a winter vacation in
Florida? After all, he risks his life and that is no joke.
   But usually he draws the line against accepting dirty graft. He will take money to let a
bookmaker operate. He will take money from a man who hates getting parking tickets or
speeding tickets. He will allow call girls and prostitutes to ply their trade; for a
consideration. These are vices natural to a man. But usually he will not take a payoff for
drugs, armed robberies, rape, murder and other assorted (смешанный) perversions. In
his mind these attack the very core (сердцевина) of his personal authority and cannot
be countenanced (countenance [‘kauntın∂ns] – выражение лица; to keep one’s
countenance – не показывать вида; to countenance – терпеть, одобрять,
санкционировать).
   The murder of a police Captain was comparable to regicide (цареубийство
['redGısaıd]). But when it became known that McCluskey had been killed while in the
company of a notorious narcotics peddler, when it became known that he was
suspected of conspiracy to murder, the police desire for vengeance began to fade. Also,
after all, there were still mortgage (заклад, ипотека; закладная ['mo:gıdG]) payment to
be made, cars to be paid off, children to be launched (to launch – бросать, метать;
запускать /ракету/) into the world. Without their "sheet" money (деньги, получаемые
по списку /с нарушителей закона, кормящихся на их участке/); sheet – простыня;

84
лист бумаги, печатный лист), policemen had to scramble (карабкаться, продираться,
бороться за обладание) to make ends meet. Unlicensed peddlers were good for lunch
money. Parking ticket payoffs came to nickels and dimes (nickel – монета в 5 центов;
dime – монета в 10 центов). Some of the more desperate even began shaking down
suspects (homosexuals, assaults (assault – нападение; изнасилование [∂'so:lt]) and
batteries (battery – побои, оскорбление действием /юр./) in the precinct squad rooms 
(в полицейских участках; squad [skwod] – /воен./ группа, команда /здесь – на
дежурстве/). Finally the brass relented (начальство смягчилось; brass [brα:s] –
латунь, желтая медь; начальство, старший офицер /воен. жарг/). They raised the
prices and let the Families operate. Once again the payoff sheet (список выплат) was
typed up by the precinct bagman (странствующий торговец; коммивояжер /здесь
имеется в виду (насмешливо) полицейский, собирающий свою «долю»/), listing
every man assigned to the local station and what his cut was each month. Some
semblance of social order was restored.

   It had been Hagen's idea to use private detectives to guard Don Corleone's hospital
room. These were, of course, supplemented by the much more formidable soldiers of
Tessio's regime. But Sonny was not satisfied even with this. By the middle of February,
when the Don could be moved without danger, he was taken by ambulance to his home
in the mall. The house had been renovated so that his bedroom was now a hospital
room with all equipment necessary for any emergency. Nurses specially recruited and
checked had been hired for round-the-clock care, and Dr. Kennedy, with the payment of
a huge fee, had been persuaded to become the physician in residence to this private
hospital. At least until the Don would need only nursing care.
   The mall itself was made impregnable. Button men were moved into the extra houses,
the tenants sent on vacations to their native villages in Italy, all expenses paid. 
   Freddie Corleone had been sent to Las Vegas to recuperate and also to scout out 
(разведать) the ground for a Family operation in the luxury hotel-gambling casino
complex that was springing up. Las Vegas was part of the West Coast empire still
neutral and the Don of that empire had guaranteed Freddie's safety there. The New
York five Families had no desire to make more enemies by going into Vegas after
Freddie Corleone. They had enough trouble on their hands in New York.
   Dr. Kennedy had forbade any discussion of business in front of the Don. This edict
was completely disregarded. The Don insisted on the council of war being held in his

    	   

85
room. Sonny, Tom Hagen, Pete Clemenza and Tessio gathered there the very first night
of his homecoming.  
   Don Corleone was too weak to speak much but he wished to listen and exercise veto
powers. When it was explained that Freddie had been sent to Las Vegas to learn the
gambling casino business, he nodded his head approvingly. When he learned that
Bruno Tattaglia had been killed by Corleone button men he shook his head and sighed.
But what distressed him most of all was learning that Michael had killed Sollozzo and
Captain McCluskey and had then been forced to flee to Sicily. When he heard this he
motioned them out and they continued the conference in the corner room that held the
law library.
   Sonny Corleone relaxed in the huge armchair behind the desk. "I think we'd better let
the old man take it easy for a couple of weeks, until the doc says he can do business."
He paused. "I'd like to have it going again before he gets better. We have the go-ahead
from the cops to operate. The first thing is the policy banks in Harlem. The black boys
up there had their fun, now we have to take it back. They screwed up the works but
good, just like they usually do when they run things. A lot of their runners (runner –
/здесь/ руководящий бизнесом) didn't payoff winners. They drive up in Cadillacs and
tell their players they gotta wait for their dough or maybe just pay them half what they
win. I don't want any runner looking rich to his players. I don't want them dressing too
good. I don't want them driving new cars. I don't want them welching (to welch, to welsh
– скрыться, не уплатив проигрыша) on paying a winner. And I don't want any free-
lancers staying in business, they give us a bad name. Tom, let's get that project moving
right away. Everything else will fall in line as soon as you send out the word that the lid
is off («крышка открыта» = секретность снята, можно работать спокойно)."
   Hagen said, "There are some very tough boys up in Harlem. They got a taste of the
big money. They won't go back to being runners or sub-bankers again."
   Sonny shrugged. "Just give their names to Clemenza. That's his job, straightening
them out."
   Clemenza said to Hagen, "No problem."
   It was Tessio who brought up the most important question. "Once we start operating,
the five Families start their raids. They'll hit our bankers in Harlem and our bookmakers
on the East Side. They may even try to make things tough for the garment center outfits
we service. This war is going to cost a lot of money."

    	   

86
   "Maybe they won't," Sonny said. "They know we'll hit them right back. I've got peace
feelers (feeler – щупальце; разведчик) out and maybe we can settle everything by
paying an indemnity for the Tattaglia kid."
   Hagen said, "We're getting the cold shoulder (нам оказывают холодный прием) on
those negotiations. They lost a lot of dough the last few months and they blame us for it.
With justice. I think what they want is for us to agree to come in on the narcotics trade,
to use the Family influence politically. In other words, Sollozzo's deal minus Sollozzo.
But they won't broach (broach – вертел; to broach – делать прокол, отверстие;
почать /бочку вина/; /здесь/ огласить; начать обсуждать) that until they've hurt us
with some sort of combat action. Then after we've been softened up they figure we'll
listen to a proposition on narcotics."
   Sonny said curtly, "No deal on drugs. The Don said no and it's no until he changes it."
   Hagen said briskly, "Then we're faced with a tactical problem. Our money is out in the
open. Bookmaking and policy. We can be hit. But the Tattaglia Family has prostitution
and call girls and the dock unions. How the hell are we going to hit them? The other
Families are in some gambling. But most of them are in the construction trades,
shylocking, controlling the unions, getting the government contracts. They get a lot from
strong-arm and other stuff that involves innocent people. Their money isn't out in the
street. The Tattaglia nightclub is too famous to touch it, it would cause too much of a
stink. And with the Don still out of action their political influence matches ours. So we've
got a real problem here."
   "It's my problem, Tom," Sonny said. "I'll find the answer. Keep the negotiation alive
and follow through on the other stuff. Let's go back into business and see what happens. 
Then we'll take it from there. Clemenza and Tessio have plenty of soldiers, we can
match the whole Five Families gun for gun if that's the way they want it. We'll just go to
the mattresses."
   There was no problem getting the free-lance Negro bankers out of business. The
police were informed and cracked down. With a special effort. At that time it was not
possible for a Negro to make a payoff to a high police or political official to keep such an
operation going. This was due to racial prejudice and racial distrust more than anything
else. But Harlem had always been considered a minor problem, and its settlement was
expected.
   The Five Families struck in an unexpected direction. Two powerful officials in the
garment unions were killed, officials who were members of the Corleone Family. Then
the Corleone Family shylocks were barred from the waterfront piers (pier – волнолом,

дамба; пирс) as were the Corleone Family bookmakers. The longshoremen's union
(longshoreman – портовый грузчик) locals had gone over to the Five Families.
Corleone bookmakers all over the city were threatened to persuade them to change
their allegiance (верность, лояльность; вассальная зависимость [∂'li:dG∂ns]). The

87

biggest numbers (затраты; смета) banker in Harlem, an old friend and ally (союзник) of 
the Corleone Family, was brutally murdered. There was no longer any option. Sonny
told his caporegimes to go to the mattresses. 
   Two apartments were set up in the city and furnished with mattresses for the button
men to sleep on, a refrigerator for food, and guns and ammunition. Clemenza staffed
one apartment and Tessio the other. All Family bookmakers were given bodyguard
teams. The policy bankers in Harlem, however, had gone over to the enemy and at the
moment nothing could be done about that. All this cost the Corleone Family a great deal
of money and very little was coming in. As the next few months went by, other things
became obvious. The most important was that the Corleone Family had overmatched
itself (to overmatch = to be more than a match for – превосходить /силой, умением/;
/здесь/ переоценить свои силы; match – ровня, пара; равносильный противник).
   There were reasons for this. With the Don still too weak to take a part, a great deal of
the Family's political strength was neutralized. Also, the last ten years of peace had
seriously eroded the fighting qualities of the two caporegimes, Clemenza and Tessio.
Clemenza was still a competent executioner and administrator but he no longer had the
energy or the youthful strength to lead troops. Tessio had mellowed (смягчился; mellow
– спелый, сочный; to mellow – делаться спелым, созревать; смягчаться)with age
and was not ruthless enough. Tom Hagen, despite his abilities, was simply not suited to
be a Consigliori in a time of war. His main fault was that he was not a Sicilian.
   Sonny Corleone recognized these weaknesses in the Family's wartime posture but
could not take any steps to remedy them. He was not the Don and only the Don could
replace the caporegimes and the Consigliori. And the very act of replacement would
make the situation more dangerous, might precipitate some treachery (спровоцировать,
вызвать какое-нибудь предательство, измену; to precipitate [prı’sıpıteıt] –
низвергать, повергать; ввергать; ускорять, торопить). At first, Sonny had thought of
fighting a holding action until the Don could become well enough to take charge, but
with the defection of the policy bankers, the terrorization of the bookmakers, the Family
position was becoming precarious (случайный; ненадежный, сомнительный,
опасный [prı’kε∂rı∂s]). He decided to strike back.

    	   

   But he decided to strike right at the heart of the enemy. He planned the execution of
the heads of the five Families in one grand tactical maneuver. To that purpose he put
into effect an elaborate system of surveillance (надзор, наблюдение /напр. за
подозреваемым/ [s∂:’veıl∂ns]) of these leaders. But after a week the enemy chiefs
promptly dived underground and were seen no more in public.

88

   The Five Families and the Corleone Empire were in stalemate (пат /шахм./; мертвая
точка, тупик; stale – несвежий /хлеб/; спертый /воздух/; выдохшийся /спортсмен/).

Chapter 18

   Amerigo Bonasera lived only a few blocks from his undertaking establishment on
Mulberry Street and so always went home for supper. Evenings he returned to his place
of business, dutifully joining those mourners paying their respects to the dead who lay in
state in his somber parlors.
   He always resented the jokes made about his profession, the macabre (мрачный,
ужасный /франц./ [m∂'kα:br]; dance macabre – танец смерти /жанр средневекового
искусства/) technical details which were so unimportant. Of course none of his friends
or family or neighbors would make such jokes. Any profession was worthy of respect to
men who for centuries earned bread by the sweat of their brows.
   Now at supper with his wife in their solidly furnished apartment, gilt statues of the
Virgin Mary with their red-glassed candles flickering on the sideboard, Bonasera lit a
Camel cigarette and took a relaxing glass of American whiskey. His wife brought
steaming plates of soup to the table. The two of them were alone now; he had sent his
daughter to live in Boston with her mother's sister, where she could forget her terrible
experience and her injuries at the hands of the two ruffians (хулиган, негодяй ['rΛfj∂n])
Don Corleone had punished.
   As they ate their soup his wife asked, "Are you going back to work tonight?"
   Amerigo Bonasera nodded. His wife respected his work but did not understand it. She
did not understand that the technical part of his profession was the least important. She
thought, like most other people, that he was paid for his skill in making the dead look so
lifelike in their coffins. And indeed his skill in this was legendary. But even more
important, even more necessary was his physical presence at the wake 
(бодрствование; поминки /перед погребением/). When the bereaved family 
(скорбящая, понесшая потерю семья; to bereave – лишать, отнимать) came at night

    	   

89
to receive their blood relatives and their friends beside the coffin of their loved one, they
needed Amerigo Bonasera with them.
   For he was a strict chaperone (опекун, сопровождающий; chaperone – пожилая
дама, сопровождающия молодую девушку на балы и пр.; компаньонка [‘∫жp∂r∂un])
to death. His face always grave, yet strong and comforting, his voice unwavering, yet
muted to a low register, he commanded the mourning ritual. He could quiet grief that
was too unseemly, he could rebuke (упрекать, делать выговор [rı’bju:k]) unruly
children whose parents had not the heart to chastise (подвергать наказанию
/особенно телесному/ [t∫жs’taız]). Never cloying (слащав; to cloy – пресыщать) in the
tender of his condolences, yet never was he offhand (импровизированный; /здесь/
бесцеремонный). Once a family used Amerigo Bonasera to speed a loved one on 
(проводить, отправить в последний путь близкого человека), they came back to him
again and again. And he never, never, deserted one of his clients on that terrible last
night above ground.
   Usually he allowed himself a little nap after supper. Then he washed and shaved
afresh, talcum powder generously used to shroud (посыпать, укрыть; shroud – саван;
пелена, покров) the heavy black beard. A mouthwash always. He respectfully changed
into fresh linen, white gleaming shirt, the black tie, a freshly pressed dark suit, dull black
shoes and black socks. And yet the effect was comforting instead of somber. He also
kept his hair dyed black, an unheard-of frivolity in an Italian male of his generation; but
not out of vanity. Simply because his hair had turned a lively pepper and salt, a color
which struck him as unseemly for his profession.
   After he finished his soup, his wife placed a small steak before him with a few forkfuls
of green spinach oozing yellow oil. He was a light eater. When he finished this he drank
a cup of coffee and smoked another Camel cigarette. Over his coffee he thought about
his poor daughter. She would never be the same. Her outward beauty had been
restored but there was the look of a frightened animal in her eyes that had made him
unable to bear the sight of her. And so they had sent her to live in Boston for a time.
Time would heal her wounds. Pain and terror was not so final as death, as he well knew. 
His work made him an optimist.
   He had just finished the coffee when his phone in the living room rang. His wife never
answered it when he was home, so he got up and drained his cup and stubbed out his
cigarette. As he walked to the phone he pulled off his tie and started to unbutton his
shirt, getting ready for his little nap. Then he picked up the phone and said with quiet
courtesy, "Hello."

   The voice on the other end was harsh, strained. "This is Tom Hagen," it said. "I'm
calling for Don Corleone, at his request."

90

   Amerigo Bonasera felt the coffee churning (churn – маслобойка, мешалка; to churn
– взбивать /масло/; взбалтывать, вспенивать) sourly in his stomach, felt himself
going a little sick. It was more than a year since he had put himself in the debt of the
Don to avenge his daughter's honor and in that time the knowledge that he must pay
that debt had receded. He had been so grateful seeing the bloody faces of those two
ruffians that he would have done anything for the Don. But time erodes gratitude more
quickly than it does beauty. Now Bonasera felt the sickness of a man faced with
disaster. His voice faltered as he answered, "Yes, I understand. I'm
listening."
   He was surprised at the coldness in Hagen's voice. The Consigliori had always been
a courteous man, though not Italian, but now he was being rudely brusque. "You owe
the Don a service," Hagen said. "He has no doubt that you will repay him. That you will
be happy to have this opportunity. In one hour, not before, perhaps later, he will be at
your funeral parlor to ask for your help. Be there to greet him. Don't have any people
who work for you there. Send them home. If you have any objections to this, speak now
and I'll inform Don Corleone. He has other friends who can do him this service."
   Amerigo Bonasera almost cried out in his fright, "How can you think I would refuse the
Godfather? Of course I'll do anything he wishes. I haven't forgotten my debt. I'll go to my
business immediately, at once."
   Hagen's voice was gentler now, but there was something strange about it. "Thank
you," he said. "The Don never doubted you. The question was mine. Oblige him tonight
and you can always come to me in any trouble, you'll earn my personal friendship."
   This frightened Amerigo Bonasera even more. He stuttered, "The Don himself is
coming to me tonight?"
   "Yes," Hagen said.
   "Then he's completely recovered from his injuries, thank God," Bonasera said. His
voice made it a question.
   There was a pause at the other end of the phone, then Hagen's voice said very quietly,
"Yes." There was a click and the phone went dead.
   Bonasera was sweating. He went into the bedroom and changed his shirt and rinsed
his mouth. But he didn't shave or use a fresh tie. He put on the same one he had used
during the day. He called the funeral parlor and told his assistant to stay with the
bereaved family using the front parlor that night. He himself would be busy in the

laboratory working area of the building. When the assistant started asking questions
Bonasera cut him off very curtly and told him to follow orders exactly.

91

   He put on his suit jacket and his wife, still eating, looked up at him in surprise. "I have
work to do," he said and she did not dare question him because of the look on his face.
Bonasera went out of the house and walked the few blocks to his funeral parlor.
   This building stood by itself on a large lot with a white picket fence running all around
it. There was a narrow roadway leading from the street to the rear, just wide enough for
ambulances and hearses (hearse [h∂:s] – катафалк, похоронные дроги). Bonasera
unlocked the gate and left it open. Then he walked to the rear of the building and
entered it through the wide door there. As he did so he could see mourners already
entering the front door of the funeral parlor to pay their respects to the current corpse.
   Many years ago when Bonasera had bought this building from an undertaker planning
to retire, there had been a stoop of about ten steps that mourners had to mount before
entering the funeral parlor. This had posed a problem. Old and crippled mourners
determined to pay their respects had found the steps almost impossible to mount, so
the former undertaker had used the freight elevator for these people, a small metal
platform, that rose out of the ground beside the building. The elevator was for coffins
and bodies. It would descend underground, then rise into the funeral parlor itself, so that
a crippled mourner would find himself rising through the floor beside the coffin as other
mourners moved their black chairs aside to let the elevator rise through the trapdoor 
(люк, опускная дверь; trap – ловушка, капкан; /вентиляционная/ дверь /в шахте/).
Then when the crippled or aged mourner (скорбящий; to mourn – скорбеть,
оплакивать /кого-либо/) had finished paying his respects, the elevator would again
come up through the polished floor to take him down and out again.
   Amerigo Bonasera had found this solution to the problem unseemly (неподобающий,
непристойный) and penny-pinching (мелочный, скаредный, экономящий на копейке;
to pinch – щипать; сжимать; скупиться). So he had had the front of the building
remodeled, the stoop done away with and a slightly inclining walk put in its place. But of
course the elevator was still used for coffins and corpses.
   In the rear of the building, cut off from the funeral parlor and reception rooms by a
massive soundproof (звуконепроницаемый) door, was the business office, the
embalming (to embalm [ım'bα:m] – бальзамировать; balm – бальзам) room, a
storeroom for coffins, and a carefully locked closet holding chemicals and the awful
tools of his trade. Bonasera went to the office, sat at his desk and lit up a Camel, one of
the few times he had ever smoked in this building. Then he waited for Don Corleone.

   He waited with a feeling of the utmost despair. For he had no doubt as to what

92

services he would be called upon to perform. For the last year the Corleone Family had
waged war against the five great Mafia Families of New York and the carnage had filled
the newspapers. Many men on both sides had been killed. Now the Corleone Family
had killed somebody so important that they wished to hide his body, make it disappear,
and what better way than to have it officially buried by a registered undertaker? And
Amerigo Bonasera had no illusions about the act he was to commit. He would be an
accessory to murder. If it came out, he would spend years in jail. His daughter and wife
would be disgraced, his good name, the respected name of Amerigo Bonasera,
dragged through the bloody mud of the Mafia war.
   He indulged himself (позволил себе) by smoking another Camel. And then he
thought of something even more terrifying. When the other Mafia Families found out that
he had aided the Corleones they would treat him as an enemy. They would murder him.
And now he cursed the day he had gone to the Godfather and begged for his
vengeance. He cursed the day his wife and the wife of Don Corleone had become
friends. He cursed his daughter and America and his own success. And then his
optimism returned. It could all go well. Don Corleone was a clever man. Certainly
everything had been arranged to keep the secret. He had only to keep his nerve. For of
course the one thing more fatal than any other was to earn the Don's displeasure.
   He heard tires on gravel. His practiced ear told him a car was coming through the
narrow driveway and parking in the back yard. He opened the rear door to let them in.
The huge fat man, Clemenza, entered, followed by two very rough-looking young
fellows. They searched the rooms without saying a word to Bonasera, then Clemenza
went out. The two young men remained with the undertaker.
   A few moments later Bonasera recognized the sound of a heavy ambulance coming
through the narrow driveway. Then Clemenza appeared in the doorway followed by two
men carrying a stretcher (носилки; to stretch – растягивать/ся/, вытягивать/ся/). And
Amerigo Bonasera's worst fears were realized. On the stretcher was a corpse swaddled 
(to swaddle – пеленать, свивать /младенца/) in a gray blanket but with bare yellow
feet sticking out the end.
   Clemenza motioned the stretcher-bearers into the embalming room. And then from
the blackness of the yard another man stepped into the lighted office room. It was Don
Corleone.
   The Don had lost weight during his illness and moved with a curious stiffness. He was
holding his hat in his hands and his hair seemed thin over his massive skull. He looked

older, more shrunken than when Bonasera had seen him at the wedding, but he still

93

radiated power. Holding his hat against his chest, he said to Bonasera, "Well, old friend,
are you ready to do me this service?"
   Bonasera nodded. The Don followed the stretcher into the embalming room and
Bonasera trailed after him. The corpse was on one of the guttered (gutter –
водосточный желоб, сточная канавка) tables. Don Corleone made a tiny gesture with
his hat and the other men left the room.
   Bonasera whispered, "What do you wish me to do?"
   Don Corleone was staring at the table. "I want you to use all your powers, all your skill, 
as you love me," he said. "I do not wish his mother to see him as he is." He went to the
table and drew down the gray blanket. Amerigo Bonasera against all his will, against all
his years of training and experience, let out a gasp of horror. On the embalming table
was the bullet-smashed face of Sonny Corleone. The left eye drowned in blood had a
star fracture (трещина, излом, разрыв) in its lens (линза; хрусталик глаза). The
bridge of his nose and left cheekbone were hammered into pulp.
   For one fraction of a second the Don put out his hand to support himself against
Bonasera's body. "See how they have massacred my son," he said.

Chapter 19

   Perhaps it was the stalemate that made Sonny Corleone embark on the bloody
course of attrition (трение, изнашивание от трения; истощение, изнурение) that
ended in his own death. Perhaps it was his dark violent nature given full rein. In any
case, that spring and summer he mounted senseless raids on enemy auxiliaries 
(auxiliary [o:g’zılj∂rı] – вспомогательный; помощник). Tattaglia Family pimps (pimp –
сводник, сутенер) were shot to death in Harlem, dock goons (goon – головорез,
наемный бандит) were massacred. Union officials who owed allegiance to the Five
Families were warned to stay neutral, and when the Corleone bookmakers and shylocks
were still barred from the docks, Sonny sent Clemenza and his regime to wreak (давать
выход, волю чувству [ri:k], to wreak vengeance upon one’s enemy – отомстить врагу)
havoc (опустошение, разрушение ['hжv∂k]) upon the long shore.
   This slaughter was senseless because it could not affect the outcome of the war.
Sonny was a brilliant tactician and won his brilliant victories. But what was needed was
the strategical genius of Don Corleone. The whole thing degenerated into such a deadly
guerrilla war that both sides found themselves losing a great deal of revenue and lives

to no purpose. The Corleone Family was finally forced to close down some of its most

94

profitable bookmaking stations, including the book given to son-in-law Carlo Rizzi for his
living. Carlo took to drink and running with chorus girls and giving his wife Connie a hard
time. Since his beating at the hands of Sonny he had not dared to hit his wife again but
he had not slept with her. Connie had thrown herself at his feet and he had spurned her,
as he thought, like a Roman, with exquisite patrician pleasure. He had sneered at her,
"Go call your brother and tell him I won't screw you, maybe he'll beat me up until I get a
hard on (эрекция)."
   But he was in deadly fear of Sonny though they treated each other with cold
politeness. Carlo had the sense to realize that Sonny would kill him, that Sonny was a
man who could, with the naturalness of an animal, kill another man, while he himself
would have to call up all his courage, aIl his will, to commit murder. It never occurred to
Carlo that because of this he was a better man than Sonny Corleone, if such terms
could be used; he envied Sonny his awesome savagery, a savagery which was now
becoming a legend.
   Tom Hagen, as the Consigliori, disapproved of Sonny's tactics and yet decided not to
protest to the Don simply because the tactics, to some extent, worked. The Five
Families seemed to be cowed (to cow – запугивать, усмирять), finally, as the attrition
went on, and their counterblows weakened and finally ceased altogether. Hagen at first
distrusted this seeming pacification of the enemy but Sonny was jubilant (ликующий,
торжествующий ['dGu:bıl∂nt]). "I'll pour it on," he told Hagen, "and then those bastards
will come begging for a deal."
   Sonny was worried about other things. His wife was giving him a hard time because
the rumors had gotten to her that Lucy Mancini had bewitched her husband. And though
she joked publicly about her Sonny's equipment and technique, he had stayed away
from her too long and she missed him in her bed, and she was making life miserable for
him with her nagging.
   In addition to this Sonny was under the enormous strain of being a marked man. He
had to be extraordinarily careful in all his movements and he knew that his visits to Lucy
Mancini had been charted by the enemy. But here he took elaborate precautions since
this was the traditional vulnerable spot. He was safe there. Though Lucy had not the
slightest suspicion, she was watched twenty-four hours a day by men of the Santino
regime and when an apartment became vacant on her floor it was immediately rented
by one of the most reliable men of that regime.

    	   

   The Don was recovering and would soon be able to resume command. At that time
the tide of battle must swing to the Corleone Family. This Sonny was sure of.
Meanwhile he would guard his Family's empire, earn the respect of his father, and,

95

since the position was not hereditary to an absolute degree, cement his claim as heir to
the Corleone Empire.
   But the enemy was making its plans. They too had analyzed the situation and had
come to the conclusion that the only way to stave off (предотвратить, отсрочить
/бедствие/; stave – палка, шест) complete defeat was to kill Sonny Corleone. They
understood the situation better now and felt it was possible to negotiate with the Don,
known for his logical reasonableness. They had come to hate Sonny for his
bloodthirstiness, which they considered barbaric. Also not good business sense.
Nobody wanted the old days back again with all its turmoil (суматоха, беспорядок
['t∂:moıl]) and trouble.
   One evening Connie Corleone received an anonymous phone call, a girl's voice,
asking for Carlo. "Who is this?" Connie asked.
   The girl on the other end giggled and said, "I'm a friend of Carlo's. I just wanted to tell
him I can't see him tonight. I have to go out of town."
   "You lousy bitch," Connie Corleone said. She screamed it again into the phone. "You
lousy tramp bitch." There was a click on the other end.
   Carlo had gone to the track for that afternoon and when he came home in the late
evening he was sore at losing and half drunk from the bottle he always carried. As soon
as he stepped into the door, Connie started screaming curses at him. He ignored her
and went in to take a shower. When he came out he dried his naked body in front of her
and started dolling up (to doll up – наряжать/ся/; doll – кукла) to go out.
   Connie stood with hands on hips, her face pointy (заостренный) and white with rage.
"You're not going any place," she said. "Your girl friend called and said she can't make it
tonight. You lousy bastard, you have the nerve to give your whores my phone number.
I'll kill you, you bastard." She rushed at him, kicking and scratching.
   He held her off with one muscular forearm. "You're crazy," he said coldly. But she
could see he was worried, as if he knew the crazy girl he was screwing would actually
pull such a stunt (удачное, эффектное выступление; штука, трюк, фокус). "She was
kidding around, some nut," Carlo said.
   Connie ducked (to duck – нырять, увертываться; duck – утка) around his arm and
clawed (to claw – царапать; claw – коготь) at his face. She got a little bit of his cheek
under her fingernails. With surprising patience he pushed her away. She noticed he was 

96
careful because of her pregnancy and that gave her the courage to feed her rage. She
was also excited. Pretty soon she wouldn't be able to do anything, the doctor had said
no sex for the last two months and she wanted it, before the last two months started.
Yet her wish to inflict a physical injury on Carlo was very real too. She followed him into
the bedroom.
   She could see he was scared and that filled her with contemptuous delight. "You're
staying home," she said, "you're not going out."
   "OK, OK," he said. He was still undressed, only wearing his shorts. He liked to go
around the house like that, he was proud of his V-shaped body, the golden skin. Connie
looked at him hungrily. He tried to laugh. "You gonna give me something to eat at
least?"
   That mollified (to mollify – смягчить) her, his calling on her duties, one of them at
least. She was a good cook, she had learned that from her mother. She sauteed (to
sautй – потушить, приготовить что-либо быстро в небольшом количестве масла
или жира) veal and peppers, preparing a mixed salad while the pan simmered (to
simmer – закипать; кипеть на медленном огне). Meanwhile Carlo stretched out on his
bed to read the next day's racing form. He had a water glass full of whiskey beside him
which he kept sipping at.
   Connie came into the bedroom. She stood in the doorway as if she could not come
close to the bed without being invited. "The food is on the table," she said.
   "I'm not hungry yet," he said, still reading the racing form.
   "It's on the table," Connie said stubbornly.
   "Stick it up your ass," Carlo said. He drank off the rest of the whiskey in the water
glass, tilted the bottle to fill it again. He paid no more attention to her.
   Connie went into the kitchen, picked up the plates filled with food and smashed them
against the sink. The loud crashes brought Carlo in from the bedroom. He looked at the
greasy veal and peppers splattered all over the kitchen walls and his finicky 
(разборчивый, мелочно требовательный) neatness was outraged. "You filthy guinea
spoiled brat," he said venomously. "Clean that up right now or I'll kick the shit out of
you."
   "Like hell I will," Connie said. She held her hands like claws ready to scratch his bare
chest to ribbons.
   Carlo went back into the bedroom and when he came out he was holding his belt
doubled in his hand. "Clean it up," he said and there was no mistaking the menace in
his voice. She stood there not moving and he swung the belt against her heavily padded

97
hips, the leather stinging but not really hurting. Connie retreated to the kitchen cabinets
and her hand went into one of the drawers to haul out the long bread knife. She held it
ready.
   Carlo laughed. "Even the female Corleones are murderers," he said. He put the belt
down on the kitchen table and advanced toward her. She tried a sudden lunge but her
pregnant heavy body made her slow and he eluded the thrust she aimed at his groin in
such deadly earnest. He disarmed her easily and then he started to slap her face with a
slow medium-heavy stroke so as not to break the skin. He hit her again and again as
she retreated around the kitchen table trying to escape him and he pursued her into the
bedroom. She tried to bite his hand and he grabbed her by the hair to lift her head up.
He slapped her face until she began to weep like a little girl, with pain and humiliation.
Then he threw her contemptuously onto the bed. He drank from the bottle of whiskey
still on the night table. He seemed very drunk now, his light blue eyes had a crazy glint
in them and finally Connie was truly afraid.
   Carlo straddled his legs apart and drank from the bottle. He reached down and
grabbed a chunk (толстый кусок, ломоть) of her pregnant heavy thigh in his hand. He
squeezed very hard, hurting her and making her beg for mercy. "You're fat as a pig," he
said with disgust and walked out of the bedroom.
   Thoroughly frightened and cowed, she lay in the bed, not daring to see what her
husband was doing in the other room. Finally she rose and went to the door to peer into
the living room. Carlo had opened a fresh bottle of whiskey and was sprawled on the
sofa. In a little while he would drink himself into sodden (промокший, пропитанный;
отупевший /напр. от усталости, пьянства/) sleep and she could sneak into the kitchen
and call her family in Long Beach. She would tell her mother to send someone out here
to get her. She just hoped Sonny didn't answer the phone, she knew it would be best to
talk to Tom Hagen or her mother.
   It was nearly ten o'clock at night when the kitchen phone in Don Corleone's house
rang. It was answered by one of the Don's bodyguards who dutifully turned the phone
over to Connie's mother. But Mrs. Corleone could hardly understand what her daughter
was saying, the girl was hysterical yet trying to whisper so that her husband in the next
room would not hear her. Also her face had become swollen because of the slaps, and
her puffy lips thickened her speech. Mrs. Corleone made a sign to the bodyguard that
he should call Sonny, who was in the living room with Tom Hagen.
   Sonny came into the kitchen and took the phone from his mother. "Yeah, Connie," he
said.

98
   Connie was so frightened both of her husband and of what her brother would do that
her speech became worse. She babbled, "Sonny, just send a car to bring me home, I'll
tell you then, it's nothing, Sonny. Don't you come. Send Tom, please, Sonny. It's
nothing, I just want to come home."
   By this time Hagen had come into the room. The Don was already under a sedated
sleep in the bedroom above and Hagen wanted to keep an eye on Sonny in all crises.
The two interior bodyguards were also in the kitchen. Everybody was watching Sonny
as he listened on the phone.
   There was no question that the violence in Sonny Corleone's nature rose from some
deep mysterious physical well. As they watched they could actually see the blood
rushing to his heavily corded neck, could see the eyes film with hatred, the separate
features of his face tightening, growing pinched, then his face took on the grayish hue of
a sick man fighting off some sort of death, except that the adrenalin pumping through
his body made his hands tremble. But his voice was controlled, pitched low, as he told
his sister, "You wait there. You just wait there." He hung up the phone.
    He stood there for a moment quite stunned with his own rage, then he said, "The
fucking sonofabitch, the fucking sonofabitch." He ran out of the house.
   Hagen knew the look on Sonny's face, all reasoning power had left him. At this
moment Sonny was capable of anything. Hagen also knew that the ride into the city
would cool Sonny off, make him more rational. But that rationality might make him even
more dangerous, though the rationality would enable him to protect himself against the
consequences of his rage. Hagen heard the car motor roaring into life and he said to the
two bodyguards, "Go after him."
   Then he went to the phone and made some calls. He arranged for some men of
Sonny's regime living in the city to go up to Carlo Rizzi's apartment and get Carlo out of
there. Other men would stay with Connie until Sonny arrived. He was taking a chance 
(рисковал), thwarting (thwart – банка на гребной шлюпке; поперечный; to thwart –
перечить; /по/мешать исполнению, /здесь/ раздражая, действуя ему «против
шерсти») Sonny, but he knew the Don would back him up. He was afraid that Sonny
might kill Carlo in front of witnesses. He did not expect trouble from the enemy. The
Five Families had been quiet too long and obviously were looking for peace of some
kind.
   By the time Sonny roared out of the mall in his Buick, he had already regained, partly,
his senses. He noted the two bodyguards getting into a car to follow him and approved.

    	   

He expected no danger, the Five Families had quit counterattacking, were not really
fighting anymore.
He had grabbed his jacket in the foyer and there was a gun in a secret dashboard 
(щиток, приборная доска) compartment (отделение) of the car, the car registered in

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the name of a member of his regime, so that he personally could not get into any legal
trouble. But he did not anticipate needing any weapon. He did not even know what he
was going to do with Carlo Rizzi.
   Now that he had a chance to think, Sonny knew he could not kill the father of an
unborn child, and that father his sister's husband. Not over a domestic spat (небольшая
ссора; легкий удар, шлепок; to spat – похлопать, пошлепать; побраниться; слегка
поссориться). Except that it was not just a domestic spat. Carlo was a bad guy and
Sonny felt responsible that his sister had met the bastard through him.
   The paradox in Sonny's violent nature was that he could not hit a woman and had
never done so. That he could not harm a child or anything helpless. When Carlo had
refused to fight back against him that day, it had kept Sonny from killing him; complete
submission disarmed his violence. As a boy, he had been truly tenderhearted. That he
had become a murderer as a man was simply his destiny.
   But he would settle this thing once and for all, Sonny thought, as he headed the Buick
toward the causeway (мостовая, мощеная дорожка, тротуар; дамба, гать) that would
take him over the water from Long Beach to the parkways on the other side of Jones
Beach. He always used this route when he went to New York. There was less traffic.
   He decided he would send Connie home with the bodyguards and then he would have
a session with his brother-in-law. What would happen after that he didn't know. If the
bastard had really hurt Connie, he'd make a cripple out of the bastard. But the wind
coming over the causeway, the salty freshness of the air, cooled his anger. He put the
window down all the way.
   He had taken the Jones Beach Causeway, as always, because it was usually
deserted this time of night, at this time of year, and he could speed recklessly until he hit
the parkways on the other side. And even there traffic would be light. The release of
driving very fast would help dissipate what he knew was a dangerous tension. He had
already left his bodyguards' car far behind.
   The causeway was badly lit, there was not a single car. Far ahead he saw the white
cone of the manned tollbooth (будка для сбора дорожной пошлины: toll).
   There were other tollbooths beside it but they were staffed only during the day, for
heavier traffic. Sonny started braking the Buick and at the same time searched his

pockets for change. He had none. He reached for his wallet, flipped it open with one

100

hand and fingered out a bill. He came within the arcade of light and he saw to his mild
surprise a car in the tollbooth slot (щелка, щель, прорезь; /здесь/ узкий проезд возле
будки) blocking it, the driver obviously asking some sort of directions from the toll taker.
Sonny honked (to honk – кричать /о диких гусях/; сигналить /авто/) his horn and the
other car obediently rolled through to let his car slide into the slot.
   Sonny handed the toll taker the dollar bill and waited for his change. He was in a hurry
now to close the window. The Atlantic Ocean air had chilled the whole car. But the toll
taker was fumbling with his change; the dumb son of a bitch actually dropped it. Head
and body disappeared as the toll man stooped down in his booth to pick up the money.
   At that moment Sonny noticed that the other car had not kept going but had parked a
few feet ahead, still blocking his way. At that same moment his lateral vision caught
sight of another man in the darkened tollbooth to his right. But he did not have time to
think about that because two men came out of the car parked in front and walked
toward him. The toll collector still had not appeared. And then in the fraction of a second
before anything actually happened, Santino Corleone knew he was a dead man. And in
that moment his mind was lucid, drained of all violence, as if the hidden fear finally real
and present had purified him.
   Even so, his huge body in a reflex for life crashed against the Buick door, bursting its
lock. The man in the darkened tollbooth opened fire and the shots caught Sonny
Corleone in the head and neck as his massive frame spilled out of the car. The two men
in front held up their guns now, the man in the darkened tollbooth cut his fire, and
Sonny's body sprawled on the asphalt with the legs still partly inside. The two men each
fired shots into Sonny's body, then kicked him in the face to disfigure his features even
more, to show a mark made by a more personal human power.
   Seconds afterward, all four men, the three actual assassins (assassin [∂'sжsın] –
/наемный, нападающий из-за угла/ убийца) and the bogus (поддельный, фиктивный)
toll collector, were in their car and speeding toward the Meadowbrook Parkway on the
other side of Jones Beach. Their pursuit was blocked by Sonny's car and body in the
tollgate slot but when Sonny's bodyguards pulled up a few minutes later and saw his
body lying there, they had no intention to pursue. They swung their car around in a huge
arc and returned to Long Beach. At the first public phone off the causeway one of them
hopped out and called Tom Hagen. He was very curt and very brisk. "Sonny's dead,
they got him at the Jones Beach toll."

    	   

   Hagen's voice was perfectly calm. "OK," he said. "Go to Clemenza's house and tell
him to come here right away. He'll tell you what to do."
   Hagen had taken the call in the kitchen, with Mama Corleone bustling around

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preparing a snack for the arrival of her daughter. He had kept his composure and the
old woman had not noticed anything amiss. Not that she could not have, if she wanted
to, but in her life with the Don she had learned it was far wiser not to perceive. That if it
was necessary to know something painful, it would be told to her soon enough. And if it
was a pain that could be spared her, she could do without. She was quite content not to
share the pain of her men, after all did they share the pain of women? Impassively she
boiled her coffee and set the table with food. In her experience pain and fear did not dull
physical hunger; in her experience the taking of food dulled pain. She would have been
outraged if a doctor had tried to sedate her with a drug, but coffee and a crust of bread
were another matter; she came, of course, from a more primitive culture.
   And so she let Tom Hagen escape to his corner conference room and once in that
room, Hagen began to tremble so violently he had to sit down with his legs squeezed
together, his head hunched into his contracted shoulders, hands clasped together
between his knees as if he were praying to the devil.
   He was, he knew now, no fit Consigliori for a Family at war. He had been fooled,
faked out, by the Five Families and their seeming timidity. They had remained quiet,
laying their terrible ambush (засада ['жmbu∫]). They had planned and waited, holding
their bloody hands no matter what provocation they had been given. They had waited to
land one terrible blow. And they had. Old Genco Abbandando would never have fallen
for it, he would have smelled a rat, he would have smoked them out, tripled his 
precautions. And through all this Hagen felt his grief. Sonny had been his true brother,
his savior; his hero when they had been boys together. Sonny had never been mean or
bullying (to bully – задирать; запугивать) with him, had always treated him with
affection, had taken him in his arms when Sollozzo had turned him loose. Sonny's joy at
that reunion had been real. That he had grown up to be a cruel and violent and bloody
man was, for Hagen, not relevant (уместный, относящийся к делу ['relıv∂nt]).
   He had walked out of the kitchen because he knew he could never tell Mama
Corleone about her son's death. He had never thought of her as his mother as he
thought of the Don as his father and Sonny as his brother. His affection for her was like
his affection for Freddie and Michael and Connie. The affection for someone who has
been kind but not loving. But he could not tell her. In a few short months she had lost all

    	   

102
her sons; Freddie exiled to Nevada, Michael hiding for his life in Sicily, and now Santino
dead. Which of the three had she loved most of all? She had never shown.
   It was no more than a few minutes, Hagen got control of himself again and picked up
the phone. He called Connie's number. It rang for a long time before Connie answered
in a whisper.
   Hagen spoke to her gently. "Connie, this is Tom. Wake your husband up, I have to
talk to him."
   Connie said in a low frightened voice, "Tom, is Sonny coming here?"
"No," Hagen said. "Sonny's not coming there. Don't worry about that. Just wake Carlo
up and tell him it's very important I speak to him."
   Connie's voice was weepy. "Tom, he beat me up, I'm afraid he'll hurt me again if he
knows I called home."
   Hagen said gently, "He won't. He'll talk to me and I'll straighten him out. Everything
will be OK. Tell him it's very important, very, very important he come to the phone. OK?"
   It was almost five minutes before Carlo's voice came over the phone, a voice half
slurred by whiskey and sleep. Hagen spoke sharply to make him alert.
   "Listen, Carlo," he said, "I'm going to tell you something very shocking. Now prepare
yourself because when I tell it to you I want you to answer me very casually as if it's less
than it is. I told Connie it was important so you have to give her a story. Tell her the
Family has decided to move you both to one of the houses in the mall and to give you a
big job. That the Don has finally decided to give you a chance in the hope of making
your home life better. You got that?"
   There was a hopeful note in Carlo's voice as he answered, "Yeah, OK."
   Hagen went on, "In a few minutes a couple of my men are going to knock on your
door to take you away with them. Tell them I want them to call me first. Just tell them
that. Don't say anything else. I'll instruct them to leave you there with Connie. OK?"
   "Yeah, yeah, I got it," Carlo said. His voice was excited. The tension in Hagen's voice
seemed to have finally alerted him that the news coming up was going to be really
important. Hagen gave it to him straight. "They killed Sonny tonight. Don't say anything.
Connie called him while you were asleep and he was on his way over there, but I don't
want her to know that, even if she guesses it, I don't want her to know it for sure. She'll
start thinking it's all her fault. Now I want you to stay with her tonight and not tell her
anything. I want you to make up with her. I want you to be the perfect loving husband.
And I want you to stay that way until she has her baby at least. Tomorrow morning
somebody, maybe you, maybe the Don, maybe her mother, will tell Connie that her

103
brother got killed. And I want you by her side. Do me this favor and I'll take care of you
in the times to come. You got that?"
   Carlo's voice was a little shaky. "Sure, Tom, sure. Listen, me and you always got
along. I'm grateful. Understand?"
   "Yeah," Hagen said. "Nobody will blame your fight with Connie for causing this, don't
worry about that. I'll take care of that." He paused and softly, encouragingly, "Go ahead
now, take care of Connie." He broke the connection.
   He had learned never to make a threat, the Don had taught him that, but Carlo had
gotten the message all right: he was a hair away from death.
   Hagen made another call to Tessio, telling him to come to the mall in Long Beach
immediately. He didn't say why and Tessio did not ask. Hagen sighed. Now would come
the part he dreaded.
   He would have to waken the Don from his drugged slumber. He would have to tell the
man he most loved in the world that he had failed him, that he had failed to guard his
domain and the life of his eldest son. He would have to tell the Don everything was lost
unless the sick man himself could enter the battle. For Hagen did not delude himself.
Only the great Don himself could snatch even a stalemate from this terrible defeat.
Hagen didn't even bother checking with Don Corleone's doctors, it would be to no
purpose. No matter what the doctors ordered, even if they told him that the Don could
not rise from his sickbed on pain of death, he must tell his adopted father and then
follow him. And of course there was no question about what the Don would do. The
opinions of medical men were irrelevant now, everything was irrelevant now. The Don
must be told and he must either take command or order Hagen to surrender the
Corleone power to the Five Families.
   And yet with all his heart, Hagen dreaded the next hour. He tried to prepare his own
manner. He would have to be in all ways strict with his own guilt. To reproach himself
would only add to the Don's burden. To show his own grief would only sharpen the grief
of the Don. To point out his own shortcomings (недостатки, дефекты, то, в чем «не
дотягивает») as a wartime Consigliori, would only make the Don reproach himself for
his own bad judgment for picking such a man for such an important post.
   He must, Hagen knew, tell the news, present his analysis of what must be done to
rectify (исправить, выпрямить) the situation and then keep silent. His reactions
thereafter must be the reactions invited by his Don. If the Don wanted him to show guilt,
he would show guilt; if the Don invited grief, he would lay bare his genuine sorrow.

