Archive of Our Own

So turned out that old Vito had had a goomar, an orientale woman no less. The Don had met her before the Great War when he’d been trying to sell extra virgin olive oil to the mom-and-pop eateries between Fifth and Sixth Ave in Koreatown. (Clemenza himself had nothing against a nice bowl of tteokbokki, looked like pasta, tasted nothing like it; sprinkle summathat scallion on top, now there was a meal.) Not only that, but they’d had a son (baptized, at least, sia lodato Gesù Cristo). And, what was more, the Don wanted him brought inside. Brought inside for what, exactly, he wouldn’t say: the Don was so tight-lipped it was amazing a cigar could even get in there. And Clemenza was to mentor the boy. Hudson, his name was. “Like the river?” Tessio had asked, bewildered; Clemenza had shrugged. Who the fuck knew. Good river, the Hudson. Had kept many of Clemenza’s bodies hidden over the years. 

Santa Maria, Madre di Dio, but there was nothing for it. The signora could grouse all she wanted that it was a Sunday. Clemenza would rather be at the movies with his beautiful wife, too. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, sat his ass behind the wheel of his 1941 Packard, and drove up to Long Beach to meet Hudson Corleone.

The Corleone house was glowing under the high summer sun when Clemenza pulled into the driveway. Signora Carmela opened the door to greet him. Only a week ago, she had been throwing recrimination after recrimination at her husband, begging him to see the disrespect all of this was to her, to the family, to the old country. Now, she ushered Clemenza inside with a smacking kiss to each cheek. “Cannoli, ah? From Monteleone’s! You always know what to bring!” and “Have you met Hudson? He’s been staying with us. Came with me and the girls to Mass. Nice boy, devout.” Faint shouts of laughter could be heard from down the hall. Clemenza, eyebrows raised, followed her into the dining room. 

Hudson Corleone, first-born bastard son of Vito Corleone, suit jacket unbuttoned, was holding court at one end of the long narrow table. Cream linen, thought Clemenza. Beautiful. To say nothing to say of the man himself. Un bell'uomo, this Hudson Corleone was beautiful. More beautiful than the suit, maybe more beautiful than Michael. You could see the Sicilian in his cheekbones. Strong, masculine. Vito’s son, nobody could deny, never. His hair was healthy, good volume; he kept it long and slicked back. To Hudson’s left were seated Michael and Connie; to his right, Fredo, and Michael’s tall twitchy white lady, Clemenza always forgot her name, sounded like a letter or something; and in his lap, the wriggling Santino Junior. Everyone had their animated gaze on Hudson. They were jumping in on each other’s sentences, vying for his attention. Connie gave Michael a sisterly shove; she patted fondly at Hudson’s cheek. Hudson smiled. He said something low to Fredo; Fredo laughed and gulped at the same time, like he was frightened by how funny he’d found it. Then Sandra emerged from the kitchen and Michael clapped a hand on Hudson’s shoulder and rose; nice Ivy League boy that he was, he helped Sandra set up lunch. 

Clemenza went over to where Tom, Tessio, and the Don were standing by the coffee percolator. Nods all around, and then another low nod from the Don, which meant Clemenza was to see him in the study afterwards. “Where’s Sonny?”

“Drinking,” Tom said. So sulking, then.

“Go,” rasped the Don, with an impatient jerk of the chin. “Go, introduce yourself.” 

Clemenza went to Hudson just as Carmela came out with a steaming pot of marinara, telling everyone to take their seats, and where in heaven’s name was Santino Senior, could Sandra find her husband and drag him here? Sandra’s face got sour at that. She was clearly thinking, you think it’s so easy, why don’t you do it?

He waited for her to pick Santino Junior off Hudson’s lap, then leaned down. Hudson turned up to face him. Took his hand, pressed it between both of his. “Clemenza, the man I’ve been looking for,” he said in perfect dialect, looking deep into Clemenza’s eyes. “I want to learn from you.” Madre di Dio. Clemenza went to his seat blushing. 

Just as everyone was starting to shift in their seats, Sandra came in, Sonny following close behind, twinned looks of fury on their faces. About fucking time. Clemenza gestured for the meatballs. 

