Английский язык с Крестным Отцом - Илья Франк

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

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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.

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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."

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"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.

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"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

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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

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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