    	   

   Hagen lifted his head at the sound of motors, cars rolling up onto the mall. The
caporegimes were arriving.  He would brief them first and then he would go up and

104

wake Don Corleone. He got up and went to the liquor cabinet by the desk and took out
a glass and bottle. He stood there for a moment so unnerved he could not pour the
liquid from bottle to glass. Behind him, he heard the door to the room close softly and,
turning, he saw, fully dressed for the first time since he had been shot, Don Corleone.
   The Don walked across the room to his huge leather armchair and sat down. He
walked a little stiffly, his clothes hung a little loosely on his frame but to Hagen's eyes he
looked the same as always. It was almost as if by his will alone the Don had discarded
all external evidence of his still weakened frame. His face was sternly set with all its old
force and strength. He sat straight in the armchair and he said to Hagen, "Give me a
drop of anisette."
   Hagen switched bottles and poured them both a portion of the fiery, licorice-tasting
alcohol. It was peasant, homemade stuff, much stronger than that sold in stores, the gift
of an old friend who every year presented the Don with a small truckload.
   "My wife was weeping before she fell asleep," Don Corleone said. "Outside my
window I saw my caporegimes coming to the house and it is midnight. So, Consigliori of
mine, I think you should tell your Don what everyone knows."
   Hagen said quietly, "I didn't tell Mama anything. I was about to come up and wake you
and tell you the news myself. In another moment I would have come to waken you."
   Don Corleone said impassively, "But you needed a drink first."
   "Yes," Hagen said.
   "You've had your drink," the Don said. "You can tell me now." There was just the
faintest hint of reproach for Hagen's weakness.
   "They shot Sonny on the causeway," Hagen said. "He's dead."
   Don Corleone blinked (to blink – мигать, щуриться). For just the fraction of a second
the wall of his will disintegrated and the draining (to drain – дренировать, осушать
/почву/; истощать /силы, средства/) of his physical strength was plain on his face.
Then he recovered.
   He clasped his hands in front of him on top of the desk and looked directly into
Hagen's eyes. "Tell me everything that happened," he said. He held up one of his hands. 
"No, wait until Clemenza and Tessio arrive so you won't have to tell it all again."
   It was only a few moments later that the two caporegimes were escorted into the room 
by a bodyguard. They saw at once that the Don knew about his son's death because
the Don stood up to receive them. They embraced him as old comrades were permitted

105
to do. They all had a drink of anisette which Hagen poured them before he told them the
story of that night.
   Don Corleone asked only one question at the end. "Is it certain my son is dead?"
   Clemenza answered. "Yes," he said. "The bodyguards were of Santino's regime but
picked by me. I questioned them when they came to my house. They saw his body in
the light of the tollhouse. He could not live with the wounds they saw. They place their
lives in forfeit for what they say."
   Don Corleone accepted this final verdict without any sign of emotion except for a few
moments of silence. Then he said, "None of you are to concern yourselves with this
affair. None of you are to commit any acts of vengeance, none of you are to make any
inquiries to track down the murderers of my son without my express command. There
will be no further acts of war against the Five Families without my express and personal
wish. Our Family win cease all business operations and cease to protect any of our
business operations until after my son's funeral. Then we will meet here again and
decide what must be done. Tonight we must do what we can for Santino, we must bury
him as a Christian. I will have friends of mine arrange things with the police and all other 
proper authorities. Clemenza, you will remain with me at all times as my bodyguard, you
and the men of your regime. Tessio, you will guard all other members of my Family.
Tom, I want you to call Amerigo Bonasera and tell him I will need his services at some
time during this night. To wait for me at his establishment. It may be an hour, two hours,
three hours. Do you all understand that?"
   The three men nodded. Don Corleone said, "Clemenza, get some men and cars and
wait for me. I will be ready in a few minutes. Tom, you did well. In the morning I want
Constanzia with her mother. Make arrangements for her and her husband to live in the
mall. Have Sandra's friends, the women, go to her house to stay with her. My wife will
go there also when I have spoken with her. My wife will tell her the misfortune and the
women will arrange for the church to say their masses and prayers for his soul."
   The Don got up from his leather armchair. The other men rose with him and
Clemenza and Tessio embraced him again. Hagen held the door open for the Don, who
paused to look at him for a moment. Then the Don put his hand on Hagen's cheek,
embraced him quickly, and said, in Italian, "You've been a good son. You comfort me."
Telling Hagen that he had acted properly in this terrible time. The Don went up to his
bedroom to speak to his wife. It was then that Hagen made the call to Amerigo
Bonasera for the undertaker to redeem (выкупить /заложенные вещи/; возместить;
искупить) the favor he owed to the Corleones.

Book 5

Chapter 20

106

   The death of Santino Corleone sent shock waves through the underworld of the nation.
And when it became known that Don Corleone had risen from his sick bed to take
charge of the Family affairs, when spies at the funeral reported that the Don seemed to
be fully recovered, the heads of the Five Families made frantic efforts to prepare a
defense against the bloody retaliatory (to retaliate [rı’tжlıeıt] – отплачивать, отвечать
тем же самым; применять репрессалии; retaliatory [rı’tжlı∂t∂rı] – ответный,
ответный удар; репрессивный) war that was sure to follow. Nobody made the mistake
of assuming that Don Corleone could be held cheaply because of his past misfortunes.
He was a man who had made only a few mistakes in his career and had learned from
every one of them.
   Only Hagen guessed the Don's real intentions and was not surprised when emissaries
were sent to the Five Families to propose a peace. Not only to propose a peace but a
meeting of all the Families in the city and with invitations to Families all over the United
States to attend. Since the New York Families were the most powerful in the country, it
was understood that their welfare affected the welfare of the country as a whole.
   At first there were suspicions. Was Don Corleone preparing a trap (западня)? Was he
trying to throw his enemies off their guard? Was he attempting to prepare a wholesale
massacre to avenge his son? But Don Corleone soon made it clear that he was sincere.
Not only did he involve all the Families in the country in this meeting, but made no move
to put his own people on a war footing (привести в боевую готовность) or to enlist
allies. And then he took the final irrevocable (неотменяемый, окончательный,
безвозвратный [ı'rev∂k∂bl]) step that established the authenticity of these intentions
and assured the safety of the grand council to be assembled. He called on the services
of the Bocchicchio Family.
   The Bocchicchio Family was unique in that, once a particularly ferocious branch of the
Mafia in Sicily, it had become an instrument of peace in America. Once a group of men
who earned their living by a savage determination, they now earned their living in what
perhaps could be called a saintly fashion. The Bocchicchios' one asset (имущество
/часто об одном предмете/; ценное качество /разг./) was a closely knit structure of

    	   

107
blood relationships, a family loyalty severe even for a society where family loyalty came
before loyalty to a wife.
   The Bocchicchio Family, extending out to third cousins, had once numbered nearly
two hundred when they ruled the particular economy of a small section of southern
Sicily. The income for the entire family then came from four or five flour mills, by no
means owned communally, but assuring labor and bread and a minimal security for all
Family members. This was enough, with intermarriages, for them to present a common
front against their enemies.
   No competing mill, no dam that would create a water supply to their competitors or
ruin their own selling of water, was allowed to be built in their corner of Sicily. A powerful
landowning baron once tried to erect his own mill strictly for his personal use. The mill
was burned down. He called on the carabineri (полицейские /итал./) and higher
authorities, who arrested three of the Bocchicchio Family. Even before the trial the
manor house of the baron was torched (подожжен; torch – факел). The indictment 
(обвинительный акт [ın'daıtm∂nt]) and accusations were withdrawn. A few months later
one of the highest functionaries in the Italian government arrived in Sicily and tried to
solve the chronic water shortage of that island by proposing a huge dam. Engineers
arrived from Rome to do surveys while watched by grim natives, members of the
Bocchicchio clan. Police flooded the area, housed in a specially built barracks.
   It looked like nothing could stop the dam from being built and supplies and equipment
had actually been unloaded in Palermo. That was as far as they got. The Bocchicchios
had contacted fellow Mafia chiefs and extracted agreements for their aid. The heavy
equipment was sabotaged, the lighter equipment stolen. Mafia deputies in the Italian
Parliament launched a bureaucratic counterattack against the planners. This went on for
several years and in that time Mussolini came to power. The dictator decreed that the
dam must be built. It was not. The dictator had known that the Mafia would be a threat
to his regime, forming what amounted to a separate authority from his own. He gave full
powers to a high police official, who promptly solved the problem by throwing everybody
into jail or deporting them to penal work islands. In a few short years he had broken the
power of the Mafia, simply by arbitrarily arresting anyone even suspected of being a
mafioso. And so also brought ruin to a great many innocent families.
   The Bocchicchios had been rash enough to resort to force against this unlimited
power. Half of the men were killed in armed combat, the other half deported to penal
island colonies. There were only a handful left when arrangements were made for them
to emigrate to America via the clandestine underground route of jumping ship through

108
Canada. There were almost twenty immigrants and they settled in a small town not far
from New York City, in the Hudson Valley, where by starting at the very bottom they
worked their way up to owning a garbage hauling firm (фирма по вывозу мусора; to
haul – тянуть, тащить, волочить; перевозить) and their own trucks. They became
prosperous because they had no competition. They had no competition because
competitors found their trucks burned and sabotaged. One persistent fellow who
undercut prices was found buried in the garbage he had picked up during the day,
smothered (to smother [‘smΛр∂] – душить; задохнуться) to death.
   But as the men married, to Sicilian girls, needless to say, children came, and the
garbage business though providing a living, was not really enough to pay for the finer
things America had to offer. And so, as a diversification (ответвление; боковая линия;
/здесь/ дополнительное занятие), the Bocchicchio Family became negotiators and
hostages in the peace efforts of warring Mafia families.
   A strain of stupidity ran through the Bocchicchio clan, or perhaps they were just
primitive. In any case they recognized their limitations and knew they could not compete
with other Mafia families in the struggle to organize and control more sophisticated
business structures like prostitution, gambling, dope and public fraud (обман,
мошенничество /здесь – государства/ [fro:d]). They were straight-from-the-shoulder 
(сплеча, прямо, без обиняков) people who could offer a gift to an ordinary patrolman
but did not know how to approach a political bagman. They had only two assets. Their
honor and their ferocity.
   A Bocchicchio never lied, never committed an act of treachery. Such behavior was too
complicated. Also, a Bocchicchio never forgot an injury and never left it unavenged no
matter what the cost. And so by accident they stumbled into what would prove to be
their most lucrative profession.
   When warring families wanted to make peace and arrange a parley, the Bocchicchio
clan was contacted. The head of the clan would handle the initial negotiations and
arrange for the necessary hostages. For instance, when Michael had gone to meet
Sollozzo, a Bocchicchio had been left with the Corleone Family as surety for Michael's
safety, the service paid for by Sollozzo. If Michael were killed by Sollozzo, then the
Bocchicchio male hostage held by the Corleone Family would be killed by the
Corleones. In this case the Bocchicchios would take their vengeance on Sollozzo as the
cause of their clansman's death. Since the Bocchicchios were so primitive, they never
let anything, any kind of punishment, stand in their way of vengeance. They would give
up their own lives and there was no protection against them if they were betrayed. A

109
Bocchicchio hostage (заложник; залог ['hostıdG]) was gilt-edged (с золотым обрезом;
первоклассный; gilt – позолота) insurance (гарантия, страхование).
   And so now when Don Corleone employed the Bocchicchios as negotiators and
arranged for them to supply hostages for all the Families to come to the peace meeting,
there could be no question as to his sincerity. There could be no question of treachery.
The meeting would be safe as a wedding.
   Hostages given, the meeting took place in the director's conference room of a small
commercial bank whose president was indebted to Don Corleone and indeed some of
whose stock belonged to Don Corleone though it was in the president's name. The
president always treasured that moment when he had offered to give Don Corleone a
written document proving his ownership of the shares, to preclude (предотвратить) any
treachery. Don Corleone had been horrified. "I would trust you with my whole fortune,"
he told the president. "I would trust you with my life and the welfare (благосостояние)
of my children. It is inconceivable (немыслимо, непредставимо) to me that you would
ever trick me or otherwise betray me. My whole world, all my faith in my judgment of
human character would collapse. Of course I have my own written records so that if
something should happen to me my heirs would know that you hold something in trust
for them. But I know that even if I were not here in this world to guard the interests of my
children, you would be faithful to their needs." 
   The president of the bank, though not Sicilian, was a man of tender sensibilities. He
understood the Don perfectly. Now the Godfather's request was the president's
command and so on a Saturday afternoon, the executive suite of the bank, the
conference room with its deep leather chairs, its absolute privacy, was made available
to the Families.
   Security at the bank was taken over by a small army of handpicked (выбранный,
подобранный; отборный) men wearing bank guard uniforms. At ten o'clock on a
Saturday morning the conference room began to fill up. Besides the Five Families of
New York, there were representatives from ten other Families across the country, with
the exception of Chicago, that black sheep of their world. They had given up trying to
civilize Chicago, and they saw no point in including those mad dogs in this important
conference.
   A bar had been set up and a small buffet. Each representative to the conference had
been allowed one aide (помощник, адъютант [eıd]). Most of the Dons had brought their
Consiglioris as aides so there were comparatively few young men in the room. Tom
Hagen was one of those young men and the only one who was not Sicilian. He was an

object of curiosity, a freak (каприз, причуда; уродец; человек или явление,
выходящее за рамки обычного).

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   Hagen knew his manners. He did not speak, he did not smile. He waited on his boss,
Don Corleone, with all the respect of a favorite earl (граф /английский/ [∂:l]) waiting on
his king; bringing him a cold drink, lighting his cigar, positioning his ashtray; with respect
but no obsequiousness (подобострастие; obsequious [∂b’si:kwı∂s] –
подобострастный).
   Hagen was the only one in that room who knew the identity of the portraits hanging on
the dark paneled walls. They were mostly portraits of fabulous financial figures done in
rich oils. One was of Secretary of the Treasury Hamilton. Hagen could not help thinking
that Hamilton might have approved of this peace meeting being held in a banking
institution. Nothing was more calming, more conducive to pure reason, than the
atmosphere of money.
   The arrival time had been staggered (to stagger – шататься, колебаться;
регулировать часы работы) for between nine-thirty to ten A.M. Don Corleone, in a
sense the host since he had initiated the peace talks, had been the first to arrive; one of
his many virtues was punctuality. The next to arrive was Carlo Tramonti, who had made
the southern part of the United States his territory. He was an impressively handsome
middle-aged man, tall for a Sicilian, with a very deep sunburn, exquisitely tailored and
barbered. He did not look Italian, he looked more like one of those pictures in the
magazines of millionaire fishermen lolling (to loll – сидеть развалясь; стоять
/облокотясь/ в ленивой позе) on their yachts. The Tramonti Family earned its
livelihood from gambling, and no one meeting their Don would ever guess with what
ferocity he had won his empire.
   Emigrating from Sicily as a small boy, he had settled in Florida and grown to manhood 
there, employed by the American syndicate of Southern small-town politicians who
controlled gambling. These were very tough men backed up by very tough police
officials and they never suspected that they could be overthrown by such a greenhorn 
(новичок, неопытный человек) immigrant. They were unprepared for his ferocity and
could not match it simply because the rewards being fought over were not, to their
minds, worth so much bloodshed. Tramonti won over the police with bigger shares of
the gross (общая масса [gr∂us]); he exterminated those redneck (неотесанный
человек, деревенщина) hooligans who ran their operation with such a complete lack of
imagination. It was Tramonti who opened ties with Cuba and the Batista regime and
eventually poured money into the pleasure resorts of Havana gambling houses,

whorehouses, to lure (завлекать, заманивать [lu∂]) gamblers from the American

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mainland. Tramonti was now a millionaire many times over and owned one of the most
luxurious hotels in Miami Beach.
   When he came into the conference room followed by his aide, an equally sunburned
Consigliori, Tramonti embraced Don Corleone, made a face of sympathy to show he
sorrowed for the dead son.
   Other Dons were arriving. They all knew each other, they had met over the years,
either socially or when in the pursuit of their businesses. They had always showed each
other professional courtesies and in their younger, leaner (lean – тощий, худой) days
had done each other little services. The second Don to arrive was Joseph Zaluchi from
Detroit. The Zaluchi Family, under appropriate disguises and covers, owned one of the
horse-racing tracks in the Detroit area. They also owned a good part of the gambling.
Zaluchi was a moon-faced, amiable-looking man who lived in a one-hundred-thousand-
dollar house in the fashionable Grosse Point section of Detroit. One of his sons had
married into an old, well-known American family. Zaluchi, like Don Corleone, was
sophisticated (скушенный, изощренный, сложный, непростой). Detroit had the lowest 
incidence of physical violence of any of the cities controlled by the Families; there had
been only two executions in the last three years in that city. He disapproved of traffic in
drugs.
   Zaluchi had brought his Consigliori with him and both men came to Don Corleone to
embrace him. Zaluchi had a booming American voice with only the slightest trace of an
accent. He was conservatively dressed, very businessman, and with a hearty goodwill
to match. He said to Don Corleone, "Only your voice could have brought me here." Don
Corleone bowed his head in thanks. He could count on Zaluchi for support.
   The next two Dons to arrive were from the West Coast, motoring from there in the
same car since they worked together closely in any case. They were Frank Falcone and
Anthony Molinari and both were younger than any of the other men who would come to
the meeting; in their early forties. They were dressed a little more informally than the
others, there was a touch of Hollywood in their style and they were a little more friendly
than necessary. Frank Falcone controlled the movie unions and the gambling at the
studios plus a complex of pipeline (трубопровод, нефтепровод) prostitution that
supplied girls to the whorehouses of the states in the Far West. It was not in the realm
of possibility for any Don to become "show biz" but Falcone had just a touch. His fellow
Dons distrusted him accordingly.

    	   

   Anthony Molinari controlled the waterfronts of San Francisco and was preeminent 

112

(выдающийся, превосходящий других) in the empire of sports gambling. He came of
Italian fishermen stock and owned the best San Francisco sea food restaurant, in which
he took such pride that the legend had it he lost money on the enterprise by giving too
good value for the prices charged. He had the impassive face of the professional
gambler and it was known that he also had something to do with dope smuggling over
the Mexican border and from the ships plying (to ply – курсировать, совершать рейс /о
корабле/) the lanes (lane – узкая дорога, тропинка /особ. между живыми
изгородями/; морской путь) of the oriental oceans. Their aides were young, powerfully
built men, obviously not counselors but bodyguards, though they would not dare to carry
arms to this meeting. It was general knowledge that these bodyguards knew karate, a
fact that amused the other Dons but did not alarm them in the slightest, no more than if 
the California Dons had come wearing amulets blessed by the Pope. Though it must be
noted that some of these men were religious and believed in God.  
   Next arrived the representative from the Family in Boston. This was the only Don who
did not have the respect of his fellows. He was known as a man who did not do right by
his "people," who cheated them unmercifully. This could be forgiven, each man
measures his own greed. What could not be forgiven was that he could not keep order
in his empire. The Boston area had too many murders, too many petty wars for power,
too many unsupported free-lance activities; it flouted (to flout – попирать, глумиться)
the law too brazenly. If the Chicago Mafia were savages, then the Boston people were
gavones, or uncouth (неуклюжий, грубоватый, неотесанный [Λn'ku:θ]) louts (lout –
неуклюжий, неотесанный человек, деревенщина); ruffians. The Boston Don's name
was Domenick Panza. He was short, squat; as one Don put it, he looked like a thief.
   The Cleveland syndicate, perhaps the most powerful of the strictly gambling
operations in the United States, was represented by a sensitive-looking elderly man with
gaunt (сухопарый; длинный, вытянутый в длину; мрачный) features and snow-white
hair. He was known, of course not to his face, as "the Jew" because he had surrounded
himself with Jewish assistants rather than Sicilians. It was even rumored that he would
have named a Jew as his Consigliori if he had dared. In any case, as Don Corleone's
Family was known as the Irish Gang because of Hagen's membership, so Don Vincent
Forlenza's Family was known as the Jewish Family with somewhat more accuracy. But
he ran an extremely efficient organization and he was not known ever to have fainted at
the sight of blood, despite his sensitive features. He ruled with an iron hand in a velvet
political glove.

113
   The representatives of the Five Families of New York were the last to arrive and Tom
Hagen was struck by how much more imposing, impressive, these five men were than
the out-of-towners, the hicks. For one thing, the five New York Dons were in the old
Sicilian tradition, they were "men with a belly" meaning, figuratively, power and courage;
and literally, physical flesh, as if the two went together, as indeed they seem to have
done in Sicily. The five New York Dons were stout, corpulent men with massive leonine
heads, features on a large scale, fleshy imperial noses, thick mouths, heavy folded
cheeks. They were not too well tailored or barbered; they had the look of no-nonsense
busy men without vanity.
   There was Anthony Stracci, who controlled the New Jersey area and the shipping on
the West Side docks of Manhattan. He ran the gambling in Jersey and was very strong
with the Democratic political machine. He had a fleet of freight hauling trucks that made
him a fortune primarily because his trucks could travel with a heavy overload and not be
stopped and fined by highway weight inspecton. These trucks helped ruin the highways 
and then his road-building firm, with lucrative state contracts, repaired the damage
wrought. It was the kind of operation that would warm any man's heart, business of itself
creating more business. Stracci, too, was old-fashioned and never dealt in prostitution,
but because his business was on the waterfront it was impossible for him not to be
involved in the drug-smuggling traffic. Of the five New York Families opposing the
Corleones his was the least powerful but the most well disposed.
   The Family that controlled upper New York State, that arranged smuggling of Italian
immigrants from Canada, all upstate (северная часть штата) gambling and exercised
veto power on state licensing of racing tracks, was headed by Ottilio Cuneo. This was a
completely disarming man with the face of a jolly round peasant baker, whose legitimate
activity was one of the big milk companies. Cuneo was one of those men who loved
children and carried a pocket full of sweets in the hopes of being able to pleasure one of
his many grandchildren or the small offspring (отпрыск) of his associates. He wore a
round fedora with the brim turned down all the way round like a woman's sun hat, which
broadened his already moon-shaped face into the very mask of joviality. He was one of
the few Dons who had never been arrested and whose true activities had never even
been suspected. So much so that he had served on civic committees and had been
voted as "Businessman of the Year for the State of New York" by the Chamber of
Commerce.
   The closest ally to the Tattaglia Family was Don Emilio Barzini. He had some of the
gambling in Brooklyn and some in Queens. He had some prostitution. He had strong-

114
arm. He completely controlled Staten Island. He had some of the sports betting in the
Bronx and Westchester. He was in narcotics. He had close ties to Cleveland and the
West Coast and he was one of the few men shrewd enough to be interested in Las
Vegas and Reno, the open cities of Nevada. He also had interests in Miami Beach and
Cuba. After the Corleone Family, his was perhaps the strongest in New York and
therefore in the country. His influence reached even to Sicily. His hand was in every
unlawful pie. He was even rumored (о нем даже ходили слухи; rumor [‘ru:m∂] – слух,
молва) to have a toehold (точка опоры /напр. для ноги, когда взбираешься на гору/,
зацепка; toe – палец ноги) in Wall Street. He had supported the Tattaglia Family with
money and influence since the start of the war. It was his ambition to supplant 
(вытеснить, занять чье-то место [s∂’plα:nt]) Don Corleone as the most powerful and
respected Mafia leader in the country and to take over part of the Corleone empire. He
was a man much like Don Corleone, but more modern, more sophisticated, more
businesslike. He could never be called an old Moustache Pete and he had the
confidence of the newer, younger, brasher (brashy – щетинистый, шероховатый)
leaders on their way up. He was a man of great personal force in a cold way, with none
of Don Corleone's warmth and he was perhaps at this moment the most "respected"
man in the group.
   The last to arrive was Don Phillip Tattaglia, the head of the TattagIia Family that had
directly challenged the Corleone power by supporting Sollozzo, and had so nearly
succeeded. And yet curiously enough he was held in a slight contempt by the others.
For one thing, it was known that he had allowed himself to be dominated by Sollozzo,
had in fact been led by the nose by that fine Turkish hand. He was held responsible for
all this commotion (волнение /моря/; смятение; суматоха, суета), this uproar that had
so affected the conduct of everyday business by the New York Families. Also he was a
sixty-year-old dandy (щеголь, франт) and woman-chaser. And he had ample 
(обширный, достаточный) opportunity to indulge his weakness. 
   For the Tattaglia Family dealt in women. Its main business was prostitution. It also
controlled most of the nightclubs in the United States and could place any talent
anywhere in the country. Phillip Tattaglia was not above using strong-arm to get control
of promising singers and comics and muscling in on record firms. But prostitution was
the main source of the Family income.
   His personality was unpleasant to these men. He was a whiner (to whine – скулить,
хныкать, плакаться), always complaining of the costs in his Family business. Laundry
bills, all those towels, ate up the profits (but he owned the laundry firm that did the work).

The girls were lazy and unstable, running off, committing suicide. The pimps were

115

treacherous and dishonest and without a shred (лоскуток, клочок) of loyalty. Good help
was hard to find. Young lads of Sicilian blood turned up their noses at such work,
considered it beneath their honor to traffic and abuse women; those rascals who would
slit a throat with a song on their lips and the cross of an Easter palm in the lapel of their
jackets. So Phillip Tattaglia would rant (говорить напыщенно, декламировать,
проповедовать) on to audiences unsympathetic and contemptuous. His biggest howl 
(вой, завывание) was reserved for authorities who had it in their power to issue and
cancel liquor licenses for his nightclubs and cabarets. He swore he had made more
millionaires than Wall Street with the money he had paid those thieving guardians of
official seals.
   In a curious way his almost victorious war against the Corleone Family had not won
him the respect it deserved. They knew his strength had come first from Sollozzo and
then from the Barzini Family. Also the fact that with the advantage of surprise he had
not won complete victory was evidence against him. If he had been more efficient, all
this trouble could have been avoided. The death of Don Corleone would have meant the
end of the war. It was proper, since they had both lost sons in their war against each
other, that Don Corleone and Phillip Tattaglia should acknowledge each other's
presence only with a formal nod. Don Corleone was the object of attention, the other
men studying him to see what mark of weakness had been left on him by his wounds
and defeats. The puzzling factor was why Don Corleone had sued for peace after the
death of his favorite son. It was an acknowledgment of defeat and would almost surely
lead to a lessening of his power. But they would soon know.
   There were greetings, there were drinks to be served and almost another half hour
went by before Don Corleone took his seat at the polished walnut table. Unobtrusively 
(unobtrusive [Λn∂b’tru:sıv] – ненавязчивый, скромный), Hagen sat in the chair slightly
to the Don's left and behind him. This was the signal for the other Dons to make their
way to the table. Their aides sat behind them, the Consiglioris up close so that they
could offer any advice when needed.
   Don Corleone was the first to speak and he spoke as if nothing had happened. As if
he had not been grievously wounded and his eldest son slain (to slay-slew-slain –
убивать /книжн./), his empire in a shambles (в развалинах, руинах), his personal
family scattered, Freddie in the West and under the protection of the Molinari Family
and Michael secreted in the wastelands (пустынные, невозделанные земли) of Sicily.
He spoke naturally, in Sicilian dialect.

   "I want to thank you all for coming," he said. "I consider it a service done to me
personally and I am in the debt of each and every one of you. And so I will say at the
beginning that. I am here not to quarrel or convince, but only to reason and as a

116

reasonable man do everything possible for us all to part friends here too. I give my word
on that, and some of you who know me well know I do not give my word lightly. Ah, well,
let's get down to business. We are all honorable men here, we don't have to give each
other assurances as if we were lawyers."
   He paused. None of the others spoke. Some were smoking cigars, others sipping their
drinks. All of these men were good listeners, patient men. They had one other thing in
common. They were those rarities, men who had refused to accept the rule of organized
society, men who refused the dominion of other men. There was no force, no mortal
man who could bend them to their will unless they wished it. They were men who
guarded their free will with wiles (wile – хитрость, уловка, обман) and murder. Their
wills could be subverted (to suvert [sΛb’v∂:t] – ниспровергнуть; разрушить) only by
death. Or the utmost reasonableness.
   Don Corleone sighed. "How did things ever go so far?" he asked rhetorically. "Well, no
matter. A lot of foolishness has come to pass. It was so unfortunate, so unnecessary.
But let me tell what happened, as I see it."
   He paused to see if someone would object to his telling his side of the story.
   "Thank God my health has been restored and maybe I can help set this affair aright.
Perhaps my son was too rash, too headstrong, I don't say no to that. Anyway let me just
say that Sollozzo came to me with a business affair in which he asked me for my money
and my influence. He said he had the interest of the Tattaglia Family. The affair involved
drugs, in which I have no interest. I'm a quiet man and such endeavors (endeavor
[ın'dev∂] – попытка, старание, стремление) are too lively for my taste. I explained this
to Sollozzo, with all respect for him and the Tattaglia Family. I gave him my 'no' with all
courtesy. I told him his business would not interfere with mine, that I had no objection to
his earning his living in this fashion. He took it ill and brought misfortune down on all our 
heads. Well, that's life. Everyone here could tell his own tale of sorrow. That's not to my
purpose."
   Don Corleone paused and motioned to Hagen for a cold drink, which Hagen swiftly
furnished him. Don Corleone wet his mouth. "I'm willing to make the peace," he said.
"Tattaglia has lost a son, I have lost a son. We are quits. What would the world come to
if people kept carrying grudges against all reason? That has been the cross of Sicily,
where men are so busy with vendettas they have no time to earn bread for their families. 

It's foolishness. So I say now, let things be as they were before. I have not taken any

117

steps to learn who betrayed and killed my son. Given peace, I will not do so. I have a
son who cannot come home and I must receive assurances that when I arrange matters
so that he can return safely that there will be no interference, no danger from the
authorities. Once that's settled maybe we can talk about other matters that interest us
and do ourselves, all of us, a profitable service today." Corleone gestured expressively,
submissively, with his hands. "That is all I want."
   It was very well done. It was the Don Corleone of old. Reasonable. Pliant (гибкий,
податливый, уступчивый; to ply – сгибать, делать складку). Soft-spoken. But every
man there had noted that he had claimed good health, which meant he was a man not
to be held cheaply despite the misfortunes of the Corleone Family. It was noted that he
had said the discussion of other business was useless until the peace he asked for was
given. It was noted that he had asked for the old status quo, that he would lose nothing
despite his having got the worst of it over the past year. However, it was Emilio Barzini
who answered Don Corleone, not Tattaglia. He was curt and to the point without being
rude or insulting.
   "That is all true enough," Barzini said. "But there's a little more. Don Corleone is too
modest. The fact is that Sollozzo and the Tattaglias could not go into their new business
without the assistance of Don Corleone. In fact, his disapproval injured them. That's not
his fault of course. The fact remains that judges and politicians who would accept favors
from Don Corleone, even on drugs, would not allow themselves to be influenced by
anybody else when it came to narcotics. Sollozzo couldn't operate if he didn't have
some insurance of his people being treated gently. We all know that. We would all be
poor men otherwise. And now that they have increased the penalties the judges and the
prosecuting attorneys drive a hard bargain when one of our people get in trouble with
narcotics. Even a Sicilian sentenced to twenty years might break the omerta and talk his
brains out. That can't happen. Don Corleone controls all that apparatus. His refusal to
let us use it is not the act of a friend. He takes the bread out of the mouths of our
families. Times have changed, it's not like the old days where everyone can go his own
way. If Corleone had all the judges in New York, then he must share them or let us
others use them. Certainly he can present a bill for such services, we're not communists,
after all. But he has to let us draw water from the well. It's that simple."
   When Barzini had finished talking there was a silence. The lines were now drawn,
there could be no return to the old status quo. What was more important was that
Barzini by speaking out was saying that if peace was not made he would openly join the

118
Tattaglia in their war against the Corleone. And he had scored a telling point. Their lives
and their fortunes depended upon their doing each other services, the denial of a favor
asked by a friend was an act of aggression. Favors were not asked lightly and so could
not be lightly refused.
   Don Corleone finally spoke to answer. "My friends," he said, "I didn't refuse out of
spite (назло, со злобы, с досады). You all know me. When have I ever refused an
accommodation (согласование, соглашение, компромисс)? That's simply not in my
nature. But I had to refuse this time. Why? Because I think this drug business will
destroy us in the years to come. There is too much strong feeling about such traffic in
this country. It's not like whiskey or gambling or even women which most people want
and is forbidden them by the pezzonovante of the church and the government. But
drugs are dangerous for everyone connected with them. It could jeopardize 
(подвергнуть риску) all other business. And let me say I'm flattered by the belief that I
am so powerful with the judges and law officials, I wish it were true. I do have some
influence but many of the people who respect my counsel might lose this respect if
drugs become involved in our relationship. They are afraid to be involved in such
business and they have strong feelings about it. Even policemen who help us in
gambling and other things would refuse to help us in drugs. So to ask me to perform a
service in these matters is to ask me to do a disservice to myself. But I'm willing to do
even that if all of you think it proper in order to adjust other matters."
   When Don Corleone had finished speaking the room became much more relaxed with
more whisperings and cross talk. He had conceded (to concede – уступать; допускать
/возможность, правильность чего-либо/ [k∂n'si:d]) the important point. He would offer
his protection to any organized business venture in drugs. He was, in effect, agreeing
almost entirely to Sollozzo's original proposal if that proposal was endorsed (to endorse
[ın’do:s] – расписываться на обороте документа; подтверждать, одобрять) by the
national group gathered here. It was understood that he would never participate in the
operational phase, nor would he invest his money. He would merely use his protective
influence with the legal apparatus. But this was a formidable concession.
   The Don of Los Angeles, Frank Falcone, spoke to answer. "There's no way of
stopping our people from going into that business. They go in on their own and they get
in trouble. There's too much money in it to resist. So it's more dangerous if we don't go
in. At least if we control it we can cover it better, organize it better, make sure it causes
less trouble. Being in it is not so bad, there has to be control, there has to be protection,

    	   

119
there has to be organization, we can't have everybody running around doing just what
they please like a bunch of anarchists."
   The Don of Detroit, more friendly to Corleone than any of the others, also now spoke
against his friend's position, in the interest of reasonableness. "I don't believe in drugs,"
he said. "For years I paid my people extra so they wouldn't do that kind of business. But
it didn't matter, it didn't help. Somebody comes to them and says, 'I have powders, if
you put up the three-, four-thousand-dollar investment we can make fifty thousand
distributing.' Who can resist such a profit? And they are so busy with their little side
business they neglect the work I pay them to do. There's more money in drugs. It's
getting bigger all the time. There's no way to stop it so we have to control the business
and keep it respectable. I don't want any of it near schools, I don't want any of it sold to
children. That is an infamita. In my city I would try to keep the traffic in the dark people,
the colored. They are the best customers, the least troublesome and they are animals
anyway. They have no respect for their wives or their families or for themselves. Let
them lose their souls with drugs. But something has to be done, we just can't let people
do as they please and make trouble for everyone."
   This speech of the Detroit Don was received with loud murmurs of approval. He had
hit the nail on the head. You couldn't even pay people to stay out of the drug traffic. As
for his remarks about children, that was his well-known sensibility, his
tenderheartedness speaking. After all, who would sell drugs to children? Where would
children get the money? As for his remarks about the coloreds, that was not even heard. 
The Negroes were considered of absolutely no account, of no force whatsoever. That
they had allowed society to grind them into the dust proved them of no account and his
mentioning them in any way proved that the Don of Detroit had a mind that always
wavered (to waver – колебаться, колыхаться, развеваться) toward irrelevancies 
(irrelevance – неуместность [ı'relıv∂ns]).
   All the Dons spoke. All of them deplored the traffic in drugs as a bad thing that would
cause trouble but agreed there was no way to control it. There was, simply, too much
money to be made in the business, therefore it followed that there would be men who
would dare anything to dabble (плескаться, барахтаться; заниматься чем-либо
поверхностно) in it. That was human nature.
   It was finally agreed. Drug traffic would be permitted and Don Corleone must give it
some legal protection in the East. It was understood that the Barzini and Tattaglia
Families would do most of the large-scale operations. With this out of the way the
conference was able to move on to other matters of a wider interest. There were many

complex problems to be solved. It was agreed that Las Vegas and Miami were to be
open cities where any of the Families could operate. They all recognized that these

120

were the cities of the future. It was also agreed that no violence would be permitted in
these cities and that petty (мелкий, незначительный) criminals of all types were to be
discouraged. It was agreed that in momentous affairs, in executions that were
necessary but might cause too much of a public outcry, the execution must be approved
by this council. It was agreed that button men and other soldiers were to be restrained
from violent crimes and acts of vengeance against each other on personal matters. It
was agreed that Families would do each other services when requested, such as
providing executioners, technical assistance in pursuing certain courses of action such
as bribing jurors (juror ['dGu∂r∂] – присяжный), which in some instances could be vital.
These discussions, informal, colloquial and on a high level, took time and were broken
by lunch and drinks from the buffet bar.
   Finally Don Barzini sought to bring the meeting to an end. "That's the whole matter
then," he said. "We have the peace and let me pay my respects to Don Corleone, whom
we all have known over the years as a man of his word. If there are any more
differences we can meet again, we need not become foolish again. On my part the road
is new and fresh. I'm glad this is all settled."
   Only Phillip Tattaglia was a little worried still. The murder of Santino Corleone made
him the most vulnerable person in this group if war broke out again. He spoke at length
for the first time.
   "I've agreed to everything here, I'm willing to forget my own misfortune. But I would
like to hear some strict assurances from Corleone. Will he attempt any individual
vengeance? When time goes by and his position perhaps becomes stronger, will he
forget that we have sworn our friendship? How am I to know that in three or four years
he won't feel that he's been ill served, forced against his will to this agreement and so
free to break it? Will we have to guard against each other all the time? Or can we truly
go in peace with peace of mind? Would Corleone give us all his assurances as I now
give mine?"  
   It was then that Don Corleone gave the speech that would be long remembered, and
that reaffirmed his position as the most far-seeing statesman among them, so full of
common sense, so direct from the heart; and to the heart of the matter. In it he coined a
phrase that was to become as famous in its way as Churchill's Iron Curtain, though not
public knowledge until more than ten years later.

    	   

121
   For the first time he stood up to address the council. He was short and a little thin from
his "illness," perhaps his sixty years showed a bit more but there was no question that
he had regained all his former strength, and had all his wits.
   "What manner of men are we then, if we do not have our reason," he said. "We are all
no better than beasts in a jungle if that were the case. But we have reason, we can
reason with each other and we can reason with ourselves. To what purpose would I
start all these troubles again, the violence and the turmoil? My son is dead and that is a
misfortune and I must bear it, not make the innocent world around me suffer with me.
And so I say, I give my honor, that I will never seek vengeance, I will never seek
knowledge of the deeds that have been done in the past. I will leave here with a pure
heart.
    "Let me say that we must always look to our interests. We are all men who have
refused to be fools, who have refused to be puppets dancing on a string pulled by the
men on high. We have been fortunate here in this country. Already most of our children
have found a better life. Some of you have sons who are professors, scientists,
musicians, and you are fortunate. Perhaps your grandchildren will become the new
pezzonovanti. None of us here want to see our children follow in our footsteps, it's too
hard a life. They can be as others, their position and security won by our courage. I
have grandchildren now and I hope their children may someday, who knows, be a
governor, a President, nothing's impossible here in America. But we have to progress
with the times. The time is past for guns and killings and massacres. We have to be
cunning like the business people, there's more money in it and it's better for our children
and our grandchildren.
   "As for our own deeds, we are not responsible to the .90 calibers, the pezzonovantis
who take it upon themselves to decide what we shall do with our lives, who declare
wars they wish us to fight in to protect what they own. Who is to say we should obey the
laws they make for their own interest and to our hurt? And who are they then to meddle
when we look after our own interests? Sonna cosa nostra," Don Corleone said, "these
are our own affairs. We will manage our world for ourselves because it is our world,
cosa nostra. And so we have to stick together to guard against outside meddlers.
Otherwise they will put the ring in our nose as they have put the ring in the nose of all
the millions of Neapolitans and other Italians in this country.
   "For this reason I forgo my vengeance for my dead son, for the common good. I
swear now that as long as I am responsible for the actions of my Family there will not be
one finger lifted against any man here without just cause and utmost provocation. I am

122
willing to sacrifice my commercial interests for the common good. This is my word, this
is my honor, there are those of you here who know I have never betrayed either.  
   "But I have a selfish interest. My youngest son had to flee, accused of Sollozzo's
murder and that of a police captain. I must now make arrangements so that he can
come home with safety, cleared of all those false charges. That is my affair and I will
make those arrangements. I must find the real culprits (culprit – Обвиняемый,
преступник, виновный ['kΛlprıt]) perhaps, or perhaps I must convince the authorities of
his innocence, perhaps the witnesses and informants will recant (отрекаться,
отказываться от своего мнения [rı'kжnt]) their lies. But again I say that this is my affair
and I believe I will be able to bring my son home.
   "But let me say this. I am a superstitious man, a ridiculous failing but I must confess it 
here. And so if some unlucky accident should befall my youngest son, if some police
officer should accidentally shoot him, if he should hang himself in his cell, if new
witnesses appear to testify to his guilt, my superstition will make me feel that it was the
result of the ill will still borne me by some people here. Let me go further. If my son is
struck by a bolt of lightning I will blame some of the people here. If his plane should fall
into the sea or his ship sink beneath the waves of the ocean, if he should catch a mortal
fever, if his automobile should be struck by a train, such is my superstition that I would
blame the ill will felt by people here. Gentlemen, that ill will, that bad luck, I could never
forgive. But aside from that let me swear by the souls of my grandchildren that I will
never break the peace we have made. After all, are we or are we not better men than
those pezzonovanti who have killed countless millions of men in our lifetimes?"
   With this Don Corleone stepped from his place and went down the table to where Don
Phillip Tattaglia was sitting. Tattaglia rose to greet him and the two men embraced,
kissing each other's cheeks. The other Dons in the room applauded and rose to shake
hands with everybody in sight and to congratulate Don Corleone and Don Tattaglia on
their new friendship. It was not perhaps the warmest friendship in the world, they would
not send each other Christmas gift greetings, but they would not murder each other.
That was friendship enough in this world, all that was needed.  
   Since his son Freddie was under the protection of the Molinari Family in the West,
Don Corleone lingered with the San Francisco Don after the meeting to thank him.
Molinari said enough for Don Corleone to gather that Freddie had found his niche out
there, was happy and had become something of a ladies' man. He had a genius for
running a hotel, it seemed. Don Corleone shook his head in wonder, as many fathers do
when told of undreamed-of talents in their children. Wasn't it true that sometimes the

123
greatest misfortunes brought unforeseen rewards? They both agreed that this was so.
Meanwhile Corleone made it clear to the San Francisco Don that he was in his debt for
the great service done in protecting Freddie. He let it be known that his influence would
be exerted so that the important racing wires (проволока, обозначающая финиш на
скачках /под которую забегают кони на финише/) would always be available to his
people no matter what changes occurred in the power structure in the years to come, an
important guarantee since the struggle over this facility was a constant open wound
complicated by the fact that the Chicago people had their heavy hand in it. But Don
Corleone was not without influence even in that land of barbarians and so his promise
was a gift of gold.
   It was evening before Don Corleone, Tom Hagen and the bodyguard-chauffeur, who
happened to be Rocco Lampone, arrived at the mall in Long Beach. When they went
into the house the Don said to Hagen, "Our driver, that man Lampone, keep an eye on
him. He's a fellow worth something better I think." Hagen wondered at this remark.
Lampone had not said a word all day, had not even glanced at the two men in the back
seat. He had opened the door for the Don, the car had been in front of the bank when
they emerged, he had done everything correctly but no more than any well-trained
chauffeur might do. Evidently the Don's eye had seen something he had not seen.
   The Don dismissed Hagen and told him to come back to the house after supper. But
to take his time and rest a little since they would put in a long night of discussion. He
also told Hagen to have Clemenza and Tessio present. They should come at ten P.M.,
not before. Hagen was to brief Clemenza and Tessio on what had happened at the
meeting that afternoon.
   At ten the Don was waiting for the three men in his office, the corner room of the
house with its law library and special phone. There was a tray with whiskey bottles, ice
and soda water. The Don gave his instructions.
   "We made the peace this afternoon." he said. "I gave my word and my honor and that
should be enough for all of you. But our friends are not so trustworthy so let's all be on
our guard still. We don't want any more nasty little surprises." Then Don turned to
Hagen. "You've let the Bocchicchio hostages go?"
   Hagen nodded. "I called Clemenza as soon as I got home."
   Corleone turned to the massive Clemenza. The caporegime nodded. "I released them.
Tell me, Godfather, is it possible for a Sicilian to be as dumb as the Bocchicchios
pretend to be?"