Sonny waited until after the second round of servings to get dramatic, which was unusually well-timed of him. Tom was saying something sweet, something about how when the Don took him in off the street, he bought Tom his first ever new shirt. The Don had always said you could never control what people thought of you, but you could control what they saw you wear. For Tom, it was the first shirt he’d ever liked; you didn’t know, when you were a boy, that you were allowed to like your shirts. Hudson smiled and then turned to the Don. “So where’s my shirt?” Anyone else, too familiar: Clemenza would’ve winced. But the Don’s eyes were bright. He made an exaggerated have-patience gesture with his hand. Laughter. Hudson said, “Guess I gotta spill something on this one.” More laughter. Sonny scraped his chair back and flung his napkin to the floor. He was like an M1 Carbine that way. Just needed the lightest touch on the trigger. 

“No problem,” Sonny said, breathing heavily. “I’ll do the honours.”

“Sonny,” said the Don, forbidding.     

The women cleared off the table pretty quick. Michael’s white lady was sitting next to Clemenza; her mouth had fallen open. Clemenza nudged her. She got the message and trotted up to the wall. He and Tessio looked to the Don; but the Don shook his head. Hold.

From across the table, Hudson dabbed his mouth with his napkin and stood. Pushed his chair to the side. “You’ll fight?” He sounded curious. “At Sunday lunch, in front of the family?”

Sonny actually clutched his hair. Clemenza had seen one other grown man do that recently, but in the context of having to pick which, between the gardening shears and the bone saw, would be taking off his pinky finger; so, a bit different. “It’s not your fucking family!” 

Connie cut in, vicious. “What are you going to say next? That Tom isn’t family neither?” Tom closed his eyes briefly, like he would rather not have been named.

“We’ve known Tom since we were kids! This fucking Jap—” Hudson smiled at that, quick and dangerous, “—showed up one week ago! Come on! Fredo?” 

Fredo stammered. “I—I—”

Sonny gave up. He rounded on Michael, fingers of both hands pinched, and flashed him a desperate smile. “Mikey. You really gonna sit there, tell me you’re okay with this?” 

Michael looked at him for a long beat. He said, quietly, “It’s Pop’s decision.”

Sonny looked at the Don, who looked impassively back at him. Still no signal from the Don; Tessio’s thick eyebrows did a little jump. Hold, hold. Sonny looked back at Hudson. “Well, Pop,” he said, baring his teeth, “Forgive me, but I gotta question your judgement.” He lunged across the table.  

Clemenza had been looking for it. Even so, he nearly missed it, it happened so quick. Hudson got one foot on the chair, pushed off and leaped gracefully onto the table, blocking Sonny’s wild swing. The flatware shook; sauce sloshed over the side of the pot. Carmela let out a little scream. Clemenza would’ve, too, if he’d been simmering it for three hours. Hudson’s arm went around Sonny’s neck. Sonny went backwards; they tumbled to the ground. 

Sonny was thrashing now, red in the face, but Hudson had him good and pinned to the floor; one arm was doing the chokehold, the other hand locking Sonny’s wrist behind his back. Clemenza craned his neck, discreetly, to better observe the move. He had to go to the underground fighting dens every now and then, collect the gambling kick-up. There’d been a fighter from Hawaii one time who’d done something like the sequence Clemenza had just seen. Block, attack, takedown. Fluid, reactive; more options than American boxing. Real nice stuff. 

Must be odd for Sonny. All his life, he’d had brothers who were younger and smaller and weaker. Here was Hudson, swinging on him with those extra three inches. A single strand of hair had loosened from the pomade; it fell to Hudson’s forehead, and trembled, as he tried to contain Sonny. 

Then abruptly Sonny stopped thrashing and went all relaxed. 

After a moment, Hudson relaxed too. He got up and offered Sonny his hand. Sonny took it. His shoulders were down. His face, despite the recent near-asphyxiation, looked peaceful. Made sense. Sonny operated on animal kingdom rules. He’d just been beaten; that’s all he’d ever needed to know. If Hudson could beat him. Clemenza looked around the room. Some shock, some confusion. But the Don looked unsurprised; so did Michael.

“My mother was from Korea,” said Hudson, into the silence. “Not Japan. But I understand. Three whiskeys in, you get sloppy with the details.” He clapped a hand, hard, onto Sonny’s shoulder. Sonny swayed. “Let’s be brothers,” Hudson said, smiling. There was a finality to his voice. 

Sonny kept swaying, like Hudson’s clap was still reverberating through him. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.” He took Hudson’s face, kissed him on either cheek; Hudson kissed him too. Slowly, the noise started back up. People telling Sonny how stupid and emotional he was, telling him to lay off the drink before lunch, shaking the new brothers by their shoulders. Carmela boxed Sonny’s ears and tearfully announced the cannoli. 

