The Godfather

Darkness had fallen and the December wind whipped through the mall. Sonny had no fear about stepping out into the night. All eight houses were owned by Don Corleone. At the mouth of the mall the two houses on either side were rented by family retainers with their own families and star boarders, single men who lived in the basement apartments. Of the remaining six houses that formed the rest of the half circle; one was inhabited by Tom Hagen and his family, his own, and the smallest and least ostentatious by the Don himself. The other three houses were given rent-free to retired friends of the Don with the understanding that they would be vacated whenever he requested. The harmless-looking mall was an impregnable fortress.

All eight houses were equipped with floodlights which bathed the grounds around them and made the mall impossible to lurk in. Sonny went across the street to his father’s house and let himself inside with his own key. He yelled out, “Ma, where are you?” and his mother came out of the kitchen. Behind her rose the smell of frying peppers. Before she could say anything, Sonny took her by the arm and made her sit down. “I just got a call,” he said. “Now don’t get worried. Pop’s in the hospital, he’s hurt. Get dressed and get ready to get down there. I’ll have a car and a driver for you in a little while. OK?”

His mother looked at him steadily for a moment and then asked in Italian, “Have they shot him?”

Sonny nodded. His mother bowed her head for a moment. Then she went back into the kitchen. Sonny followed her. He watched her turn off the gas under the panful of peppers and then go out and up to the bedroom. He took peppers from the pan and bread from the basket on the table and made a sloppy sandwich with hot olive oil dripping from his fingers. He went into the huge corner room that was his father’s office and took the special phone from a locked cabinet box. The phone had been especially installed and was listed under a phony name and a phony address. The first person he called was Luca Brasi. There was no answer. Then he called the safety-valve caporegime in Brooklyn, a man of unquestioned loyalty to the Don. This man’s name was Tessio. Sonny told him what had happened and what he wanted. Tessio was to recruit fifty absolutely reliable men. He was to send guards to the hospital, he was to send men out to Long Beach to work here. Tessio asked, “Did they get Clemenza too?” Sonny said, “I don’t want to use Clemenza’s people right now.” Tessio understood immediately, there was a pause, and then he said, “Excuse me, Sonny, I say this as your father would say it. Don’t move too fast. I can’t believe Clemenza would betray us.”

“Thanks,” Sonny said. “I don’t think so but I have to be careful. Right?”

“Right,” Tessio said.

“Another thing,” Sonny said. “My kid brother Mike goes to college in Hanover, New Hampshire. Get some people we know in Boston to go up and get him and bring him down here to the house until this blows over. I’ll call him up so he’ll expect them. Again I’m just playing the percentages, just to make sure.”

“OK,” Tessio said, “I’ll be over your father’s house as soon as I get things rolling. OK? You know my boys, right?”

“Yeah,” Sonny said. He hung up. He went over to a small wall safe and unlocked it. From it he took an indexed book bound in blue leather. He opened it to the T’s until he found the entry he was looking for. It read, “Ray Farrell $5,000 Christmas Eve.” This was followed by a telephone number. Sonny dialed the number and said, “Farrell?” The man on the other end answered, “Yes.” Sonny said, “This is Santino Corleone. I want you to do me a favor and I want you to do it right away. I want you to check two phone numbers and give me all the calls they got and all the calls they made for the last three months.” He gave Farrell the number of Paulie Gatto’s home and Clemenza’s home. Then he said, “This is important. Get it to me before midnight and you’ll have an extra very Merry Christmas.”