    	   

124
   Don Corleone smiled a little. "They are clever enough to make a good living. Why is it
so necessary to be more clever than that? It's not the Bocchicchios who cause the
troubles of this world. But it's true, they haven't got the Sicilian head."
   They were all in a relaxed mood, now that the war was over. Don Corleone himself
mixed drinks and brought one to each man. The Don sipped his carefully and lit up a
cigar.
   "I want nothing set forth to discover what happened to Sonny, that's done with and to
be forgotten. I want all cooperation with the other Families even if they become a little
greedy and we don't get our proper share in things. I want nothing to break this peace
no matter what the provocation until we've found a way to bring Michael home. And I
want that to be first thing on your minds. Remember this, when he comes back he must
come back in absolute safety. I don't mean from the Tattaglias or the Barzinis. What I'm
concerned about are the police. Sure, we can get rid of the real evidence against him;
that waiter won't testify, nor that spectator or gunman or whatever he was. The real
evidence is the least of our worries since we know about it. What we have to worry
about is the police framing false evidence because their informers have assured them
that Michael Corleone is the man who killed their captain. Very well. We have to
demand that the Five Families do everything in their power to correct this belief of the
police. All their informers who work with the police must come up with new stories. I
think after my speech this afternoon they will understand it is to their interest to do so.
But that's not enough. We have to come up with something special so Michael won't
ever have to worry about that again. Otherwise there's no point in him coming back to
this country. So let's all think about that. That's the most important matter.
   "Now, any man should be allowed one foolishness in his life. I have had mine. I want
all the land around the mall bought, the houses bought. I don't want any man able to
look out his window into my garden even if it's a mile away. I want a fence around the
mall and I want the mall to be on full protection all the time. I want a gate in that fence.
In short, I wish now to live in a fortress. Let me say to you now that I will never go into
the city to work again. I will be semiretired. I feel an urge to work in the garden, to make
a little wine when the grapes are in season. I want to live in my house. The only time I'll
leave is to go on a little vacation or to see someone on important business and then I
want all precautions taken. Now don't take this amiss. I'm not preparing anything. I'm
being prudent, I've always been a prudent man, there is nothing I find so little to my
taste as carelessness in life. Women and children can afford to be careless, men cannot.

    	   

125
Be leisurely in all these things, no frantic (неистовый, безумный) preparations to alarm
our friends. It can be done in such a way as to seem natural.
   "Now I'm going to leave things more and more up to each of you three. I want the
Santino regime disbanded and the men placed in your regimes. That should reassure
our friends and show that I mean peace. Tom, I want you to put together a group of men
who will go to Las Vegas and give me a full report on what is going on out there. Tell me
about Fredo, what is really happening out there, I hear I wouldn't recognize my own son. 
It seems he's a cook now, that he amuses himself with young girls more than a grown
man should. Well, he was always too serious when he was young and he was never the
man for Family business. But let's find out what really can be done out there."
   Hagen said quietly, "Should we send your son-in-law? After all, Carlo is a native of
Nevada, he knows his way around."
   Don Corleone shook his head. "No, my wife is lonely here without any of her children.
I want Constanzia and her husband moved into one of the houses on the mall. I want
Carlo given a responsible job, maybe I've been too harsh on him, and" – Don Corleone
made a grimace – "I'm short of sons. Take him out of the gambling and put him in with
the unions where he can do some paper work and a lot of talking. He's a good talker."
There was the tiniest note of contempt in the Don's voice.
   Hagen nodded. "OK, Clemenza and I will go over all the people and put together a
group to do the Vegas job. Do you want me to call Freddie home for a few days?"
   The Don shook his head. He said cruelly, "What for? My wife can still cook our meals.
Let him stay out there." The three men shifted uneasily in their seats. They had not
realized Freddie was in such severe disfavor with his father and they suspected it must
be because of something they did not know.
   Don Corleone sighed. "I hope to grow some good green peppers and tomatoes in the
garden this year, more than we can eat. I'll make you presents of them. I want a little
peace, a little quiet and tranquillity for my old age. Well, that's all. Have another drink if
you like."
   It was a dismissal. The men rose. Hagen accompanied Clemenza and Tessio to their
cars and arranged meetings with them to thrash out (тщательно обсудить, выяснить,
проработать; to thrash – бить, пороть; /молотить = to thresh/) the operational details
that would accomplish the stated desires of their Don. Then he went back into the
house where he knew Don Corleone would be waiting for him.

    	   

126
   The Don had taken off his jacket and tie and was lying down on the couch. His stern
face was relaxed into lines of fatigue. He waved Hagen into a chair and said, "Well,
Consigliori, do you disapprove of any of my deeds today?"
   Hagen took his time answering. "No," he said. "But I don't find it consistent 
(последовательный, стойкий; совместимый, согласующийся), nor true to your nature. 
You say you don't want to find out how Santino was killed or want vengeance for it. I
don't believe that. You gave your word for peace and so you'll keep the peace but I can't
believe you will give your enemies the victory they seem to have won today. You've
constructed a magnificent riddle that I can't solve, so how can I approve or disapprove?" 
   A look of content came over the Don's face. "Well, you know me better than anyone
else. Even though you're not a Sicilian, I made you one. Everything you say is true, but
there's a solution and you'll comprehend it before it spins out to the end. You agree
everyone has to take my word and I'll keep my word. And I want my orders obeyed
exactly. But, Tom, the most important thing is we have to get Michael home as soon as
possible. Make that first in your mind and in your work. Explore all the legal alleys, I
don't care how much money you have to spend. It has to be foolproof when he comes
home. Consult the best lawyers on criminal law. I'll give you the names of some judges
who will give you a private audience. Until that time we have to guard against all
treacheries."
   Hagen said, "Like you, I'm not worried so much about the real evidence as the
evidence they will manufacture. Also some police friend may kill Michael after he's
arrested. They may kill him in his cell or have one of the prisoners do it. As I see it, we
can't even afford to have him arrested or accused."
   Don Corleone sighed. "I know, I know. That's the difficulty. But we can't take too long.
There are troubles in Sicily. The young fellows over there don't listen to their elders
anymore and a lot of the men deported from America are just too much for the old-
fashioned Dons to handle. Michael could get caught in between. I've taken some
precautions against that and he's still got a good cover but that cover won't last forever.
That's one of the reasons I had to make the peace. Barzini has friends in Sicily and they
were beginning to sniff Michael's trail. That gives you one of the answers to your riddle.
I had to make the peace to insure my son's safety. There was nothing else to do."
   Hagen didn't bother asking the Don how he had gotten this information. He was not
even surprised, and it was true that this solved part of the riddle. "When I meet with
Tattaglia's people to firm up the details, should I insist that all his drug middlemen 

    	   

127
(посредники) be clean? The judges will be a little skittish (норовистый или пугливый
/о лошади/; капризный) about giving light sentences to a man with a record."
   Don Corleone shrugged. "They should be smart enough to figure that out themselves.
Mention it, don't insist. We'll do our best but if they use a real snowbird (дрозд-
рябинник; кокаинист) and he gets caught, we won't lift a finger. We'll just tell them
nothing can be done. But Barzini is a man who will know that without being told. You
notice how he never committed himself in this affair. One might never have known he
was in any way concerned. That is a man who doesn't get caught on the losing side."
   Hagen was startled. "You mean he was behind Sollozzo and Tattaglia all the time?"
   Don Corleone sighed. "Tattaglia is a pimp. He could never have outfought Santino.
That's why I don't have to know about what happened. It's enough to know that Barzini
had a hand in it."
   Hagen let this sink in. The Don was giving him clues but there was something very
important left out. Hagen knew what it was but he knew it was not his place to ask. He
said good night and turned to go. The Don had a last word for him.
   "Remember, use all your wits for a plan to bring Michael home," the Don said. "And
one other thing. Arrange with the telephone man so that every month I get a list of all
the telephone calls, made and received, by Clemenza and Tessio. I suspect them of
nothing. I would swear they would never betray me. But there's no harm in knowing any
little thing that may help us before the event."
   Hagen nodded and went out. He wondered if the Don was keeping a check on him
also in some way and then was ashamed of his suspicion. But now he was sure that in
the subtle and complex mind of the Godfather a far-ranging plan of action was being
initiated that made the day's happenings no more than a tactical retreat. And there was
that one dark fact that no one mentioned, that he himself had not dared to ask, that Don
Corleone ignored. All pointed to a day of reckoning (to reckon – считать, подсчитывать;
сводить счеты, рассчитываться) in the future.

Chapter 21

   But it was to be nearly another year before Don Corleone could arrange for his son
Michael to be smuggled back into the United States. During that time the whole Family
racked their brains (ломали голову; to rack – пытать, мучить; заставлять работать
изо всех сил, изнурять) for suitable schemes. Even Carlo Rizzi was listened to now

    	   

128
that he was living in the mall with Connie. (During that time they had a second child, a
boy.) But none of the schemes met with the Don's approval.
   Finally it was the Bocchicchio Family who through a misfortune of its own solved the
problem. There was one Bocchicchio, a young cousin of no more than twenty-five years
of age, named Felix, who was born in America and with more brains than anyone in the
clan had ever had before. He had refused to be drawn into the Family garbage hauling
business and married a nice American girl of English stock to further his split from the
clan. He went to school at night, to become a lawyer, and worked during the day as a
civil service post office clerk. During that time he had three children but his wife was a
prudent manager and they lived on his salary until he got his law degree.
   Now Felix Bocchicchio, like many young men, thought that having struggled to
complete his education and master the tools of his profession, his virtue would
automatically be rewarded and he would earn a decent living. This proved not to be the
case. Still proud, he refused all help from his clan. But a lawyer friend of his, a young
man well connected and with a budding (подающий надежды, многообещающий)
career in a big law firm, talked Felix into doing him a little favor. It was very complicated,
seemingly legal, and had to do with a bankruptcy fraud. It was a million-to-one shot
against its being found out. Felix Bocchicchio took the chance. Since the fraud involved
using the legal skills he had learned in a university, it seemed not so reprehensible 
(предосудительный; to reprehend – делать выговор, порицать), and, in an odd way,
not even criminal.
   To make a foolish story short, the fraud was discovered. The lawyer friend refused to
help Felix in any manner, refused to even answer his telephone calls. The two principals 
(главные виновники) in the fraud, shrewd middle-aged businessmen who furiously
blamed Felix Bocchicchio's legal clumsiness (неуклюжесть, неловкость; clumsy –
неуклюжий, неловкий) for the plan going awry (окончился неудачей; awry [∂ ‘raı] –
кривой; косо, набок), pleaded guilty (признали себя виновными) and cooperated with
the state, naming Felix Bocchicchio as the ringleader (зачинщик) of the fraud and
claiming he had used threats of violence to control their business and force them to
cooperate with him in his fraudulent schemes. Testimony was given that linked Felix
with uncles and cousins in the Bocchicchio clan who had criminal records for strong-arm,
and this evidence was damning. The two businessmen got off with suspended
sentences. Felix Bocchicchio was given a sentence of one to five years and served
three of them. The clan did not ask help from any of the Families or Don Corleone
because Felix had refused to ask their help and had to be taught a lesson: that mercy

129
comes only from the Family, that the Family is more loyal and more to be trusted than
society.
   In any case, Felix Bocchicchio was released from prison after serving three years,
went home and kissed his wife and three children and lived peacefully for a year, and
then showed that he was of the Bocchicchio clan after all. Without any attempt to
conceal his guilt, he procured a weapon, a pistol, and shot his lawyer friend to death. He
then searched out the two businessmen and calmly shot them both through the head as
they came out of a luncheonette (закусочная, буфет ['lΛnt∫∂’net]). He left the bodies
lying in the street and went into the luncheonette and ordered a cup of coffee which he
drank while he waited for the police to come and arrest him.
   His trial was swift and his judgment merciless. A member of the criminal underworld
had cold-bloodedly murdered state witnesses who had sent him to the prison he richly
deserved. It was a flagrant flouting (вопиющее глумление, выказывание презрения;
flagrant [‘fleıgr∂nt] – ужасающий, вопиющий; to flout – презирать, попирать,
глумиться) of society and for once the public, the press, the structure of society and
even soft-headed and soft-hearted humanitarians (гуманисты) were united in their
desire to see Felix Bocchicchio in the electric chair. The governor of the state would no
more grant him clemency (милость, помилование) than the officials of the pound 
(загон /для скота/) spare a mad dog, which was the phrase of one of the governor's
closest political aides. The Bocchicchio clan of course would spend whatever money
was needed for appeals to higher courts, they were proud of him now, but the
conclusion was certain. After the legal folderol (= folderal – бессмысленная болтовня),
which might take a little time, Felix Bocchicchio would die in the electric chair.
   It was Hagen who brought this case to the attention of the Don at the request of one
of the Bocchicchios who hoped that something could be done for the young man. Don
Corleone curtly refused. He was not a magician. People asked him the impossible. But
the next day the Don called Hagen into his office and had him go over the case in the
most intimate detail. When Hagen was finished, Don Corleone told him to summon the
head of the Bocchicchio clan to the mall for a meeting.
   What happened next had the simplicity of genius. Don Corleone guaranteed to the
head of the Bocchicchio clan that the wife and children of Felix Bocchicchio would be
rewarded with a handsome pension. The money for this would be handed over to the
Bocchicchio clan immediately. In turn, Felix must confess to the murder of Sollozzo and
the police captain McCluskey.

    	   

   There were many details to be arranged. Felix Bocchicchio would have to confess

130

convincingly, that is, he would have to know some of the true details to confess to. Also
he must implicate (вовлекать, впутывать) the police captain in narcotics. Then the
waiter at the Luna Restaurant must be persuaded to identify Felix Bocchicchio as the
murderer. This would take some courage, as the description would change radically,
Felix Bocchicchio being much shorter and heavier. But Don Corleone would attend to
that. Also since the condemned man had been a great believer in higher education and
a college graduate, he would want his children to go to college. And so a sum of money
would have to be paid by Don Corleone that would take care of the children's college.
Then the Bocchicchio clan had to be reassured that there was no hope for clemency on
the original murders. The new confession of course would seal the man's already
almost certain doom (рок, судьба; осуждение, приговор).
   Everything was arranged, the money paid and suitable contact made with the
condemned man so that he could be instructed and advised. Finally the plan was
sprung and the confession made headlines in all the newspapers. The whole thing was
a huge success. But Don Corleone, cautious as always, waited until Felix Bocchicchio
was actually executed four months later before finally giving the command that Michael
Corleone could return home.  

Сhapter 22

   Lucy Mancini, a year after Sonny's death, still missed him terribly, grieved for him
more fiercely than any lover in any romance. And her dreams were not the insipid 
(безвкусный, пресный; вялый, неинтересный [ın'sıpıd]) dreams of a schoolgirl, her
longings (сильные, страстные желания, стремления; to long – страстно желать,
стремиться) not the longing of a devoted wife. She was not rendered desolate by the
loss of her "life's companion," or miss him because of his stalwart (стойкий, верный,
решительный ['sto:lw∂t]) character. She held no fond remembrances of sentimental
gifts, of girlish hero worship, his smile, the amused glint of his eyes when she said
something endearing (to endear [ın’dı∂] – заставить полюбить, внушить любовь) or
witty.
   No. She missed him for the more important reason that he had been the only man in
the world who could make her body achieve the act of love. And, in her youth and
innocence, she still believed that he was the only man who could possibly do so.

    	   

131
   Now a year later she sunned herself in the balmy Nevada air. At her feet the slender,
blond young man was playing with her toes. They were at the side of the hotel pool for
the Sunday afternoon and despite the people all around them his hand was sliding up
her bare thigh.
   "Oh, Jules, stop," Lucy said. "I thought doctors at least weren't as silly as other men."
   Jules grinned at her. "I'm a Las Vegas doctor." He tickled the inside of her thigh and
was amazed how just a little thing like that could excite her so powerfully. It showed on
her face though she tried to hide it. She was really a very primitive, innocent girl. Then
why couldn't he make her come across (признаться, все выложить)? He had to figure
that one out and never mind the crap about a lost love that could never be replaced.
This was living tissue here under his hand and living tissue required other living tissue.
Dr. Jules Segal decided he would make the big push tonight at his apartment. He'd
wanted to make her come across without any trickery but if trickery there had to be, he
was the man for it. All in the interests of science of course. And, besides, this poor kid
was dying for it.
   "Jules, stop, please stop," Lucy said. Her voice was trembling.
   Jules was immediately contrite (сокрушающийся, кающийся ['kontraıt]). "OK, honey,"
he said. He put his head in her lap and using her soft thighs as a pillow, he took a little
nap. He was amused at her squirming (to squirm – извиваться, корчиться;
чувствовать неловкость, смущение), the heat that registered from her loins and when
she put her hand on his head to smooth his hair, he grasped her wrist playfully and held
it loverlike but really to feel her pulse. It was galloping. He'd get her tonight and he'd
solve the mystery, what the hell ever it was. Fully confident, Dr. Jules Segal fell asleep.
   Lucy watched the people around the pool. She could never have imagined her life
would change so in less than two years. She never regretted her "foolishness" at
Connie Corleone's wedding. It was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to
her and she lived it over and over again in her dreams. As she lived over and over again
the months that followed.
   Sonny had visited her once a week, sometimes more, never less. The days before
she saw him again her body was in torment (мука ['to:m∂nt]). Their passion for each
other was of the most elementary kind, undiluted (to dilute [‘daılju:t] – разжижать,
разбавлять) by poetry or any form of intellectualism. It was love of the coarsest nature,
a fleshly love, a love of tissue for opposing tissue.
   When Sonny called to her he was coming she made certain there was enough liquor
in the apartment and enough food for supper and breakfast because usually he would

not leave until late the next morning. He wanted his fill (хотел насытиться) of her as

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she wanted her fill of him. He had his own key and when he came in the door she would
fly into his massive arms. They would both be brutally direct, brutally primitive. During
their first kiss they would be fumbling at each other's clothing and he would be lifting her
in the air, and she would be wrapping her legs around his huge thighs. They would be
making love standing up in the foyer of her apartment as if they had to repeat their first
act of love together, and then he would carry her so to the bedroom.
   They would lie in bed making love. They would live together in the apartment for
sixteen hours, completely naked. She would cook for him, enormous meals. Somtimes
he would get phone calls obviously about business but she never even listened to the
words. She would be too busy toying with his body, fondling it, kissing it, burying her
mouth in it. Sometimes when he got up to get a drink and he walked by her, she
couldn't help reaching out to touch his naked body, hold him, make love to him as if
those special parts of his body were a plaything, a specially constructed, intricate 
(запутанный, замысловатый, сложный ['ıntrıkıt]) but innocent toy revealing its known,
but still surprising ecstasies. At first she had been ashamed of these excesses on her
part but soon saw that they pleased her lover, that her complete sensual enslavement
to his body flattered him. In all this there was an animal innocence. They were happy
together.
   When Sonny's father was gunned down in the street, she understood for the first time
that her lover might be in danger. Alone in her apartment, she did not weep, she wailed
aloud, an animal wailing (to wail – вопить, выть). When Sonny did not come to see her
for almost three weeks she subsisted on sleeping pills, liquor and her own anguish 
(мука, боль, острая тоска). The pain she felt was physical pain, her body ached. When
he finally did come she held on to his body at almost every moment. After that he came
at least once a week until he was killed.
   She learned of his death through the newspaper accounts and that very same night
she took a massive overdose of sleeping pills. For some reason, instead of killing, the
pills made her so ill that she staggered out into the hall of her apartment and collapsed
in front of the elevator door where she was found and taken to the hospital. Her
relationship to Sonny was not generally known so her case received only a few inches
in the tabloid (малоформатная газета со сжатым текстом; бульварная газета)
newspapers.
   It was while she was in the hospital that Tom Hagen came to see her and console her. 
It was Tom Hagen who arranged a job for her in Las Vegas working in the hotel run by

Sonny's brother Freddie. It was Tom Hagen who told her that she would receive an

133

annuity (ежегодная рента [∂'nju:ıtı]) from the Corleone Family, that Sonny had made
provisions for her. He had asked her if she was pregnant, as if that were the reason for
her taking the pills and she had told him no. He asked her if Sonny had come to see her
that fatal night or had called that he would come to see her and she told him no, that
Sonny had not called. That she was always home waiting for him when she finished
working. And she had told Hagen the truth. "He's the only man I could ever love," she
said. "I can't love anybody else." She saw him smile a little but he also looked surprised.
"Do you find that so unbelievable?" she asked. "Wasn't he the one who brought you
home when you were a kid?"
   "He was a different person," Hagen said, "he grew up to be a different kind of man."
   "Not to me," Lucy said. "Maybe to everybody else, but not to me." She was still too
weak to explain how Sonny had never been anything but gentle with her. He'd never
been angry with her, never even irritable or nervous.
   Hagen made all the arrangements for her to move to Las Vegas. A rented apartment
was waiting, he took her to the airport himself and he made her promise that if she ever
felt lonely or if things didn't go right, she would call him and he would help her in any
way he could.
   Before she got on the plane she asked him hesitantly, "Does Sonny's father know
what you're doing?"
   Hagen smiled, "I'm acting for him as well as myself. He's old-fashioned in these things 
and he would never go against the legal wife of his son. But he feels that you were just
a young girl and Sonny should have known better. And your taking all those pills shook
everybody up." He didn't explain how incredible it was to a man like the Don that any
person should try suicide.
   Now, after nearly eighteen months in Las Vegas, she was surprised to find herself
almost happy. Some nights she dreamed about Sonny and lying awake before dawn
continued her dream with her own caresses until she could sleep again. She had not
had a man since. But the life in Vegas agreed with her. She went swimming in the hotel
pools, sailed on Lake Mead and drove through the desert on her day off. She became
thinner and this improved her figure. She was still voluptuous but more in the American
than the old Italian style. She worked in the public relations section of the hotel as a
receptionist and had nothing to do with Freddie though when he saw her he would stop
and chat a little. She was surprised at the change in Freddie. He had become a ladies'
man, dressed beautifully, and seemed to have a real flair (чутье) for running a gambling

134
resort. He controlled the hotel side, something not usually done by casino owners. With
the long, very hot summer seasons, or perhaps his more active sex life, he too had
become thinner and Hollywood tailoring made him look almost debonair 
(жизнерадостный, веселый [deb∂’nε∂]) in a deadly sort of way.
   It was after six months that Tom Hagen came out to see how she was doing. She had
been receiving a check for six hundred dollars a month, every month, in addition to her
salary. Hagen explained that this money had to be shown as coming from some place
and asked her to sign complete powers of attorney so that he could channel the money
properly. He also told her that as a matter of form she would be listed as owner of five
"points" in the hotel in which she worked. She would have to go through all the legal
formalities required by the Nevada laws but everything would be taken care of for her
and her own personal inconvenience would be at a minimum. However she was not to
discuss this arrangement with anyone without his consent. She would be protected
legally in every way and her money every month would be assured. If the authorities or
any law-enforcement (enforcement – давление, принуждение; принудительный)
agencies ever questioned her, she was to simply refer them to her lawyer and she
would not be bothered any further.
   Lucy agreed. She understood what was happening but had no objections to how she
was being used. It seemed a reasonable favor. But when Hagen asked her to keep her
eyes open around the hotel, keep an eye on Freddie and on Freddie's boss, the man
who owned and operated the hotel, as a major stockholder (акционер), she said to him,
"Oh, Tom, you don't want me to spy on Freddie?"
   Hagen smiled. "His father worries about Freddie. He's in fast company with Moe
Greene and we just want to make sure he doesn't get into any trouble." He didn't bother
to explain to her that the Don had backed the building of this hotel in the desert of Las
Vegas not only to supply a haven for his son, but to get a foot in the door for bigger
operations. 
   It was shortly after this interview that Dr. Jules Segal came to work as the hotel
physician. He was very thin, very handsome and charming and seemed very young to
be a doctor, at least to Lucy. She met him when a lump (опухоль, шишка) grew above
her wrist on her forearm. She worried about it for a few days, then one morning went to
the doctor's suite of offices in the hotel. Two of the show girls from the chorus line were
in the waiting room, gossiping with each other. They had the blond peach-colored
prettiness Lucy always envied. They looked angelic. But one of the girls was saying, "I
swear if I have another dose I'm giving up dancing."

135
   When Dr. Jules Segal opened his office door to motion one of the show girls inside,
Lucy was tempted to leave, and if it had been something more personal and serious she
would have. Dr. Segal was wearing slacks (широкие брюки) and an open shirt. The
horn-rimmed glasses helped and his quiet reserved manner, but the impression he gave
was an informal one, and like many basically old-fashioned people, Lucy didn't believe
that medicine and informality mixed.
   When she finally got into his office there was something so reassuring in his manner
that all her misgivings fled. He spoke hardly at all and yet he was not brusque, and he
took his time. When she asked him what the lump was he patiently explained that it was
a quite common fibrous (волокнистый, фиброзный ['faıbr∂s]) growth that could in no
way be malignant (злокачественный [m∂’lıgn∂nt]) or a cause for serious concern. He
picked up a heavy medical book and said, "Hold out your arm."
   She held out her arm tentatively (неуверенно; tentative ['tent∂tıv] – пробный,
опытный). He smiled at her for the first time. "I'm going to cheat myself out of a surgical
fee," he said. "I'll just smash it with this book and it will flatten out. It may pop up again
but if I remove it surgically, you'll be out of money and have to wear bandages and all
that. OK?"
   She smiled at him. For some reason she had an absolute trust in him. "OK," she said.
In the next instant she let out a yell as he brought down the heavy medical volume on
her forearm. The lump had flattened out, almost.
   "Did it hurt that much?" he asked.
   "No," she said. She watched him completing her case history card. "Is that all?"
  He nodded, not paying any more attention to her. She left.
   A week later he saw her in the coffee shop and sat next to her at the counter. "How's
the arm?" he asked.
   She smiled at him. "Fine," she said. "You're pretty unorthodox but you're pretty good."
   He grinned at her. "You don't know how unorthodox I am. And I didn't know how rich
you were. The Vegas Sun just published the list of point owners in the hotel and Lucy
Mancini has a big ten points. I could have made a fortune on that little bump (опухоль,
шишка)."
   She didn't answer him, suddenly reminded of Hagen's warnings. He grinned again.
"Don't worry, I know the score (я прекрасно понимаю ситуацию; score – зарубка,
метка), you're just one of the dummies (одна из дурочек; dummy – кукла, чучело;
манекен; марионетка; дурачок, дурочка), Vegas is full of them. How about seeing one

    	   

of the shows with me tonight and I'll buy you dinner. I'll even buy you some roulette
chips."

136

   She was a little doubtful. He urged her. Finally she said, "I'd like to come but I'm afraid
you might be disappointed by how the night ends. I'm not really a swinger like most of
the girls here in Vegas."
   "That's why I asked you," Jules said cheerfully. "I've prescribed a night's rest for
myself."
   Lucy smiled at him and said a little sadly, "Is it that obvious?" He shook his head and
she said, "OK, supper then, but I'll buy my own roulette chips."
   They went to the supper show and Jules kept her amused by describing different
types of bare thighs and breasts in medical terms; but without sneering, all in good
humor. Afterward they played roulette together at the same wheel and won over a
hundred dollars. Still later they drove up to Boulder Dam in the moonlight and he tried to
make love to her but when she resisted after a few kisses he knew that she really meant
no and stopped. Again he took his defeat with great good humor. "I told you I wouldn't,"
Lucy said with half-guilty reproach.
   "You would have been awfully insulted if I didn't even try," Jules said. And she had to
laugh because it was true.
   The next few months they became best friends. It wasn't love because they didn't
make love, Lucy wouldn't let him. She could see he was puzzled by her refusal but not
hurt the way most men would be and that made her trust him even more. She found out
that beneath his professional doctor's exterior he was wildly fun-loving and reckless. On
weekends he drove a souped-up MG (to soup up – увеличивать мощность
/двигателя/ [su:p]) in the California races. When he took a vacation he went down into
the interior of Mexico, the real wild country, he told her, where strangers were murdered
for their shoes and life was as primitive as a thousand years ago. Quite accidentally she
learned that he was a surgeon and had been connected with a famous hospital in New
York.
   All this made her more puzzled than ever at his having taken the job at the hotel.
When she asked him about it, Jules said, "You tell me your dark secret and I'll tell you
mine."
   She blushed and let the matter drop. Jules didn't pursue it either and their relationship
continued, a warm friendship that she counted on more than she realized.

    	   

   Now, sitting at the side of the pool with Jules' blond head in her lap, she felt an

137

overwhelming tenderness for him. Her loins ached and without realizing it her fingers
sensuously stroked the skin of his neck. He seemed to be sleeping, not noticing, and
she became excited just by the feel of him against her. Suddenly he raised his head
from her lap and stood up. He took her by the hand and led her over the grass on to the
cement walk. She followed him dutifully even when he led her into one of the cottages
that held his private apartment. When they were inside he
fixed them both big drinks. After the blazing sun and her own sensuous thoughts the
drink went to her head and made her dizzy. Then Jules had his arms around her and
their bodies, naked except for scanty bathing suits, were pressed against each other.
Lucy was murmuring, "Don't," but there was no conviction in her voice and Jules paid no
attention to her. He quickly stripped her bathing bra off so that he could fondle her
heavy breasts, kissed them and then stripped off her bathing trunks and as he did so
kept kissing her body, her rounded belly and the insides of her thighs. He stood up,
struggling out of his own bathing shorts and embracing her, and then, naked in each
other's arms, they were lying on his bed and she could feel him entering her and it was
enough, just the slight touch, for her to reach her climax and then in the second
afterward she could read in the motions of his body, his surprise. She felt the
overwhelming shame she had felt before she knew Sonny, but Jules was twisting her
body over the edge of the bed, positioning her legs a certain way and she let him control
her limbs and her body, and then he was entering her again and kissing her and this
time she could feel him but more important she could tell that he was feeling something
too and coming to his climax.
   When he rolled off her body, Lucy huddled into one corner of the bed and began to
cry. She felt so ashamed. And then she was shockingly surprised to hear Jules laugh
softly and say, "You poor benighted (застигнутый ночью; погруженный во мрак
/невежества/) Eye-talian girl, so that's why you kept refusing me all these months? You
dope (дурочка)." He said "you dope" with such friendly affection that she turned toward
him and he took her naked body against his saying, "You are medieval, you are
positively medieval." But the voice was soothingly comforting as she continued to weep.
   Jules lit a cigarette and put it in her mouth so that she choked on the smoke and had
to stop crying. "Now listen to me," he said, "if you had had a decent modern raising with
a family culture that was part of the twentieth century your problem would have been
solved years ago. Now let me tell you what your problem is: it's not the equivalent of
being ugly, of having bad skin and squinty (косой, косоглазый; to squint – косить

138
глазами) eyes that facial surgery really doesn't solve. Your problem is like having a wart 
(бородавка [wo:t]) or a mole (родинка) on your chin, or an improperly formed ear. Stop
thinking of it in sexual terms. Stop thinking in your head that you have a big box no man
can love because it won't give his penis the necessary friction. What you have is a
pelvic (тазовый) malformation (неправильное образование, порок развития) and
what we surgeons call a weakening of the pelvic floor. It usually comes after child-
bearing but it can be simply bad bone structure. It's a common condition and many
women live a life of misery because of it when a simple operation could fix them up.
Some women even commit suicide because of it. But I never figured you for that
condition because you have such a beautiful body. I thought it was psychological, since
I know your story, you told it to me often enough, you and Sonny. But let me give you a
thorough physical examination and I can tell you just exactly how much work will have
to be done. Now go in and take a shower."
   Lucy went in and took her shower. Patiently and over her protests, Jules made her lie
on the bed, legs spread apart. He had an extra doctor's bag in his apartment and it was
open. He also had a small glass-topped table by the bed which held some other
instruments. He was all business now, examining her, sticking his fingers inside her and
moving them around. She was beginning to feel humiliated when he kissed her on the
navel and said, almost absent-mindedly, "First time I've enjoyed my work." Then he
flipped her over and thrust a finger in her rectum, feeling around, but his other hand was
stroking her neck affectionately. When he was finished he turned her right side up again,
kissed her tenderly on the mouth and said, "Baby, I'm going to build you a whole new
thing down there, and then I'll try it out personally. It will be a medical first, I'll be able to
write a paper on it for the official journals."
   Jules did everything with such good-humored affection, he so obviously cared for her,
that Lucy got over her shame and embarrassment. He even had the medical textbook
down off its shelf to show her a case like her own and the surgical procedure to correct
it. She found herself quite interested.
   "It's a health thing too," Jules said. "If you don't get it corrected you're going to have a
hell of a lot of trouble later on with your whole plumbing system (водопроводная
система; plumb [plΛm] – отвес; лот, грузило). The structure becomes progressively
weaker unless it's corrected by surgery. It's a damn shame that old-fashioned prudery 
([‘pru:d∂rı] – излишняя или притворная стыдливость) keeps a lot of doctors from
properly diagnosing and correcting the situation, and a lot of women from complaining
about it."

   "Don't talk about it, please don't talk about it," Lucy
said.

139

   He could see that she was still to some extent ashamed of her secret, embarrassed
by her "ugly defect." Though to his medically trained mind this seemed the height of
silliness, he was sensitive enough to identify with her. It also put him on the right track to
making her feel better.
   "OK, I know your secret so now I'll tell you mine," he said. "You always ask me what
I'm doing in this town, one of the youngest and most brilliant surgeons in the East." He
was mocking some newspaper reports about himself. "The truth is that I'm an
abortionist, which in itself is not so bad, so is half the medical profession; but I got
caught. I had a friend, a doctor named Kennedy, we interned (intern – студент
медицинского колледжа или молодой врач, работающий в больнице и живущий
при ней) together, and he's a really straight guy but he said he'd help me. I understand
Tom Hagen had told him if he ever needed help on anything the Corleone Family was
indebted to him. So he spoke to Hagen. The next thing I know the charges were
dropped, but the Medical Association and the Eastern establishment had me black-
listed. So the Corleone Family got me this job out here. I make a good living. I do a job
that has to be done. These show girls are always getting knocked up and aborting them
is the easiest thing in the world if they come to me right away. I curette (кюретка /хир./;
выскабливать кюреткой [kju∂'ret]) 'em like you scrape a frying pan. Freddie Corleone
is a real terror. By my count he's knocked up fifteen girls while I've been here. I've
seriously considered giving him a father-to-son talk about sex. Especially since I've had
to treat him three times for clap (триппер) and once for syphilis. Freddie is the original
bareback (без седла, на неоседланной лошади) rider."
   Jules stopped talking. He had been deliberately indiscreet, something he never did, so
that Lucy would know that other people, including someone she knew and feared a little
like Freddie Corleone, also had shameful secrets.
   "Think of it as a piece of elastic in your body that has lost its elasticity," Jules said. "By
cutting out a piece, you make it tighter, snappier."
   "I'll think about it," Lucy said, but she was sure she was going to go through with it,
she trusted Jules absolutely. Then she thought of something else. "How much will it
cost?"
   Jules frowned. "I haven't the facilities here for surgery like that and I'm not the expert
at it. But I have a friend in Los Angeles who's the best in the field and has facilities at
the best hospital. In fact he tightens up all the movie stars, when those dames find out

140
that getting their faces and breasts lifted isn't the whole answer to making a man love
them. He owes me a few favors so it won't cost anything. I do his abortions for him.
Listen, if it weren't unethical I'd tell you the names of some of the movie sex queens
who have had the operation."
   She was immediately curious. "Oh, come on, tell me," she said. "Come on." It would
be a delicious piece of gossip and one of the things about Jules was that she could
show her feminine love of gossip without him making fun of it.
   "I'll tell you if you have dinner with me and spend the night with me," Jules said. "We
have a lot of lost time to make up for because of your silliness."
   Lucy felt an overwhelming affection to him for being so kind and she was able to say,
"You don't have to sleep with me, you know you won't enjoy it the way I am now."
   Jules burst out laughing. "You dope, you incredible dope. Didn't you ever hear of any
other way of making love, far more ancient, far more civilized. Are you really that
innocent?"  
  "Oh that," she said.  
   "Oh that," he mimicked her. "Nice girls don't do that, manly men don't do that. Even in
the year 1948. Well, baby, I can take you to the house of a little old lady right here in
Las Vegas who was the youngest madam of the most popular whorehouse in the wild
west days, back in 1880, I think it was. She likes to talk about the old days. You know
what she told me? That those gunslingers (стрелки; агрессивные ребята; to sling –
швырять; метать из пращи; sling – праща; рогатка), those manly, virile, straight-
shooting cowboys would always ask the girls for a 'French,' what we doctors call fellatio,
what you call 'oh that.' Did you ever think of doing 'oh that' with your beloved Sonny?"
   For the first time she truly surprised him. She turned on him with what he could think
of only as a Mona Lisa smile (his scientific mind immediately darting off on a tangent 
(отклонился в сторону; tangent ['tжndG∂nt] – касательная; тангенс), could this be the
solving of that centuries-old mystery?) and said quietly, "I did everything with Sonny." It
was the first time she had ever admitted anything like that to anyone.  
   Two weeks later Jules Segal stood in the operating room of the Los Angeles hospital
and watched his friend Dr. Frederick Kellner perform the specialty. Before Lucy was put
under anesthesia, Jules leaned over and whispered, "I told him you were my special girl
so he's going to put in some real tight walls." But the preliminary pill had already made
her dopey and she didn't laugh or smile. His teasing remark did take away some of the
terror of the operation.

    	   

141
   Dr. Kellner made his incision (разрез, надрез) with the confidence of a pool (лужа,
прудок; омут, заводь) shark (акула) making an easy shot. The technique of any
operation to strengthen the pelvic floor required the accomplishment of two objectives.
The musculofibrous pelvic sling had to be shortened so that the slack was taken up.
And of course the vaginal opening, the weak spot itself in the pelvic floor, had to be
brought forward, brought under the pubic arch and so relieved from the line of direct
pressure above. Repairing the pelvic sling (ремень, канат) was called perincorrhaphy.
Suturing (to suture [‘sju:t∫∂] – накладывать шов) the vaginal wall was called
colporrhaphy.
   Jules saw that Dr. Kellner was working carefully now, the big danger in the cutting
was going too deep and hitting the rectum. It was a fairly uncomplicated case, Jules had
studied all the X rays and tests. Nothing should go wrong except that in surgery
something could always go wrong.
   Kellner was working on the diaphragm sling, the T forceps (хирургические щипцы,
пинцет ['fo:seps]) held the vaginal flap (что-либо, прикрепленное за один конец;
клапан), and exposing the ani muscle and the fasci (фасции) which formed its sheath.
Kellner's gauze-covered (gauze [go:z] – газ /материя/; марля) fingers were pushing
aside loose connective tissue. Jules kept his eyes on the vaginal wall for the
appearance of the veins, the telltale danger signal of injuring the rectum. But old Kellner
knew his stuff. He was building a new snatch as easily as a carpenter nails together
two-by-four studs (stud – гвоздь с большой шляпокй; штифт).
   Kellner was trimming away the excess vaginal wall using the fastening-down stitch to
close the "bite" taken out of the tissue of the redundant (излишний, чрезмерный
[rı'dΛnd∂nt]) angle, insuring that no troublesome projections would form. Kellner was
trying to insert three fingers into the narrowed opening of the lumen (канал, проход
/анат./ ['lu:m∂n]), then two. He just managed to get two fingers in, probing deeply and
for a moment he looked up at Jules and his china-blue eyes over the gauze mask
twinkled as though asking if that was narrow enough. Then he was busy again with his
sutures.
   It was all over. They wheeled Lucy out to the recovery room and Jules talked to
Kellner. Kellner was cheerful, the best sign that everything had gone well. "No
complications at all, my boy," he told Jules. "Nothing growing in there, very simple case.
She has wonderful body tone, unusual in these cases and now she's in first-class shape
for fun and games. I envy you, my boy. Of course you'll have to wait a little while but
then I guarantee you'll like my work."

   Jules laughed. "You're a true Pygmalion, Doctor. Really, you were marvelous."

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   Dr. Kellner grunted. "That's all child's play, like your abortions. If society would only be
realistic, people like you and I, really talented people, could do important work and leave
this stuff for the hacks (наемная лошадь; поденщик). By the way, I'll be sending you a
girl next week, a very nice girl, they seem to be the ones who always get in trouble. That 
will make us all square (так мы сочтемся) for this job today."
   Jules shook his hand. "Thanks, Doctor. Come out yourself sometime and I'll see that
you get all the courtesies of the house."
   Kellner gave him a wry smile. "I gamble every day, I don't need your roulette wheels
and crap tables. I knock heads with fate too often as it is. You're going to waste out
there, Jules. Another couple of years and you can forget about serious surgery. You
won't be up to it." He turned away.
   Jules knew it was not meant as a reproach but as a warning. Yet it took the heart out
of him anyway. Since Lucy wouldn't be out of the recovery room for at least twelve
hours, he went out on the town and got drunk. Part of getting drunk was his feeling of
relief that everything had worked out so well with Lucy.

   The next morning when he went to the hospital to visit her he was surprised to find
two men at her bedside and flowers all over the room. Lucy was propped up on pillows,
her face radiant. Jules was surprised because Lucy had broken with her family and had
told him not to notify them unless something went wrong. Of course Freddie Corleone 
knew she was in the hospital for a minor operation; that had been necessary so that
they both could get time off, and Freddie had told Jules that the hotel would pick up all
the bills for Lucy.
   Lucy was introducing them and one of the men Jules recognized instantly. The
famous Johnny Fontane. The other was a big, muscular, snotty-looking Italian guy
whose name was Nino Valenti. They both shook hands with Jules and then paid no
further attention to him. They were kidding Lucy, talking about the old neighborhood in
New York, about people and events Jules had no way of sharing. So he said to Lucy,
"I'll drop by later, I have to see Dr. Kellner anyway."
   But Johnny Fontane was turning the charm on him. "Hey, buddy, we have to leave
ourselves, you keep Lucy company. Take good care of her, Doc." Jules noticed a
peculiar hoarseness in Johnny Fontane's voice and remembered suddenly that the man
hadn't sung in public for over a year now, that he had won the Academy Award for his
acting. Could the man's voice have changed so late in life and the papers keeping it a

secret, everybody keeping it a secret? Jules loved inside gossip and kept listening to
Fontane's voice in an attempt to diagnose the trouble. It could be simple strain 

143

(растяжение), or too much booze and cigarettes or even too much women. The voice
had an ugly timbre to it, he could never be called the sweet crooner (эстрадный певец;
croon – тихое проникновенное пение; to croon – напевать вполголоса) anymore.
   "You sound like you have a cold," Jules said to Johnny Fontane.
Fontane said politely, "Just strain, I tried to sing last night. I guess I just can't accept the
fact that my voice changed, getting old you know." He gave Jules a what-the-hell grin 
(усмешка, как бы говорящая: «Какого черта?»).
   Jules said casually, "Didn't you get a doctor to look at it? Maybe it's something that
can be fixed."
   Fontane was not so charming now. He gave Jules a long cool look. "That's the first
thing I did nearly two years ago. Best specialists. My own doctor who's supposed to be
the top guy out here in California. They told me to get a lot of rest. Nothing wrong, just
getting older. A man's voice changes when he gets older."
   Fontane ignored him after that, paying attention to Lucy, charming her as he charmed
all women. Jules kept listening to the voice. There had to be a growth on those vocal
cords. But then why the hell hadn't the specialists spotted it? Was it malignant and
inoperable? Then there was other stuff.
   He interrupted Fontane to ask, "When was the last time you got examined by a
specialist?" 
  Fontane was obviously irritated but trying to be polite for Lucy's sake. "About eighteen
months ago," he said.
   "Does your own doctor take a look once in a while?" Jules asked. 
"Sure he does," Johnny Fontane said irritably. "He gives me a codeine spray and
checks me out. He told me it's just my voice aging, that all the drinking and smoking and
other stuff. Maybe you know more than he does?"
   Jules asked, "What's his name?"
   Fontane said with just a faint flicker of pride, "Tucker, Dr. James Tucker. What do you
think of him?"
   The name was familiar, linked to famous movie stars, female, and to an expensive
health farm.  
   "He's a sharp dresser," Jules said with a grin.
   Fontane was angry now. "You think you're a better doctor than he is?"

    	   

144
   Jules laughed. "Are you a better singer than Carmen Lombardo?" He was surprised to
see Nino Valenti break up in laughter, banging his head on his chair. The job hadn't
been that good. Then on the wings of those guffaws (guffaw [gΛ'fo:] – грубый хохот,
гогот) he caught the smell of bourbon (сорт виски ['bu∂b∂n]) and knew that even this
early in the morning Mr. Valenti, whoever the hell he was, was at least half drunk.
   Fontane was grinning at his friend. "Hey, you're supposed to be laughing at my jokes,
not his." Meanwhile Lucy stretched out her hand to Jules and drew him to her bedside.
   "He looks like a bum (задница /груб./; бездельник, лодырь; плохой, низкого
качества) but he's a brilliant (блестящий) surgeon," Lucy told them. "If he says he's
better than Dr. Tucker then he's better than Dr. Tucker. You listen to him, Johnny."
   The nurse came in and told them they would have to leave. The resident was going to
do some work on Lucy and needed privacy. Jules was amused to see Lucy turn her
head away so when Johnny Fontane and Nino Valenti kissed her they would hit her
cheek instead of her mouth, but they seemed to expect it. She let Jules kiss her on the
mouth and whispered, "Come back this afternoon, please?" He nodded.
   Out in the corridor, Valenti asked him, "What was the operation for? Anything
serious?"
   Jules shook his head. "Just a little female plumbing. Absolutely routine, please believe
me. I'm more concerned than you are, I hope to marry the girl."
   They were looking at him appraisingly so he asked, "How did you find out she was in
the hospital?"
   "Freddie called us and asked us to look in," Fontane said. "We all grew up in the same
neighborhood. Lucy was maid of honor when Freddie's sister got married."
   "Oh," Jules said. He didn't let on that he knew the whole story, perhaps because they
were so cagey (уклончивый) about protecting Lucy and her affair with Sonny.
   As they walked down the corridor, Jules said to Fontane, "I have visiting doctor's
privileges here, why don't you let me have a look at your throat?"
   Fontane shook his head. "I'm in a hurry."
   Nino Valenti said, "That's a million-dollar throat, he can't have cheap doctors looking
down it." Jules saw Valenti was grinning at him, obviously on his side.
   Jules said cheerfully, "I'm no cheap doctor. I was the brightest young surgeon and
diagnostician on the East Coast until they got me on an abortion rap (легкий удар;
ответственность /за проступок/, обвинение, наказание /сленг/)."