The Don retreated; Clemenza followed him into the study. 

“Kid’s a killer,” Clemenza said eventually. The Don was sitting in his chair and considering the panelled walls in brooding silence. “He’s gonna make his bones, easy. Want me to pick someone for him to clip?”

The Don shook his head. “He’s made his bones already. You understand?” Clemenza started at that, then recovered. Who, and when? On whose orders? Exactly how long had the Don been in contact with his bastard son? “No, I need something else. From you, from Tom. I need you to give Hudson the training you tried to give Sonny. Introduce him to the caporegimes. Take him to every meeting, every pick-up point. Open every book. Show him everything.” The Don finally turned to face Clemenza. Looked him dead-on. “I want him to know the business like I do.” It was as tender an admission of love as old Vito was capable of. 

Clemenza nodded, slowly. So he’d miscalculated. Hudson wasn’t being brought inside to be a soldier, or even a made man. The Don had chosen a successor.  

It was nearing midnight. They were in the cluttered basement of a hide-out. A single bulb shone white above Hudson’s head. He moved aside an old paint can with the back of his hand, cigarette pinched between his fingers, and studied the picture of Saint Gennaro that Clemenza had put up on the wall years ago. 

Clemenza was currently wrapping tape around the handle of a Colt. He was pretty annoyed. “What were you doing out on the streets anyhow, not carrying a piece?” 

Earlier that day one of Stracci’s soldiers, some recently promoted excitable idiot, had tried to whack Hudson right at the territory edge on East 108th Street. Hudson had apparently stomped on that guy’s dick till it was polenta and then fired a shot from the guy’s own gun into the sky before taking off, all polite-like. So Stracci’s guy got a nice lift to the 9th Precinct, moaning and groaning in the backseat about all the babies he was never gonna have no more, according to the patrolman on their payroll. The minute he got out on bail Stracci was going to have him garrotted; in the meantime, Stracci had sent over a fruit arrangement to the Corleone house by way of apology. Clemenza couldn’t understand the youth sometimes. What was this craze around ‘taking initiative’? How about taking some fucking orders? How about keeping your head down?

Hudson took a drag of his cigarette. He looked from Saint Gennaro in his pointy mitre, to the adjoining wall, where Hedy Lamarr was leaning on one elbow and staring soulfully into the middle distance. “You think these two ever talk to each other?” 

“Enough with the jokes, kid.” Clemenza peered down the barrel: rifling looked good, no pitting. He fitted the gun with a silencer and handed it to Hudson butt-first. “You always carry a piece.” 

“Mm.” Hudson looked down interestedly at the Colt. The cigarette moved smoothly from one side of his mouth to the other. “I don’t carry. More of a hand-to-hand guy.”

Clemenza gave him a look. 

“I like having the control. You never know, with a gun.”

“You’ll always know, with the guns I give you. And maybe it’s time to broaden your fuckin’ horizons. You’re in the game now. Everyone and their zietta are gonna try to see if you can be whacked. It’s not personal. To them you’re a low-value, safe target if it comes to a tit-for-tat.” 

“Oh, I’m safe, huh.” Hudson adjusted his watch (gold bezel, burgundy leather strap; the Don had handed him the Rolex box and said drily, “There’s your shirt”) so it sat further down his wrist, put his cigarette out, and finally took the Colt. He aimed into the corner of the basement. No hesitation, good grip, clean pull. The gun fired with a nice soft pop. He looked about as safe as a heart-attack. 

“They don’t know you, kid. They don’t know what’s coming.”

Hudson turned to him, expression softening. “You think it’ll come to another war? Now with Tattaglia moving in on drugs?”

Clemenza shrugged. “We’re about due. These things happen every five, five to ten years. It’s good, it’s like spring-cleaning.”

Hudson considered this. Then: “Pop promised you your own family, yeah?”

Clemenza looked sharply at him. He nodded.

“When?”

“Four, maybe five years, your father says.” Then he took the gun back and started checking the screw heads, so he’d have something to do with his hands. “When the business is secure.”

Hudson changed the subject. Kid had some tact, at least. “And the last big bloody war between the Five Families. How long did that last?”

“One year, just about. It was nineteen-thirty-one...no, thirty. See? We’re past due.”

“How crazy did it get?” 

