The Godfather 26 страница

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

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."

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."

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

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.

"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.

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

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.

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."

"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.

"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.