    	   

145
   As he had known it would, that made them take him seriously. By admitting his crime
he inspired belief in his claim of high competence. Valenti recovered first. "If Johnny
can't use you, I got a girl friend I want you to look at, not at her throat though."
   Fontane said to him nervously, "How long will you take?"
   "Ten minutes," Jules said. It was a lie but he believed in telling lies to people. Truth
telling and medicine just didn't go together except in dire (ужасный, страшный;
крайний) emergencies (emergency [ı‘m∂:dG∂ns] – непредвиденный случай, крайняя
необходимость), if then.
   "OK," Fontane said. His voice was darker, hoarser, with fright.
   Jules recruited a nurse and a consulting room. It didn't have everything he needed but
there was enough. In less than ten minutes he knew there was a growth on the vocal
chords, that was easy. Tucker, that incompetent sartorial (портняжный, портновский)
son of a bitch of a Hollywood phony, should have been able to spot it. Christ, maybe the
guy didn't even have a license and if he did it should be taken away from him. Jules
didn't pay any attention to the two men now. He picked up the phone and asked for the
throat man at the hospital to come down. Then he swung around and said to Nino
Valenti, "I think it might be a long wait for you, you'd better leave."
   Fontane stared at him in utter disbelief. "You son of a bitch, you think you're going to
keep me here? You think you're going to fuck around with my throat?"
   Jules, with more pleasure than he would have thought possible, gave it to him straight
between the eyes. "You can do whatever you like," he said. "You've got a growth of
some sort on your vocal chords, in your larynx. If you stay here the next few hours, we
can nail it down, whether it's malignant or nonmalignant. We can make a decision for
surgery or treatment. I can give you the whole story. I can give you the name of a top
specialist in America and we can have him out here on the plane tonight, with your
money that is, and if I think it necessary. But you can walk out of here and see your
quack (знахарь; шарлатан) buddy or sweat while you decide to see another doctor, or
get referred to somebody incompetent. Then if it's malignant and gets big enough they'll
cut out your whole larynx or you'll die. Or you can just sweat. Stick here with me and we
can get it all squared away in a few hours. You got anything more important to do?"
   Valenti said, "Let's stick around, Johnny, what the hell. I'll go down the hall and call
the studio. I won't tell them anything, just that we're held up. Then I'll come back here
and keep you company."
   It proved to be a very long afternoon but a rewarding one. The diagnosis of the staff
throat man was perfectly sound as far as Jules could see after the X rays and swab 

(мазок /мед./) analysis. Halfway through, Johnny Fontane, his mouth soaked with

146

iodine, retching (to retch – рыгать, тужиться /при рвоте/) over the roll of gauze stuck in
his mouth, tried to quit. Nino Valenti grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him
back into a chair. When it was all over Jules grinned at Fontane and said, "Warts."
   Fontane didn't grasp it. Jules said again. "Just some warts. We'll slice them right off
like skin off baloney (= Bologna-sausage – болонская /копченая/ колбаса). In a few
months you'll be OK."
   Valenti let out a yell but Fontane was still frowning. "How about singing afterward, how
will it affect my singing?"
   Jules shrugged. "On that there's no guarantee. But since you can't sing now what's
the difference?"
   Fontane looked at him with distaste. "Kid, you don't know what the hell you're talking
about. You act like you're giving me good news when what you're telling me is maybe I
won't sing anymore. Is that right, maybe I won't sing anymore?"
   Finally Jules was disgusted. He'd operated as a real doctor and it had been a
pleasure. He had done this bastard a real favor and he was acting as if he'd been done
dirt. Jules said coldly, "Listen, Mr. Fontane, I'm a doctor of medicine and you can call
me Doctor, not kid. And I did give you very good news. When I brought you down here I
was certain that you had a malignant growth in your larynx which would entail 
(повлечет за собой) cutting out your whole voice box. Or which could kill you. I was
worried that I might have to tell you that you were a dead man. And I was so delighted
when I could say the word 'warts.' Because your singing gave me so much pleasure,
helped me seduce girls when I was younger and you're a real artist. But also you're a
very spoiled guy. Do you think because you're Johnny Fontane you can't get cancer? Or
a brain tumor that's inoperable. Or a failure of the heart? Do you think you're never
going to die? Well, it's not all sweet music and if you want to see real trouble take a
walk through this hospital and you'll sing a love song about warts. So just stop the crap
and get on with what you have to do. Your Adolphe Menjou (американский актер
(1890 – 1963), изысканно-аристократический) medical man can get you the proper
surgeon but if he tries to get into the operating room I suggest you have him arrested for
attempted murder."
   Jules started to walk out of the room when Valenti said, "Attaboy (= at-a-boy –
молодец, молодчина), Doc, that's telling him."
   Jules whirled around and said, "Do you always get looped (напившийся,
надрызгавшийся /сленг/; loop – петля) before noontime?"

   Valenti said, "Sure," and grinned at him and with such good humor that Jules said

147

more gently than he had meant to, "You have to figure you'll be dead in five years if you
keep that up."
   Valenti was lumbering (to lumber – тяжело, неуклюже двигаться; lumber –
ненужные громоздкие вещи; бревна) up to him with little dancing steps. He threw his
arms around Jules, his breath stank of bourbon. He was laughing very hard. "Five
years?" he asked still laughing. "Is it going to take that long?"

   A month after her operation Lucy Mancini sat beside the Vegas hotel pool, one hand
holding a cocktail, the other hand stroking Jules' head, which lay in her lap.
   "You don't have to build up your courage," Jules said teasingly. "I have champagne
waiting in our suite."
   "Are you sure it's OK so soon?" Lucy asked.
   "I'm the doctor," Jules said. "Tonight's the big night. Do you realize I'll be the first
surgeon in medical history who tried out the results of his 'medical first' operation? You
know, the Before and After. I'm going to enjoy writing it up for the journals. Let's see,
'while the Before was distinctly pleasurable for psychological reasons and the
sophistication of the surgeon-instructor, the post-operative coitus was extremely
rewarding strictly for its neurological" – he stopped talking because Lucy had yanked on
his hair hard enough for him to yell with pain.
   She smiled down at him. "If you're not satisfied tonight I can really say it's your fault,"
she said.
   "I guarantee my work. I planned it even though I just let old Kellner do the manual
labor," Jules said. "Now let's just rest up, we have a long night of research ahead."
   When they went up to their suite – they were living together now – Lucy found a
surprise waiting: a gourmet (гурман /франц./ ['gu∂meı]) supper and next to her
champagne glass, a jeweler's box with a huge diamond engagement ring inside it.
   "That shows you how much confidence I have in my work," Jules said. "Now let's see
you earn it."
   He was very tender, very gentle with her. She was a little scary at first, her flesh
jumping away from his touch but then, reassured, she felt her body building up to a
passion she had never known, and when they were done the first time and Jules
whispered, "I do good work," she whispered back, "Oh, yes, you do; yes, you do." And
they both laughed to each other as they started making love again.

    	   

Book 6

Chapter 23

   After five months of exile in Sicily, Michael Corleone came finally to understand his
father's character and his destiny. He carne to understand men like Luca Brasi, the
ruthless caporegime Clemenza. his mother's resignation and acceptance of her role.
For in Sicily he saw what they would have been if they had chosen not to struggle
against their fate. He understood why the Don always said, "A man has only one

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destiny." He came to understand the contempt for authority and legal government, the
hatred for any man who broke omerta, the law of silence.
   Dressed in old clothes and a billed cap, Michael had been transported from the ship
docked at Palermo to the interior of the Sicilian island, to the very heart of a province
controlled by the Mafia, where the local capo-mafioso was greatly indebted to his father
for some past service. The province held the town of Corleone, whose name the Don
had taken when he emigrated to Arnerica so long ago. But there were no longer any of
the Don's relatives alive. The women had died of old age. All the men had been killed in
vendettas or had also emigrated, either to America, Brazil or to some other province on
the Italian mainland. He was to learn later that this small poverty-stricken town had the
highest murder rate of any place in the world.
   Michael was installed as a guest in the home of a bachelor uncle of the capo-mafioso.
The uncle, in his seventies, was also the doctor for the district. The capo-mafioso was a
man in his late fifties named Don Tommasino and he operated as the gabbellotto for a
huge estate belonging to one of Sicily's most noble families. The gabbellotto, a sort of
overseer to the estates of the rich, also guaranteed that the poor would not try to claim
land not being cultivated, would not try to encroach (вторгаться, покушаться на чужие
права) in any way on the estate, by poaching (to poach – браконьерствовать;
незаконно вторгаться в чужие владения) or trying to farm it as squatters 
(поселившийся незаконно на незанятой земле; to squat – сидеть на корточках). In
short, the gabbellotto was a mafioso who for a certain sum of money protected the real
estate of the rich from all claims made on it by the poor, legal or illegal. When any poor
peasant tried to implement (выполнять, осуществлять, обеспечивать выполнение)
the law which permitted him to buy uncultivated land, the gabbellotto frightened him off
with threats of bodily harm or death. It was that simple.

    	   

   Don Tommasino also controlled the water rights in the area and vetoed the local
building of any new dams by the Roman government. Such dams would ruin the

149

lucrative business of selling water from the artesian wells he controlled, make water too
cheap, ruin the whole important water economy so laboriously built up over hundreds of
years. However, Don Tommasino was an old-fashioned Mafia chief and would have
nothing to do with dope traffic or prostitution. In this Don Tommasino was at odds with
the new breed of Mafia leaders springing up in big cities like Palermo, new men who,
influenced by American gangsters deported to Italy, had no such scruples.
   The Mafia chief was an extremely portly (полный, дородный; представительный)
man, a "man with a belly," literally as well as in the figurative sense that meant a man
able to inspire fear in his fellow men. Under his protection, Michael had nothing to fear,
yet it was considered necessary to keep the fugitive's identity a secret. And so Michael
was restricted to the walled estate of Dr. Taza, the Don's uncle.
   Dr. Taza was tall for a Sicilian, almost six feet, and had ruddy cheeks and snow-white
hair. Though in his seventies, he went every week to Palermo to pay his respects to the
younger prostitutes of that city, the younger the better. Dr. Taza's other vice was
reading. He read everything and talked about what he read to his fellow townsmen,
patients who were illiterate peasants, the estate shepherds, and this gave him a local
reputation for foolishness. What did books have to do with them?
   In the evenings Dr. Taza, Don Tommasino and Michael sat in the huge garden
populated with those marble statues that on this island seemed to grow out of the
garden as magically as the black heady grapes. Dr. Taza loved to tell stories about the
Mafia and its exploits over the centuries and in Michael Corleone he had a fascinated
listener. There were times when even Don Tommasino would be carried away by the
balmy air, the fruity, intoxicating wine, the elegant and quiet comfort of the garden, and
tell a story from his own practical experience. The doctor was the legend, the Don the
reality.
   In this antique garden, Michael Corleone learned about the roots from which his father
grew. That the word "Mafia" had originally meant place of refuge. Then it became the
name for the secret organization that sprang up to fight against the rulers who had
crushed the country and its people for centuries. Sicily was a land that had been more
cruelly raped than any other in history. The Inquisition had tortured rich and poor alike.
The landowning barons and the princes of the Catholic Church exercised absolute
power over the shepherds and farmers. The police were the instruments of their power

    	   

150
and so identified with them that to be called a policeman is the foulest insult one Sicilian
can hurl (бросать, швырять) at another.
   Faced with the savagery of this absolute power, the suffering people learned never to
betray their anger and their hatred for fear of being crushed. They learned never to
make themselves vulnerable by uttering any sort of threat since giving such a warning
insured a quick reprisal (репрессалия). They learned that society was their enemy and
so when they sought redress for their wrongs they went to the rebel underground the
Mafia. And the Mafia cemented its power by originating the law of silence, the omerta.
In the countryside of Sicily a stranger asking directions to the nearest town will not even
receive the courtesy of an answer. And the greatest crime any member of the Mafia
could commit would be to tell the police the name of the man who had just shot him or
done him any kind of injury. Omerta became the religion of the people. A woman whose
husband has been murdered would not tell the police the name of her husband's
murderer, not even of her child's murderer, her daughter's raper.
   Justice had never been forthcoming (предстоящий, грядущий; ожидаемый) from the
authorities and so the people had always gone to the Robin Hood Mafia. And to some
extent the Mafia still fulfilled this role. People turned to their local capo-mafioso for help
in every emergency. He was their social worker, their district captain ready with a
basket of food and a job, their protector.
    But what Dr. Taza did not add, what Michael learned on his own in the months that
followed, was that the Mafia in Sicily had become the illegal arm of the rich and even
the auxiliary police of the legal and political structure. It had become a degenerate
capitalist structure, anti-communist, anti-liberal, placing its own taxes on every form of
business endeavor no matter how small.
   Michael Corleone understood for the first time why men like his father chose to
become thieves and murderers rather than members of the legal society. The poverty
and fear and degradation were too awful to be acceptable to any man of spirit. And in
America some emigrating Sicilians had assumed there would be an equally cruel
authority.
   Dr. Taza offered to take Michael into Palermo with him on his weekly visit to the
bordello but Michael refused. His flight to Sicily had prevented him from getting proper
medical treatment for his smashed jaw and he now carried a memento from Captain
McCluskey on the left side of his face. The bones had knitted badly, throwing his profile
askew (криво, косо), giving him the appearance of depravity (порочность,
развращенность [dı'prжvıtı]) when viewed from that side. He had always been vain

151
about his looks and this upset him more than he thought possible. The pain that came
and went he didn't mind at all, Dr. Taza gave him some pills that deadened it. Taza
offered to treat his face but Michael refused. He had been there long enough to learn
that Dr. Taza was perhaps the worst physician in Sicily. Dr. Taza read everything but his 
medical literature, which he admitted he could not understand. He had passed his
medical exams through the good offices of the most important Mafia chief in Sicily who
had made a special trip to Palermo to confer with Taza's professors about what grades
they should give him. And this too showed how the Mafia in Sicily was cancerous to the
society it inhabited. Merit (заслуга, достоинство) meant nothing. Talent meant nothing.
Work meant nothing. The Mafia Godfather gave you your profession as a gift.
   Michael had plenty of time to think things out. During the day he took walks in the
countryside, always accompanied by two of the shepherds attached to Don
Tommasino's estate. The shepherds of the island were often recruited to act as the
Mafia's hired killers and did their job simply to earn money to live. Michael thought about
his father's organization. If it continued to prosper it would grow into what had happened
here on this island, so cancerous that it would destroy the whole country. Sicily was
already a land of ghosts, its men emigrating to every other country on earth to be able
to earn their bread, or simply to escape being murdered for exercising their political and
economic freedoms.
   On his long walks the most striking thing in Michael's eyes was the magnificent beauty
of the country; he walked through the orange orchards that formed shady deep caverns
through the countryside with their ancient conduits (трубопровод; акведук ['kondıt])
splashing water out of the fanged (fang – клык) mouths of great snake stones carved
before Christ. Houses built like ancient Roman villas, with huge marble portals and
great vaulted (vault [vo:lt] – свод) rooms, falling into ruins or inhabited by stray 
(заблудившееся или отбившееся от стада животное) sheep. On the horizon the
bony hills shone like picked bleached (to bleach – белить, отбеливать; побелеть)
bones piled high. Gardens and fields, sparkly green, decorated the desert landscape
like bright emerald necklaces. And sometimes he walked as far as the town of Corleone, 
its eighteen thousand people strung out (to string out – растягивать вереницей) in
dwellings that pitted the side of the nearest mountain, the mean hovels (лачуга,
хибарка ['hov∂l]) built out of black rock quarried (to quarry – добывать камень /из
карьера/; quarry – каменоломня) from that mountain. In the last year there had been
over sixty murders in Corleone and it seemed that death shadowed the town. Further on,
the wood of Ficuzza broke the savage monotony of arable (пахотный ['жr∂bl]) plain.

   His two shepherd bodyguards always carried their luparas with them when
accompanying Michael on his walks. The deadly Sicilian shotgun was the favorite

152

weapon of the Mafia. Indeed the police chief sent by Mussolini to clean the Mafia out of
Sicily had, as one of his first steps, ordered all stone walls in Sicily to be knocked down
to not more than three feet in height so that murderers with their luparas could not use
the walls as ambush points for their assassinations. This didn't help much and the
police minister solved his problem by arresting and deporting to penal colonies any
male suspected of being a mafioso.
   When the island of Sicily was liberated by the Allied Armies, the American military
government officials believed that anyone imprisoned by the Fascist regime was a
democrat and many of these mafiosi were appointed as mayors of villages or
interpreters to the military government. This good fortune enabled the Mafia to
reconstitute itself and become more formidable than ever before.
   The long walks, a bottle of strong wine at night with a heavy plate of pasta and meat,
enabled Michael to sleep. There were books in Italian in Dr. Taza's library and though
Michael spoke dialect Italian and had taken some college courses in Italian, his reading
of these books took a great deal of effort and time. His speech became almost
accentless and, though he could never pass as a native of the district, it would be
believed that he was one of those strange Italians from the far north of Italy bordering
the Swiss and Germans.
   The distortion of the left side of his face made him more native. It was the kind of
disfigurement common in Sicily because of the lack of medical care. The little injury that
cannot be patched up simply for lack of money. Many children, many men, bore
disfigurements that in America would have been repaired by minor surgery or
sophisticated medical treatments.
   Michael often thought of Kay, of her smile, her body, and always felt a twinge of
conscience at leaving her so brutally without a word of farewell. Oddly enough his
conscience was never troubled by the two men he had murdered; Sollozzo had tried to
kill his father, Captain McCluskey had disfigured him for life.
   Dr. Taza always kept after him about getting surgery done for his lopsided face,
especially when Michael asked him for pain-killing drugs, the pain getting worse as time
went on, and more frequent. Taza explained that there was a facial nerve below the eye
from which radiated a whole complex of nerves. Indeed, this was the favorite spot for
Mafia torturers, who searched it out on the cheeks of their victims with the needle-fine
point of an ice pick. That particular nerve in Michael's face had been injured or perhaps

153
there was a splinter of bone lanced into it. Simple surgery in a Palermo hospital would
permanently relieve the pain.
   Michael refused. When the doctor asked why, Michael grinned and said, "It's
something from home."
   And he really didn't mind the pain, which was more an ache, a small throbbing in his
skull, like a motored apparatus running in liquid to purify it.
   It was nearly seven months of leisurely rustic (сельский, деревенский; простой,
грубый [‘rΛstık]) living before Michael felt real boredom. At about this time Don
Tommasino became very busy and was seldom seen at the villa. He was having his
troubles with the "new Mafia" springing up in Palermo, young men who were making a
fortune out of the postwar construction boom in that city. With this wealth they were
trying to encroach on the country fiefs of old-time Mafia leaders whom they
contemptuously labeled Moustache Petes. Don Tommasino was kept busy defending
his domain. And so Michael was deprived of the old man's company and had to be
content with Dr. Taza's stories, which were beginning to repeat themselves.
   One morning Michael decided to take a long hike to the mountains beyond Corleone.
He was, naturally, accompanied by the two shepherd bodyguards. This was not really a
protection against enemies of the Corleone Family. It was simply too dangerous for
anyone not a native to go wandering about by himself. It was dangerous enough for a
native. The region was loaded with bandits, with Mafia partisans fighting against each
other and endangering everybody else in the process. He might also be mistaken for a
pagliaio thief.
   A pagliaio is a straw-thatched hut erected in the fields to house farming tools and to
provide shelter for the agricultural laborers so that they will not have to carry them on
the long walk from their homes in the village. In Sicily the peasant does not live on the
land he cultivates. It is too dangerous and any arable land, if he owns it, is too precious.
Rather, he lives in his village and at sunrise begins his voyage out to work in distant
fields, a commuter (to commute – совершать регулярные поездки из дома на работу
/в отдаленное место, например, из пригорода в город/) on foot. A worker who
arrived at his pagliaio and found it looted was an injured man indeed. The bread was
taken out of his mouth for that day. The Mafia, after the law proved helpless, took this
interest of the peasant under its protection and solved the problem in typical fashion. It
hunted down and slaughtered all pagliaio thieves. It was inevitable that some innocents
suffered. It was possible that if Michael wandered past a pagliaio that had just been

    	   

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looted he might be adjudged (to adjudge – выносить приговор, признавать виновным)
the criminal unless he had somebody to vouch (поручиться) for him.
   So on one sunny morning he started hiking (to hike – путешествовать, бродить
пешком; бродяжничать) across the fields followed by his two faithful shepherds. One
of them was a plain simple fellow, almost moronic (слабоумный), silent as the dead
and with a face as impassive as an Indian. He had the wiry small build of the typical
Sicilian before they ran to the fat of middle age. His name was Calo.
   The other shepherd was more outgoing, younger, and had seen something of the
world. Mostly oceans, since he had been a sailor in the Italian navy during the war and
had just had time enough to get himself tattooed before his ship was sunk and he was
captured by the British. But the tattoo made him a famous man in his village. Sicilians
do not often let themselves be tattooed, they do not have the opportunity nor the
inclination. (The shepherd, Fabrizzio, had done so primarily to cover a splotchy (splotch
– большое неровное пятно) red birthmark on his belly.) And yet the Mafia market carts
had gaily painted scenes on their sides, beautifully primitive paintings done with loving
care. In any case, Fabrizzio, back in his native village, was not too proud of that tattoo
on his chest, though it showed a subject dear to the Sicilian "honor," a husband
stabbing a naked man and woman entwined together on the hairy floor of his belly.
Fabrizzio would joke with Michael and ask questions about America, for of course it was
impossible to keep them in the dark about his true nationality. Still, they did not know
exactly who he was except that he was in hiding and there could be no babbling (to
babble – болтать; выбалтывать, проболтаться) about him. Fabrizzio sometimes
brought Michael a fresh cheese still sweating the milk that formed it.
   They walked along dusty country roads passing donkeys pulling gaily painted carts.
The land was filled with pink flowers, orange orchards, groves of almond (рощи
миндаля ['a:m∂nd]) and olive trees, all blooming. That had been one of the surprises.
Michael had expected a barren land because of the legendary poverty of Sicilians. And
yet he had found it a land of gushing (to gush – хлынуть, литься потоком) plenty,
carpeted with flowers scented by lemon blossoms. It was so beautiful that he wondered
how its people could bear to leave it. How terrible man had been to his fellow man could
be measured by the great exodus from what seemed to be a Garden of Eden.
   He had planned to walk to the coastal village of Mazara, and then take a bus back to
Corleone in the evening, and so tire himself out and be able to sleep. The two
shepherds wore rucksacks filled with bread and cheese they could eat on the way. They
carried their luparas quite openly as if out for a day's hunting.

   It was a most beautiful morning. Michael felt as he had felt when as a child he had

155

gone out early on a summer day to play ball. Then each day had been freshly washed,
freshly painted. And so it was now. Sicily was carpeted in gaudy (яркий, кричащий;
цветистый ['go:dı]) flowers, the scent of orange and lemon blossoms so heavy that
even with his facial injury which pressed on the sinuses (sinus ['saın∂s] – пазуха
/анат./), he could smell it.
   The smashing on the left side of his face had completely healed but the bone had
formed improperly and the pressure on his sinuses made his left eye hurt. It also made
his nose run continually, he filled up handkerchiefs with mucus (слизь ['mju:k∂s]) and
often blew his nose out onto the ground as the local peasants did, a habit that had
disgusted him when he was a boy and had seen old Italians, disdaining handkerchiefs
as English foppery (щегольство), blow out their noses in the asphalt gutters.  
   His face too felt "heavy." Dr. Taza had told him that this was due to the pressure on
his sinuses caused by the badly healed fracture. Dr. Taza called it an eggshell fracture
of the zygoma; that if it had been treated before the bones knitted, it could have been
easily remedied by a minor surgical procedure using an instrument like a spoon to push
out the bone to its proper shape. Now, however, said the doctor, he would have to
check into a Palermo hospital and undergo a major procedure called maxillo-facial
surgery where the bone would be broken again. That was enough for Michael. He
refused. And yet more than the pain, more than the nose dripping, he was bothered by
the feeling of heaviness in his face.
   He never reached the coast that day. After going about fifteen miles he and his
shepherds stopped in the cool green watery shade of an orange grove to eat lunch and
drink their wine. Fabrizzio was chattering about how he would someday get to America.
After drinking and eating they lolled (to loll [lol] – сидеть развалясь) in the shade and
Fabrizzio unbuttoned his shirt and contracted his stomach muscles to make the tattoo
come alive. The naked couple on his chest writhed in a lover's agony and the dagger
thrust by the husband quivered in their transfixed (to transfix [trжns’fıks] – пронзать,
прокалывать) flesh. It amused them. It was while this was going on that Michael was hit
with what the Sicilians call "the thunderbolt." 
   Beyond the orange grove lay the green ribboned fields of a baronial estate. Down the
road from the grove was a villa so Roman it looked as if it had been dug up from the
ruins of Pompeii. It was a little palace with a huge marble portico and fluted (flute –
канелюра, желобок /архит./) Grecian columns and through those columns came a
bevy (стая /птиц/; общество, собрание /женщин/ ['bevı]) of village girls flanked by two

156
stout matrons clad in black. They were from the village and had obviously fulfilled their
ancient duty to the local baron by cleaning his villa and otherwise preparing it for his
winter sojourn (временное пребывание [‘sodG∂:n]). Now they were going into the
fields to pick the flowers with which they would fill the rooms. They were gathering the
pink sulla, purple wisteria (глициния), mixing them with orange and lemon blossoms.
The girls, not seeing the men resting in the orange grove, came closer and closer.
   They were dressed in cheap gaily printed frocks that clung to their bodies. They were
still in their teens but with the full womanliness sundrenched flesh ripened into so
quickly. Three or four of them started chasing one girl, chasing her toward the grove.
The girl being chased held a bunch of huge purple grapes in her left hand and with her
right hand was picking grapes off the cluster and throwing them at her pursuers. She
had a crown of ringleted hair as purple-black as the grapes and her body seemed to be
bursting out of its skin.
   Just short of the grove she poised, startled, her eyes having caught the alien color of
the men's shirts. She stood there up on her toes poised like a deer to run. She was very
close now, close enough for the men to see every feature of her face.
She was all ovals – oval-shaped eyes, the bones of her face, the contour of her brow.
Her skin was an exquisite dark creaminess and her eyes, enormous, dark violet or
brown but dark with long heavy lashes shadowed her lovely face. Her mouth was rich
without being gross, sweet without being weak and dyed dark red with the juice of the
grapes. She was so incredibly lovely that Fabrizzio murmured, "Jesus Christ, take my
soul, I'm dying," as a joke, but the words came out a little too hoarsely. As if she had
heard him, the girl came down off her toes and whirled away from them and fled back to
her pursuers. Her haunches moved like an animal's beneath the tight print of her dress;
as pagan and as innocently lustful. When she reached her friends she whirled around
again and her face was like a dark hollow against the field of bright flowers. She
extended an arm, the hand full of grapes pointed toward the grove. The girls fled
laughing, with the black-clad, stout matrons scolding them on.
As for Michael Corleone, he found himself standing, his heart pounding in his chest; he
felt a little dizzy. The blood was surging through his body, through all its extremities and
pounding against the tips of his fingers, the tips of his toes. All the perfumes of the
island came rushing in on the wind, orange, lemon blossoms, grapes, flowers. It
seemed as if his body had sprung away from him out of himself. And then he heard the
two shepherds laughing.

    	   

   "You got hit by the thunderbolt, eh?" Fabrizzio said, clapping him on the shoulder.

157

Even Calo became friendly, patting him on the arm and saying, "Easy, man, easy," but
with affection. As if Michael had been hit by a car. Fabrizzio handed him a wine bottle
and Michael took a long slug (глоток /спиртного/). It cleared his head.  
   "What the hell are you damn sheep lovers talking about?" he said.
   Both men laughed. Calo, his honest face filled with the utmost seriousness, said, "You
can't hide the thunderbolt. When it hits you, everybody can see it. Christ, man, don't be
ashamed of it, some men pray for the thunderbolt. You're a lucky fellow."
   Michael wasn't too pleased about his emotions being so easily read. But this was the
first time in his life such a thing had happened to him. It was nothing like his adolescent
crushes (увлечение, пылкая любовь; to crush – раздавить, сокрушить), it was
nothing like the love he'd had for Kay, a love based as much on her sweetness, her
intelligence and the polarity of the fair and dark. This was an overwhelming desire for
possession, this was an inerasible printing of the girl's face on his brain and he knew
she would haunt his memory every day of his life if he did not possess her. His life had
become simplified, focused on one point, everything else was unworthy of even a
moment's attention. During his exile he had always thought of Kay, though he felt they
could never again be lovers or even friends. He was, after all was said, a murderer, a
Mafioso who had "made his bones." But now Kay was wiped completely out of his
consciousness.
   Fabrizzio said briskly, "I'll go to the village, we'll find out about her. Who knows, she
may be more available than we think. There's only one cure for the thunderbolt, eh,
Calo?"
   The other shepherd nodded his head gravely. Michael didn't say anything. He
followed the two shepherds as they started down the road to the nearby village into
which the flock of girls had disappeared.
   The village was grouped around the usual central square with its fountain. But it was
on a main route so there were some stores, wine shops and one little cafй with three
tables out on a small terrace. The shepherds sat at one of the tables and Michael joined
them. There was no sign of the girls, not a trace. The village seemed deserted except
for small boys and a meandering (to meander [mı'жnd∂] – бродить без цели; meander
– извилина /дороги, реки/; меандр /орнамент/) donkey.
   The proprietor of the cafй came to serve them. He was a short, burly man, almost
dwarfish but he greeted them cheerfully and set a dish of chickpeas (нут, горох
турецкий) at their table. "You're strangers here," he said, "so let me advise you. Try my

158
wine. The grapes come from my own farm and it's made by my sons themselves. They 
mix it with oranges and lemons. It's the best wine in Italy."
   They let him bring the wine in a jug and it was even better than he claimed, dark
purple and as powerful as a brandy. Fabrizzio said to the cafй proprietor, "You know all
the girls here, I'll bet. We saw some beauties coming down the road, one in particular
got our friend here hit with the thunderholt." He motioned to Michael.
   The cafй owner looked at Michael with new interest. The cracked face had seemed
quite ordinary to him before, not worth a second glance. But a man hit with the
thunderbolt was another matter. "You had better bring a few bottles home with you, my
friend," he said. "You'll need help in getting to sleep tonight."
   Michael asked the man, "Do you know a girl with her hair all curly? Very creamy skin,
very big eves, very dark eyes. Do you know a girl like that in the village?"
   The cafй owner said curtly, "No. I don't know any girl like that." He vanished from the
terrace into his cafй.
   The three men drank their wine slowly, finished off the jug and called for more. The
owner did not reappear. Fabrizzio went into the cafй after him. When Fabrizzio came
out he grimaced and said to Michael, "Just as I thought, it's his daughter we were
talking about and now he's in the back boiling up his blood to do us a mischief. I think
we'd better start walking toward Corleone."
   Despite his months on the island Michael still could not get used to the Sicilian 
touchiness on matters of sex, and this was extreme even for a Sicilian. But the two
shepherds seemed to take it as a matter of course. They were waiting for him to leave.
Fabrizzio said, "The old bastard mentioned he has two sons, big tough lads that he has
only to whistle up. Let's get going."
   Michael gave him a cold stare. Up to now he had been a quiet, gentle young man, a
typical American, except that since he was hiding in Sicily he must have done
something manly. This was the first time the shepherds had seen the Corleone stare.
Don Tommasino, knowing Michael's true identity and deed, had always been wary 
(осторожный, настороженный ['wε∂rı]) of him, treating him as a fellow "man of
respect." But these unsophisticated sheep herders had come to their own opinion of
Michael, and not a wise one. The cold look, Michael's rigid white face, his anger that
came off him like cold smoke off ice, sobered their laughter and snuffed out (snuff –
нагар на свече; to snuff out – потушить /свечу/; разрушить, подавить) their familiar
friendliness. 

    	   

159
   When he saw he had their proper, respectful attention Michael said to them, "Get that
man out here to me."
   They didn't hesitate. They shouldered their luparas and went into the dark coolness of
the cafй. A few seconds later they reappeared with the cafй owner between them. The
stubby man looked in no way frightened but his anger had a certain wariness about it.
   Michael leaned back in his chair and studied the man for a moment. Then he said
very quietly, "I understand I've offended you by talking about your daughter. I offer you
my apologies, I'm a stranger in this country, I don't know the customs that well. Let me
say this. I meant no disrespect to you or her." The shepherd bodyguards were
impressed. Michael's voice had never sounded like this before when speaking to them.
There was command and authority in it though he was making an apology. The cafй
owner shrugged, more wary still, knowing he was not dealing with some farmboy. "Who
are you and what do you want from my daughter?"  
   Without even hesitating Michael said, "I am an American hiding in Sicily, from the
police of my country. My name is Michael. You can inform the police and make your
fortune but then your daughter would lose a father rather than gain a husband. In any
case I want to meet your daughter. With your permission and under the supervision of
your family. With all decorum. With all respect. I'm an honorable man and I don't think of
dishonoring your daughter. I want to meet her, talk to her and then if it hits us both right
we'll marry. If not, you'll never see me again. She may find me unsympathetic after all,
and no I man can remedy that. But when the proper time comes I'll tell you everything
about me that a wife's father should know."
   All three men were looking at him with amazement. Fabrizzio whispered in awe, "It's
the real thunderbolt." The cafй owner, for the first time, didn't look so confident, or
contemptuous; his anger was not so sure. Finally he asked, "Are you a friend of the
friends?"
   Since the word Mafia could never be uttered aloud by the ordinary Sicilian, this was as
close as the cafй owner could come to asking if Michael was a member of the Mafia. It
was the usual way of asking if someone belonged but it was ordinarily not addressed to
the person directly concerned.
   "No," Michael said. "I'm a stranger in this country."
   The cafй owner gave him another look, the smashed left side of his face, the long legs
rare in Sicily. He took a look at the two shepherds carrying their luparas quite openly
without fear and remembered how they had come into his cafй and told him their
padrone wanted to talk to him. The cafй owner had snarled (рычать; огрызаться,

сердито ворчать) that he wanted the son of a bitch out of his terrace and one of the
shepherds had said, "Take my word, it's best you go out and speak to him yourself."

160

And something had made him come out. Now something made him realize that it would
be best to show this stranger some courtesy. He said grudgingly, "Come Sunday
afternoon. My name is Vitelli and my house is up there on the hill, above the village. But
come here to the cafй and I'll take you up."
   Fabrizzio started to say something but Michael gave him one look and the shepherd's 
tongue froze in his mouth. This was not lost on Vitelli. So when Michael stood up and
stretched out his hand, the cafй owner took it and smiled. He would make some
inquiries and if the answers were wrong he could always greet Michael with his two
sons bearing their own shotguns. The cafй owner was not without his contacts among
the "friends of the friends." But something told him this was one of those wild strokes of
good fortune that Sicilians always believed in, something told him that his daughter's
beauty would make her fortune and her family secure. And it was just as well. Some of
the local youths were already beginning to buzz around (виться, увиваться; to buzz –
жужжать, гудеть) and this stranger with his broken face could do the necessary job of
scaring them off. Vitelli, to show his goodwill, sent the strangers off with a bottle of his
best and coldest wine. He noticed that one of the shepherds paid the bill. This
impressed him even more, made it clear that Michael was the superior of the two men
who accompanied him.
   Michael was no longer interested in his hike. They found a garage and hired a car and
driver to take them back to Corleone, and some time before supper, Dr. Taza must have
been informed by the shepherds of what had happened. That evening, sitting in the
garden, Dr. Taza said to Don Tommasino, "Our friend got hit by the thunderbolt today."
   Don Tommasino did not seem surprised. He grunted. "I wish some of those young
fellows in Palermo would get a thunderbolt, maybe I could get some peace." He was
talking about the new-style Mafia chiefs rising in the big cities of Palermo and
challenging the power of old-regime stalwarts like himself.
   Michael said to Tommasino, "I want you to tell those two sheep herders to leave me
alone Sunday. I'm going to go to this girl's family for dinner and I don't want them
hanging around."
   Don Tommasino shook his head. "I'm responsible to your father for you, don't ask me
that. Another thing, I hear you've even talked marriage. I can't allow that until I've sent
somebody to speak to your father."

    	   

   Michael Corleone was very careful, this was after all a man of respect. "Don

161

Tommasino, you know my father. He's a man who goes deaf when somebody says the
word no to him. And he doesn't get his hearing back until they answer him with a yes.
Well, he has heard my no many times. I understand about the two guards, I don't want
to cause you trouble, they can come with me Sunday, but if I want to marry I'll marry.
Surely if I don't permit my own father to interfere with my personal life it would be an
insult to him to allow you to do so."
   The capo-mafioso sighed. "Well, then, marriage it will have to be. I know your
thunderbolt. She's a good girl from a respectable family. You can't dishonor them
without the father trying to kill you, and then you'll have to shed blood. Besides, I know
the family well, I can't allow it to happen."
   Michael said, "She may not be able to stand the sight of me, and she's a very young
girl, she'll think me old." He saw the two men smiling at him. "I'll need some money for
presents and I think I'll need a car."
   The Don nodded. "Fabrizzio will take care of everything, he's a clever boy, they taught
him mechanics in the navy. I'll give you some money in the morning and I'll let your
father know what's happening. That I must do."
   Michael said to Dr. Taza, "Have you got anything that can dry up this damn snot 
(сопли /груб./) always coming out of my nose? I can't have that girl seeing me wiping it
all the time."
   Dr. Taza said, "I'll coat (покрывать) it with a drug before you have to see her. It
makes your flesh a little numb (онемелый [nΛm]) but, don't worry, you won't be kissing
her for a while yet." Both doctor and Don smiled at this witticism.
   By Sunday, Michael had an Alfa Romeo, battered (to batter – сильно бить, колотить;
плющить /металл/) but serviceable. He had also made a bus trip to Palermo to buy
presents for the girl and her family. He had learned that the girl's name was Apollonia
and every night he thought of her lovely face and her lovely name. He had to drink a
good deal of wine to get some sleep and orders were given to the old women servants
in the house to leave a chilled bottle at his bedside. He drank it empty every night.
   On Sunday, to the tolling of church bells that covered all of Sicily, he drove the Alfa
Romeo to the village and parked it just outside the cafй. Calo and Fabrizzio were in the
back seat with their luparas and Michael told them they were to wait in the cafй, they
were not to come to the house. The cafй was closed but Vitelli was there waiting for
them, leaning against the railing of his empty terrace.

    	   

162
   They shook hands all around and Michael took the three packages, the presents, and
trudged (идти с трудом, устало тащиться) up the hill with Vitelli to his home. This
proved to be larger than the usual village hut, the Vitellis were not poverty-stricken.
   Inside the house was familiar with statues of the Madonna entombed in glass, votive 
(исполненный по обету; ['v∂utıv]) lights flickering redly at their feet. The two sons were
waiting, also dressed in their Sunday black. They were two sturdy young men just out of
their teens but looking older because of their hard work on the farm. The mother was a
vigorous woman, as stout as her husband. There was no sign of the girl.
   After the introductions, which Michael did not even hear, they sat in the room that
might possibly have been a living room or just as easily the formal dining room. It was
cluttered with all kinds of furniture and not very large but for Sicily it was middle-class
splendor.
   Michael gave Signor Vitelli and Signora Vitelli their presents. For the father it was a
gold cigar-cutter, for the mother a bolt (кусок, рулон /холста, шелковой материи/) of
the finest cloth purchasable in Palermo. He still had one package for the girl. His
presents were received with reserved thanks. The gifts were a little too premature, he
should not have given anything until his second visit.
   The father said to him, in man-to-man country fashion, "Don't think we're so of no
account to welcome strangers into our house so easily. But Don Tommasino vouched
for you personally and nobody in this province would ever doubt the word of that good
man. And so we make you welcome. But I must tell you that if your intentions are
serious about my daughter, we will have to know a little more about you and your family.
You can understand, your family is from this country."
   Michael nodded and said politely, "I will tell you anything you wish to know anytime."
   Signor Vitelli held up a hand. "I'm not a nosy (носатый; любопытный) man. Let's see
if it's necessary first. Right now you're welcome in my house as a friend of Don
Tommasino."
   Despite the drug painted inside his nose, Michael actually smelled the girl's presence
in the room. He turned and she was standing in the arched doorway that led to the back
of the house. The smell was of fresh flowers and lemon blossoms but she wore nothing
in her hair of jet black curls, nothing on her plain severe black dress, obviously her
Sunday best. She gave him a quick glance and a tiny smile before she cast her eyes
down demurely and sat down next to her mother.
   Again Michael felt that shortness of breath, that flooding through his body of
something that was not so much desire as an insane possessiveness. He understood

163
for the first time the classical jealousy of the Italian male. He was at that moment ready
to kill anyone who touched this girl, who tried to claim her, take her away from him. He
wanted to own her as wildly as a miser (скупец, скряга) wants to own gold coins, as
hungrily as a sharecropper (испольщик, издольщик) wants to own his own land.
Nothing was going to stop him from owning this girl, possessing her, locking her in a
house and keeping her prisoner only for himself. He didn't want anyone even to see her.
When she turned to smile at one of her brothers Michael gave that young man a
murderous look without even realizing it. The family could see it was a classical case of
the "thunderholt" and they were reassured. This young man would be putty (оконная
замазка; шпатлевка; послушное орудие, игрушка /в чьих-либо руках/) in their
daughter's hands until they were married. After that of course things would change but it
wouldn't matter.
   Michael had bought himself some new clothes in Palermo and was no longer the
roughly dressed peasant, and it was obvious to the family that he was a Don of some
kind. His smashed face did not make him as evil-looking as he believed; because his
other profile was so handsome it made the disfigurement interesting even. And in any
case this was a land where to be called disfigured you had to compete with a host of
men who had suffered extreme physical misfortune.
   Michael looked directly at the girl, the lovely ovals of her face. Her lips now he could
see were almost blue so dark was the blood pulsating in them. He said, not daring to
speak her name, "I saw you by the orange groves the other day. When you ran away. I
hope I didn't frighten you?"
   The girl raised her eyes to him for just a fraction. She shook her head. But the
loveliness of those eyes had made Michael look away. The mother said tartly (tart –
кислый, терпкий, едкий; резкий, колкий /об ответе или возражении/), "Apollonia,
speak to the poor fellow, he's come miles to see you," but the girl's long jet lashes
remained closed like wings over her eyes. Michael handed her the present wrapped in
gold paper and the girl put it in her lap. The father said, "Open it, girl," but her hands did
not move. Her hands were small and brown, an urchin's hands (urchin – мальчишка,
пострел). The mother reached over and opened the package impatiently, yet careful
not to tear the precious paper. The red velvet jeweler's box gave ber pause, she had
never held such a thing in her hands and didn't know how to spring its catch (запор,
задвижка). But she got it open on pure instinct and then took out the present.
   It was a heavy gold chain to be worn as a necklace, and it awed them not only
because of its obvious value but because a gift of gold in this society was also a

164
statement of the most serious intentions. It was no less than a proposal of matrimony, or
rather the signal that there was the intention to propose matrimony. They could no
longer doubt the seriousness of this stranger. And they could not doubt his substance 
(вещество, материя; имущество, состояние).
   Apollonia still had not touched her present. Her mother held it up for her to see and
she raised those long lashes for a moment and then she looked directly at Michael, her
doelike brown eyes grave, and said, "Grazia." It was the first time he had heard her
voice.
   It had all the velvety softness of youth and shyness and it set Michael's ears ringing.
He kept looking away from her and talking to the father and mother simply because
looking at her confused him so much. But he noticed that despite the conservative
looseness of her dress her body almost shone through the cloth with sheer sensuality.
And he noticed the darkening of her skin blushing, the dark creamy skin, going darker
with the blood surging to her face.
   Finally Michael rose to go and the family rose too. They said their good-byes formally,
the girl at last confronting him as they shook hands, and he felt the shock of her skin on
his skin, her skin warm and rough, peasant skin. The father walked down the hill with
him to his car and invited him to Sunday dinner the next week. Michael nodded but he
knew he coudn't wait a week to see the girl again.
   He didn't. The next day, without his shepherds, he drove to the village and sat on the
garden terrace of the cafй to chat with her father. Signor Vitelli took pity on him and sent
for his wife and daughter to come down to the cafй to join them. This meeting was less
awkward. The girl Apollonia was less shy, and spoke more. She was dressed in her
everyday print frock which suited her coloring much better.
   The next day the same thing happened. Only this time Apollonia was wearing the gold
chain he had given her. He smiled at her then, knowing that this was a signal to him. He 
walked with her up the hill, her mother close behind them. But it was impossible for the
two young people to keep their bodies from brushing against each other and once
Apollonia stumbled and fell against him so that he had to hold her and her body so
warm and alive in his hands started a deep wave of blood rising in his body. They could
not see the mother behind them smiling because her daughter was a mountain goat and
had not stumbled on this path since she was an infant in diapers. And smiling because
this was the only way this young man was going to get his hands on her daughter until
the marriage.