Clemenza looked up at the Celotex ceiling tiles, dotted and ugly. He thought back to that time. Buying mattresses, stirring spaghetti for fifteen guys. Everyone holed up in one room, laughing and crying to old Venetian songs.  

He started to smile.  

Hudson laughed; he shook Clemenza by the shoulder. “You beautiful fat fuck! You miss it, don’t you! God, I want a war so bad.” He did a couple of high-knee steps and a full-body wriggle, letting out excess energy. “Okay, okay. Pass me a cigarette, will you? And tell me again about the Tattaglias. How’d they get into prostitution?”

The bartender passed over a glass of whiskey. Magnotta took it and pressed it to his forehead. Magnotta, like Clemenza, was a made man, a capo, only he worked for the Cuneo family. One day they’d probably have to kill each other; but until then, he and Clemenza tried to meet up once a week. Talk about the wives, the kids. Talk about how Palermo F.C. was doing in the Serie A standings (sinking faster than a hit submarine since their promotion from Serie B). Talk a bit of shop, too, nothing indiscreet. 

“I got nothing on Hudson Corleone,” he whined to Clemenza. “I can’t find no soldiers to do the job, not after what happened to Stracci’s man. Tails? Forget about it! His tails keep calling in sick like they’re working in the mines. I’m facing a, a, whatsit-called—” and here he tried pronouncing a two-dollar phrase, only problem was, he had a fifty-cent mouth. 

Clemenza strained his ear. “Derierre and doody?” 

“Dereliction of duty! No one wants to try the guy. Half of them are afraid he’ll break their dicks. The other half actually like him. Always has a nice word to say, that kid.” 

“He’s a nice kid.” 

Magnotta looked despondent. He took a sip of his whiskey. “They all wanna dress like him too.” 

“He snagged old Franco Giuseppe, the tailor up in Long Island. Frank ain’t taking no more clients now.”  

“Giuseppe, ah?” Magnotta raised his glass to his forehead again; this time, his index finger did a little wiggle near the crown. “How does he do that—”

“Pomade,” and Magnotta groaned as Clemenza continued, “but he won’t say which one.”

By fall, Hudson had settled nicely into the business, confident enough now that he’d begun arranging meetings. He wanted the Don to meet an old friend of his from back in the day, when he’d been slumming it in on the West Coast, a Welles-type director-actor who was facing censorship problems with the Production Code Administration; only he hadn’t mentioned his old friend was Connor Storrie. Wait till the signora heard about this, thought Clemenza, slightly awed. 

Even the Don seemed starstruck. He observed stiffly from behind his desk, “Brief Encounter was a fine picture. You did a fine job.”

Mr. Storrie smiled broadly. He was seated on the sofa next to Tom in a deep-blue three-piece suit and green wool tie with grey stripes. Clemenza had seen a lot of Hollywood finocchios pass through the Don’s study over the years. None quite so beautiful. That mole really was the cherry on the torta; Clemenza wondered if he drew it on. 

“Thank you, though really, a script like that does half the work for you.” He reached into his breast-pocket, and Hudson came forward with a lighter before he’d even finished pulling out the cigarette. Mr. Storrie looked up at him with bright eyes. 

“I know Joe Breen,” said the Don. “There may be room, there, for a conversation. But I have interests in Hollywood, you have to understand, and Joe Breen is a powerful man.”

“And they do have you,” said Tom, not unkindly. “By the letter of the Code, anyway.” 

The Don inclined his head. “The Code is a necessary evil. I’m no Breen, but I am a devout Catholic. It comforts me that there’s someone putting a blasphemer like Fellini in check.”

“Fellini does run wild,” Mr. Storrie cheerfully agreed. 

Soon he came forward and kissed the Don’s ring, told him he’d be in town for the next few days for a fundraiser, either which way they decided. He also reminded the Don there was a profit participation opportunity as executive producer on his next feature. Sidney Poitier was apparently attached to star. 

Hudson held open the door of the study, lingered there. “Clemenza will have someone see that you get to the city safe.”

“Thanks,” said Mr. Storrie, stepping out. “I’m at the Ansonia, by the way,” and Hudson went up on his toes and down again, and said, “Watch out, there’s too many musicians staying there. The cellists get rowdy after 9pm.” 

Mr. Storrie gave him a small smile. 

“My wife loves your movies,” said Clemenza. He gestured for Mr. Storrie to follow him. Mr. Storrie took a moment to turn away; then he followed behind Clemenza. 

