The Godfather 9 страница

"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."

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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

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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

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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.

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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.

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

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.

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.

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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

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