    	   

   This went on for two weeks. Michael brought her presents every time he came and

165

gradually she became less shy. But they could never meet without a chaperone being
present. She was just a village girl, barely literate, with no idea of the world, but she had
a freshness, an eagerness for life that, with help of the language barrier, made her
seem interesting. Everything went very swiftly at Michael's request. And because the
girl was not only fascinated by him but knew he must be rich, a wedding date was set
for the Sunday two weeks away.
   Now Don Tommasino took a hand. He had received word from America that Michael
was not subject to orders but that all elementary precautions should be taken. So Don
Tommasino appointed himself the parent of the bridegroom to insure the presence of
his own bodyguards. Calo and Fabrizzio were also members of the wedding party from
Corleone as was Dr. Taza. The bride and groom would live in Dr. Taza's villa
surrounded by its stone wall.
   The wedding was the usual peasant one. The villagers stood in the streets and threw
flowers as the bridal party, principals and guests, went on foot from the church to the
bride's home. The wedding procession pelted (to pelt – бросать /в кого-либо/,
забрасывать) the neighbors with sugar-coated almonds, the traditional wedding
candies, and with candies left over made sugary white mountains on the bride's
wedding bed, in this case only a symbolic one since the first night would be spent in the
villa outside Corleone. The wedding feast went on until midnight but bride and groom
would leave before that in the Alfa Romeo. When that time came Michael was surprised
to find that the mother was coming with them to the Corleone villa at the request of the
bride. The father explained: the girl was young, a virgin, a little frightened, she would
need someone to talk to on the morning following her bridal night; to put her on the right
track if things went wrong. These matters could sometimes get very tricky. Michael saw
Apollonia looking at him with doubt in her huge doe-brown eyes. He smiled at her and
nodded.
   And so it came about that they drove back to the villa outside Corleone with the
mother-in-law in the car. But the older woman immediately put her head together with
the servants of Dr. Taza, gave her daughter a hug and a kiss and disappeared from the
scene. Michael and his bride were allowed to go to their huge bedroom alone. 
   Apollonia was still wearing her bridal costume with a cloak thrown over it. Her trunk
and case had been brought up to the room from the car. On a small table was a bottle
of wine and a plate of small wedding cakes. The huge canopied (canopy [‘kжn∂pı] –

    	   

166
балдахин, полог) bed was never out of their vision. The young girl in the center of the
room waited for Michael to make the first move.
   And now that he had her alone, now that he legally possessed her, now that there
was no barrier to his enjoying that body and face he had dreamed about every night,
Michael could not bring himself to approach her. He watched as she took off the bridal
shawl and draped it over a chair, and placed the bridal crown on the small dressing
table. That table had an array of perfumes and creams that Michael had had sent from
Palermo. The girl tallied (tally – бирка, этикетка, ярлык; счет /в игре/; to tally –
подсчитывать, здесь: просмотреть) them with her eyes for a moment.
   Michael turned off the lights, thinking the girl was waiting for some darkness to shield
her body while she undressed. But the Sicilian moon came through the unshuttered
windows, bright as gold, and Michael went to close the shutters but not all the way, the
room would be too warm.
   The girl was still standing by the table and so Michael went out of the room and down
the hall to the bathroom. He and Dr. Taza and Don Tommasino had taken a glass of
wine together in the garden while the women had prepared themselves for bed. He had
expected to find Apollonia in her nightgown when he returned, already between the
covers. He was surprised that the mother had not done this service for her daughter.
Maybe Apollonia had wanted him to help her to undress. But he was certain she was
too shy, too innocent for such forward behavior (смелое, развязное поведение;
forward [‘fo:w∂d] – передний, передовой; развязный, нахальный /кто лезет вперед/;
behavior [bı’heıvj∂] – поведение, манеры).
   Coming back into the bedroom, he found it completely dark, someone had closed the
shutters all the way. He groped his way toward the bed and could make out the shape
of Apollonia's body lying under the covers, her back to him, her body curved away from
him and huddled up. He undressed and slipped naked beneath the sheets. He stretched
out one hand and touched silky naked skin. She had not put on her gown and this
boldness delighted him. Slowly, carefully, he put one hand on her shoulder and pressed 
her hody gently so that she would turn to him. She turned slowly and his hand touched
her breast, soft, full and then she was in his arms so quickly that their bodies came
together in one line of silken electricity and he finally had his arms around her, was
kissing her warm mouth deeply, was crushing her body and breasts against him and
then rolling his body on top of hers.
   Her flesh and hair taut (туго натянутый, упругий [to:t]) silk, now she was all
eagerness, surging against him wildly in a virginal erotic frenzy. When he entered her

she gave a little gasp and was still for just a second and then in a powerful forward

167

thrust of her pelvis she locked her satiny legs around his hips. When they came to the
end they were locked together so fiercely, straining against each other so violently, that
falling away from each other was like the tremble before death.  
   That night and the weeks that followed, Michael Corleone came to understand the
premium (большой почет, спрос [‘pri:mj∂m]) put on virginity by socially primitive people. 
It was a period of sensuality that he had never before experienced, a sensuality mixed
with a feeling of masculine power. Apollonia in those first days became almost his slave.
Given trust, given affection, a young full-blooded girl aroused from virginity to erotic
awareness was as delicious as an exactly ripe fruit.
   She on her part brightened up the rather gloomy masculine atmosphere of the villa.
She had packed her mother off the very next day after her bridal night and presided at
the communal table with bright girlish charm. Don Tommasino dined with them every
night and Dr. Taza told all his old stories as they drank wine in the garden full of statues
garlanded with blood-red flowers, and so the evenings passed pleasantly enough. At
night in their bedroom the newly married couple spent hours of feverish lovemaking.
Michael could not get enough of Apollonia's beautifully sculpted body, her honey-
colored skin, her huge brown eyes glowing with passion. She had a wonderfully fresh
smell, a fleshly smell perfumed by her sex yet almost sweet and unbearably
aphrodisiacal. Her virginal passion matched his nuptial lust and often it was dawn when
they fell into an exhausted slumber. Sometimes, spent but not yet ready for sleep,
Michael sat on the window ledge (на подоконнике; ledge – планка, рейка; выступ)
and stared at Apollonia's naked body while she slept. Her face too was lovely in repose,
a perfect face he had seen before only in art books of painted Italian Madonnas who by
no stretch (напряжение) of the artist's skill could be thought virginal. 
   In the first week of their marriage they went on picnics and small trips in the Alfa
Romeo. But then Don Tommasino took Michael aside and explained that the marriage
had made his presence and identity common knowledge in that part of Sicily and
precautions had to be taken against the enemies of the Corleone Family, whose long
arms also stretched to this island refuge. Don Tommasino put armed guards around his
villa and the two shepherds, Calo and Fabrizzio, were fixtures (прикрепление; лицо,
прочно обосновавшееся в каком-либо месте) inside the walls. So Michael and his
wife had to remain on the villa grounds. Michael passed the time by teaching Apollonia
to read and write English and to drive the car along the inner walls of the villa. About

    	   

168
this time Don Tommasino seemed to be preoccupied and poor company. He was still
having trouble with the new Mafia in the town of Palermo, Dr. Taza said.
   One night in the garden an old village woman who worked in the house as a servant
brought a dish of fresh olives and then turned to Michael and said, "Is it true what
everybody is saying that you are the son of Don Corleone in New York City, the
Godfather?"
   Michael saw Don Tommasino shaking his head in disgust at the general knowledge of
their secret. But the old crone (старуха, старая карга) was looking at him in so
concerned a fashion, as if it was important for her to know the truth, that Michael
nodded. "Do you know my father?" he asked.
   The woman's name was Filomena and her face was as wrinkled and brown as a
walnut, her brown-stained teeth showing through the shell of her flesh. For the first time
since he had been in the villa she smiled at him. "The Godfather saved my life once,"
she said, "and my brains too." She made a gesture toward her head.
   She obviously wanted to say something else so Michael smiled to encourage her. She
asked almost fearfully, "Is it true that Luca Brasi is dead?"
   Michael nodded again and was surprised at the look of release on the old woman's
face. Filomena crossed herself and said, "God forgive me, but may his soul roast in hell
for eternity."
   Michael remembered his old curiosity about Brasi, and had the sudden intuition that
this woman knew the story Hagen and Sonny had refused to tell him. He poured the
woman a glass of wine and made her sit down. "Tell me about my father and Luca
Brasi," he said gently. "I know some of it, but how did they become friends and why was
Brasi so devoted to my father? Don't be afraid, come tell me."
   Filomena's wrinkled face, her raisin-black (raisin [reızn] – изюм) eyes, turned to Don
Tommasino, who in some way signaled his permission. And so Filomena passed the
evening for them by telling her story.
   Thirty years before, Filnmena had been a midwife in New York City, on Tenth Avenue,
servicing the Italian colony. The women were always pregnant and she prospered. She
taught doctors a few things when they tried to interfere in a difficult birth. Her husband
was then a prosperous grocery store owner, dead now poor soul, she blessed him,
though he had been a card player and wencher (бабник; wench – девушка, молодая
женщина /шутл./) who never thought to put aside for hard times. In any event one
cursed night thirty years ago when all honest people were long in their beds, there came
a knocking on Filomena's door. She was by no means frightened, it was the quiet hour

babes prudently chose to enter safely into this sinful world, and so she dressed and

169

opened the door. Outside it was Luca Brasi whose reputation even then was fearsome.
It was known also that he was a bachelor. And so Filomena was immediately frightened.
She thought he had come to do her husband harm, that perhaps her husband had
foolishly refused Brasi some small favor.
   But Brasi had come on the usual errand. He told Filomena that there was a woman
about to give birth, that the house was out of the neighborhood some distance away
and that she was to come with him. Filomena immediately sensed something amiss.
Brasi's brutal face looked almost like that of a madman that night, he was obviously in
the grip of some demon. She tried to protest that she attended only women whose
history she knew but he shoved a bandful of green dollars in her hand and ordered her
roughly to come along with him. She was too frightened to refuse.
   In the street was a Ford, its driver of the same feather as Luca Brasi. The drive was
no more than thirty minutes to a small frame house in Long Island City right over the
bridge. A two-family house but obviously now tenanted only by Brasi and his gang. For
there were some other ruffians in the kitchen playing cards and drinking. Brasi took
Filomena up the stairs to a bedroom. In the bed was a young pretty girl who looked Irish, 
her face painted, her hair red; and with a belly swollen like a sow. The poor girl was so
frightened. When she saw Brasi she turned her head away in terror, yes terror, and
indeed the look of hatred on Brasi's evil face was the most frightening thing she had
ever seen in her life. (Here Filomena crossed herself again.)
   To make a long story short, Brasi left the room. Two of his men assisted the midwife
and the baby was born, the mother was exhausted and went into a deep sleep. Brasi
was summoned and Filomena, who had wrapped the newborn child in an extra blanket,
extended the bundle to him and said, "If you're the father, take her. My work is finished."
   Brasi glared at her, malevolent, insanity stamped on his face. "Yes, I'm the father," he
said. "But I don't want any of that race to live. Take it down to the basement and throw it
into the furnace."
   For a moment Filomena thought she had not understood him properly. She was
puzzled by bis use of the word "race." Did he mean because the girl was not Italian? Or
did he mean because the girl was obviously of the lowest type; a whore in short? Or did
he mean that anything springing from his loins he forbade to live. And then she was
sure he was making a brutal joke. She said shortly, "It's your child, do what you want."
And she tried to hand him the bundle.

    	   

   At this time the exhausted mother awoke and turned on her side to face them. She

170

was just in time to see Brasi thrust violently at the bundle, crushing the newborn infant
against Filomena's chest. She called out weakly, "Luc, Luc, I'm sorry," and Brasi turned
to face her.
   It was terrible, Filomena said now. So terrible. They were like two mad animals. They
were not human. The hatred they bore each other blazed through the room. Nothing
else, not even the newborn infant, existed for them at that moment. And yet there was a
strange passion. A bloody, demonical lust so unnatural you knew they were damned
forever. Then Luca Brasi turned back to Filomena and said harshly, "Do what I tell you,
I'll make you rich."
   Filomena could not speak in her terror. She shook her head. Finally she managed to
whisper, "You do it, you're the father, do it if you like." But Brasi didn't answer. Instead
he drew a knife from inside his shirt. "I'll cut your throat," he said.
   She must have gone into shock then because the next thing she remembered they
were all standing in the basement of the house in front of a square iron furnace.
Filomena was still holding the blanketed baby, which had not made a sound. (Maybe if it
had cried, maybe if I had been shrewd enough to pinch it, Filomena said, that monster
would have shown mercy.)
   One of the men must have opened the furnace door, the fire now was visible. And
then she was alone with Brasi in that basement with its sweating pipes, its mousy odor.
Brasi had his knife out again. And there could be no doubting that he would kill her.
There were the flames, there were Brasi's eyes. His face was the gargoyle (горгулья –
выступающая водосточная труба в виде фантастической фигуры /в готической
архитектуре/ ['gα:goıl]) of the devil, it was not human, it was not sane. He pushed her
toward the open furnace door.
   At this point Filomena fell silent. She folded her bony hands in her lap and looked
directly at Michael. He knew what she wanted, how she wanted to tell him, without using
her voice. He asked gently, "Did you do it?" She nodded.
   It was only after another glass of wine and crossing herself and muttering a prayer
that she continued her story. She was given a bundle of money and driven home. She
understood that if she uttered a word about what had happened she would be killed. But
two days later Brasi murdered the young Irish girl, the mother of the infant, and was
arrested by the police. Filomena, frightened out of her wits, went to the Godfather and
told her story. He ordered her to keep silent, that he would attend to everything. At that
time Brasi did not work for Don Corleone.  

171
   Before Don Corleone could set matters aright, Luca Brasi tried to commit suicide in
his cell, hacking at his throat with a piece of glass. He was transferred to the prison
hospital and by the time he recovered Don Corleone had arranged everything. The
police did not have a case they could prove in court and Luca Brasi was released.
   Though Don Corleone assured Filomena that she had nothing to fear from either Luca
Brasi or the police, she had no peace. Her nerves were shattered and she could no
longer work at her profession. Finally she persuaded her husband to sell the grocery
store and they returned to Italy. Her husband was a good man, had been told everything
and understood. But he was a weak man and in Italy squandered (to squander –
проматывать) the fortune they had both slaved in America to earn. And so after he died
she had become a servant. So Filomena ended her story. She had another glass of
wine and said to Michael, "I bless the name of your father. He always sent me money
when I asked, he saved me from Brasi. Tell him I say a prayer for his soul every night
and that he shouldn't fear dying."
   After she had left, Michael asked Don Tommasino, "Is her story true?" The capo-
mafioso nodded. And Michael thought, no wonder nobody wanted to tell him the story.
Some story (ну и история, ничего себе история). Some Luca.
   The next morning Michael wanted to discuss the whole thing with Don Tommasino but
learned that the old man had been called to Palermo by an urgent message delivered
by a courier. That evening Don Tommasino returned and took Michael aside. News had
come from America, he said. News that it grieved him to tell. Santino Corleone had
been killed. 

Chapter 24

   The Sicilian sun, early-morning lemon-colored, filled Michael's bedroom. He awoke
and, feeling Apollonia's satiny body against his own sleep-warm skin, made her come
awake with love. When they were done, even all the months of complete possession
could not stop him from marveling at her heauty and her passion.
   She left the bedroom to wash and dress in the bathroom down the hall. Michael, still
naked, the morning sun refreshing his body, lit a cigarette and relaxed on the bed. This
was the last morning they would spend in this house and the villa Don Tommasino had
arranged for him to be transferred to another town on the southern coast of Sicily.
Apollonia, in the first month of pregnancy, wanted to visit with her family for a few weeks
and would join him at the new hiding place after the visit.

172
   The night before, Don Tommasino had sat with Michael in the garden after Apollonia
had gone to bed. The Don had been worried and tired, and admitted that he was
concerned about Michael's safety. "Your marriage brought you into sight," he told
Michael. "I'm surprised your father hasn't made arrangements for you to go someplace
else. In any case I'm having my own troubles with the young Turks in Palermo. I've
offered some fair arrangements so that they can wet their beaks more than they
deserve, but those scum (пена, накипь; подонки; мерзавец) want everything. I can't
understand their attitude. They've tried a few little tricks but I'm not so easy to kill. They
must know I'm too strong for them to hold me so cheaply. But that's the trouble with
young people, no matter how talented. They don't reason things out and they want all
the water in the well (родник; колодец; водоем)."
   And then Don Tommasino had told Michael that the two shepherds, Fabrizzio and
Calo, would go with him as bodyguards in the Alfa Romeo. Don Tommasino would say
his good-byes tonight since he would he off early in the morning, at dawn, to see to his
affairs in Palermo. Also, Michael was not to tell Dr. Taza about the move, since the
doctor planned to spend the evening in Palermo and might blab (проболтаться).
   Michael had known Don Tommasino was in trouble. Armed guards patrolled the walls
of the villa at night and a few faithful shepherds with their luparas were always in the
house. Don Tommasino himself went heavily armed and a personal bodyguard
attended him at all times.
   The morning sun was now too strong. Michael stubbed out his cigarette and put on
work pants, work shirt and the peaked cap most Sicilian men wore. Still barefooted, he
leaned out his bedroom window and saw Fabrizzio sitting in one of the garden chairs.
Fabrizzio was lazily combing his thick dark hair, his lupara was carelessly thrown across
the garden table. Michael whistled and Fabrizzio looked up to his window.
   "Get the car," Michael called down to him. "I'll be leaving in five minutes. Where's
Calo?"
   Fabrizzio stood up. His shirt was open, exposing the blue and red lines of the tattoo
on his chest. "Calo is having a cup of coffee in the kitchen," Fabrizzio said. "Is your wife
coming with you?"
   Michael squinted (to squint – косить /глазами/; бросить взгляд украдкой) down at 
him. It occurred to him that Fabrizzio had been following Apollonia too much with his
eyes the last few weeks. Not that he would dare ever to make an advance toward the
wife of a friend of the Don's. In Sicily there was no surer road to death. Michael said

    	   

coldly, "No, she's going home to her family first, she'll join us in a few days." He

173

watched Fabrizzio hurry into the stone hut that served as a garage for the Alfa Romeo.
   Michael went down the hall to wash. Apollonia was gone. She was most likely in the
kitchen preparing his breakfast with her own hands to wash out the guilt she felt
because she wanted to see her family one more time before going so far away to the
other end of Sicily. Don Tommasino would arrange transportation for her to where
Michael would be.
   Down in the kitchen the old woman Filomena brought him his coffee and shyly bid him
a good-bye. "I'll remember you to my father," Michael said and she nodded.
   Calo came into the kitchen and said to Michael, "The car's outside, shall I get your
bag?"
   "No, I'll get it," Michael said. "Where's Apolla?"
   Calo's face broke into an amused grin. "She's sitting in the driver's seat of the car,
dying to step on the gas. She'll be a real American woman before she gets to America."
It was unheard of for one of the peasant women in Sicily to attempt driving a car. But
Michael sometimes let Apollonia guide the Alfa Romeo around the inside of the villa
walls, always beside her however because she sometimes stepped on the gas when
she meant to step on the brake.
   Michael said to Calo, "Get Fabrizzio and wait for me in the car." He went out of the
kitchen and ran up the stairs to the bedroom. His bag was already packed. Before
picking it up he looked out the window and saw the car parked in front of the portico
steps rather than the kitchen entrance. Apollonia was sitting in the car, her hands on the
wheel like a child playing. Calo was just putting the lunch basket in the rear seat. And
then Michael was annoyed to see Fabrizzio disappearing through the gates of the villa
on some errand outside. What the hell was he doing? He saw Fabrizzio take a look over
his shoulder, a look that was somehow furtive. He'd have to straighten that damn
shepherd out. Michael went down the stairs and decided to go through the kitchen to
see Filomena again and give her a final farewell. He asked the old woman, "Is Dr. Taza
still sleeping?"
   Filomena's wrinkled face was sly. "Old roosters (петух) can't greet the sun. The doctor
went to Palermo last night."
   Michael laughed. He went out the kitchen entrance and the smell of lemon blossoms
penetrated even his sinus-filled nose. He saw Apollonia wave to him from the car just
ten paces up the villa's driveway and then he realized she was motioning him to stay
where he was, that she meant to drive the car to where he stood. Calo stood grinning 

174
beside the car, his lupara dangling in his hand. But there was still no sign of Fabrizzio.
At that moment, without any conscious reasoning process, everything came together in
his mind, and Michael shouted to the girl, "No! No!" But his shout was drowned in the
roar of the tremendous explosion as Apollonia switched on the ignition (зажигание).
The kitchen door shattered into fragments and Michael was hurled along the wall of the
villa for a good ten feet. Stones tumbling from the villa roof hit him on the shoulders and
one glanced off (to glance off – скользнуть; glance [glα:ns] – быстрый взгляд; to
glance – мельком взглянуть; мелькнуть; отражаться) his skull as he was lying on the
ground. He was conscious just long enough to see that nothing remained of the Alfa
Romeo but its four wheels and the steel shafts which held them together.

   He came to consciousness in a room that seemed very dark and heard voices that
were so low that they were pure sound rather than words. Out of animal instinct he tried
to pretend he was still unconscious but the voices stopped and someone was leaning
from a chair close to his bed and the voice was distinct now, saying, "Well, he's with us
finally." A lamp went on, its light like white fire on his eyeballs and Michael turned his
head. It felt very heavy, numb. And then he could see the face over his bed was that of
Dr. Taza.
   "Let me look at you a minute and I'll put the light out," Dr. Taza said gently. He was
busy shining a small pencil flashlight (ручной фонарик) into Michael's eyes. "You'll be
all right," Dr. Taza said and turned to someone else in the room. "You can speak to
him."
   It was Don Tommasino sitting on a chair near his bed, Michael could see him clearly
now. Don Tommasino was saying, "Michael, Michael, can I talk to you? Do you want to
rest?"
   It was easier to raise a hand to make a gesture and Michael did so and Don
Tommasino said, "Did Fabrizzio bring the car from the garage?"
Michael, without knowing he did so, smiled. It was in some strange way, a chilling smile,
of assent (согласие; разрешение [∂'sent]). Don Tommasino said, "Fabrizzio has
vanished. Listen to me, Michael. You've been unconscious for nearly a week. Do you
understand? Everybody thinks you're dead, so you're safe now, they've stopped looking
for you. I've sent messages to your father and he's sent back instructions. It won't be
long now, you'll be back in America. Meanwhile you'll rest here quietly. You're safe up in
the mountains, in a special farmhouse I own. The Palermo people have made their
peace with me now that you're supposed to be dead, so it was you they were after all

175
the time. They wanted to kill you while making people think it was me they were after.
That's something you should know. As for everything else, leave it all to me. You
recover your strength and be tranquil (спокойный [‘trжŋkwıl])."
   Michael was remembering everything now. He knew his wife was dead, that Calo was
dead. He thought of the old woman in the kitchen. He couldn't remember if she had
come outside with him. He whispered, "Filomena?" Don Tommasino said quietly, "She
wasn't hurt, just a bloody nose from the blast. Don't worry about her."
   Michael said, "Fabrizzio. Let your shepherds know that the one who gives me
Fabrizzio will own the finest pastures in Sicily."
   Both men seemed to sigh with relief. Don Tommasino lifted a glass from a nearby
table and drank from it an amber fluid (янтарная жидкость ['flu:ıd]) that jolted (to jolt –
подбрасывать) his head up. Dr. Taza sat on the bed and said almost absently, "You
know, you're a widower. That's rare in Sicily." As if the distinction might comfort him.
   Michael motioned to Don Tommasino to lean closer. The Don sat on the bed and bent 
his head. "Tell my father to get me home," Michael said. "Tell my father I wish to be his
son."
   But it was to be another month before Michael recovered from his injuries and another
two months after that before all the necessary papers and arrangements were ready.
Then he was flown from Palermo to Rome and from Rome to New York. In all that time
no trace had been found of Fabrizzio.

Book 7

Chapter 25

   When Kay Adams received her college degree, she took a job teaching grade school
in her New Hampshire hometown. The first six months after Michael vanished she made
weekly telephone calls to his mother asking about him. Mrs. Corleone was always
friendly and always wound up saying, "You a very very nice girl. You forget about Mikey
and find a nice husband." Kay was not offended at her bluntness and understood that
the mother spoke out of concern for her as a young girl in an impossible situation.
   When her first school term ended, she decided to go to New York to buy some decent
clothes and see some old college girl friends. She thought also about looking for some
sort of interesting job in New York. She had lived like a spinster for almost two years,
reading and teaching, refusing dates, refusing to go out at all, even though she had

given up making calls to Long Beach. She knew she couldn't keep that up, she was

176

becoming irritable and unhappy. But she had always believed Michael would write her
or send her a message of some sort. That he had not done so humiliated her, it
saddened her that he was so distrustful even of her.
   She took an early train and was checked into her hotel by midafternoon. Her girl
friends worked and she didn't want to bother them at their jobs, she planned to call them
at night. And she didn't really feel like going shopping after the exhausting train trip.
Being alone in the hotel room, remembering all the times she and Michael had used
hotel rooms to make love, gave her a feeling of desolation. It was that more than
anything else that gave her the idea of calling Michael's mother out in Long Beach.
   The phone was answered by a rough masculine voice with a typical, to her, New York
accent. Kay asked to speak to Mrs. Corelone. There was a few minutes' silence and
then Kay heard the heavily accented voice asking who it was.
   Kay was a little embarrassed now. "This is Kay Adams, Mrs. Corleone," she said. "Do
you remember me?"
   "Sure, sure, I remember you," Mrs. Corleone said. "How come you no call up no more?
You get a married?"
   "Oh, no," Kay said. "I've been busy." She was surprised at the mother obviously being
annoyed that she had stopped calling. "Have you heard anything from Michael? Is he all
right?"
   There was silence at the other end of the phone and then Mrs. Corleone's voice came
strong. "Mikey is a home. He no call you up? He no see you?"
   Kay felt her stomach go weak from shock and a humiliating desire to weep. Her voice
broke a little when she asked, "How long has he been home?"
   Mrs. Corleone said, "Six months."
   "Oh, I see," Kay said. And she did. She felt hot waves of shame that Michael's mother
knew he was treating her so cheaply. And then she was angry. Angry at Michael, at his
mother, angry at all foreigners, Italians who didn't have the common courtesy to keep
up a decent show of friendship even if a love affair was over. Didn't Michael know she
would be concerned for him as a friend even if he no longer wanted her for a bed
companion, even if he no longer wanted to marry her? Did he think she was one of
those poor benighted Italian girls who would commit suicide or make a scene after
giving up her virginity and then being thrown over? But she kept her voice as cool as
possible. "I see, thank you very much," she said. "I'm glad Michael is home again and
all right. I just wanted to know. I won't call you again."

177
   Mrs. Corleone's voice came impatiently over the phone as if she had heard nothing
that Kay had said. "You wanta see Mikey, you come out here now. Give him a nice
surprise. You take a taxi, and I tell the man at the gate to pay the taxi for you. You tell
the taxi man he gets two times his clock, otherwise he no come way out the Long Beach. 
But don't you pay. My husband's man at the gate pay the taxi."
   "I couldn't do that, Mrs. Corleone," Kay said coldly. "If Michael wanted to see me, he
would have called me at home before this. Obviously he doesn't want to resume our
relationship."
   Mrs. Corleone's voice came briskly over the phone. "You a very nice girl, you gotta
nice legs, but you no gotta much brains." She chuckled. "You come out to see me, not
Mikey. I wanta talk to you. You come right now. An' no pay the taxi. I wait for you." The
phone clicked. Mrs. Corleone had hung up.
   Kay could have called back and said she wasn't coming but she knew she had to see
Michael, to talk to him, even if it was just polite talk. If he was home now, openly, that
meant he was no longer in trouble, he could live normally. She jumped off the bed and
started to get ready to see him. She took a great deal of care with her makeup and
dress. When she was ready to leave she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Was she
better-looking than when Michael had disappeared? Or would he find her unattractively
older? Her figure had become more womanly, her hips rounder, her breasts fuller.
Italians liked that supposedly, though Michael had always said he loved her being so
thin. It didn't matter really, Michael obviously didn't want anything to do with her
anymore, otherwise he most certainly would have called in the six months he had been
home.
   The taxi she hailed refused to take her to Long Beach until she gave him a pretty
smile and told him she would pay double the meter. It was nearly an hour's ride and the
mall in Long Beach had changed since she last saw it. There were iron fences around it
and an iron gate barred the mall entrance. A man wearing slacks and a white jacket
over a red shirt opened the gate, poked his head into the cab to read the meter and
gave the cab driver some bills. Then when Kay saw the driver was not protesting and
was happy with the money paid, she got out and walked across the mall to the central
house.
   Mrs. Corleone herself opened the door and greeted Kay with a warm embrace that
surprised her. Then she surveyed Kay with an appraising eye. "You a beautiful girl," she
said flatly. "I have stupid sons." She pulled Kay inside the door and led her to the

    	   

178
kitchen, where a platter of food was already set out and a pot of coffee perked on the
stove. "Michael comes home pretty soon," she said. "You surprise him."
   They sat down together and the old woman forced Kay to eat, meanwhile asking
questions with great curiosity. She was delighted that Kay was a schoolteacher and that
she had come to New York to visit old girl friends and that Kay was only twenty-four
years old. She kept nodding her head as if all the facts accorded with some private
specifications in her mind. Kay was so nervous that she just answered the questions,
never saying anything else.
   She saw him first through the kitchen window. A car pulled up in front of the house
and the two other men got out. Then Michael. He straightened up to talk with one of the
other men. His profile, the left one, was exposed to her view. It was cracked, indented,
like the plastic face of a doll that a child has wantonly kicked. In a curious way it did not
mar his handsomeness in her eyes but moved her to tears. She saw him put a snow-
white handkerchief to his mouth and nose and hold it there for a moment while he
turned away to come into the house.
   She heard the door open and his footsteps in the hall turning into the kitchen and then
he was in the open space, seeing her and his mother. He seemed impassive, and then
he smiled ever so slightly, the broken half of his face halting the widening of his mouth.
And Kay, who had meant just to say "Hello, how are you," in the coolest possible way,
slipped out of her seat to run into his arms, bury her face against his shoulder. He
kissed her wet cheek and held her until she finished weeping and then he walked her
out to his car, waved his bodyguard away and drove off with her beside him, she
repairing her makeup by simply wiping what was left of it away with her handkerchief.
   "I never meant to do that," Kay said. "It's just that nobody told me how badly they hurt
you."  
   Michael laughed and touched the broken side of his face. "You mean this? That's
nothing. Just gives me sinus trouble. Now that I'm home I'll probably get it fixed, I
couldn't write you or anything," Michael said. "You have to understand that before
anything else."
   "OK," she said.
   "I've got a place in the city," Michael said. "Is it all right if we go there or should it be
dinner and drinks at a restaurant?"
   "I'm not hungry," Kay said.
They drove toward New York in silence for a while. "Did you get your degree?" Michael
asked.

   "Yes," Kay said. "I'm teaching grade school in my hometown now. Did they find the
man who really killed the policeman, is that why you were able to come home?"

179

   For a moment Michael didn't answer. "Yes, they did," he said. "It was in all the New
York papers. Didn't you read about it?"
   Kay laughed with the relief of him denying he was a murderer. "We only get The New
York Times up in our town," she said. "I guess it was buried back in page eighty-nine. If
I'd read about it I'd have called your mother sooner." She paused and then said, "It's
funny, the way your mother used to talk, I almost believed you had done it. And just
before you came, while we were drinking coffee, she told me about that crazy man who
confessed."
   Michael said, "Maybe my mother did believe it at first."
   "Your own mother?" Kay asked.
   Michael grinned. "Mothers are like cops. They always believe the worst."
   Michael parked the car in a garage on Mulberry Street where the owner seemed to
know him. He took Kay around the corner to what looked like a fairly decrepit
brownstone house which fitted into the rundown neighborhood. Michael had a key to the
front door and when they went inside Kay saw that it was as expensively and
comfortably furnished as a millionaire's town house. Michael led her to the upstairs
apartment which consisted of an enormous living room, a huge kitchen and door that
led to the bedroom. In one corner of the living room was a bar and Michael mixed them
both a drink. They sat on a sofa together and Michael said quietly, "We might as well go
into the bedroom." Kay took a long pull from her drink and smiled at him. "Yes," she said. 
   For Kay the lovemaking was almost like it had been before except that Michael was
rougher, more direct, not as tender as he had been. As if he were on guard against her.
But she didn't want to complain. It would wear off. In a funny way, men were more
sensitive in a situation like this, she thought. She had found making love to Michael after
a two-year absence the most natural thing in the world. It was as if he had never been
away.
   "You could have written me, you could have trusted me," she said, nestling against his
body. "I would have practiced the New England omerta. Yankees are pretty
closemouthed too, you know."
   Michael laughed softly in the darkness. "I never figured you to be waiting," he said. "I
never figured you to wait after what happened."

    	   

   Kay said quickly, "I never believed you killed those two men. Except maybe when
your mother seemed to think so. But I never believed it in my heart. I know you too
well,"

180

   She could hear Michael give a sigh. "It doesn't matter whether I did or not," he said.
"You have to understand that."
   Kay was a little stunned by the coldness in his voice. She said, "So just tell me now,
did you or didn't you?"
   Michael sat up on his pillow and in the darkness a light flared as he got a cigarette
going. "If I asked you to marry me, would I have to answer that question first before
you'd give me an answer to mine?"
   Kay said, "I don't care, I love you, I don't care. If you loved me you wouldn't be afraid
to tell me the truth. You wouldn't be afraid I might tell the police. That's it, isn't it? You're
really a gangster then, isn't that so? But I really don't care. What I care about is that you
obviously don't love me. You didn't even call me up when you got back home."
   Michael was puffing on his cigarette and some burning
ashes fell on Kay's bare back. She flinched a little and said jokingly, "Stop torturing me,
I won't talk."
   Michael didn't laugh. His voice sounded absentminded. "You know, when I came
home I wasn't that glad when I saw my family, my father, my mother, my sister Connie,
and Tom. It was nice but I didn't really give a damn. Then I came home tonight and saw
you in the kitchen and I was glad. Is that what you mean by love?"  
   "That's close enough for me," Kay said.
   They made love again for a while. Michael was more tender this time. And then he
went out to get them both a drink. When he came back he sat on an armchair facing the
bed. "Let's get serious," he said. "How do you feel about marrying me?" Kay smiled at
him and motioned him into the bed. Michael smiled back at her. "Be serious," he said. "I
can't tell you about anything that happened. I'm working for my father now. I'm being
trained to take over the family olive oil business. But you know my family has enemies,
my father has enemies. You might be a very young widow, there's a chance, not much
of one, but it could happen. And I won't be telling you what happened at the office every
day. I won't be telling you anything about my business. You'll be my wife but you won't
be my partner in life, as I think they say. Not an equal partner. That can't be."
   Kay sat up in bed. She switched on a huge lamp standing on the night table and then
she lit a cigarette. She leaned back on the pillows and said quietly, "You're telling me
you're a gangster, isn't that it? You're telling me that you're responsible for people being

181
killed and other sundry crimes related to murder. And that I'm not ever to ask about that
part of your life, not even to think about it. Just like in the horror movies when the
monster asks the beautiful girl to marry him." Michael grinned, the cracked part of his
face turned toward her, and Kay said in contrition, "Oh, Mike, I don't even notice that
stupid thing, I swear I don't."
   "I know," Michael said laughing. "I like having it now except that it makes the snot drip
out of my nose."
   "You said be serious," Kay went on. "If we get married what kind of a life am I
supposed to lead? Like your mother, like an Italian housewife with just the kids and
home to take care of? And what about if something happens? I suppose you could wind
up in jail someday."
   "No, that's not possible," Michael said. "Killed, yes; jail, no."
   Kay laughed at this confidence, it was a laugh that had a funny mixture of pride with
its amusement. "But how can you say that?" she said. "Really."
   Michael sighed. "These are all the things I can't talk to you about, I don't want to talk
to you about."
   Kay was silent for a long time. "Why do you want me to marry you after never calling
me all these months? Am I so good in bed?" 
   Michael nodded gravely. "Sure," he said. "But I'm getting it for nothing so why should I
marry you for that? Look, I don't want an answer now. We're going to keep seeing each
other. You can talk it over with your parents. I hear your father is a real tough guy in his
own way. Listen to his advice."
   "You haven't answered why, why you want to marry me," Kay said.
   Michael took a white handkerchief from the drawer of the night table and held it to his
nose. He blew into it and then wiped. "There's the best reason for not marrying me," he
said. "How would that be having a guy around who always has to blow his nose."
   Kay said impatiently, "Come on, be serious, I asked you a question."
   Michael held the handkerchief in his hand. "OK," he said, "this one time. You are the
only person I felt any affection for, that I care about. I didn't call you because it never
occurred to me that you'd still be interested in me after everything that's happened. Sure,
I could have chased you, I could have conned you, but I didn't want to do that. Now
here's something I'll trust you with and I don't want you to repeat it even to your father. If
everything goes right, the Corleone Family will be completely legitimate in about five
years. Some very tricky things have to be done to make that possible. That's when you
may become a wealthy widow. Now what do I want you for? Well, because I want you

182
and I want a family. I want kids; it's time. And I don't want those kids to be influenced by
me the way I was influenced by my father. I don't mean my father deliberately
influenced me. He never did. He never even wanted me in the family business. He
wanted me to become a professor or a doctor, something like that. But things went bad
and I had to fight for my Family. I had to fight because I love and admire my father. I
never knew a man more worthy of respect. He was a good husband and a good father
and a good friend to people who were not so fortunate in life. There's another side to
him, but that's not relevant to me as his son. Anyway I don't want that to happen to our
kids. I want them to be influenced by you. I want them to grow up to be All-American
kids, real All-American, the whole works. Maybe they or their grandchildren will go into
politics." Michael grinned. "Maybe one of them will be President of the United States.
Why the hell not? In my history course at Dartmouth we did some background on all the
Presidents and they had fathers and grandfathers who were lucky they didn't get
hanged. But I'll settle for my kids being doctors or musicians or teachers. They'll never
be in the Family business. By the time they are that old I'll be retired anyway. And you
and I will be part of some country club crowd, the good simple life of well-to-do
Americans. How does that strike you for a proposition?"
   "Marvelous," Kay said. "But you sort of skipped over the widow part."  
   "There's not much chance of that. I just mentioned it to give a fair presentation."
Michael patted his nose with the handkerchief.
   "I can't believe it, I can't believe you're a man like that, you're just not," Kay said. Her
face had a bewildered look. "I just don't understand the whole thing, how it could
possibly be."
   "Well, I'm not giving any more explanations," Michael said gently. "You know, you
don't have to think about any of this stuff, it has nothing to do with you really, or with our
life together if we get married."
   Kay shook her head. "How can you want to marry me, how can you hint that you love
me, you never say the word but you just now said you loved your father, you never said
you loved me, how could you if you distrust me so much you can't tell me about the
most important things in your life? How can you want to have a wife you can't trust?
Your father trusts your mother. I know that."
   "Sure," Michael said. "But that doesn't mean he tells her everything. And, you know,
he has reason to trust her. Not because they got married and she's his wife. But she
bore him four children in times when it was not that safe to bear children. She nursed
and guarded him when people shot him. She believed in him. He was always her first

183
loyalty for forty years. After you do that maybe I'll tell you a few things you really don't
want to hear."  
   "Will we have to live in the mall?" Kay asked.  
   Michael nodded. "We'll have our own house, it won't be so bad. My parents don't
meddle. Our lives will be our own. But until everything gets straightened out, I have to
live in the mall."
   "Because it's dangerous for you to live outside it," Kay said.
   For the first time since she had come to know him, she saw Michael angry. It was cold
chilling anger that was not externalized in any gesture or change in voice. It was a
coldness that came off him like death and Kay knew that it was this coldness that would
make her decide not to marry him if she so decided.
"The trouble is all that damn trash in the movies and in the newspapers," Michael said.
"You've got the wrong idea of my father and the Corleone Family. I'll make a final
explanation and this one will be really final. My father is a businessman trying to provide
for his wife and children and those friends he might need someday in a time of trouble.
He doesn't accept the rules of the society we live in because those rules would have
condemned him to a life not suitable to a man like himself, a man of extraordinary force
and character. What you have to understand is that he considers himself the equal of all
those great men like Presidents and Prime Ministers and Supreme Court Justices and
Governors of the States. He refuses to live by rules set up by others, rules which
condemn him to a defeated life. But his ultimate aim is to enter that society with a
certain power since society doesn't really protect its members who do not have their
own individual power. In the meantime he operates on a code of ethics he considers far
superior to the legal structures of society."
   Kay was looking at him incredulously. "But that's ridiculous," she said. "What if
everybody felt the same way? How could society ever function, we'd be back in the
times of the cavemen. Mike, you don't believe what you're saying, do you?"
   Michael grinned at her. "I'm just telling you what my father believes. I just want you to
understand that whatever else he is, he's not irresponsible, or at least not in the society
which he has created. He's not a crazy machine-gunning mobster as you seem to think.
He's a responsible man in his own way."
   "And what do you believe?" Kay asked quietly.
   Michael shrugged. "I believe in my family," he said. "I believe in you and the family we
may have. I don't trust society to protect us, I have no intention of placing my fate in the
hands of men whose only qualification is that they managed to con a block of people to

vote for them.  But that's for now. My father's time is done. The things he did can no

184

longer be done except with a great deal of risk. Whether we like it or not the Corleone
Family has to join that society. But when they do I'd like us to join it with plenty of our
own power; that is, money and ownership of other valuables. I'd like to make my
children as secure as possible before they join that general destiny."
   "But you volunteered to fight for your country, you were a war hero," Kay said. "What
happened to make you change?" 
   Michael said, "This is really getting us no place. But maybe I'm just one of those real
old-fashioned conservatives they grow up in your hometown. I take care of myself,
individual. Governments really don't do much for their people, that's what it comes down
to, but that's not it really. All I can say, I have to help my father, I have to be on his side.
And you have to make your decision about being on my side," He smiled at her. "I
guess getting married was a bad idea."
   Kay patted the bed. "I don't know about marrying, but I've gone without a man for two
years and I'm not letting you off so easy now. Come on in here."
   When they were in bed together, the light out, she whispered to him, "Do you believe 
me about not having a man since you left?"
   "I believe you," Michael said.
   "Did you?" she whispered in a softer voice.
   "Yes," Michael said. He felt her stiffen a little. "But not in the last six months." It was
true. Kay was the first woman he had made love to since the death of Apollonia.

Chapter 26

   The garish suite overlooked the fake fairyland grounds in the rear of the hotel;
transplanted palm trees lit up by climbers of orange lights, two huge swimming pools
shimmering dark blue by the light of the desert stars. On the horizon were the sand and
stone mountains that ringed Las Vegas nestling in its neon valley. Johnny Fontane let
the heavy, richly embroidered gray drape fall and turned back to the room.
   A special detail of four men, a pit boss, a dealer, extra relief man, and a cocktail
waitress in her scanty nightclub costume were getting things ready for private action.
Nino Valenti was lying on the sofa in the living room part of the suite, a water glass of
whiskey in his hand. He watched the people from the casino setting up the blackjack
table with the proper six padded chairs around its horseshoe outer rim. "That's great,

    	   

185
that's great," he said in a slurred voice that was not quite drunken. "Johnny, come on
and gamble with me against these bastards. I got the luck. We'll beat their crullers in."
   Johnny sat on a footstool opposite the couch: "You know I don't gamble," he said.
"How you feeling, Nino?"
   Nino Valenti grinned at him. "Great. I got broads coming up at midnight, then some
supper, then back to the blackjack table. You know I got the house beat for almost fifty
grand and they've been grinding me for a week?"
   "Yeah," Johnny Fontane said. "Who do you want to leave it to when you croak?"
   Nino drained his glass empty. "Johnny, where the hell did you get your rep as a
swinger? You're a deadhead, Johnny. Christ, the tourists in this town have more fun
than you do."
   Johnny said, "Yeah. You want a lift to that blackjack table?"
   Nino struggled erect on the sofa and planted his feet firmly on the rug. "I can make it,"
he said. He let the glass slip to the floor and got up and walked quite steadily to where
the blackjack table had been set up. The dealer was ready. The pit boss stood behind
the dealer watching. The relief dealer sat on a chair away from the table. The cocktail
waitress sat on another chair in a line of vision so that she could see any of Nino
Valenti's gestures.
   Nino rapped on the green baize with his knuckles. "Chips," he said.
   The pit boss took a pad from his pocket and filled out a slip and put it in front of Nino
with a small fountain pen. "Here you are, Mr. Valenti," he said. "The usual five thousand
to start." Nino scrawled his signature on the bottom of the slip and the pit boss put it in
his pocket. He nodded to the dealer.
   The dealer with incredibly deft fingers took stacks of black and gold one-hundred-
dollar chips from the built-in racks before him. In not more than five seconds Nino had
five even stacks of one-hundred-dollar chips before him, each stack had ten chips.
   There were six squares a little larger than playing card, shapes etched in white on the
green baize, each square placed to correspond to where a player would sit. Now Nino
was placing bets on three of these squares, single chips, and so playing three hands
each for a hundred dollars. He refused to take a hit on all three hands because the
dealer had a six up, a bust card, and the dealer did bust. Nino raked in his chips and
turned to Johnny Fontane. "That's how to start the night, huh, Johnny?"
   Johnny smiled. It was unusual for a gambler like Nino to have to sign a chit while
gambling. A word was usually good enough for the high rollers. Maybe they were afraid

    	   

Nino wouldn't remember his take-out because of his drinking. They didn't know that
Nino remembered everything.