“Does she? What a darling. Do you think she’d like an autograph?” 

Sollozzo smiled so wide his cigar sat up in his mouth like a boner. He shook the Don’s hand. “They told me you were a wise man. I gotta say, I’m not disappointed. You’re making a very wise choice, Don Corleone.” 

“Tattaglia’s panicking,” said Hudson afterwards, in a sing-songy voice. Sonny snickered. They were all lounging in the Don’s study after a ruse well executed. Cigar smoke gave the room a soft haze. “He’d never’ve thought you’d go for it.” 

“He knows me well,” said the Don. But Philip Tattaglia didn’t know Hudson Corleone. 

“So, now you’re freely sharing your politicians and judges with Sollozzo,” said Tom, pacing. He was still skeptical of Hudson’s strategy. “Which means Tattaglia has no cause to rake you in front of the family heads. Which means Barzini has no cause to broker a compromise and weaken our territory.”

“Could be Stracci. We figure Barzini, though.” Hudson tilted his head up, blew out a puff of smoke. “Power-hungry fuck that he is.”  

“But we’ll know for sure when—” Sonny cut himself off, and looked at Clemenza. 

Ah. “Should I—?” 

“Yeah,” said Hudson, apologetically. “But before you leave.” He went around the Don’s desk, opened a drawer, and withdrew a folder. He passed it to Clemenza.

Clemenza rifled through, feeling a bit mulish at the sheer volume of papers inside. Xeroxes of ledgers, audits, and bank transactions. He caught Congressman Stimson’s name in there: that was a shame. Nice guy. One of the few who didn’t think of the Mob as a bunch of dirty dagoes. Still, the play had to be made. Nothing personal.  

“You know what to do?” 

Whatever happened to whacking a guy? Simple, straightforward. “Sure. But I ain’t done cat burglary in years.” 

Hudson shrugged. Smiled. “Maybe it's time to broaden your fuckin’ horizons.” 

Clemenza could admit, afterwards, that it was beautiful to watch go down, almost as beautiful as Rockefeller Center this time of year. The indignity of wearing a ski-mask had been worth it. Snow fell gently over the city as a small army of Washington suits disembarked at Grand Central and made their way to One Police Plaza, where Virgil Sollozzo and Philip Tattaglia were being held by the NYPD for questioning. 

They’d had to cut loose a few on their own payroll for this stunt. Collateral damage. The rest of the congressmen and justices reached out to Hudson like little children, all spooked: daddy, daddy, the thunder is so loud! They were duly met with reassurances. Within the Mob, internal consensus was that Tattaglia had been sloppy. Two words: paper shredder.

Tattaglia had probably hired a crack-team of dirty lawyers and mouthpieces, but the evidence was overwhelming. He was as good as burned, now. So, quietly, steadily, the Corleone family moved in on prostitution, and they moved in on drugs. Barzini had to be fuming: but who could he tell, without revealing himself?    

They threw a Christmas party at the Corleone house. Michael came down from New Hampshire with his lady and little Anthony. Everyone stamped their feet and clapped their hands as Carmela sang. Clemenza whirled Connie around the room. Tessio grabbed Hudson’s face and kissed him on both cheeks: “I ain’t never seen brains like yours,” he declared, his thick eyebrows quivering with emotion. Hudson batted his face away, laughing, and the two of them rolled up their sleeves and did the tarantella so energetically it left them gasping and pink-faced.

When the panettone was brought out and everyone raised their glasses, the Don made a toast. He stood, and with one hand on Hudson’s shoulder, announced that he was stepping back from the family business. He wanted to get in some good years with the grandkids while he still had the legs. 

Hudson listened, covering the Don’s hand with his. 

When the Don was done, Carmela spread her arms. “Praise be to God, that my husband has come to his senses.” Laughter. The Don went to his wife and kissed her. 

Clemenza had a sip of his whiskey, looked around the room. Everyone seemed happy. All of Michael’s New England WASP fantasies had come to pass. Connie would have an extremely indulgent brother in the new Don. Fredo and Sonny were finally unburdened by their father’s expectations, they were free now to just love their old Pop. 

Once Tattaglia’s territory was theirs, Stracci and Cuneo would roll over next. Barzini’s time was coming. Clemenza started giggling to himself. Gesù Cristo. At this rate, Hudson was going to be capo dei capi by New Year’s.