186

   Nino kept winning and after the third round lifted a finger at the cocktail waitress. She
went to the bar at the end of the room and brought him his usual rye in a water glass.
Nino took the drink, switched it to his other hand so he could put an arm around the
waitress. "Sit with me, honey, play a few hands; bring me luck."
   The cocktail waitress was a very beautiful girl, but Johnny could see she was all cold
hustle, no real personality, though she worked at it. She was giving Nino a big smile but
her tongue was hanging out for one of those black and gold chips. What the hell,
Johnny thought, why shouldn't she get some of it? He just regretted that Nino wasn't
getting something better for his money.
   Nino let the waitress play his hands for a few rounds and then gave her one of the
chips and a pat on the behind to send her away from the table. Johnny motioned to her
to bring him a drink. She did so but she did it as if she were playing the most dramatic
moment in the most dramatic movie ever made. She turned all her charm on the great
Johnny Fontane. She made her eyes sparkle with invitation, her walk was the sexiest
walk ever walked, her mouth was very slightly parted as if she were ready to bite the
nearest object of her obvious passion. She resembled nothing so much as a female
animal in heat, but it was a deliberate act. Johnny Fontane thought, oh, Christ, one of
them. It was the most popular approach of women who wanted to take him to bed. It
only worked when he was very drunk and he wasn't drunk now. He gave the girl one of
his famous grins and said, "Thank you, honey." The girl looked at him and parted her
lips in a thank-you smile, her eyes went all smoky, her body tensed with the torso
leaning slightly back from the long tapering legs in their mesh stockings. An enormous
tension seemed to be building up in her body, her breasts seemed to grow fuller and
swell burstingly against her thin scantily cut blouse. Then her whole body gave a slight
quiver that almost let off a sexual twang. The whole impression was one of a woman
having an orgasm simply because Johnny Fontane had smiled at her and said, "Thank
you, honey." It was very well done. It was done better than Johnny had ever seen it
done before. But by now he knew it was fake. And the odds were always good that the
broads who did it were a lousy lay.
   He watched her go back to her chair and nursed his drink slowly. He didn't want to
see that little trick again. He wasn't in the mood for it tonight.
   It was an hour before Nino Valenti began to go. He started leaning first, wavered back, 
and then plunged off the chair straight to the floor. But the pit boss and the relief dealer

187
had been alerted by the first weave and caught him before he hit the ground. They lifted
him and carried him through the parted drapes that led to the bedroom of the suite.
   Johnny kept watching as the cocktail waitress helped the other two men undress Nino
and shove him under the bed covers. The pit boss was counting Nino's chips and
making a note on his pad of chits, then guarding the table with its dealer's chips. Johnny
said to him, "How long has that been going on?"
   The pit boss shrugged. "He went early tonight. The first time we got the house doc
and he fixed Mr. Valenti up with something and gave him some sort of lecture. Then
Nino told us that we shouldn't call the doc when that happened, just put him to bed and
he'd be OK in the morning. So that's what we do. He's pretty lucky, he was a winner
again tonight, almost three grand."
   Johnny Fontane said, "Well, let's get the house doc up here tonight. OK? Page the
casino floor if you have to."
   It was almost fifteen minutes before Jules Segal came into the suite. Johnny noted
with irritation that this guy never looked like a doctor. Tonight he was wearing a blue
loose-knit polo shirt with white trim, some sort of white suede shoes and no socks. He
looked funny as hell carrying the traditional black doctor's bag.
   Johnny said, "You oughta figure out a way to carry your stuff in a cut-down golf bag."
   Jules grinned understandingly, "Yeah, this medical school carryall is a real drag.
Scares the hell out of people. They should change the color anyway."
   He went over to where Nino was lying in bed. As he opened his bag he said to Johnny. 
"Thanks for that check you sent me as a consultant. It was excessive. I didn't do that
much."
   "Like hell you didn't," Johnny said. "Anyway, forget that, that was a long time ago.
What's with Nino?"
   Jules was making a quick examination of heartbeat, pulse and blood pressure. He
took a needle out of his bag and shoved it casually into Nino's arm and pressed the
plunger. Nino's sleeping face lost its waxy paleness, color came into the cheeks, as if
the blood had started pumping faster.
   "Very simple diagnosis," Jules said briskly. "I had a chance to examine him and run
some tests when he first came here and fainted. I had him moved to the hospital before
he regained consciousness. He's got diabetes, mild adult stabile, which is no problem if
you take care of it with medication and diet and so forth. He insists on ignoring it. Also
he is firmly determined to drink himself to death. His liver is going and his brain will go.
Right now he's in a mild diabetic coma. My advice is to have him put away."

   Johnny felt a sense of relief. It couldn't be too serious, all Nino had to do was take
care of himself. "You mean in one of those joints where they dry you out?" Johnny
asked.
   Jules went over to the bar in the far corner of the room and made himself a drink.
"No," he said. "I mean committed. You know, the crazy house."
   "Don't be funny," Johnny said.

188

   "I'm not joking," Jules said. "I'm not up on all the psychiatric jazz but I know something
about it, part of my trade. Your friend Nino can be put back into fairly good shape unless
the liver damage has gone too far, which we can't know until an autopsy really. But the
real disease is in his head. In essence he doesn't care if he dies, maybe he even wants
to kill himself. Until that is cured there's no hope for him. That's why I say, have him
committed and then he can undergo the necessary psychiatric treatment."
   There was a knock on the door and Johnny went to answer it. It was Lucy Mancini.
She came into Johnny's arms and kissed him. "Oh, Johnny, it's so good to see you,"
she said.
   "It's been a long time," Johnny Fontane said. He noticed that Lucy had changed. She
had gotten much slimmer, her clothes were a hell of a lot better and she wore them
better. Her hair style fitted her face in a sort of boyish cut. She looked younger and
better than he had ever seen her and the thought crossed his mind that she could keep
him company here in Vegas. It would be a pleasure hanging out with a real broad. But
before he could turn on the charm he remembered she was the doc's girl. So it was out.
He made his smile just friendly and said, "What are you doing coming to Nino's
apartment at night, eh?"
   She punched him in the shoulder. "I heard Nino was sick and that Jules came up. I
just wanted to see if I could help. Nino's OK, isn't he?"
   "Sure," Johnny said. "He'll be fine."
   Jules Segal had sprawled out on the couch. "Like hell he is," Jules said. "I suggest we
all sit here and wait for Nino to come to. And then we all talk him into committing himself.
Lucy, he likes you, maybe you can help. Johnny, if you're a real friend of his you'll go
along. Otherwise old Nino's liver will shortly be exhibit A in some university medical lab."
   Johnny was offended by the doctor's flippant attitude. Who the hell did he think he
was? He started to say so but Nino's voice came from the bed, "Hey, old buddy, how
about a drink?"

    	   

   Nino was sitting up in bed. He grinned at Lucy and said, "Hey, baby, come to old

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Nino," He held his arms wide open. Lucy sat on the edge of the bed and gave him a hug. 
Oddly enough Nino didn't look bad at all now, almost normal.
   Nino snapped his fingers. "Come on, Johnny, gimmee a drink. The night's young yet.
Where the hell's my blackjack table?"
   Jules took a long slug from his own glass and said to Nino, "You can't have a drink.
Your doctor forbids it." 
   Nino scowled. "Screw my doctor." Then a play-acting look of contrition came on his
face. "Hey, Julie, that's you. You're my doctor, right? I don't mean you, old buddy.
Johnny, get me a drink or I get up out of bed and get it myself."
   Johnny shrugged and moved toward the bar. Jules said indifferently, "I'm saying he
shouldn't have it."
Johnny knew why Jules irritated him. The doctor's voice was always cool, the words
never stressed no matter how dire, the voice always low and controlled. If he gave a
warning the warning was in the words alone, the voice itself was neutral, as if uncaring.
It was this that made Johnny sore enough to bring Nino his water glass of whiskey.
Before he handed it over he said to Jules, "This won't kill him, right?"
   "No, it won't kill him," Jules said calmly. Lucy gave him an anxious glance, started to
say something, then kept still. Meanwhile Nino had taken the whiskey and poured it
down his throat.
   Johnny was smiling down at Nino; they had shown the punk doctor. Suddenly Nino
gasped, his face seemed to turn blue, he couldn't catch his breath and was choking for
air. His body leaped upward like a fish, his face was gorged with blood, his eyes bulging. 
Jules appeared on the other side of the bed facing Johnny and Lucy. He took Nino by
the neck and held him still and plunged the needle into the shoulder near where it joined
the neck. Nino went limp in his hands, the heaves of his body subsided, and after a
moment he slumped down back onto his pillow. His eyes closed in sleep.
   Johnny, Lucy and Jules went back into the living room part of the suite and sat around
the huge solid coffee table. Lucy picked up one of the aquamarine phones and ordered
coffee and some food to be sent up. Johnny had gone over to the bar and mixed himself
a drink.
   "Did you know he would have that reaction from the whiskey?" Johnny asked.
   Jules shrugged. "I was pretty sure he would."
   Johnny said sharply, "Then why didn't you warn me?"
   "I warned you," Jules said.

"You didn't warn me right," Johnny said with cold anger. "You are really one hell of a

190

doctor. You don't give a shit. You tell me to get Nino in a crazy house, you don't bother
to use a nice word like sanitorium. You really like to stick it to people, right?"
   Lucy was staring down in her lap. Jules kept smiling at Fontane. "Nothing was going
to stop you from giving Nino that drink. You had to show you didn't have to accept my
warnings, my orders. Remember when you offered me a job as your personal physician
after that throat business? I turned you down because I knew we could never get along.
A doctor thinks he's God, he's the high priest in modern society, that's one of his
rewards. But you would never treat me that way. I'd be a flunky God to you. Like those
doctors you guys have in Hollywood. Where do you get those people from anyway?
Christ, don't they know anything or don't they just care? They must know what's 
happening to Nino but they just give him all kinds of drugs to keep him going. They wear
those silk suits and they kiss your ass because you're a power movie man and so you
think they are great doctors. Show biz, docs, you gotta have heart? Right? But they
don't give a fuck if you live or die. Well, my little hobby, unforgivable as it is, is to keep
people alive. I let you give Nino that drink to show you what could happen to him." Jules
leaned toward Johnny Fontane, his voice still calm, unemotional. "Your friend is almost
terminal. Do you understand that? He hasn't got a chance without therapy and strict
medical care. His blood pressure and diabetes and bad habits can cause a cerebral
hemorrhage in this very next instant. His brain will blow itself apart. Is that vivid enough
for you? Sure, I said crazy house. I want you to understand what's needed. Or you won't
make a move. I'll put it to you straight. You can save your buddy's life by having him
committed. Otherwise kiss him good-bye."
   Lucy murmured, "Jules, darling, Jules, don't be so tough. Just tell him."
   Jules stood up. His usual cool was gone, Johnny Fontane noticed with satisfaction.
His voice too had lost its quiet unaccented monotone.
   "Do you think this is the first time I've had to talk to people like you in a situation like
this?" Jules said. "I did it every day. Lucy says don't be so tough, but she doesn't know
what she's talking about. You know, I used to tell people, 'Don't eat so much or you'll die, 
don't smoke so much or you'll die, don't work so much or you'll die, don't drink so much
or you'll die.' Nobody listens. You know why? Because I don't say, 'You will die
tomorrow.' Well, I can tell you that Nino may very well die tomorrow."
   Jules went over to the bar and mixed himself another drink. "How about it, Johnny,
are you going to get Nino committed?"
   Johnny said, "I don't know."

191
   Jules took a quick drink at the bar and filled his glass again. "You know, it's a funny
thing, you can smoke yourself to death, drink yourself to death, work yourself to death
and even eat yourself to death. But that's all acceptable. The only thing you can't do
medically is screw yourself to death and yet that's where they put all the obstacles." He
paused to finish his drink. "But even that's trouble, for women anyway. I used to have
women who weren't supposed to have any more babies. 'It's dangerous,' I'd tell them.
'You could die,' I'd tell them. And a month later they pop in, their faces all rosy, and say,
'Doctor, I think I'm pregnant,' and sure enough they'd kill the rabbit. 'But it's dangerous,'
I'd tell them. My voice used to have expression in those days. And they'd smile at me
and say, 'But my husband and I are very strict Catholics,' they'd say."
   There was a knock on the door and two waiters wheeled in a cart covered with food
and silver service coffeepots. They took a portable table from the bottom of the cart and
set it up. Then Johnny dismissed them.
   They sat at the table and ate the hot sandwiches Lucy had ordered and drank the
coffee. Johnny leaned back and lit up a cigarette. "So you save lives. How come you
became an abortionist?"
   Lucy spoke up for the first time. "He wanted to help girls in trouble, girls who might
commit suicide or do something dangerous to get rid of the baby."
   Jules smiled at her and sighed. "It's not that simple. I became a surgeon finally. I've
got the good hands, as ballplayers say. But I was so good I scared myself silly. I'd open
up some poor bastard's belly and know he was going to die. I'd operate and know that
the cancer or tumor would come back but I'd send them off home with a smile and a lot
of bullshit. Some poor broad comes in and I slice off one tit. A year later she's back and
I slice off the other tit. A year after that, I scoop out her insides like you scoop the seeds
out of a cantaloupe. After all that she dies anyway. Meanwhile husbands keep calling up
and asking, 'What do the tests show? What do the tests show?'
   "So I hired an extra secretary to take all those calls. I saw the patient only when she
was fully prepared for examination, tests or operation. I spent the minimum possible
time with the victim because I was, after all, a busy man. And then finally I'd let the
husband talk to me for two minutes. 'It's terminal,' I'd say. And they could never hear
that last word. They understood what it meant but they never heard it. I thought at first
that unconsciously I was dropping my voice on the last word, so I consciously said it
louder. But still they never heard it. One guy even said, 'What the hell do you mean, it's
germinal?'" Jules started to laugh. "Germinal, terminal, what the hell. I started to do
abortions. Nice and easy, everybody happy, like washing the dishes and leaving a clean

sink. That was my class. I loved it, I loved being an abortionist. I don't believe that a

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two-month fetus is a human being so no problems there. I was helping young girls and
married women who were in trouble, I was making good money. I was out of the front
lines. When I got caught I felt like a deserter that had been hauled in. But I was lucky, a
friend pulled some strings and got me off but now the big hospitals won't let me operate.
So here I am. Giving good advice again which is being ignored just like in the old days."
   "I'm not ignoring it," Johnny Fontane said. "I'm thinking it over."
   Lucy finally changed the subject. "What are you doing in Vegas, Johnny? Relaxing
from your duties as big-time Hollywood wheel or working?"
   Johnny shook his head. "Mike Corleone wants to see me and have a talk. He's flying
in tonight with Tom Hagen. Tom said they'll be seeing you, Lucy. You know what it's all
about?"
   Lucy shook her head. "We're all having dinner together tomorrow night. Freddie too. I
think it might have something to do with the hotel. The casino has been dropping money
lately, which shouldn't be. The Don might want Mike to check it out."
   "I hear Mike finally got his face fixed," Johnny said. Lucy laughed. "I guess Kay talked
him into it. He wouldn't do it when they were married. I wonder why? It looked so awful
and made his nose drip. He should have had it done sooner." She paused for a moment.
"Jules was called in by the Corleone Family for that operation. They used him as a
consultant and an observer."
   Johnny nodded and said dryly, "I recommended him for it."
   "Oh," Lucy said. "Anyway, Mike said he wanted to do something for Jules. That's why
he's having us to dinner tomorrow night."
   Jules said musingly, "He didn't trust anybody. He warned me to keep track of what
everybody did. It was fairly straight, ordinary surgery. Any competent man could do it."
   There was a sound from the bedroom of the suite and they looked toward the drapes.
Nino had become conscious again. Johnny went and sat on the bed. Jules and Lucy
went over to the foot of the bed. Nino gave them a wan grin. "OK, I'll stop being a wise
guy. I feel really lousy. Johnny, remember about a year ago, what happened when we
were with those two broads down in Palm Springs? I swear to you I wasn't jealous
about what happened. I was glad. You believe me, Johnny?"
   Johnny said reassuringly, "Sure, Nino, I believe you."
   Lucy and Jules looked at each other. From everything they had heard and knew about
Johnny Fontane it seemed impossible that he would take a girl away from a close friend
like Nino. And why was Nino saying he wasn't jealous a year after it happened? The

same thought crossed both their minds, that Nino was drinking himself to death
romantically because a girl had left him to go with Johnny Fontane.

193

   Jules checked Nino again. "I'll get a nurse to be in the room with you tonight," Jules
said. "You really have to stay in bed for a couple of days. No kidding."
   Nino smiled. "OK, Doc, just don't make the nurse too pretty."
   Jules made a call for the nurse and then he and Lucy left. Johnny sat in a chair near
the bed to wait for the nurse. Nino was falling asleep again, an exhausted look on his
face. Johnny thought about what he had said, about not being jealous about what had
happened over a year ago with those two broads down in Palm Springs. The thought
had never entered his head that Nino might be jealous.

   A year ago Johnny Fontane had sat in his plush office, the office of the movie
company he headed, and felt as lousy as he had ever felt in his life. Which was
surprising because the first movie he had produced, with himself as star and Nino in a
featured part, was making tons of money. Everything had worked. Everybody had done
their job. The picture was brought in under budget. Everybody was going to make a
fortune out of it and Jack Woltz was losing ten years of his life. Now Johnny had two
more pictures in production, one starring himself, one starring Nino. Nino was great on
the screen as one of those charming, dopey lover-boys that women loved to shove
between their tits. Little boy lost. Everything he touched made money, it was rolling in.
The Godfather was getting his percentage through the bank, and that made Johnny feel
really good. He had justified his Godfather's faith. But today that wasn't helping much.
   And now that he was a successful independent movie producer he had as much
power, maybe more, than he had ever had as a singer. Beautiful broads fell all over him
just like before, though for a more commercial reason. He had his own plane, he lived
more lavishly even, with the special tax benefits a businessman had that artists didn't
get. Then what the hell was bothering him? 
   He knew what it was. The front of his head hurt, his nasal passages hurt, his throat
itched. The only way he could scratch and relieve that itch was by singing and he was
afraid to even try. He had called Jules Segal about it, when it would be safe to try to
sing and Jules had said anytime he felt like it. So he'd tried and sounded so hoarse and
lousy he'd given up. And his throat would hurt like hell the next day, hurt in a different
way than before the warts had been taken off. Hurt worse, burning. He was afraid to
keep singing, afraid that he'd lose his voice forever, or ruin it.

    	   

194
   And if he couldn't sing, what the hell was the use of everything else? Everything else
was just bullshit. Singing was the only thing he really knew. Maybe he knew more about
singing and his kind of music than anybody else in the world. He was that good, he
realized now. All those years had made him a real pro. Nobody could tell him the right
and the wrong, he didn't have to ask anybody. He knew. What a waste, what a damn
waste.
   It was Friday and he decided to spend the weekend with Virginia and the kids. He
called her up as he always did to tell her he was coming. Really to give her a chance to
say no. She never said no. Not in all the years they had been divorced. Because she
would never say no to a meeting of her daughters and their father. What a broad,
Johnny thought. He'd been lucky with Virginia. And though he knew he cared more
about her than any other woman he knew it was impossible for them to live together
sexually. Maybe when they were sixty-five, like when you retire, they'd retire together,
retire from everything.
   But reality shattered these thoughts when he arrived there and found Virginia was
feeling a little grouchy herself and the two girls not that crazy to see him because they
had been promised a weekend visit with some girl friends on a California ranch where
they could ride horses.
   He told Virginia to send the girls off to the ranch and kissed them good-bye with an
amused smile. He understood them so well. What kid wouldn't rather go riding horses
on a ranch than hang around with a grouchy father who picked his own spots as a
father. He said to Virginia, "I'll have a few drinks and then I'll shove off too."
   "All right," she said. She was having one of her bad days, rare, but recognizable. It
wasn't too easy for her leading this kind of life.
   She saw him taking an extra large drink. "What are you cheering yourself up for?"
Virginia asked. "Everything is going so beautifully for you. I never dreamed you had it in
you to be such a good businessman."
   Johnny smiled at her. "It's not so hard," he said. At the same time he was thinking, so
that's what was wrong. He understood women and he understood now that Virginia was
down because she thought he was having everything his own way. Women really hated
seeing their men doing too well. It irritated them. It made them less sure of the hold they
exerted over them through affection, sexual custom or marriage ties. So more to cheer
her up than voice his own complaints, Johnny said, "What the hell difference does it
make if I can't sing."

    	   

   Virginia's voice was annoyed. "Oh, Johnny, you're not a kid anymore. You're over
thirty-five. Why do you keep worrying about that silly singing stuff? You make more
money as a producer anyhow."

195

   Johnny looked at her curiously and said, "I'm a singer. I love to sing. What's being old
got to do with that?"
   Virginia was impatient. "I never liked your singing anyway. Now that you've shown you
can make movies, I'm glad you can't sing anymore."  
   They were both surprised when Johnny said with fury, "That's a fucking lousy thing to
say." He was shaken. How could Virginia feel like that, how could she dislike him so
much?
   Virginia smiled at his being hurt and because it was so outrageous that he should be
angry at her she said, "How do you think I felt when all those girls came running after
you because of the way you sang? How would you feel if I went ass-naked down the
street to get men running after me? That's what your singing was and I used to wish
you'd lose your voice and could never sing again. But that was before we got divorced."
   Johnny finished his drink. "You don't understand a thing. Not a damn thing." He went
into the kitchen and dialed Nino's number. He quickly arranged for them both to go
down to Palm Springs for the weekend and gave Nino the number of a girl to call, a real
fresh young beauty he'd been meaning to get around to. "She'll have a friend for you,"
Johnny said. "I'll be at your place in an hour."
   Virginia gave him a cool good-bye when he left. He didn't give a damn, it was one of
the few times he was angry with her. The hell with it, he'd just tear loose for the
weekend and get all the poison out of his system.  
   Sure enough, everything was fine down in Palm Springs. Johnny used his own house
down there, it was always kept open and staffed this time of year. The two girls were
young enough to be great fun and not too rapacious for some kind of favor. Some
people came over to keep them company at the pool until suppertime. Nino went to his
room with his girl to get ready for supper and a quick bang while he was still warm from
the sun. Johnny wasn't in the mood, so he sent his girl, a short bandbox blonde named
Tina, up to shower by herself. He never could make love to another woman after he'd
had a fight with Virginia.
   He went into the glass-walled patio living room that held a piano. When singing with
the band he had fooled around with the piano just for laughs, so he could pick out a
song in a fake moonlight-soft ballad style. He sat down now and hummed along a bit
with the piano, very softly, muttering a few words but not really singing. Before he knew

196
it Tina was in the living room making him a drink and sitting beside him at the piano. He
played a few tunes and she hummed with him. He left her at the piano and went up to
take his shower. In the shower he sang short phrases, more like speaking. He got
dressed and went back down. Tina was still alone; Nino was really working his girl over
or getting drunk.
   Johnny sat down at the piano again while Tina wandered off outside to watch the pool.
He started singing one of his old songs. There was no burning in his throat. The tones
were coming out muted but with proper body. He looked at the patio. Tina was still out
there, the glass door was closed, she wouldn't hear him. For some reason he didn't
want anybody to hear him. He started off fresh on an old ballad that was his favorite. He
sang full out as if he were singing in public, letting himself go, waiting for the familiar
burning rasp in his throat but there was none. He listened to his voice, it was different
somehow, but he liked it. It was darker, it was a man's voice, not a kid's, rich he thought,
dark rich. He finished the song easing up and sat there at the piano thinking about it.
   Behind him Nino said, "Not bad, old buddy, not bad at all."
   Johnny swiveled his body around. Nino was standing in the doorway, alone. His girl
wasn't with him. Johnny was relieved. He didn't mind Nino hearing him.
   "Yeah," Johnny said. "Let's get rid of those two broads. Send them home."
   Nino said, "You send them home. They're nice kids, I'm not gonna hurt their feelings. 
Besides I just banged mine twice. How would it look if I sent her away without even
giving her dinner?"
   The hell with it, Johnny thought. Let the girls listen even if he sounded lousy. He
called up a band leader he knew in Palm Springs and asked him to send over a
mandolin for Nino. The band leader protested, "Hell, nobody plays a mandolin in
California." Johnny yelled, "Just get one."
   The house was loaded with recording equipment and Johnny had the two girls work
the turn-off and volumes. After they had dinner, Johnny went to work. He had Nino
playing the mandolin as accompaniment and sang all his old songs. He sang them all
the way out, not nursing his voice at all. His throat was fine, he felt that he could sing
forever. In the months he had not been able to sing he had often thought about singing,
planned out how he would phrase lyrics differently now than as a kid. He had sung the
songs in his head with more sophisticated variations of emphasis. Now he was doing it
for real. Sometimes it would go wrong in the actual singing, stuff that had sounded good
when he heard it just in his head didn't work out when he tried it really singing out loud.
OUT LOUD, he thought. He wasn't listening to himself now, he was concentrating on

performing. He fumbled a little on timing but that was OK, just rusty. He had a

197

metronome in his head that would never fail him. Just a little practice was all he needed.
   Finally he stopped singing. Tina came over to him with eyes shining and gave him a
long kiss. "Now I know why Mother goes to all your movies," she said. It was the wrong
thing to say at any time except this. Johnny and Nino laughed.
   They played the feedback and now Johnny could really listen to himself. His voice had
changed, changed a hell of a lot but was still unquestionably the voice of Johnny
Fontane. It had become much richer and darker as he had noticed before but there was
also the quality of a man singing rather than a boy. The voice had more true emotion,
more character. And the technical part of his singing was far superior to anything he had
ever done. It was nothing less than masterful. And if he was that good now, rusty as hell,
how good would he be when he got in shape again? Johnny grinned at Nino. "Is that as
good as I think it is?"  
   Nino looked at his happy face thoughtfully. "It's very damn good," he said. "But let's
see how you sing tomorrow."
   Johnny was hurt that Nino should be so downbeat. "You son of a bitch, you know you
can't sing like that. Don't worry about tomorrow. I feel great." But he didn't sing any
more that night. He and Nino took the girls to a party and Tina spent the night in his bed
but he wasn't much good there. The girl was a little disappointed. But what the hell, you
couldn't do everything all in one day, Johnny thought.
   He woke up in the morning with a sense of apprehension, with a vague terror that he
had dreamed his voice had come back. Then when he was sure it was not a dream he
got scared that his voice would be shot again. He went to the window and hummed a bit, 
then he went down to the living room still in his pajamas. He picked out a tune on the
piano and after a while tried singing with it. He sang mutedly but there was no pain, no
hoarseness in his throat, so he turned it on. The chords were true and rich, he didn't
have to force it at all. Easy, easy, just pouring out. Johnny realized that the bad time
was over, he had it all now. And it didn't matter a damn if he fell on his face with movies,
it didn't matter if he couldn't get it up with Tina the night before, it didn't matter that
Virginia would hate him being able to sing again. For a moment he had just one regret.
If only his voice had come back to him while trying to sing for his daughters, how lovely
that would have been. That would have been so lovely.

   The hotel nurse had come into the room wheeling a cart loaded with medication.
Johnny got up and stared down at Nino, who was sleeping or maybe dying. He knew

Nino wasn't jealous of his getting his voice back. He understood that Nino was only
jealous because he was so

198

happy about getting his voice back. That he cared so much about singing. For what was
very obvious now was that Nino Valenti didn't care enough about anything to make him
want to stay alive.

Chapter 27

   Michael Corleone arrived late in the evening and, by his own order, was not met at the
airport. Only two men accompanied him: Tom Hagen and a new bodyguard, named
Albert Neri.
   The most lavish suite of rooms in the hotel had been set aside for Michael and his
party. Already waiting in that suite were the people it would be necessary for Michael to
see.
   Freddie greeted his brother with a warm embrace. Freddie was much stouter, more
benevolent-looking, cheerful, and far more dandified. He wore an exquisitely tailored
gray silk and accessories to match. His hair was razor cut and arranged as carefully as
a movie star's, his face glowed with perfect barbering and his hands were manicured.
He was an altogether different man than the one who had been shipped out of New
York four years before.
   He leaned back and surveyed Michael fondly. "You look a hell of a lot better now that
you got your face fixed. Your wife finally talked you into it, huh? How is Kay? When she
gonna come out and visit us out here?"
   Michael smiled at his brother. "You're looking pretty good too. Kay would have come
out this time, but she's carrying another kid and she has the baby to look after. Besides
this is business, Freddie, I have to fly back tomorrow night or the morning after."
   "You have to eat something first," Freddie said. "We've got a great chef in the hotel,
you'll get the best food you ever ate. Go take your shower and change and everything
will be set up right here. I have all the people you want to see lined up, they'll be waiting
around for when you're ready, I just have to call them."
   Michael said pleasantly, "Let's save Moe Greene to the end, OK? Ask Johnny
Fontane and Nino up to eat with us. And Lucy and her doctor friend. We can talk while
we eat." He turned to Hagen. "Anybody you want to add to that, Tom?"
   Hagen shook his head. Freddie had greeted him much less affectionately than
Michael, but Hagen understood. Freddie was on his father's shit list and Freddie

naturally blamed the Consigliori for not straightening things out. Hagen would gladly

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have done so, but he didn't know why Freddie was in his father's bad graces. The Don
did not give voice to specific grievances. He just made his displeasure felt.
   It was after midnight before they gathered around the special dinner table set up in
Michael's suite. Lucy kissed Michael and didn't comment on his face looking so much
better after the operation. Jules Segal boldly studied the repaired cheekbone and said
to Michael, "A good job. It's knitted nicely. Is the sinus OK?"
   "Fine," Michael said. "Thanks for helping out."
   Dinner focused on Michael as they ate. They all noted his resemblance in speech and
manner to the Don. In some curious way he inspired the same respect, the same awe,
and yet he was perfectly natural, at pains to put everyone at their ease. Hagen as usual
remained in the background. The new man they did not know; Albert Neri was also very
quiet and unobtrusive. He had claimed he was not hungry and sat in an armchair close
to the door reading a local newspaper.
   After they had had a few drinks and food, the waiters were dismissed. Michael spoke
to Johnny Fontane. "Hear your voice is back as good as ever, you got all your old fans
back. Congratulations."
   "Thanks," Johnny said. He was curious about exactly why Michael wanted to see him.
What favor would he be asked?
   Michael addressed them all in general. "The Corleone Family is thinking of moving out
here to Vegas. Selling out all our interests in the olive oil business and settling here.
The Don and Hagen and myself have talked it over and we think here is where the
future is for the Family. That doesn't mean right now or next year. It may take two, three,
even four years to get things squared away. But that's the general plan. Some friends of
ours own a good percentage of this hotel and casino so that will be our foundation. Moe
Greene will sell us his interest so it can be wholly owned by friends of the Family."
   Freddie's moon face was anxious. "Mike, you sure about Moe Greene selling? He
never mentioned it to me and he loves the business. I really don't think he'll sell."
   Michael said quietly, "I'll make him an offer he can't refuse."
   The words were said in an ordinary voice, yet the effect was chilling, perhaps because
it was a favorite phrase of the Don's. Michael turned to Johnny Fontane. "The Don is
counting on you to help us get started. It's been explained to us that entertainment will
be the big factor in drawing gamblers. We hope you'll sign a contract to appear five
times a year for maybe a week-long engagement. We hope your friends in movies do
the same. You've done them a lot of favors, now you can call them in."

200
   "Sure," Johnny said. "I'll do anything for my Godfather, you know that, Mike." But there
was just the faint shadow of doubt in his voice.
   Michael smiled and said, "You won't lose money on the deal and neither will your
friends. You get points in the hotel, and if there's somebody else you think important
enough, they get some points too. Maybe you don't believe me, so let me say I'm
speaking the Don's words."
   Johnny said hurriedly, "I believe you, Mike. But there's ten more hotels and casinos
being built on the Strip right now. When you come in, the market may be glutted, you
may be too late with all that competition already there."
   Tom Hagen spoke up. "The Corleone Family has friends who are financing three of
those hotels." Johnny understood immediately that he meant the Corleone Family
owned the three hotels, with their casinos. And that there would be plenty of points to
give out.
   "I'll start working on it," Johnny said.
   Michael turned to Lucy and Jules Segal. "I owe you," he said to Jules. "I hear you
want to go back to cutting people up and that hospitals won't let you use their facilities
because of that old abortion business. I have to know from you, is that what you want?"
  Jules smiled. "I guess so. But you don't know the medical setup. Whatever power you
have doesn't mean anything to them. I'm afraid you can't help me in that."
   Michael nodded absentmindedly. "Sure, you're right. But some friends of mine, pretty
well-known people, are going to build a big hospital for Las Vegas. The town will need it
the way it's growing and the way it's projected to grow. Maybe they'll let you into the
operating room if it's put to them right. Hell, how many surgeons as good as you can
they get to come out to this desert? Or any half as good? We'll be doing the hospital a
favor. So stick around. I hear you and Lucy are going to get married?"
   Jules shrugged. "When I see that I have any future."
   Lucy said wryly, "Mike, if you don't build that hospital, I'll die an old maid."
   They all laughed. All except Jules. He said to Michael, "If I took a job like that there
couldn't be any strings attached."
   Michael said coldly, "No strings. I just owe you and I want to even out."
   Lucy said gently, "Mike, don't get sore."
   Michael smiled at her. "I'm not sore." He turned to Jules. "That was a dumb thing for
you to say. The Corleone Family has pulled some strings for you. Do you think I'm so
stupid I'd ask you to do things you'd hate to do? But if I did, so what? Who the hell else
ever lifted a finger to help you when you were in trouble? When I heard you wanted to

201
get back to being a real surgeon, I took a lot of time to find out if I could help. I can. I'm
not asking you for anything. But at least you can consider our relationship friendly, and I
assume you would do for me what you'd do for any good friend. That's my string. But
you can refuse it."
   Tom Hagen lowered his head and smiled. Not even the Don himself could have done
it any better.
   Jules was flushing. "Mike, I didn't mean it that way at all. I'm very grateful to you and
your father. Forget I said it."
   Michael nodded and said, "Fine. Until the hospital gets built and opens up you'll be
medical director for the four hotels. Get yourself a staff. Your money goes up too, but
you can discuss that with Tom at a later time. And Lucy, I want you to do something
more important. Maybe coordinate all the shops that will be opening up in the hotel
arcades. On the financial side. Or maybe hiring the girls we need to work in the casinos,
something like that. So if Jules doesn't marry you, you can be a rich old maid."  
   Freddie had been puffing on his cigar angrily. Michael turned to him and said gently,
"I'm just the errand boy for the Don, Freddie. What he wants you to do he'll tell you
himself, naturally, but I'm sure it will be something big enough to make you happy.
Everybody tells us what a great job you've been doing here."  
   "Then why is he sore at me?" Freddie asked plaintively. "Just because the casino has
been losing money? I don't control that end, Moe Greene does. What the hell does the
old man want from me?"
   "Don't worry about it," Michael said. He turned to Johnny Fontane. "Where's Nino? I
was looking forward to seeing him again."
   Johnny shrugged. "Nino is pretty sick. A nurse is taking care of him in his room. But
the doc here says he should be committed, that he's trying to kill himself. Nino!"
   Michael said thoughtfully, really surprised, "Nino was always a real good guy. I never
knew him to do anything lousy, say anything to put anybody down. He never gave a
damn about anything. Except the booze."
   "Yeah," Johnny said. "The money is rolling in, he could get a lot of work, singing or in
the movies. He gets fifty grand a picture now and he blows it. He doesn't give a damn
about being famous. All the years we've been buddies I've never known him to do
anything creepy. And the son of a bitch is drinking himself to death."
   Jules was about to say something when there was a knock on the door of the suite.
He was surprised when the man in the armchair, the man nearest the door, did not
answer it but kept reading the newspaper. It was Hagen who went to open it. And was

almost brushed aside when Moe Greene came striding into the room followed by his
two bodyguards.

202

   Moe Greene was a handsome hood who had made his rep as a Murder Incorporated
executioner in Brooklyn. He had branched out into gambling and gone west to seek his
fortune, had been the first person to see the possibilities of Las Vegas and built one of
the first hotel casinos on the Strip. He still had murderous tantrums and was feared by
everyone in the hotel, not excluding Freddie, Lucy and Jules Segal. They always stayed
out of his way whenever possible. 
   His handsome face was grim now. He said to Michael Corleone, "I've been waiting
around to talk to you, Mike. I got a lot of things to do tomorrow so I figured I'd catch you
tonight. How about it?"
   Michael Corleone looked at him with what seemed to be friendly astonishment.
"Sure," he said. He motioned in Hagen's direction. "Get Mr. Greene a drink, Tom."
   Jules noticed that the man called Albert Neri was studying Moe Greene intently, not
paying any attention to the bodyguards who were leaning against the door. He knew
there was no chance of any violence, not in Vegas itself. That was strictly forbidden as
fatal to the whole project of making Vegas the legal sanctuary of American gamblers.
   Moe Greene said to his bodyguards, "Draw some chips for all these people so that
they can gamble on the house." He obviously meant Jules, Lucy, Johnny Fontane and
Michael's bodyguard, Albert Neri.
   Michael Corleone nodded agreeably. "That's a good idea." It was only then that Neri
got out of his chair and prepared to follow the others out.
   After the good-byes were said, there were Freddie, Tom Hagen, Moe Greene and
Michael Corleone left in the room.
   Greene put his drink down on the table and said with barely controlled fury, "What's
this I hear the Corleone Family is going to buy me out? I'll buy you out. You don't buy
me out."
   Michael said reasonably, "Your casino has been losing money against all the odds.
There's something wrong with the way you operate. Maybe we can do better."
   Greene laughed harshly. "You goddamn Dagos, I do you a favor and take Freddie in
when you're having a bad time and now you push me out. That's what you think. I don't
get pushed out by nobody and I got friends that will back me up."
   Michael was still quietly reasonable. "You took Freddie in because the Corleone
Family gave you a big chunk of money to finish furnishing your hotel. And bankroll your
casino. And because the Molinari Family on the Coast guaranteed his safety and gave

you some service for taking him in. The Corleone Family and you are evened out. I

203

don't know what you're getting sore about. We'll buy your share at any reasonable price
you name, what's wrong with that? What's unfair about that? With your casino losing
money we're doing you a favor."
   Greene shook his head. "The Corleone Family don't have that much muscle anymore.
The Godfather is sick. You're getting chased out of New York by the other Families and
you think you can find easier pickings here. I'll give you some advice, Mike, don't try."
   Michael said softly, "Is that why, you thought you could slap Freddie around in
public?"  
   Tom Hagen, startled, turned his attention to Freddie. Freddie Corleone's face was
getting red. "Ah. Mike, that wasn't anything. Moe didn't mean anything. He flies off the
handle sometimes, but me and him are good friends. Right, Moe?"
   Greene was wary. "Yeah, sure. Sometimes I got to kick asses to make this place run
right. I got sore at Freddie because he was banging all the cocktail waitresses and
letting them goof off on the job. We had a little argument and I straightened him out."
   Michael's face was impassive when he said to his brother, "You straightened out,
Freddie?"
   Freddie stared sullenly at his younger brother. He didn't answer. Greene laughed and
said, "The son of a bitch was taking them to bed two at a time, the old sandwich job.
Freddie, I gotta admit you really put it to those broads. Nobody else could make them
happy after you got through with them."
   Hagen saw that this had caught Michael by surprise. They looked at each other. This
was perhaps the real reason the Don was displeased with Freddie. The Don was
straitlaced about sex. He would consider such cavorting by his son Freddie, two girls at
a time, as degeneracy. Allowing himself to be physically humiliated by a man like Moe
Greene would decrease respect for the Corleone Family. That too would be part of the
reason for being in his father's bad books.
   Michael rising from his chair, said, in a tone of dismissal, "I have to get back to New
York tomorrow, so think about your price."
   Greene said savagely, "You son of a bitch, you think you can just brush me off like
that? I killed more men than you before I could jerk off. I'll fly to New York and talk to the
Don himself. I'll make him an offer."
   Freddie said nervously to Tom Hagen, "Tom, you're the Consigliori, you can talk to the
Don and advise him."

    	   

204
   It was then that Michael turned the full chilly blast of his personality on the two Vegas
men. "The Don has sort of semiretired," he said. "I'm running the Family business now.
And I've removed Tom from the Consigliori spot. He'll be strictly my lawyer here in
Vegas. He'll be moving out with his family in a couple of months to get all the legal work
started. So anything you have to say, say it to me."  
   Nobody answered. Michael said formally, "Freddie, you're my older brother, I have
respect for you. But don't ever take sides with anybody against the Family again. I won't
even mention it to the Don." He turned to Moe Greene. "Don't insult people who are
trying to help you. You'd do better to use your energy to find out why the casino is losing
money. The Corleone Family has big dough invested here and we're not getting our
money's worth, but I still didn't come here and abuse you. I offer a helping hand. Well, if
you prefer to spit on that helping hand, that's your business. I can't say any more."
   He had not once raised his voice but his words had a sobering effect on both Greene
and Freddie. Michael stared at both of them, moving away from the table to indicate that
he expected them both to leave. Hagen went to the door and opened it. Both men left
without saying good night.

   The next morning Michael Corleone got the message from Moe Greene: he would not
sell his share of the hotel at any price. It was Freddie who delivered the message.
Michael shrugged and said to his brother, "I want to see Nino before I go back to New
York."
   In Nino's suite they found Johnny Fontane sitting on the couch eating breakfast. Jules
was examining Nino behind the closed drapes of the bedroom. Finally the drapes were
drawn back. 
   Michael was shocked at how Nino looked. The man was visibly disintegrating. The
eyes were dazed, the mouth loose, all the muscles of his face slack. Michael sat on his
bedside and said, "Nino, it's good to catch up with you. The Don always asks about
you."
   Nino grinned, it was the old grin. "Tell him I'm dying. Tell him show business is more
dangerous than the olive oil business."
   "You'll be OK," Michael said. "If there's anything bothering you that the Family can
help, just tell me."
   Nino shook his head. "There's nothing," he said. "Nothing."
   Michael chatted for a few more moments and then left. Freddie accompanied him and
his party to the airport, but at Michael's request didn't hang around for departure time.

205
As he boarded the plane with Tom Hagen and Al Neri, Michael turned to Neri and said,
"Did you make him good?"
   Neri tapped his forehead. "I got Moe Greene mugged and numbered up here."

Chapter 28

   On the plane ride back to New York, Michael Corleone relaxed and tried to sleep. It
was useless. The most terrible period of his life was approaching, perhaps even a fatal
time. It could no longer be put off. Everything was in readiness, all precautions had
been taken, two years of precautions. There could be no further delay. Last week when
the Don had formally announced his retirement to the caporegimes and other members
of the Corleone Family, Michael knew that this was his father's way of telling him the
time was ripe.
   It was almost three years now since he had returned home and over two years since
he had married Kay. The three years had been spent in learning the Family business.
He had put in long hours with Tom Hagen, long hours with the Don. He was amazed at
how wealthy and powerful the Corleone Family truly was. It owned tremendously
valuable real estate in midtown New York, whole office buildings. It owned, through
fronts, partnerships in two Wall Street brokerage houses, pieces of banks on Long
Island, partnerships in some garment center firms, all this in addition to its illegal
operations in gambling.
   The most interesting thing Michael Corleone learned, in going back over past
transactions of the Corleone Family, was that the Family had received some protection
income shortly after the war from a group of music record counterfeiters. The
counterfeiters duplicated and sold phonograph records of famous artists, packaging
everything so skillfully they were never caught. Naturally on the records they sold to
stores the artists and original production company received not a penny. Michael
Corleone noticed that Johnny Fontane had lost a lot of money owing to this
counterfeiting because at that time, just before he lost his voice, his records were the
most popular in the country.
   He asked Tom Hagen about it. Why did the Don allow the counterfeiters to cheat his
godson? Hagen shrugged. Business was business. Besides, Johnny was in the Don's
bad graces, Johnny having divorced his childhood sweetheart to marry Margot Ashton.
This had displeased the Don greatly.

    	   

206
   "How come these guys stopped their operation?" Michael asked. "The cops got on to
them?"
   Hagen shook his head. "The Don withdrew his protection. That was right after
Connie's wedding."
   It was a pattern he was to see often, the Don helping those in misfortune whose
misfortune he had partly created. Not perhaps out of cunning or planning but because of
his variety of interests or perhaps because of the nature of the universe, the interlinking
of good and evil, natural of itself.
   Michael had married Kay up in New England, a quiet wedding, with only her family
and a few of her friends present. Then they had moved into one of the houses on the
mall in Long Beach. Michael was surprised at how well Kay got along with his parents
and the other people living on the mall. And of course she had gotten pregnant right
away, like a good, old-style Italian wife was supposed to, and that helped. The second
kid on the way in two years was just icing.
   Kay would be waiting for him at the airport, she always came to meet him, she was
always so glad when he came back from a trip. And he was too. Except now. For the
end of this trip meant that he finally had to take the action he had been groomed for
over the last three years. The Don would be waiting for him. The caporegimes would be
waiting for him. And he, Michael Corleone, would have to give the orders, make the
decisions which would decide his and his Family's fate.

   Every morning when Kay Adams Corleone got up to take care of the baby's early
feeding, she saw Mama Corleone, the Don's wife, being driven away from the mall by
one of the bodyguards, to return an hour later. Kay soon learned that her mother-in-law
went to church every single morning. Often on her return, the old woman stopped by for
morning coffee and to see her new grandchild.
   Mama Corleone always started off by asking Kay why she didn't think of becoming a
Catholic, ignoring the fact that Kay's child had already been baptized a Protestant. So
Kay felt it was proper to ask the old woman why she went to church every morning,
whether that was a necessary part of being a Catholic. 
   As if she thought that this might have stopped Kay from converting the old woman
said, "Oh, no, no, some Catholics only go to church on Easter and Christmas. You go
when you feel like going."
   Kay laughed. "Then why do you go every single morning?"

    	   

207
In a completely natural way, Mama Corleone said, "I go for my husband," she pointed
down toward the floor, so he don't go down there." She paused. "I say prayers for his
soul every day so he go up there." She pointed heavenward. She said this with an
impish smile, as if she were subverting her husband's will in some way, or as if it were a
losing cause. It was said jokingly almost, in her grim, Italian, old crone fashion. And as
always when her husband was not present, there was an attitude of disrespect to the
great Don.
   "How is your husband feeling?" Kay asked politely.
   Mama Corleone shrugged. "He's not the same man since they shot him. He lets
Michael do all the work, he just plays the fool with his garden, his peppers, his tomatoes. 
As if he were some peasant still. But men are always like that."
   Later in the morning Connie Corleone would walk across the mall with her two
children to pay Kay a visit and chat. Kay liked Connie, her vivaciousness, her obvious
fondness for her brother Michael. Connie had taught Kay how to cook some Italian
dishes but sometimes brought her own more expert concoctions over for Michael to
taste.
   Now this morning as she usually did, she asked Kay what Michael thought of her
husband, Carlo. Did Michael really like Carlo, as he seemed to? Carlo had always had a
little trouble with the Family but now over the last years he had straightened out. He was
really doing well in the labor union but he had to work so hard, such long hours. Carlo
really liked Michael, Connie always said. But then, everybody liked Michael, just as
everybody liked her father. Michael was the Don all over again. It was the best thing that
Michael was going to run the Family olive oil business.
   Kay had observed before that when Connie spoke about her husband in relation to
the Family, she was always nervously eager for some word of approval for Carlo. Kay
would have been stupid if she had not noticed the almost terrified concern Connie had
for whether Michael liked Carlo or not. One night she spoke to Michael about it and
mentioned the fact that nobody ever spoke about Sonny Corleone, nobody even
referred to him, at least not in her presence. Kay had once tried to express her
condolences to the Don and his wife and had been listened to with almost rude silence
and then ignored. She had tried to get Connie talking about her older brother without
success.  
   Sonny's wife, Sandra, had taken her children and moved to Florida, where her own
parents now lived. Certain financial arrangements had been made so that she and her
children could live comfortably, but Sonny had left no estate.

   Michael reluctantly explained what had happened the night Sonny was killed. That

208

Carlo had beaten his wife and Connie had called the mall and Sonny had taken the call
and rushed out in a blind rage. So naturally Connie and Carlo were always nervous that
the rest of the Family blamed her for indirectly causing Sonny's death. Or blamed her
husband, Carlo. But this wasn't the case. The proof was that they had given Connie and
Carlo a house in the mall itself and promoted Carlo to an important job in the labor
union setup. And Carlo had straightened out, stopped drinking, stopped whoring,
stopped trying to be a wise guy. The Family was pleased with his work and attitude for
the last two years. Nobody blamed him for what had happened.
   "Then why don't you invite them over some evening and you can reassure your
sister?" Kay said. "The poor thing is always so nervous about what you think of her
husband. Tell her. And tell her to put those silly worries out of her head."
   "I can't do that," Michael said. "We don't talk about those things in our family."
   "Do you want me to tell her what you've told me?" Kay said.  
    She was puzzled because he took such a long time thinking over a suggestion that
was obviously the proper thing to do. Finally he said, "I don't think you should, Kay. I
don't think it will do any good. She'll worry anyway. It's something nobody can do
anything about."
   Kay was amazed. She realized that Michael was always a little colder to his sister
Connie than he was to anyone else, despite Connie's affection. "Surely you don't blame
Connie for Sonny being killed?" she said.
   Michael sighed. "Of course not," he said. "She's my kid sister and I'm very fond of her.
I feel sorry for her. Carlo straightened out, but he's really the wrong kind of husband. It's
just one of those things. Let's forget about it."
   It was not in Kay's nature to nag; she let it drop. Also she had learned that Michael
was not a man to push, that he could become coldly disagreeable. She knew she was
the only person in the world who could bend his will, but she also knew that to do it too
often would be to destroy that power. And living with him the last two years had made
her love him more.
   She loved him because he was always fair. An odd thing. But he always was fair to
everybody around him, never arbitrary even in little things. She had observed that he
was now a very powerful man, people came to the house to confer with him and ask
favors, treating him with deference and respect but one thing had endeared him to her
above everything else. 

    	   

209
   Ever since Michael had come back from Sicily with his broken face, everybody in the
Family had tried to get him to undergo corrective surgery. Michael's mother was after
him constantly; one Sunday dinner with all the Corleones gathered on the mall she
shouted at Michael, "You look like a gangster in the movies, get your face fixed for the
sake of Jesus Christ and your poor wife. And so your nose will stop running like a
drunken Irish."
   The Don, at the head of the table, watching everything, said to Kay, "Does it bother
you?"
   Kay shook her head. The Don said to his wife. "He's out of your hands, it's no concern
of yours." The old woman immediately held her peace. Not that she feared her husband
but because it would have been disrespectful to dispute him in such a matter before the
others.
   But Connie, the Don's favorite, came in from the kitchen, where she was cooking the
Sunday dinner, her face flushed from the stove, and said, "I think he should get his face
fixed. He was the most handsome one in the family before he got hurt. Come on, Mike,
say you'll do it."
   Michael looked at her in an absentminded fashion. It seemed as if he really and truly
had not heard anything said. He didn't answer.
   Connie came to stand beside her father. "Make him do it," she said to the Don. Her
two hands rested affectionately on his shoulders and she rubbed his neck. She was the
only one who was ever so familiar with the Don. Her affection for her father was
touching. It was trusting, like a little girl's. The Don patted one of her hands and said,
"We're all starving here. Put the spaghetti on the table and then chatter."
   Connie turned to her husband and said, "Carlo, you tell Mike to get his face fixed.
Maybe he'll listen to you." Her voice implied that Michael and Carlo Rizzi had some
friendly relationship over and above anyone else's.
   Carlo, handsomely sunburned, blond hair neatly cut and combed, sipped at his glass
of homemade wine and said, "Nobody can tell Mike what to do." Carlo had become a
different man since moving into the mall. He knew his place in the Family and kept to it.
   There was something that Kay didn't understand in all this, something that didn't quite
meet the eye. As a woman she could see that Connie was deliberately charming her
father, though it was beautifully done and even sincere. Yet it was not spontaneous.
Carlo's reply had been a manly knuckling of his forehead. Michael had absolutely
ignored everything.

    	   

   Kay didn't care about her husband's disfigurement but she worried about his sinus

210

trouble which sprang from it. Surgery repair of the face would cure the sinus also. For
that reason she wanted Michael to enter the hospital and get the necessary work done.
But she understood that in a curious way he desired his disfigurement. She was sure
that the Don understood this too.
   But after Kay gave birth to her first child, she was surprised by Michael asking her,
"Do you want me to get my face fixed?"
   Kay nodded. "You know how kids are, your son will feel bad about your face when he
gets old enough to understand it's not normal. I just don't want our child to see it. I don't
mind at all, honestly, Michael."
   "OK." He smiled at her. "I'll do it."
   He waited until she was home from the hospital and then made all the necessary
arrangements. The operation was successful. The cheek indentation was now just
barely noticeable.
   Everybody in the Family was delighted, but Connie more so than anyone. She visited
Michael every day in the hospital, dragging Carlo along. When Michael came home, she
gave him a big hug and a kiss and looked at him admiringly and said, "Now you're my
handsome brother again."
   Only the Don was unimpressed, shrugging his shoulders
and remarking, "What's the difference?"
   But Kay was grateful. She knew that Michael had done it against all his own
inclinations. Had done it because she had asked him to, and that she was the only
person in the world who could make him act against his own nature.

   On the afternoon of Michael's return from Vegas, Rocco Lampone drove the limousine
to the mall to pick up Kay so that she could meet her husband at the airport. She always 
met her husband when he arrived from out of town, mostly because she felt lonely
without him, living as she did in the fortified mall.
   She saw him come off the plane with Tom Hagen and the new man he had working
for him, Albert Neri. Kay didn't care much for Neri, he reminded her of Luca Brasi in his
quiet ferociousness. She saw Neri drop behind Michael and off to the side, saw his
quick penetrating glance as his eyes swept over everybody nearby. It was Neri who first
spotted Kay and touched Michael's shoulder to make him look in the proper direction.
   Kay ran into her husband's arms and he quickly kissed her and let her go. He and
Tom Hagen and Kay got into the limousine and Albert Neri vanished. Kay did not notice

211
that Neri had gotten into another car with two other men and that this car rode behind
the limousine until it reached Long Beach.
   Kay never asked Michael how his business had gone. Even such polite questions
were understood to be awkward, not that he wouldn't give her an equally polite answer,
but it would remind them both of the forbidden territory their marriage could never
include. Kay didn't mind anymore. But when Michael told her he would have to spend
the evening with his father to tell him about the Vegas trip, she couldn't help making a
little frown of disappointment.
   "I'm sorry," Michael said. "Tomorrow night we'll go into New York and see a show and
have dinner, OK?" He patted her stomach, she was almost seven months pregnant.
"After the kid comes you'll be tied down again. Hell, you're more Italian than Yankee.
Two kids in two years."
    Kay said tartly, "And you're more Yankee than Italian. Your first evening home and
you spend it on business." But she smiled at him when she said it. "You won't be home
late?"
   "Before midnight," Michael said. "Don't wait up for me if you feel tired."
   "I'll wait up," Kay said.

   At the meeting that night, in the corner room library of Don Corleone's house, were
the Don himself, Michael, Tom Hagen, Carlo Rizzi, and the two caporegimes, Clemenza
and Tessio.
   The atmosphere of the meeting was by no means so congenial as in former days.
Ever since Don Corleone had announced his semiretirement and Michael's take-over of
the Family business, there had been some strain. Succession in control of such an
enterprise as the Family was by no means hereditary. In any other Family powerful
caporegimes such as Clemenza and Tessio might have succeeded to the position of
Don. Or at least they might have been allowed to split off and form their own Family.
   Then, too, ever since Don Corleone had made the peace with the Five Families, the
strength of the Corleone Family had declined. The Barzini Family was now indisputably
the most powerful one in the New York area; allied as they were to the Tattaglias, they
now held the position the Corleone Family had once held. Also they were slyly whittling
down the power of the Corleone Family, muscling into their gambling areas, testing the
Corleones' reactions and, finding them weak, establishing their own bookmakers.

    	   

   The Barzinis and Tattaglias were delighted with the Don's retirement. Michael,

212

formidable as he might prove to be, could never hope to equal the Don in cunning and
influence for at least another decade. The Corleone Family was definitely in a decline.
   It had, of course, suffered serious misfortunes. Freddie had proved to be nothing more
than an innkeeper and ladies' man, the idiom for ladies' man untranslatable but
connotating a greedy infant always at its mother's nipple – in short, unmanly. Sonny's
death too, had been a disaster. Sonny had been a man to be feared, not to be taken
lightly. Of course he had made a mistake in sending his younger brother, Michael, to kill
the Turk and the police captain. Though necessary in a tactical sense, as a long-term
strategy it proved to be a serious error. It had forced the Don, eventually, to rise from his
sickbed. It had deprived Michael of two years of valuable experience and training under
his father's tutelage. And of course an Irish as a Consigliori had been the only
foolishness the Don had ever perpetrated. No Irish man could hope to equal a Sicilian
for cunning. So went the opinion of all the Families and they were naturally more
respectful to the Barzini-Tattaglia alliance than to the Corleones. Their opinion of
Michael was that he was not equal to Sonny in force though more intelligent certainly,
but not as intelligent as his father. A mediocre successor and a man not to be feared too
greatly.
   Also, though the Don was generally admired for his statesmanship in making the
peace, the fact that he had not avenged Sonny's murder lost the Family a great deal of
respect. It was recognized that such statesmanship sprang out of weakness. 
   All this was known to the men sitting in the room and perhaps even believed by a few.
Carlo Rizzi liked Michael but did not fear him as he had feared Sonny. Clemenza, too,
though he gave Michael credit for a bravura performance with the Turk and the police
captain, could not help thinking Michael too soft to be a Don. Clemenza had hoped to
be given permission to form his own Family, to have his own empire split away from the
Corleone. But the Don had indicated that this was not to be and Clemenza respected
the Don too much to disobey. Unless of course the whole situation became intolerable.
   Tessio had a better opinion of Michael. He sensed something else in the young man:
a force cleverly kept hidden, a man jealously guarding his true strength from public gaze, 
following the Don's precept that a friend should always underestimate your virtues and
an enemy overestimate your faults.
   The Don himself and Tom Hagen were of course under no illusions about Michael.
The Don would never have retired if he had not had absolute faith in his son's ability to
retrieve the Family position. Hagen had been Michael's teacher for the last two years

and was amazed at how quickly Michael grasped all the intricacies of the Family
business. Truly his father's son.
   Clemenza and Tessio were annoyed with Michael because he had reduced the
strength of their regimes and had never reconstituted Sonny's regime. The Corleone

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Family, in effect, had now only two fighting divisions with less personnel than formerly.
Clemenza and Tessio considered this suicidal, especially with the Barzini-Tattaglia
encroachments on their empires. So now they were hopeful these errors might be
corrected at this extraordinary meeting convened by the Don.
   Michael started off by telling them about his trip to Vegas and Moe Greene's refusing
the offer to buy him out. "But we'll make him an offer he can't refuse," Michael said.
"You already know the Corleone Family plans to move its operations West. We'll have
four of the hotel casinos on the Strip. But it can't be right away. We need time to get
things straightened out." He spoke directly to Clemenza. "Pete, you and Tessio, I want
you to go along with me for a year without questioning and without reservations. At the
end of that year, both of you can split off from the Corleone Family and be your own
bosses, have your own Families. Of course it goes without saying we'd maintain our
friendship, I wouldn't insult you and your respect for my father by thinking otherwise for
a minute. But up until that time I want you just to follow my lead and don't worry. There
are negotiations going on that will solve problems that you think are not solvable. So
just be a little patient."
   Tessio spoke up. "If Moe Greene wanted to talk to your father, why not let him? The
Don could always persuade anybody, there was never anyone who could stand up to
his reasonableness."
   The Don answered this directly. "I've retired. Michael would lose respect if I interfered.
And besides that's a man I'd rather not talk to."
   Tessio remembered the stories he'd heard about Moe Greene slapping Freddie
Corleone around one night in the Vegas hotel. He began to smell a rat. He leaned back.
Moe Greene was a dead man, he thought. The Corleone Family did not wish to
persuade him.
   Carlo Rizzi spoke up. "Is the Corleone Family going to stop operating in New York
altogether?"
   Michael nodded. "We're selling the olive oil business. Everything we can, we turn over
to Tessio and Clemenza. But, Carlo, I don't want you to worry about your job. You grew
up in Nevada, you know the state, you know the people. I'm counting on you being my
right-hand man when we make our move out there."

214
   Carlo leaned back, his face flushed with gratification. His time was coming, he would
move in the constellations of power.
   Michael went on. "Tom Hagen is no longer the Consigliori. He's going to be our lawyer
in Vegas. In about two months he'll move out there permanently with his family. Strictly
as a lawyer. Nobody goes to him with any other business as of now, this minute. He's a
lawyer and that's all. No reflection on Tom. That's the way I want it. Besides, if I ever
need any advice, who's a better counselor than my father?" They all laughed. But they
had gotten the message despite the joke. Tom Hagen was out; he no longer held any
power. They all took their fleeting glances to check Hagen's reaction but his face was
impassive. 
   Clemenza spoke up in his fat man's wheeze. "Then in a year's time we're on our own,
is that it?"
   "Maybe less," Michael said courteously. "Of course you can always remain part of the
Family, that's your choice. But most of our strength will be out West and maybe you'd
do better organized on your own."
   Tessio said quietly, "In that case I think you should give us permission to recruit new
men for our regimes. Those Barzini bastards keep chiseling in on my territory. I think
maybe it would be wise to teach them a little lesson in manners."
   Michael shook his head. "No. No good. Just stay still. All that stuff will be negotiated,
everything will be straightened out before we leave."
   Tessio was not to be so easily satisfied. He spoke to the Don directly, taking a chance
on incurring Michael's ill will. "Forgive me, Godfather, let our years of friendship be my
excuse. But I think you and your son are all wrong with this Nevada business. How can
you hope for success there without your strength here to back you up? The two go hand
in hand. And with you gone from here the Barzini and the Tattaglia will be too strong for
us. Me and Pete will have trouble, we'll come under their thumb sooner or later. And
Barzini is a man not to my taste. I say the Corleone Family has to make its move from
strength, not from weakness. We should build up our regimes and take back our lost
territories in Staten Island at least."
   The Don shook his head. "I made the peace, remember, I can't go back on my word."
   Tessio refused to be silenced. "Everybody knows Barzini gave you provocation since
then. And besides, if Michael is the new chief of the Corleone Family, what's to stop him
from taking any action he sees fit? Your word doesn't strictly bind him."

    	   

   Michael broke in sharply. He said to Tessio, very much the chief now, "There are

215

things being negotiated which will answer your questions and resolve your doubts. If my
word isn't enough for you, ask your Don."
   But Tessio understood he had finally gone too far. If he dared to question the Don he
would make Michael his enemy. So he shrugged and said, "I spoke for the good of the
Family, not for myself. I can take care of myself."
   Michael gave him a friendly smile. "Tessio, I never doubt you in any way. I never did.
But trust in me. Of course I'm not equal to you and Pete in these things, but after all I've
my father to guide me. I won't do too badly, we'll all come out fine."
   The meeting was over. The big news was that Clemenza and Tessio would be
permitted to form their own Families from their regimes. Tessio would have his gambling
and docks in Brooklyn, Clemenza the gambling in Manhattan and the Family contacts in
the racing tracks of Long Island.
   The two caporegimes left not quite satisfied, still a little uneasy. Carlo Rizzi lingered
hoping that the time had come when he finally would be treated as one of the family, but
he quickly saw that Michael was not of that mind. He left the Don, Tom Hagen and
Michael alone in the corner library room. Albert Neri ushered him out of the house and
Carlo noticed that Neri stood in the doorway watching him walk across the floodlit mall.
   In the library the three men had relaxed as only people can who have lived years
together in the same house, in the same family. Michael served some anisette to the
Don and scotch to Tom Hagen. He took a drink for himself, which he rarely did.
   Tom Hagen spoke up first. "Mike, why are you cutting me out of the action?" 
   Michael seemed surprised. "You'll be my number one man in Vegas. We'll be
legitimate all the way and you're the legal man. What can be more important than that?"
   Hagen smiled a little sadly. "I'm not talking about that, I'm talking about Rocco
Lampone building a secret regime without my knowledge. I'm talking about you dealing
direct with Neri rather than through me or a caporegime. Unless of course you don't
know what Lampone's doing."
   Michael said softly, "How did you find out about Lampone's regime?"
   Hagen shrugged. "Don't worry, there's no leak, nobody else knows. But in my position
I can see what's happening. You gave Lampone his own living, you gave him a lot of
freedom. So he needs people to help him in his little empire. But everybody he recruits
has to be reported to me. And I notice everybody he puts on the payroll is a little too
good for that particular job, is getting a little more money than that particular exercise is

    	   

216
worth. You picked the right man when you picked Lampone, by the way. He's operating
perfectly."
   Michael grimaced. "Not so damn perfect if you noticed. Anyway the Don picked
Lampone." 
   "OK," Tom said, "so why am I cut out of the action?"
   Michael faced him and without flinching gave it to him straight. "Tom, you're not a
wartime Consigliori. Things may get tough with this move we're trying to make and we
may have to fight. And I want to get you out of the line of fire too, just in case."
   Hagen's face reddened. If the Don had told him the same thing, he would have
accepted it humbly. But where the hell did Mike come off making such a snap judgment?
   "OK," he said, "but I happen to agree with Tessio. I think you're going about this all
wrong. You're making the move out of weakness, not strength. That's always bad.
Barzini is like a wolf, and if he tears you limb from limb, the other Families won't come
rushing to help the Corleones."
   The Don finally spoke. "Tom, it's not just Michael. I advised him on these matters.
There are things that may have to be done that I don't want in any way to be
responsible for. That is my wish, not Michael's. I never thought you were a bad
Consigliori, I thought Santino a bad Don, may his soul rest in peace. He had a good
heart but he wasn't the right man to head the Family when I had my little misfortune.
And who would have thought that Fredo would become a lackey of women? So don't
feel badly. Michael has all my confidence as you do. For reasons which you can't know,
you must have no part in what may happen. By the way, I told Michael that Lampone's
secret regime would not escape your eye. So that shows I have faith in you."
   Michael laughed. "I honestly didn't think you'd pick that up, Tom."
   Hagen knew he was being mollified. "Maybe I can help," he said.
   Michael shook his head decisively. "You're out, Tom."  
   Tom finished his drink and before he left he gave Michael a mild reproof. "You're
nearly as good as your father," he told Michael. "But there's one thing you still have to
learn."
   "What's that?" Michael said politely.
   "How to say no," Hagen answered.
   Michael nodded gravely. "You're right," he said. "I'll rememher that."
   When Hagen had left, Michael said jokingly to his father, "So you've taught me
everything else. Tell me how to say no to people in a way they'll like."

    	   

217
   The Don moved to sit behind the hig desk. "You cannot say 'no' to the people you love,
not often. That's the secret. And then when you do, it has to sound like a 'yes.' Or you
have to make them say 'no.' You have to take time and trouble. But I'm old-fashioned,
you're the new modern generation, don't listen to me."
   Michael laughed. "Right. You agree about Tom being out, though, don't you?"
   The Don nodded. "He can't be involved in this."
   Michael said quietly, "I think it's time for me to tell you that what I'm going to do is not
purely out of vengeance for Apollonia and Sonny. It's the right thing to do. Tessio and
Tom are right about the Barzinis." 
   Don Corleone nodded. "Revenge is a dish that tastes best when it is cold," he said. "I
would not have made that peace but that I knew you would never come home alive
otherwise. I'm surprised, though, that Barzini still made a last try at you. Maybe it was
arranged before the peace talk and he couldn't stop it. Are you sure they were not after
Don Tommasino?"
   Michael said, "That's the way it was supposed to look. And it would have been perfect,
even you would never have suspected. Except that I came out alive. I saw Fabrizzio
going through the gate, running away. And of course I've checked it all out since I've
been back."
   "Have they found that shepherd?" the Don asked.
   "I found him," Michael said. "I found him a year ago. He's got his own little pizza place
up in Buffalo. New name, phony passport and identification. He's doing very well this
Fabrizzio the shepherd."
   The Don nodded. "So it's to no purpose to wait any longer. When will you start?"
   Michael said, "I want to wait until after Kay has the baby. Just in case anything goes
wrong. And I want Tom settled in Vegas so he won't be concerned in the affair. I think a
year from now."
   "You've prepared for everything?" the Don asked. He did not look at Michael when he
said this. Michael said gently, "You have no part. You're not responsible. I take all
responsibility. I would refuse to let you even veto. If you tried to do that now, I would
leave the Family and go my own way. You're not responsible."  
   The Don was silent for a long time and then he sighed. He said, "So be it. Maybe
that's why I retired, maybe that's why I've turned everything over to you. I've done my
share in life, I haven't got the heart anymore. And there are some duties the best of men
can't assume. That's it then."

    	   

218
   During that year Kay Adams Corleone was delivered of a second child, another boy.
She delivered easily, without any trouble whatsoever, and was welcomed back to the
mall like a royal princess. Connie Corleone presented the baby with a silk layette
handmade in Italy, enormously expensive and beautiful. She told Kay, "Carlo found it.
He shopped all over New York to get something extra special after I couldn't find
anything I really liked." Kay smiled her thanks, understood immediately that she was to
tell Michael this fine tale. She was on her way to becoming a Sicilian.
   Also during that year, Nino Valenti died of a cerebral hemorrhage. His death made the
front pages of the tabloids because the movie Johnny Fontane had featured him in had
opened a few weeks before and was a smash hit, establishing Nino as a major star. The
papers mentioned that Johnny Fontane was handling the funeral arrangements, that the
funeral would be private, only family and close friends to attend. One sensational story
even claimed that in an interview Johnny Fontane had blamed himself for his friend's
death, that he should have forced his friend to place himself under medical care, but the
reporter made it sound like the usual self-reproach of the sensitive but innocent
bystander to a tragedy. Johnny Fontane had made his childhood friend, Nino Valenti, a
movie star and what more could a friend do?
   No member of the Corleone Family attended the California funeral except Freddie.
Lucy and Jules Segal attended. The Don himself had wanted to go to California but had
suffered a slight heart attack, which kept him in his bed for a month. He sent a huge
floral wreath instead. Albert Neri was also sent West as the official representative of the
Family.
   Two days after Nino's funeral, Mae Greene was shot to death in the Hollywood home
of his movie-star mistress; Albert Neri did not reappear in New York until almost a
month later. He had taken his vacation in the Caribbean and returned to duty tanned
almost black. Michael Corleone welcomed him with a smile and a few words of praise,
which included the information that Neri would from then on receive an extra "living," the
Family income from an East Side "book" cousidered especially rich. Neri was content,
satisfied that he lived in a world that properly rewarded a man who did his duty.

Book 8

    	   

219
   Michael Corleone had taken precautions against every eventuality. His planning was
faultless, his security impeccable. He was patient, hoping to use the full year to prepare.
But he was not to get his necessary year because fate itself took a stand against him,
and in the most surprising fashion. For it was the Godfather, the great Don himself, who
failed Michael Corleone.

   On one sunny Sunday morning, while the women were at church, Don Vito Corleone
dressed in his gardening uniform: baggy gray trousers, a faded blue shirt, battered dirty-
brown fedora decorated by a stained gray silk hatband. The Don had gained
considerable weight in his few years and worked on his tomato vines, he said, for the
sake of his health. But he deceived no one.
   The truth was, he loved tending his garden; he loved the sight of it early on a morning.
It brought back his childhood in Sicily sixty years ago, brought it back without the terror,
the sorrow of his own father's death. Now the beans in their rows grew little white
flowers on top; strong green stalks of scallion fenced everything in. At the foot of the
garden a spouted barrel stood guard. It was filled with liquidy cow manure, the linest
garden fertilizer. Also in that lower part of the garden were the square wooden frames
he had built with his own hands, the sticks cross-tied with thick white string. Over these
frames crawled the tomato vines.
   The Don hastened to water his garden. It must be done before the sun waxed too hot
and turned the water into a prism of fire that could burn his lettuce leaves like paper.
Sun was more important than water, water also was important; but the two, imprudently
mixed, could cause great misfortune.
   The Don moved through his garden hunting for ants. If ants were present, it meant
that lice were in his vegetables and the ants were going after the lice and he would have
to spray.
   He had watered just in time. The sun was becoming hot and the Don thought,
"Prudence. Prudence." But there were just a few more plants to be supported by sticks
and he bent down again. He would go back into the house when he finished this last
row.
   Quite suddenly it felt as if the sun had come down very close to his head. The air filled
with dancing golden specks. Michael's oldest boy came running through the garden
toward where the Don knelt and the boy was enveloped by a yellow shield of blinding
light. But the Don was not to be tricked, he was too old a hand. Death hid behind that
flaming yellow shield ready to pounce out on him and the Don with a wave of his hand

220
warned the boy away from his presence. Just in time. The sledgehammer blow inside
his chest made him choke for air. The Don pitched forward into the earth.
   The boy raced away to call his father. Michael Corleone and some men at the mall
gate ran to the garden and found the Don lying prone, clutching handfuls of earth. They
lifted the Don up and carried him to the shade of his stone-flagged patio. Michael knelt
beside his father, holding his hand, while the other men called for an ambulance and
doctor.
   With a great effort the Don opened his eyes to see his son once more. The massive
heart attack had turned his ruddy face almost blue. He was in extremis. He smelled the
garden, the yellow shield of light smote his eyes, and he whispered, "Life is so
beautiful."
   He was spared the sight of his women's tears, dying before they came back from
church, dying before the ambulance arrived, or the doctor. He died surrounded by men,
holding the hand of the son he had most loved.
   The funeral was royal. The Five Families sent their Dons and caporegimes, as did the
Tessio and Clemenza Families. Johnny Fontane made the tabloid headlines by
attending the funeral despite the advice of Michael not to appear. Fontane gave a
statement to the newspapers that Vito Corleone was his Godfather and the finest man
he had ever known and that he was honored to be permitted to pay his last respects to
such a man and didn't give a damn who knew it.
   The wake was held in the house of the mall, in the old-fashioned style. Amerigo
Bonasera had never done finer work, had discharged all obligations, by preparing his
old friend and Godfather as lovingly as a mother prepares a bride for her wedding.
Everyone commented on how not even death itself had been able to erase the nobility
and the dignity of the great Don's countenance and such remarks made Amerigo
Bonasera fill with knowing pride, a curious sense of power. Only he knew what a terrible
massacre death had perpetrated on the Don's appearance.
   All the old friends and servitors came. Nazorine, his wife, his daughter and her
husband and their children, Lucy Mancini came with Freddie from Las Vegas. Tom
Hagen and his wife and children, the Dons from San Francisco and Los Angeles,
Boston and Cleveland. Rocco Lampone and Albert Neri were pallbearers with
Clemenza and Tessio and, of course, the sons of the Don. The mall and all its houses
were filled with floral wreaths.
   Outside the gates of the mall were the newspapermen and photographers and a small
truck that was known to contain FBI men with their movie cameras recording this epic.

Some newspapersmen who tried to crash the funeral inside found that the gate and

221

fence were manned with security guard who demanded identification and an invitation
card. And though they were treated with the utmost courtesy, refreshment sent out to
them, they were not permitted inside. They tried to speak with some of the people
coming out but were met with stony stares and not a syllable.
   Michael Corleone spent most of the day in the corner library room with Kay, Tom
Hagen and Freddie. People were ushered in to see him, to offer their condolences.
Michael received them with all courtesy even when some of them addressed him as
Godfather or Don Michael, only Kay noticing his lips tighten with displeasure.
   Clemenza and Tessio came to join this inner circle and Michael personally served
them with a drink. There was some gossip of business. Michael informed them that the
mall and all its houses were to be sold to a development and construction company. At
an enormous profit, still another proof of the great Don's genius.
   They all understood that now the whole empire would be in the West. That the
Corleone Family would liquidate its power in New York. Such action had been awaiting
the retirement or death of the Don.
   It was nearly ten years since there had been such a celebration of people in this
house, nearly ten years since the wedding of Constanzia Corleone and Carlo Rizzi, so
somebody said. Michael walked to the window that looked out on the garden. That long
time ago he had sat in the garden with Kay never dreaming that so curious a destiny
was to be his. And his father dying had said, "Life is so beautiful." Michael could never
remember his father ever having uttered a word about death, as if the Don respected
death too much to philosophize about it.
   It was time for the cemetery. It was time to bury the great Don. Michael linked his arm
with Kay's and went out into the garden to join the host of mourners. Behind him came
the caporegimes followed by their soldiers and then all the humble people the Godfather
had blessed during his lifetime. The baker Nazorine, the widow Colombo and her sons
and all the countless others of his world he had ruled so firmly but justly. There were
even some who had been his enemies, come to do him honor.
   Michael observed all this with a tight, polite smile. He was not impressed. Yet, he
thought, if I can die saying, "Life is so beautiful," then nothing else is important. If I can
believe in myself that much, nothing else matters. He would follow his father. He would
care for his children, his family, his world. But his children would grow in a different
world. They would be doctors, artists, scientists. Governors. Presidents. Anything at all.

    	   

222
He would see to it that they joined the general family of humanity, but he, as a powerful
and prudent parent would most certainly keep a wary eye on that general family.

   On the morning after the funeral, all the most important officials of the Corleone
Family assembled on the mall. Shortly before noon they were admitted into the empty
house of the Don. Michael Corleone received them.
   They almost filled the corner library room. There were the two caporegimes,
Clemenza and Tessio; Rocco Lampone, with his reasonable, competent air; Carlo Rizzi,
very quiet, very much knowing his place; Tom Hagen forsaking his strictly legal role to
rally around in this crisis; Albert Neri trying to stay physically close to Michael, lighting
his new Don's cigarette, mixing his drink, all to show an unswerving loyalty despite the
recent disaster to the Corleone Family.
   The death of the Don was a great misfortune for the Family. Without him it seemed
that half their strength was gone and almost all their bargaining power against the
Barzini-Tattaglia alliance. Everyone in the room knew this and they waited for what
Michael would say. In their eyes he was not yet the new Don; he had not earned the
position or the title. If the Godfather had lived, he might have assured his son's
succession; now it was by no means certain.
   Michael waited until Neri had served drinks. Then he said quietly, "I just want to tell
everybody here that I understand how they feel. I know you all respected my father, but
now you have to worry about yourselves and your families. Some of you wonder how
what happened is going to affect the planning we've done and the promises I made.
Well, the answer to that is: nothing. Everything goes on as before."
   Clemenza shook his great shaggy buffalo head. His hair was so iron gray and his
features, more deeply embedded in added layers of fat, were unpleasant. "The Barzinis
and Tattaglias are going to move in on us real hard, Mike. You gotta fight or have a 'sit-
down' with them." Everyone in the room noticed that Clemenza had not used a formal
form of address to Michael, much less the title of Don.
   "Let's wait and see what happens," Michael said. "Let them break the peace first."
   Tessio spoke up in his soft voice. "They already have, Mike. They opened up two
'books' in Brooklyn this morning. I got the word from the police captain who runs the
protection list at the station house. In a month I won't have a place to hang my hat in all
Brooklyn."
   Michael stared at him thoughtfully. "Have you done anything about it?"

    	   

   Tessio shook his small, ferretlike head. "No," he said. "I didn't want to give you any
problems."

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   "Good," Michael said. "Just sit tight. And I guess that's what I want to say to all of you,
Just sit tight. Don't react to any provocation. Give me a few weeks to straighten things
out, to see which way the wind is going to blow. Then I'll make the best deal I can for
everybody here. Then we'll have a final meeting and make some final decisions."
   He ignored their surprise and Albert Neri started ushering them out. Michael said
sharply, "Tom, stick around a few minutes."
   Hagen went to the window that faced the mall. He waited until he saw the
caporegimes and Carlo Rizzo and Rocco Lampore being shepherded through the
guarded gate by Neri. Then he turned to Michael and said, "Have you got all the political
connections wired into you?"
   Michael shook his head regretfully. "Not all. I needed about four more months. The
Don and I were working on it. But I've got all the judges, we did that first, and some of
the more important people in Congress. And the big party boys here in New York were
no problem, of course.
The Corleone Family is a lot stronger than anybody thinks, but I hoped to make it
foolproof." He smiled at Hagen. "I guess you've figured everything out by now."
   Hagen nodded. "It wasn't hard. Except why you wanted me out of the action. But I put
on my Sicilian hat and I finally figured that too."
   Michael laughed. "The old man said you would. But that's a luxury I can't afford
anymore. I need you here. At least for the next few weeks. You better phone Vegas and
talk to your wife. Just tell her a few weeks."
   Hagen said musingly, "How do you think they'll come at you?"
   Michael sighed. "The Don instructed me. Through somebody close. Barzini will set me
up through somebody close that, supposedly, I won't suspect."
   Hagen smiled at him. "Somebody like me."
   Michael smiled back. "You're Irish, they won't trust you."
   "I'm German-American," Hagen said.
   "To them that's Irish," Michael said. "They won't go to you and they won't go to Neri
because Neri was a cop. Plus both of you are too close to me. They can't take that
gamble. Rocco Lampone isn't close enough. No, it will be Clemenza, Tessio or Carlo
Rizzi."
   Hagen said softly, "I'm betting it's Carlo"
   "We'll see," Michael said. "It won't be long."

   It was the next morning, while Hagen and Michael were having breakfast together.

224

Michael took a phone call in the library, and when he came back to the kitchen, he said
to Hagen, "It's all set up. I'm going to meet Barzini a week from now. To make new
peace now that the Don is dead." Michael laughed. Hagen asked, "Who phoned you,
who made the contact?" They both knew that whoever in the Corleone Family had
made the contact had turned traitor.  
   Michael gave Hagen a sad regretful smile. "Tessio," he said.
   They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence. Over coffee Hagen shook his head, "I
could have sworn it would have been Carlo or maybe Clemenza. I never figured Tessio.
He's the best of the lot."  
   "He's the most intelligent," Michael said, "And he did what seems to him to be the
smart thing. He sets me up for the hit by Barzini and inherits the Corleone Family. He
sticks with me and he gets wiped out; he's figuring I can't win."
   Hagen paused before he asked reluctantly, "How right is he figuring?"
   Michael shrugged. "It looks bad. But my father was the only one who understood that
political connections and power are worth ten regimes, I think I've got most of my
father's political power in my hands now, but I'm the only one who really knows that." He
smiled at Hagen, a reassuring smile. "I'll make them call me Don. But I feel lousy about
Tessio."
   Hagen said, "Have you agreed to the meeting with Barzini?"
   "Yeah," Michael said. "A week from tonight. In Brooklyn, on Tessio's ground where I'll
be safe," He laughed again.
   Hagen said, "Be careful before then."
For the first time Michael was cold with Hagen. "I don't need a Consigliori to give me
that kind of advice," be said.

   During the week preceding the peace meeting between the Corleone and Barzini
Families, Michael showed Hagen just how careful he could be. He never set foot
outside the mall and never received anyone without Neri beside him. There was only
one annoying complication, Connie and Carlo's oldest boy was to receive his
Confirmation in the Catholic Church and Kay asked Michael to be the Godfather.
Michael refused.
   "I don't often beg you," Kay said. "Please do this just for me. Connie wants it so much.
And so does Carlo. It's very important to them. Please, Michael."

225
   She could see he was angry with her for insisting and expected him to refuse. So she
was surprised when he nodded and said, "OK. But I can't leave the mall. Tell them to
arrange for the priest to confirm the kid here. I'll pay whatever it costs. If they run into
trouble with the church people, Hagen will straighten it out."
   And so the day before the meeting with the Barzini Family, Michael Corleone stood
Godfather to the son of Carlo and Connie Rizzi. He presented the boy with so extremely
expensive wristwatch and gold band. There was a small party in Carlo's house, to which
were invited the caporegimes, Hagen, Lampone and everyone who lived on the mall,
including, of course, the Don's widow. Connie was so overcome with emotion that she
hugged and kissed her brother and Kay all during the evening. And even Carlo Rizzi
became sentimental, wringing Michael's hand and calling him Godfather at every
excuse – old country style. Michael himself had never been so affable, so outgoing.
Connie whispered to Kay, "I think Carlo and Mike are going to be real friends now.
Something like this always bring people together."
   Kay squeezed her sister-in-law's arm. "I'm so glad," she said.

Chapter 30

   Albert Neri sat in his Bronx apartment and carefully brushed the blue serge of his old
policeman's uniform. He unpinned the badge and set it on the table to be polished. The
regulation holster and gun were draped over a chair. This old routine of detail made him
happy in some strange way, one of the few times he had felt happy since his wife had
left him, nearly two years ago.
   He had married Rita when she was a high school kid and he was a rookie policeman.
She was shy, dark-haired, from a straitlaced Italian family who never let her stay out
later than ten o'clock at night. Neri was completely in love with her, her innocence, her
virtue, as well as her dark prettiness.
   At first Rita Neri was fascinated by her husband. He was immensely strong and she
could see people were afraid of him because of that strength and his unbending attitude
toward what was right and wrong. He was rarely tactful. If he disagreed with a group's
attitude or an individual's opinion, he kept his mouth shut or brutally spoke his
contradiction. He never gave a polite agreement. He also had a true Sicilian temper and
his rages could be awesome. But he was never angry with his wife.
   Neri in the space of five years became one of the most feared policemen on the New
York City force. Also one of the most honest. But he had his own ways of enforcing the

226
law. He hated punks and when he saw a bunch of young rowdies making a disturbance
on a street corner at night, disturbing passersby, he took quick and decisive action. He
employed a physical strength that was truly extraordinary, which he himself did not fully 
appreciate. 
   One night in Central Park West he jumped out of the patrol car and lined up six punks
in black silk jackets. His partner remained in the driver's seat, not wanting to get
involved, knowing Neri. The six boys, all in their late teens, had been stopping people
and asking them for cigarettes in a youthfully menacing way but not doing anyone any
real physical harm. They had also teased girls going by with a sexual gesture more
French than American.
   Neri lined them up against the stone wall that closed off Central Park from Eighth
Avenue. It was twilight, but Neri carried his favorite weapon, a huge flashlight. He never
bothered drawing his gun; it was never necessary. His face when he was angry was so
brutally menacing, combined with his uniform, that the usual punks were cowed. These
were no exception.
   Neri asked the first youth in the black silk jacket, "What's your name?" The kid
answered with an Irish name. Neri told him, "Get off the street. I see you again tonight,
I'll crucify you." He motioned with his flashlight and the youth walked quickly away. Neri
followed the same procedure with the next two boys. He let them walk off. But the fourth
boy gave an Italian name and smiled at Neri as if to claim some sort of kinship. Neri was
unmistakably of Italian descent. Neri looked at this youth for a moment and asked
superfluously, "You Italian?" The boy grinned confidently.
   Neri hit him a stunning blow on the forehead with his flashlight. The boy dropped to
his knees. The skin and flesh of his forehead had cracked open and blood poured down
his face. But it was strictly a flesh wound. Neri said to him harshly, "You son of a bitch,
you're a disgrace to the Italians. You give us all a bad name. Get on your feet." He gave
the youth a kick in the side, not gentle, not too hard. "Get home and stay off the street.
Don't ever let me catch you wearing that jacket again either. I'll send you to the hospital.
Now get home. You're lucky I'm not your father."  
   Neri didn't bother with the other two punks. He just booted their asses down the
Avenue, telling them he didn't want them on the street that night.
   In such encounters all was done so quickly that there was no time for a crowd to
gather or for someone to protest his actions. Neri would get into the patrol car and his
partner would zoom it away. Of course once in a while there would be a real hard case
who wanted to fight and might even pull a knife. These were truly unfortunate people.

Neri would, with awesome, quick ferocity, beat them bloody and throw them into the

227

patrol car. They would be put under arrest and charged with assaulting an officer. But
usually their case would have to wait until they were discharged from the hospital.
   Eventually Neri was transferred to the beat that held the United Nations building area,
mainly because he had not shown his precinct sergeant the proper respect. The United
Nations people with their diplomatic immunity parked their limousines all over the
streets without regard to police regulations. Neri complained to the precinct and was
told not to make waves, to just ignore it. But one night there was a whole side street that
was impassable because of the carelessly parked autos. It was after midnight, so Neri
took his huge flashlight from the patrol cat and went down the street smashing
windshields to smithereens. It was not easy, even for high-ranking diplomats, to get the
windshields repaired in less than a few days. Protests poured into the police precinct
station house demanding protection against this vandalism. After a week of windshield
smashing the truth gradually hit somebody about what was actually happening and
Albert Neri was transferred to Harlem.
   One Sunday shortly afterward, Neri took his wife to visit his widowed sister in Brooklyn. 
Albert Neri had the fierce protective affection for his sister common to all Sicilians and
he always visited her at least once every couple of months to make sure she was all
right. She was much older than he was and had a son who was twenty. This son,
Thomas, without a father's hand, was giving trouble. He had gotten into a few minor
scrapes, was running a little wild. Neri had once used his contacts on the police force to
keep the youth from being charged with larceny. On that occasion he had kept his anger
in check but had given his nephew warning. "Tommy, you make my sister cry over you
and I'll straighten you out myself." It was intended as a friendly pally-uncle warning, not
really as a threat. But even though Tommy was the toughest kid in that tough Brooklyn
neighborhood, he was afraid of his Uncle Al. 
   On this particular visit Tommy had come in very late Saturday night and was still
sleeping in his room. His mother went to wake him, telling him to get dressed so that he
could eat Sunday dinner with his uncle and aunt. The boy's voice came harshly through 
the partly opened door, "I don't give a shit, let me sleep," and his mother came back out
into the kitchen smiling apologetically.  
So they had to eat their dinner without him. Neri asked his sister if Tommy was giving
her any real trouble and she shook her head.
   Neri and his wife were about to leave when Tommy finally got up. He barely grumbled
a hello and went into the kitchen. Finally he yelled in to his mother, "Hey, Ma, how about

228
cooking me something to eat?" But it was not a request. It was the spoiled complaint of
an indulged child.
   His mother said shrilly, "Get up when it's dinnertime and then you can eat. I'm not
going to cook again for you."
   It was the sort of little ugly scene that was fairly commonplace, but Tommy still a little
irritable from his slumber made a mistake. "Ah, fuck you and your nagging, I'll go out
and eat." As soon as he said it he regretted it.
   His Uncle Al was on him like a cat on a mouse. Not so much for the insult to his sister
this particular day but because it was obvious that he often talked to his mother in such
a fashion when they were alone. Tommy never dared say such a thing in front of her
brother. This particular Sunday he had just been careless. To his misfortune.
   Before the frightened eyes of the two women, Al Neri gave his nephew a merciless,
careful, physical beating. At first the youth made an attempt at self-defense but soon
gave that up and begged for mercy. Neri slapped his face until the lips were swollen and
bloody. He rocked the kid's head back and slammed him against the wall. He punched
him in the stomach, then got him prone on the floor and slapped his face into the carpet.
He told the two women to wait and made Tommy go down the street and get into his car.
There he put the fear of God into him. "If my sister ever tells me you talk like that to her
again, this beating will seem like kisses from a broad," he told Tommy. "I want to see
you straighten out. Now go up the house and tell my wife I'm waiting for her."
   It was two months after this that Al Neri got back from a late shift on the force and
found his wife had left him. She had packed all her clothes and gone back to her family.
Her father told him that Rita was afraid of him, that she was afraid to live with him
because of his temper. Al was stunned with disbelief. He had never struck his wife,
never threatened her in any way, had never felt anything but affection for her. But he
was so bewildered by her action that he decided to let a few days go by before he went
over to her family's house to talk to her.
   It was unfortunate that the next night he ran into trouble on his shift. His car answered
a call in Harlem, a report of a deadly assault. As usual Neri jumped out of the patrol car
while it was still rolling to a stop. It was after midnight and he was carrying his huge
flashlight. It was easy spotting the trouble. There was a crowd gathered outside a
tenement doorway. One Negro woman said to Neri, "There's a man in there cutting a
little girl."

    	   

229
   Neri went into the hallway. There was an open door at the far end with light streaming
out and he could hear moaning. Still handling the flashlight, he went down the hall and
through the open doorway.
   He almost fell over two bodies stretched out on the floor. One was a Negro woman of
about twenty-five. The other was a Negro girl of no more than twelve. Both were bloody
from razor cuts on their faces and bodies. In the living room Neri saw the man who was
responsible. He knew him well.
   The man was Wax Baines, a notorious pimp, dope pusher and strong-arm artist. His
eyes were popping from drugs now, the bloody knife he held in his hand wavered. Neri
had arrested him two weeks before for severely assaulting one of his whores in the
street. Baines had told him, "Hey, man, this none of your business." And Neri's partner
had also said something about letting the niggers cut each other up if they wanted to,
but Neri had hauled Baines into the station house. Baines was bailed out the very next
day.
   Neri had never much liked Negroes, and working in Harlem had made him like them
even less. They all were on drugs or booze while they let their women work or peddle
ass. He didn't have any use for any of the bastards. So Baines' brazen breaking of the
law infuriated him. And the sight of the little girl all cut up with the razor sickened him.
Quite coolly, in his own mind, he decided not to bring Baines in.
   But witnesses were already crowding into the apartment behind him, some people
who lived in the building and his partner from the patrol car.
   Neri ordered Baines, "Drop your knife, you're under arrest."
   Baines laughed. "Man, you gotta use your gun to arrest me." He held his knife up. "Or
maybe you want this."
   Neri moved very quickly, so his partner would not have time to draw a gun. The Negro
stabbed with his knife, but Neri's extraordinary reflexes enabled him to catch the thrust
with his left palm. With his right hand he swung the flashlight in a short vicious arc. The
blow caught Baines on the side of the head and made his knees buckle comically like a
drunk's. The knife dropped from his hand. He was quite helpless. So Neri's second blow
was inexcusable, as the police departmental hearing and his criminal trial later proved
with the help of the testimony of witnesses and his fellow policeman. Neri brought the
flashlight down on the top of Baines' skull in an incredibly powerful blow which shattered
the glass of the flashlight; the enamel shield and the bulb itself popping out and flying
across the room. The heavy aluminum barrel of the flashlight tube bent and only the
batteries inside prevented it from doubling on itself. One awed onlooker, a Negro man

who lived in the tenement and later testified against Neri, said, "Man, that's a hard-
headed nigger."

230

   But Baines' head was not quite hard enough. The blow caved in his skull. He died two
hours later in the Harlem Hospital.  
   Albert Neri was the only one surprised when he was brought up on departmental
charges for using excessive force. He was suspended and criminal charges were
brought against him. He was indicted for manslaughter, convicted and sentenced to
from one to ten years in prison. By this time he was so filled with a baffled rage and
hatred of all society that he didn't give a damn. That they dared to judge him a criminal!
That they dared to send him to prison for killing an animal like that pimp-nigger! That
they didn't give a damn for the woman and little girl who had been carved up, disfigured
for life, and still in the hospital.
   He did not fear prison. He felt that because of his having been a policeman and
especially because of the nature of the offense, he would be well taken care of. Several
of his buddy officers had already assured him they would speak to friends. Only his
wife's father, a shrewd old-style Italian who owned a fish market in the Bronx, realized
that a man like Albert Neri had little chance of surviving a year in prison. One of his
fellow inmates might kill him; if not, he was almost certain to kill one of them. Out of guilt
that his daughter had deserted a fine husband for some womanly foolishness, Neri's
father-in-law used his contacts with the Corleone Family (he paid protection money to
one of its representatives and supplied the Corleone itself with the finest fish available,
as a gift), he petitioned for their intercession.
   The Corleone Family knew about Albert Neri. He was something of a legend as a
legitimately tough cop; he had made a certain reputation as a man not to be held lightly,
as a man who could inspire fear out of his own person regardless of the uniform and the
sanctioned gun he wore. The Corleone Family was always interested in such men. The
fact that he was a policeman did not mean too much. Many young men started down a
false path to their true destiny. Time and fortune usually set them aright.
   It was Pete Clemenza, with his fine nose for good personnel, who brought the Neri
affair to Tom Hagen's attention. Hagen studied the copy of the official police dossier and
listened to Clemenza. He said, "Maybe we have another Luca Brasi here."
   Clemenza nodded his head vigorously. Though he was very fat, his face had none of
the usual stout man's benignity. "My thinking exactly. Mike should look into this himself."  
   And so it was that before Albert Neri was transferred from the temporary jail to what
would have been his permanent residence upstate, he was informed that the judge had

231
reconsidered his case on the basis of new information and affidavits submitted by high
police officials. His sentence was suspended and he was released.
   Albert Neri was no fool and his father-in-law no shrinking violet. Neri learned what had
happened and paid his debt to his father-in-law by agreeing to get a divorce from Rita.
Then he made a trip out to Long Beach to thank his benefactor. Arrangements had
been made beforehand, of course. Michael received him in his library.  
   Neri stated his thanks in formal tones and was surprised and gratified by the warmth
with which Michael received his thanks.
   "Hell, I couldn't let them do that to a fellow Sicilian," Michael said. "They should have
given you a goddamn medal. But those damn politicians don't give a shit about anything
except pressure groups. Listen, I would never have stepped into the picture if I hadn't
checked everything out and saw what a raw deal you got. One of my people talked to
your sister and she told us how you were always worried about her and her kid, how
you straightened the kid out, kept him from going bad. Your father-in-law says you're
the finest fellow in the world. That's rare." Tactfully Michael did not mention anything
about Neri's wife having left him.
   They chatted for a while. Neri had always been a taciturn man, but he found himself
opening up to Michael Corleone. Michael was only about five years his senior, but Neri
spoke to him as if he were much older, older enough to be his father.  
   Finally Michael said, "There's no sense getting you out of jail and then just leaving you
high and dry. I can arrange some work for you. I have interests out in Las Vegas, with
your experience you could be a hotel security man. Or if there's some little business
you'd like to go into, I can put a word in with the banks to advance you a loan for
capital."
   Neri was overcome with grateful embarrassment. He proudly refused and then added, 
"I have to stay under the jurisdiction of the court anyway with the suspended sentence."  
   Michael said briskly, "That's all crap detail, I can fix that. Forget about that supervision
and just so the banks won't get choosy I'll have your yellow sheet pulled."
   The yellow sheet was a police record of criminal offenses committed by any individual.
It was usually submitted to a judge when he was considering what sentence to give a
convicted criminal. Neri had been long enough on the police force to know that many
hoodlums going up for sentencing had been treated leniently by the judge because a
clean yellow sheet had been submitted by the bribed Police Records Department. So he
was not too surprised that Michael Corleone could do such a thing; he was, however,
surprised that such trouble would be taken on his account.

   "If I need help, I'll get in touch," Neri said.

232

   "Good, good," Michael said. He looked at his watch and Neri took this for his dismissal. 
He rose to go. Again he was surprised.
   "Lunchtime," Michael said. "Come on and eat with me and my family. My father said
he'd like to meet you. We'll walk over to his house. My mother should have some fried
peppers and eggs and sausages. Real Sicilian style."
   That afternoon was the most agreeable Albert Neri had spent since he was a small
boy, since the days before his parents had died when he was only fifteen. Don Corleone
was at his most amiable and was delighted when he discovered that Neri's parents had
originally come from a small village only a few minutes from his own. The talk was good,
the food was delicious, the wine robustly red. Neri was struck by the thought that he
was finally with his own true people. He understood that he was only a casual guest but
he knew he could find a permanent place and be happy in such a world.
   Michael and the Don walked him out to his car. The Don shook his hand and said.
"You're a fine fellow. My son Michael here, I've been teachinig him the olive business,
I'm getting old, I want to retire, And he comes to me and he says he wants to interfere in
your little affair. I tell him to just learn about the olive oil. But he won't leave me alone.
He says, here is this fine fellow, a Sicilian and they are doing this dirty trick to him. He
kept on, he gave me no peace until I interested myself it it. I tell you this to tell you that
he was right. Now that I've met you, I'm glad we took the trouble. So if we can do
anything further for you, just ask the favor. Understand? We're at your service."
(Remembering the Don's kindness, Neri wished the great man was still alive to see the
service that would be done this day.)  
   It took Neri less than three days to make up his mind. He understood he was being
courted but understood more. That the Corleone Family approved that act of his which
society condemned and had punished him for, The Corleone Family valued him, society
did not. He understood that he would be happier in the world the Corleones had created
than in the world outside. And he understood that the Corleone Family was the more
powerful, within its narrower limits.  
   He visited Michael again and put his cards on the table. He did not want to work in
Vegas but he would take a job with the Family in New York. He made his loyalty clear.
Michael was touched, Neri could see that. It was arranged. But Michael insisted that
Neri take a vacation first, down in Miami at the Family hotel there, all expenses paid and
a month's salary in advance so he could have the necessary cash to enjoy himself
properly.  

233
   That vacation was Neri's first taste of luxury. People at the hotel took special care of
him, saying, "Ah, you're a friend of Michael Corleone." The word had been passed along. 
He was given one of the plush suites, not the grudging small room a poor relation might
be fobbed off with. The man running the nightclub in the hotel fixed him up with some
beautiful girls. When Neri got back to New York he had a slightly different view on life in
general.  
   He was put in the Clemenza regime and tested carefully by that masterful personnel
man. Certain precautions had to be taken. He had, after all, once been a policeman. But
Neri's natural ferocity overcame whatever scruples he might have had at being on the
other side of the fence. In less than a year he had "made his bones." He could never
turn back.
   Clemenza sang his praises. Neri was a wonder, the new Luca Brasi. He would be
better than Luca, Clemenza bragged. After all, Neri was his discovery. Physically the
man was a marvel. His reflexes and coordination such that he could have been another
Joe DiMaggio. Clemenza also knew that Neri was not a man to be controlled by some
one like himself. Neri was made directly responsible to Michael Corleone, with Tom
Hagen as the necessary buffer. He was a "special" and as such commanded a high
salary but did not have his own living, a bookmaking or strong-arm operation. It was
obvious that his respect for Michael Corleone was enormous and one day Hagen said
jokingly to Michael, "Well now you've got your Luca."
   Michael nodded. He had brought it off. Albert Neri was his man to the death. And of
course it was a trick learned from the Don himself. While learning the business,
undergoing the long days of tutelage by his father, Michael had one time asked, "How
come you used a guy like Luca Brasi? An animal like that?"
   The Don had proceeded to instruct him. "There are men in this world," he said, "who
go about demanding to be killed. You must have noticed them. They quarrel in gambling
games, they jump out of their automobiles in a rage if someone so much as scratches
their fender, they humiliate and bully people whose capabilities they do not know. I have
seen a man, a fool, deliberately infuriate a group of dangerous men, and he himself
without any resources. These are people who wander through the world shouting, 'Kill
me. Kill me.' And there is always somebody ready to oblige them. We read about it in
the newspapers every day. Such people of course do a great deal of harm to others
also.
   "Luca Brasi was such a man. But he was such an extraordinary man that for a long
time nobody could kill him. Most of these people are of no concern to ourselves but a

Brasi is a powerful weapon to be used. The trick is that since he does not fear death
and indeed looks for it, then the trick is to make yourself the only person in the world

234

that he truly desires not to kill him. He has only that one fear, not of death, but that you
may be the one to kill him. He is yours then."
   It was one of the most valuable lessons given by the Don before he died, and Michael
had used it to make Neri his Luca Brasi.

   And now, finally, Albert Neri, alone in his Bronx apartment, was going to put on his
police uniform again. He brushed it carefully. Polishing the holster would be next. And
his policeman's cap too, the visor had to be cleaned, the stout black shoes shined. Neri
worked with a will. He had found his place in the world, Michael Corelone had placed
his absolute trust in him, and today he would not fail that trust.

Chapter 31

   On that same day two limousines parked on the Long Beach mall. One of the big cars
waited to take Connie Corleone, her mother, her husband and her two children to the
airport. The Carlo Rizzi family was to take a vacation in Las Vegas in preparation for
their permanent move to that city. Michael had given Carlo the order, over Connie's
protests. Michael had not bothered to explain that he wanted everyone out of the mall
before the Corleone-Barzini Families' meeting. Indeed the meeting itself was top secret.
The only ones who knew about it were the capos of the Family.
   The other limousine was for Kay and her children, who were being driven up to New
Hampshire for a visit with her parents. Michael would have to stay in the mall; he had
affairs too pressing to leave.
   The night before Michael had also sent word to Carlo Rizzi that he would require his
presence on the mall for a few days, that he could join his wife and children later that
week. Connie had been furious. She had tried to get Michael on the phone, but he had
gone into the city. Now her eyes were searching the mall for him, but he was closeted
with Tom Hagen and not to be disturbed. Connie kissed Carlo good-bye when he put
her in the limousine.
   "If you don't come out there in two days, I'll come back to get you," she threatened
him.
   He gave her a polite husbandly smile of sexual complicity. "I'll be there," he said.

    	   

235
   She hung out the window. "What do you think Michael wants you for?" she asked. Her
worried frown made her look old and unattractive.
   Carlo shrugged. "He's been promising me a big deal. Maybe that's what he wants to
talk about. That's what he hinted anyway." Carlo did not know of the meeting scheduled
with the Barzini Family for that night.
   Connie said eagerly, "Really, Carlo?"
   Carlo nodded at her reassuringly. The limousine moved off through the gates of the
mall.
   It was only after the first limousine had left that Michael appeared to say good-bye to
Kay and his own two children. Carlo also came over and wished Kay a good trip and a
good vacation. Finally the second limousine pulled away and went through the gate.
   Michael said, "I'm sorry I had to keep you here, Carlo. It won't be more than a couple
of days."
   Carlo said quickly, "I don't mind at all."
   "Good," Michael said. "Just stay by your phone and I'll call you when I'm ready for you. 
I have to get some other dope before. OK?"
  "Sure, Mike, sure," Carlo said. He went into his own house, made a phone call to the
mistress he was discreetly keeping in Westbury, promising he would try to get to her
late that night. Then he got set with a bottle of rye and waited. He waited a long time.
Cars started coming through the gate shortly after noontime. He saw Clemenza get out
of one, and then a little later Tessio came out of another. Both of them were admitted to
Michael's house by one of the bodyguards. Clemenza left after a few hours, but Tessio
did not reappear.
   Carlo took a breath of fresh air around the mall, not more than ten minutes. He was
familiar with all the guards who pulled duty on the mall, was even friendly with some of
them. He thought he might gossip a bit to pass the time. But to his surprise none of the
guards today were men he knew. They were all strangers to him. Even more surprising,
the man in charge at the gate was Rocco Lampone, and Carlo knew that Rocco was of
too high a rank in the Family to be pulling such menial duty unless something
extraordinary was afoot.
   Rocco gave him a friendly smile and hello. Carlo was wary. Rocco said, "Hey, I
thought you were going on vacation with the Don?"
   Carlo shrugged. "Mike wanted me to stick around for a couple of days. He has
something for me to do."

    	   

236
   "Yeah," Rocco Lampone said. "Me too. Then he tells me to keep a check on the gate.
Well, what the hell, he's the boss." His tones implied that Michael was not the man his
father was; a bit derogatory.
   Carlo ignored the tone. "Mike knows what he's doing," he said. Rocco accepted the
rebuke in silence. Carlo said so long and walked back to the house. Something was up,
but Rocco didn't know what it was.  

   Michael stood in the window of his living room and watched Carlo strolling around the
mall. Hagen brought him a drink, strong brandy. Michael sipped at it gratefully. Behind
him, Hagen said, gently, "Mike, you have to start moving. It's time."  
   Michael sighed. "I wish it weren't so soon. I wish the old man had lasted a little
longer."  
   "Nothing will go wrong," Hagen said. "If I didn't tumble, then nobody did. You set it up
real good."  
   Michael turned away from the window. "The old man planned a lot of it. I never
realized how smart he was. But I guess you know."
   "Nobody like him," Hagen said. "But this is beautiful. This is the best. So you can't be
too bad either."
   "Let's see what happens," Michael said. "Are Tessio and Clemenza on the mall?"
   Hagen nodded. Michael finished the brandy in his glass. "Send Clemenza in to me. I'll
instruct him personally. I don't want to see Tessio at all. Just tell him I'll be ready to go
to the Barzini meeting with him in about a half hour. Clemenza's people will take care of
him after that."
   Hagen said in a noncommittal voice, "There's no way to let Tessio off the hook?"
   "No way," Michael said.  

   Upstate in the city of Buffalo, a small pizza parlor on a side street was doing a rush
trade. As the lunch hours passed, business finally slackened off and the counterman
took his round tin tray with its few leftover slices out of the window and put it on the shelf
on the huge brick oven. He peeked into the oven at a pie baking there. The cheese had
not yet started to bubble. When he turned back to the counter that enabled him to serve
people in the street, there was a young, tough-looking man standing there. The man
said, "Gimme a slice."
   The pizza counterman took his wooden shovel and scooped one of the cold slices into
the oven to warm it up. The customer, instead of waiting outside, decided to come

through the door and be served. The store was empty now. The counterman opened
the oven and took out the hot slice and served it on a paper plate. But the customer,
instead of giving the money for it, was staring at him intently.

237

   "I hear you got a great tattoo on your chest," the customer said. "I can see the top of it
over your shirt, how about letting me see the rest of it?"
   The counterman froze. He seemed to be paralyzed.
"Open your shirt," the customer said.  
   The counterman shook his head. "I got no tattoo," he said in heavily accented English.
"That's the man who works at night."
   The customer laughed. It was an unpleasant laugh, harsh, strained.  
   "Come on, unbutton your shirt, let me see."
The counterman started backing toward the rear of the store, aiming to edge around the
huge oven. But the customer raised his hand above the counter. There was a gun in it.
He fired. The bullet caught the counterman in the chest and hurled him against the oven. 
The customer
fired into his body again and the counterman slumped to the floor. The customer came
around the serving shelf, reached down and ripped the buttons off the shirt. The chest
was covered with blood, but the tattoo was visible, the intertwined lovers and the knife
transfixing them. The counterman raised one of his arms feebly as if to protect himself.
The gunman said, "Fabrizzio, Michael Corleone sends you his regards." He extended
the gun so that it was only a few inches from the counterman's skull and pulled the
trigger. Then he walked out of the store. At the curb a car was waiting for him with its
door open. He jumped in and the car sped off.
   Rocco Lampone answered the phone installed on one of the iron pillars of the gate.
He heard someone saying, "Your package is ready," and the click as the caller hung up.
Rocco got into his car and drove out of the mall. He crossed the Jones Beach
Causeway, the same causeway on which Sonny Corleone had been killed, and drove
out to the railroad station of Wantagh. He parked his car there. Another car was waiting
for him with two men in it. They drove to a motel ten minutes farther out on Sunrise
Highway and turned into its courtyard. Rocco Lampone, leaving his two men in the car,
went to one of the little chalet-type bungalows. One kick sent its door flying off its hinges
and Rocco sprang into the room.  
   Phillip Tattaglia, seventy years old and naked as a baby, stood over a bed on which
lay a young girl. Phillip Tattaglia's thick head of hair was jet black, but the plumage of
his crotch was steel gray. His body had the soft plumpness of a bird. Rocco pumped

four bullets into him, all in the belly. Then he turned and ran back to the car. The two

238

men dropped him off in the Wantagh station. He picked up his car and drove back to the
mall. He went in to see Michael Corleone for a moment and then came out and took up
his position at the gate.  

   Albert Neri, alone in his apartment, finished getting his uniform ready. Slowly he put it
on, trousers, shirt, tie and jacket, holster and gunbelt. He had turned in his gun when he
was suspended from the force, but, through some administrative oversight they had not
made him give up his shield. Clemenza had supplied him with a new .38 Police Special
that could not be traced. Neri broke it down, oiled it, checked the hammer, put it
together again, clicked the trigger. He loaded the cylinders and was set to go.
   He put the policeman's cap in a heavy paper bag and then put a civilian overcoat on
to cover his uniform. He checked his watch. Fifteen minutes before the car would be
waiting for him downstairs. He spent the fifteen minutes checking himself in the mirror.
There was no question. He looked like a real cop.
   The car was waiting with two of Rocco Lampone's men in front. Neri got into the back
seat. As the car started downtown, after they had left the neighborhood of his apartment,
he shrugged off the civilian overcoat and left it on the floor of the car. He ripped open
the paper bag and put the police officer's cap on his head.
   At 55th Street and Fifth Avenue the car pulled over to the curb and Neri got out. He
started walking down the avenue. He had a queer feeling being back in uniform,
patrolling the streets as he had done so many times. There were crowds of people. He
walked downtown until he was in front of Rockefeller Center, across the way from St.
Patrick's Cathedral. On his side of Fifth Avenue he spotted the limousine he was looking
for. It was parked, nakedly alone between a whole string of red NO PARKING and NO
STANDING signs. Neri slowed his pace. He was too early. He stopped to write
something in his summons book and then kept walking. He was abreast of the
limousine. He tapped its fender with his nightstick. The driver looked up in surprise. Neri
pointed to the NO STANDING sign with his stick and motioned the driver to move his
car. The driver turned his head away.
   Neri walked out into the street so that he was standing by the driver's open window.
The driver was a tough-looking hood, just the kind he loved to break up. Neri said with
deliberate insultingness, "OK, wise guy, you want me to stick a summons up your ass or
do you wanta get moving?"

    	   

   The driver said impassively, "You better check with your precinct. Just give me the
ticket if it'll make you feel happy." 
   "Get the hell out of here," Neri said, "or I'll drag you out of that car and break your
ass."
   The driver made a ten-dollar bill appear by some sort of magic, folded it into a little

239

square using just one hand, and tried to shove it inside Neri's blouse. Neri moved back
onto the sidewalk and crooked his finger at the driver. The driver came out of the car.
   "Let me see your license and registration," Neri said. He had been hoping to get the
driver to go around the block but there was no hope for that now. Out of the corner of
his eye, Neri saw three short, heavyset men coming down the steps of the Plaza
building, coming down toward the street. It was Barzini himself and his two bodyguards,
on their way to meet Michael Corleone. Even as he saw this, one of the bodyguards
peeled off to come ahead and see what was wrong with Barzini's car.  
   This man asked the driver, "What's up?"  
   The driver said curtly, "I'm getting a ticket, no sweat. This guy must be new in the
precinct."  
   At that moment Barzini came up with his other bodyguard. He growled, "What the hell
is wrong now?"  
   Neri finished writing in his summons book and gave the driver back his registration
and license. Then he put his summons book back in his hip pocket and with the forward
motion of his hand drew the .38 Special.  
   He put three bullets in Barzini's barrel chest before the other three men unfroze
enough to dive for cover. By that time Neri had darted into the crowd and around the
corner where the car was waiting for him. The car sped up to Ninth Avenue and turned
downtown. Near Chelsea Park, Neri, who had discarded the cap and put on the
overcoat and changed clothing, transferred to another car that was waiting for him. He
had left the gun and the police uniform in the other car. It would be gotten rid of. An hour
later he was safely in the mall on Long Beach and talking to Michael Corleone.  

   Tessio was waiting in the kitchen of the old Don's house and was sipping at a cup of
coffee when Tom Hagen came for him. "Mike is ready for you now," Hagen said. "You
better make your call to Barzini and tell him to start on his way."
   Tessio rose and went to the wall phone. He dialed Barzini's office in New York and
said curtly, "We're on our way to Brooklyn." He hung up and smiled at Hagen. "I hope
Mike can get us a good deal tonight."

240
   Hagen said gravely, "I'm sure he will." He escorted Tessio out of the kitchen and onto
the mall. They walked toward Michael's house. At the door they were stopped by one of
the bodyguards. "The boss says he'll come in a separate car. He says for you two to go
on ahead." 
   Tessio frowned and turned to Hagen. "Hell, he can't do that; that screws up all my
arrangements."
   At that moment three more bodyguards materialized around them. Hagen said gently,
"I can't go with you either, Tessio."
   The ferret-faced caporegime understood everything in a flash of a second. And
accepted it. There was a moment of physical weakness, and then he recovered. He
said to Hagen, "Tell Mike it was business, I always liked him."
   Hagen nodded. "He understands that."
   Tessio paused for a moment and then said softly, "Tom, can you get me off the hook?
For old times' sake?"
   Hagen shook his head. "I can't," he said.
   He watched Tessio being surrounded by bodyguards and led into a waiting car. He
felt a little sick. Tessio had been the best soldier in the Corleone Family; the old Don
had relied on him more than any other man with the exception of Luca Brasi. It was too
bad that so intelligent a man had made such a fatal error in judgment so late in life.

   Carlo Rizzi, still waiting for his interview with Michael, became jittery with all the
arrivals and departures. Obviously something big was going on and it looked as if he
were going to be left out. Impatiently he called Michael on the phone. One of the house
bodyguards answered, went to get Michael, and came back with the message that
Michael wanted him to sit tight, that he would get to him soon.
   Carlo called up his mistress again and told her he was sure he would be able to take
her to a late supper and spend the night. Michael had said he would call him soon,
whatever he had planned couldn't take more than an hour or two. Then it would take
him about forty minutes to drive to Westbury. It could be done. He promised her he
would do it and sweet-talked her into not being sore. When he hung up he decided to
get properly dressed so as to save time afterward. He had just slipped into a fresh shirt
when there was a knock on the door. He reasoned quickly that Mike had tried to get him
on the phone and had kept getting a busy signal so had simply sent a messenger to call
him. Carlo went to the door and opened it. He felt his whole body go weak with terrible

    	   

241
sickening fear. Standing in the doorway was Michael Corleone, his face the face of that
death Carlo Rizzi saw often in his dreams.
   Behind Michael Corleone were Hagen and Rocco Lampone. They looked grave, like
people who had come with the utmost reluctance to give a friend bad news. The three
of them entered the house and Carlo Rizzi led them into the living room. Recovered
from his first shock, he thought that he had suffered an attack of nerves. Michael's
words made him really sick, physically nauseous.
   "You have to answer for Santino," Michael said.
   Carlo didn't answer, pretended not to understand. Hagen and Lampone had split
away to opposite walls of the room. He and Michael faced each other.  
   "You fingered Sonny for the Barzini people," Michael said, his voice flat. "That little
farce you played out with my sister, did Barzini kid you that would fool a Corleone?"
   Carlo Rizzi spoke out of his terrible fear, without dignity, without any kind of pride. "I
swear I'm innocent. I swear on the head of my children I'm innocent. Mike, don't do this
to me, please, Mike, don't do this to me."
   Michael said quietly, "Barzini is dead. So is Phillip Tattaglia. I want to square all the
Family accounts tonight. So don't tell me you're innocent. It would be better for you to
admit what you did."
   Hagen and Lampone stared at Michael with astonishment. They were thinking that
Michael was not yet the man his father was. Why try to get this traitor to admit guilt?
That guilt was already proven as much as such a thing could be proven. The answer
was obvious. Michael still was not that confident of his right, still feared being unjust, still
worried about that fraction of an uncertainty that only a confession by Carlo Rizzi could
erase.
   There was still no answer. Michael said almost kindly, "Don't be so frightened. Do you
think I'd make my sister a widow? Do you think I'd make my nephews fatherless? After
all I'm Godfather to one of your kids. No, your punishment will be that you won't be
allowed any work with the Family. I'm putting you on a plane to Vegas to join your wife
and kids and then I want you to stay there. I'll send Connie an allowance. That's all. But
don't keep saying you're innocent, don't insult my intelligence and make me angry. Who
approached you, Tattaglia or Barzini?"
   Carlo Rizzi in his anguished hope for life, in the sweet flooding relief that he was not
going to be killed, murmured, "Barzini."
   "Good, good," Michael said softly. He beckoned with his right hand. "I want you to
leave now. There's a car waiting to take you to the airport."

242
   Carlo went out the door first, the other three men very close to him. It was night now,
but the mall as usual was bright with floodlights. A car pulled up. Carlo saw it was his
own car. He didn't recognize the driver. There was someone sitting in the back but on
the far side. Lampone opened the front door and motioned to Carlo to get in. Michael
said, "I'll call your wife and tell her you're on your way down." Carlo got into the car. His
silk shirt was soaked with sweat.
   The car pulled away, moving swiftly toward the gate. Carlo started to turn his head to
see if he knew the man sitting behind him. At that moment, Clemenza, as cunningly and
daintily as a little girl slipping a ribbon over the head of a kitten, threw his garrot around
Carlo Rizzi's neck. The smooth rope cut into the skin with Clemenza's powerful yanking
throttle, Carlo Rizzi's body went leaping into the air like a fish on a line, but Clemenza
held him fast, tightening the garrot until the body went slack. Suddenly there was a foul
odor in the air of the car. Carlo's body, sphincter released by approaching death, had
voided itself. Clemenza kept the garrot tight for another few minutes to make sure, then
released the rope and put it back in his pocket. He relaxed himself against the seat
cushions as Carlo's body slumped against the door. After a few moments Clemenza
rolled the window down to let out the stink.
   The victory of the Corleone Family was complete. During that same twenty-four-hour
period Clemenza and Lampone turned loose their regimes and punished the infiltrators
of the Corleone domains. Neri was sent to take command of the Tessio regime. Barzini
bookmakers were put out of business; two of the highest-ranking Barzini enforcers were
shot to death as they were peaceably picking their teeth over dinner in an Italian
restaurant on Mulberry Street. A notorious fixer of trotting races was also killed as he
returned home from a winning night at the track. Two of the biggest shylocks on the
waterfront disappeared, to be found months later in the New Jersey swamps.
   With this one savage attack, Michael Corleone made his reputation and restored the
Corleone Family to its primary place in the New York Families. He was respected not
only for his tactical brillance but because some of the most important caporegimes in
both the Barzini and Tattaglia Families immediately went over to his side.
   It would have been a perfect triumph for Michael Corleone except for an exhibition of
hysteria by his sister Connie.
   Connie had flown home with her mother, the children left in Vegas. She had
restrained her widow's grief until the limousine pulled into the mall. Then, before she
could be restrained by her mother, she ran across the cobbled street to Michael
Corleone's house. She burst through the door and found Michael and Kay in the living

room. Kay started to go to her, to comfort her and take her in her arms in a sisterly

243

embrace but stopped short when Connie started screaming at her brother, screaming
curses and reproaches. "You lousy bastard," she shrieked. "You killed my husband. You
waited until our father died and nobody could stop you and you killed him. You killed
him. You blamed him about Sonny, you always did, everybody did. But you never
thought about me. You never gave a damn about me. What am I going to do now, what
am I going to do?" She was wailing. Two of Michael's bodyguards had come up behind
her and were waiting for orders from him. But he just stood there impassively and
waited for his sister to finish.  
   Kay said in a shocked voice, "Connie, you're upset, don't say such things."  
   Connie had recovered from her hysteria. Her voice held a deadly venom. "Why do you
think he was always so cold to me? Why do you think he kept Carlo here on the mall?
All the time he knew he was going to kill my husband. But he didn't dare while my father
was alive. My father would have stopped him. He knew that. He was just waiting. And
then he stood Godfather to our child just to throw us off the track. The coldhearted
bastard. You think you know your husband? Do you know how many men he had killed
with my Carlo? Just read the papers. Barzini and Tattaglia and the others. My brother
had them killed."
   She had worked herself into hysteria again. She tried to spit in Michael's face but she
had no saliva.
   "Get her home and get her a doctor," Michael said. The two guards immediately
grabbed Connie's arms and pulled her out of the house.
   Kay was still shocked, still horrified. She said to her husband, "What made her say all
those things, Michael, what makes her believe that?"
   Michael shrugged. "She's hysterical."  
   Kay looked into his eyes. "Michael, it's not true, please say it's not true."
   Michael shook his head wearily. "Of course it's not. Just believe me, this one time I'm
letting you ask about my affairs, and I'm giving you an answer. It is not true." He had
never been more convincing. He looked directly into her eyes. He was using all the
mutual trust they had built up in their married life to make her believe him. And she
could not doubt any longer. She smiled at him ruefully and came into his arms for a kiss.
   "We both need a drink," she said. She went into the kitchen for ice and while there
heard the front door open. She went out of the kitchen and saw Clemenza, Neri and
Rocco Lampone come in with the bodyguards. Michael had his back to her, but she

    	   

244
moved so that she could see him in profile. At that moment Clemenza addressed her
husband, greeting him formally.
   "Don Michael," Clemenza said.
   Kay could see how Michael stood to receive their homage. He reminded her of
statues in Rome, statues of those Roman emperors of antiquity, who, by divine right,
held the power of life and death over their fel ow men. One hand was on his hip, the
profile of his face showed a cold proud power, his body was carelessly, arrogantly at
ease, weight resting on one foot slightly behind the other. The caporegimes stood
before him. In that moment Kay knew that everything Connie had accused Michael of
was true. She went back into the kitchen and wept.

Book 9

Chapter 32

   The bloody victory of the Corleone Family was not complete until a year of delicate
political maneuvering established Michael Corleone as the most powerful Family chief in
the United States. For twelve months, Michael divided his time equally between his
headquarters at the Long Beach mall and his new home in Las Vegas. But at the end of
that year he decided to close out the New York operation and sell the houses and the
mall property. For that purpose he brought his whole family East on a last visit. They
would stay a month, wind up business, Kay would do the personal family's packing and
shipping of household goods. There were a million other minor details.  
   Now the Corleone Family was unchallengeable, and Clemenza had his own Family.
Rocco Lampone was the Corleone caporegime. In Nevada, Albert Neri was head of all
security for the Family-controlled hotels. Hagen too, was part of Michael's Western
Family.
   Time helped heal the old wounds. Connie Corleone was reconciled to her brother
Michael. Indeed not more than a week after her terrible accusations she apologized to
Michael for what she had said and assured Kay that there had been no truth in her
words, that it had been only a young widow's hysteria.
   Connie Corleone easily found a new husband; in fact, she did not wait the year of
respect before filling her bed again with a fine young fellow who had come to work for
the Corleone Family as a male secretary. A boy from a reliable Italian family but

    	   

245
graduated from the top business college in America. Naturally his marriage to the sister
of the Don made his future assured.
   Kay Adams Corleone had delighted her in-laws by taking instruction in the Catholic
religion and joining that faith. Her two boys were also, naturally, being brought up in that
church, as was required. Michael himself had not been too pleased by this development.
He would have preferred the children to be Protestant, it was more American.
   To her surprise, Kay came to love living in Nevada. She loved the scenery, the hills
and canyons of garishly red rock, the burning deserts, the unexpected and blessedly
refreshing lakes, even the heat. Her two boys rode their own ponies. She had real
servants, not bodyguards. And Michael lived a more normal life. He owned a
construction business; he joined the businessmen's clubs and civic committees; he had
a healthy interest in local politics without interfering publicly. It was a good life. Kay was
happy that they were closing down their New York house and that Las Vegas would be
truly their permanent home. She hated coming back to New York. And so on this last
trip she had arranged all the packing and shipping of goods with the utmost efficiency
and speed, and now on the final day she felt that same urgency to leave that longtime
patients feel when it is time to be discharged from the hospital.  
   On that final day, Kay Adams Corleone woke at dawn. She could hear the roar of the
truck motors outside on the mall. The trucks that would empty all the houses of furniture. 
The Corleone Family would be flying back to Las Vegas in the afternoon, including
Mama Corleone.
   When Kay came out of the bathroom, Michael was propped up on his pillow smoking
a cigarette. "Why the hell do you have to go to church every morning?" he said. "I don't
mind Sundays, but why the hell during the week? You're as bad as my mother." He
reached over in the darkness and switched on the tablelight.
   Kay sat at the edge of the bed to pull on her stockings. "You know how converted
Catholics are," she said. "They take it more seriously."
   Michael reached over to touch her thigh, on the warm skin where the top of her nylon
hose ended. "Don't," she said. "I'm taking Communion this morning."
   He didn't try to hold her when she got up from the bed. He said, smiling slightly, "If
you're such a strict Catholic, how come you let the kids duck going to church so much?"
   She felt uncomfortable and she was wary. He was studying her with what she thought
of privately as his "Don's" eye. "They have plenty of time," she said. "When we get back
home, I'll make them attend more."

    	   

   She kissed him good-bye before she left. Outside the house the air was already

246

getting warm. The summer sun rising in the east was red. Kay walked to where her car
was parked near the gates of the mall. Mama Corleone, dressed in her widow black,
was already sitting in it, waiting for her. It had become a set routine, early Mass, every
morning, together.  
   Kay kissed the old woman's wrinkled cheek, then got behind the wheel.  
   Mama Corleone asked suspiciously, "You eata breakfast?"
   "No," Kay said.
   The old woman nodded her head approvingly. Kay had once forgotten that it was
forbidden to take food from midnight on before receiving Holy Communion. That had
been a long time ago, but Mama Corleone never trusted her after that and always
checked. "You feel all right?" the old woman asked.
   "Yes," Kay said.
   The church was small and desolate in the early morning sunlight. Its stained-glass
windows shielded the interior from heat, it would be cool there, a place to rest. Kay
helped her mother-in-law up the white stone steps and then let her go before her. The
old woman preferred a pew up front, close to the altar. Kay waited on the steps for an
extra minute. She was always reluctant at this last moment, always a little fearful.  
   Finally she entered the cool darkness. She took the holy water on her fingertips and
made the sign of the cross, fleetingly touched her wet fingertips to her parched lips.
Candles flickered redly before the saints, the Christ on his cross. Kay genuflected
before entering her row and then knelt on the hard wooden rail of the pew to wait for her
call to Communion. She bowed her head as if she were praying, but she was not quite
ready for that.

   It was only here in these dim, vaulted churches that she allowed herself to think about
her husband's other life. About that terrible night a year ago when he had deliberately
used all their trust and love in each other to make her believe his lie that he had not
killed his sister's husband.
   She had left him because of that lie, not because of the deed. The next morning she
had taken the children away with her to her parents' house in New Hampshire. Without
a word to anyone, without really knowing what action she meant to take. Michael had
immediately understood. He had called her the first day and then left her alone. It was a
week before the limousine from New York pulled up in front of her house with Tom
Hagen.

247
   She had spent a long terrible afternoon with Tom Hagen, the most terrible afternoon
of her life. They had gone for a walk in the woods outside her little town and Hagen had
not been gentle.
   Kay had made the mistake of trying to be cruelly flippant, a role to which she was not
suited. "Did Mike send you up here to threaten me?" she asked. "I expected to see
some of the 'boys' get out of the car with their machine guns to make me go back."
   For the first time since she had known him, she saw Hagen angry. He said harshly,
"That's the worst kind of juvenile crap I've ever heard. I never expected that from a
woman like you. Come on, Kay."
"All right," she said.  
   They walked along the green country road. Hagen asked quietly, "Why did you run
away?"
   Kay said, "Because Michael lied to me. Because he made a fool of me when he stood
Godfather to Connie's boy. He betrayed me. I can't love a man like that. I can't live with
it. I can't let him be father to my children."  
   "I don't know what you're talking about," Hagen said. 
   She turned on him with now-justified rage. "I mean that he killed his sister's husband.
Do you understand that?" She paused for a moment. "And he lied to me."
   They walked on for a long time in silence. Finally Hagen said, "You have no way of
really knowing that's all true. But just for the sake of argument let's assume that it's true.
I'm not saying it is, remember. But what if I gave you what might be some justification
for what he did. Or rather some possible justifications?" 
   Kay looked at him scornfully. "That's the first time I've seen the lawyer side of you,
Tom. It's not your best side."
   Hagen grinned. "OK. Just hear me out. What if Carlo had put Sonny on the spot,
fingered him. What if Carlo beating up Connie that time was a deliberate plot to get
Sonny out in the open, that they knew he would take the route over the Jones Beach
Causeway? What if Carlo had been paid to help get Sonny killed? Then what?"
   Kay didn't answer. Hagen went on. "And what if the Don, a great man, couldn't bring
himself to do what he had to do, avenge his son's death by killing his daughter's
husband? What if that, finally, was too much for him, and he made Michael his 
successor, knowing that Michael would take that load off his shoulders, would take that
guilt?"
   "It was all over with," Kay said, tears springing into her eyes. "Everybody was happy.
Why couldn't Carlo be forgiven? Why couldn't everything go on and everybody forget?"

248
   She had led across a meadow to a tree-shaded brook. Hagen sank down on the grass
and sighed. He looked around, sighed again and said, "In this world you could do it."  
   Kay said, "He's not the man I married."  
   Hagen laughed shortly. "If he were, he'd be dead now. You'd be a widow now. You'd
have no problem."  
   Kay blazed out at him. "What the hell does that mean? Come on, Tom, speak out
straight once in your life. I know Michael can't, but you're not Sicilian, you can tell a
woman the truth, you can treat her like an equal, a fellow human being."
   There was another long silence. Hagen shook his head. "You've got Mike wrong.
You're mad because he lied to you. Well, he warned you never to ask him about
business. You're mad because he was Godfather to Carlo's boy. But you made him do
that. Actually it was the right move for him to make if he was going to take action
against Carlo. The classical tactical move to win the victim's trust." Hagen gave her a
grim smile. "Is that straight enough talk for you?" But Kay bowed her head.  
   Hagen went on. "I'll give you some more straight talk. After the Don died, Mike was
set up to be killed. Do you know who set him up? Tessio. So Tessio had to be killed.
Carlo had to be killed. Because treachery can't be forgiven. Michael could have forgiven
it, but people never forgive themselves and so they would always be dangerous.
Michael really liked Tessio. He loves his sister. But he would be shirking his duty to you
and his children, to his whole family, to me and my family, if he let Tessio and Carlo go
free. They would have been a danger to us all, all our lives."
   Kay had been listening to this with tears running down her face. "Is that what Michael
sent you up here to tell me?"
   Hagen looked at her in genuine surprise. "No," he said.
   "He told me to tell you you could have everything you want and do everything you
want as long as you take good care of the kids." Hagen smiled. "He said to tell you that
you're his Don. That's just a joke."
   Kay put her hand on Hagen's arm. "He didn't order you to tell me all the other things?"
   Hagen hesitated a moment as if debating whether to tell her a final truth. "You still
don't understand," he said. "If you told Michael what I've told you today, I'm a dead
man." He paused again. "You and the children are the only people on this earth he
couldn't harm."
   It was a long five minutes after that Kay rose from the grass and they started walking
back to the house. When they were almost there, Kay said to Hagen, "After supper, can
you drive me and the kids to New York in your car?"

   "That's what I came for," Hagen said.  

249

   A week after she returned to Michael she went to a priest for instruction to become a
Catholic.

   From the innermost recess of the church the bell tolled for repentance. As she had
been taught to do, Kay struck her breast lightly with her clenched hand, the stroke of
repentance. The bell tolled again and there was the shuffling of feet as the
communicants left their seats to go to the altar rail. Kay rose to join them. She knelt at
the altar and from the depths of the church the bell tolled again. With her closed hand
she struck her heart once more. The priest was before her. She tilted back her head
and opened her mouth to receive the papery thin wafer. This was the most terrible
moment of all. Until it melted away and she could swallow and she could do what she
came to do.
   Washed clean of sin, a favored supplicant, she bowed her head and folded her hands
over the altar rail. She shifted her body to make her weight less punishing to her knees.
   She emptied her mind of all thought of herself, of her children, of all anger, of all
rebellion, of all questions. Then with a profound and deeply willed desire to believe, to
be heard, as she had done every day since the murder of Carlo Rizzi, she said the
necessary prayers for the soul of Michael Corleone.

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