At some point in the night Tom shouted for the good Scotch in the Don’s study. The men volunteered Clemenza to go fetch it. He lumbered up the stairs and down the hall, pleasantly drunk, and then realized the study door was already ajar; lamp-light cast a long strip of yellow across the floorboards. He recognized Hudson’s voice. 

Clemenza crept up to the crack, curious. Hudson had left saying he needed to piss.

He was on the telephone with someone. 

“...yeah, it’s midnight here…I’m a liar? Connie, baby, I love you, but you have no sense of time zones….”

Clemenza’s brain paddled around for a bit trying to work that one out. Connie was downstairs, wasn’t she? He probably hadn’t heard that right. 

“....I know, I’m an awful scoundrel, taking away all your beauty sleep…yeah, yeah…I need beauty sleep too, just so you know. How do you think this operation runs, if not on my charisma…oh, yeah?” A shifting, creaking sound; Hudson had just sat down in Vito’s chair. “Tell me.” His voice had gone low, serious. A long silence. “I don’t know how I’m not supposed to look at you, when we’re in the same room. I don’t know.” Another silence, shorter this time, then a surprised laugh. “What I’d do, if I were your leading man? Easy. I’d kill anyone who’d ever hurt you, then I’d ravish you senseless…that’s exactly right, it’s a two-step plan…”

Clemenza backed off, smiling, and headed down the stairs again. It was good, for Hudson to have a woman. It was important. He’d been taking out all his stress lately on the heavy bag they’d gotten hung from the ceiling of the basement, but for Clemenza’s money, good pussy was more effective and never had to be replaced.  

Don Hudson Corleone was looking out of the window when Clemenza stepped into his study a few weeks later. He turned around, managed a small smile. Stubbed his cigarette into the ash tray, Vito’s signet ring glinting on his pinky finger. Usually Clemenza got a “Clemenzaaaa!” and a hug. He’d been thinking he could get used to that kind of treatment from his Don. But today wasn’t going to be like that.  

The Don looked dishevelled: his shirtsleeves were rolled up, his waistcoat was unbuttoned, and you could see the pit stains through the arm-holes. 

“Barzini sent a message through Tessio,” he said. “He wants to meet. Talk about how to divide Tattaglia’s interests between the remaining families.” 

Fat chance. “You gonna meet him?”

The Don shook his head. He then repeated, slowly, meaningfully, “Barzini sent the message through Tessio.”

Clemenza stared. 

Cazzo! So that’s what they’d been waiting for, old Vito and the Don and the rest of them. To see if the traitor would be Clemenza, or Tessio. 

That fucking fool, Salvatore Tessio. The Don would’ve let him start his own family. Didn’t he know better?  

The Don had been searching Clemenza’s face: he nodded, like Clemenza had said all that aloud. “I told him to meet me. He’ll be coming by any minute.” 

“I’ll take care of it,” said Clemenza heavily. 

“Let him choose,” the Don said. He sounded distant. “I never had so much fun, dancing the tarantella with someone.” Then he turned away again to face the window. It was the one that overlooked the driveway.

Clemenza picked up Gustavo and Fermo from the perimeter, where they were on their look-out shift, and went to wait by the front door. Tessio rolled in. He got out of his car and walked up the driveway, smiling, gravel crunching underfoot. 

“Look at us! Bright and early, ah?” He tried to get through the front door. Clemenza didn’t budge. Gustavo and Fermo closed in on either side of Tessio, and stood there. 

Tessio frowned; then his face cleared. He nodded to himself, then looked at Clemenza with a sheepish smile. Oh, Sal. 

“It wasn’t personal, if you believe it.”

“I believe it,” said Clemenza, sincerely. 

Tessio considered the impressive breadth and muscle of Gustavo’s and Fermo’s shoulders. He chewed the inside of his cheek. “Could I talk to him? For old time’s sake?”

“For old time’s sake, he’s letting you pick.” Clemenza gestured. They started walking Tessio back to his car. 

Tessio took a deep breath. He tried a smile; it trembled. “A clean shot. Don’t let me see it coming.” 

“I won’t,” Clemenza promised. 

Fermo opened the driver-side door and got behind the wheel. Tessio tossed him the keys. He opened the door behind and was lowering his big head, one foot already in, trying to get onto the seat, when Clemenza popped him twice behind the right ear. Tessio fell limply to the car floor.  

Fermo turned around at Clemenza, annoyed. “D’ya mind?” He glanced over the back of his suit jacket: it was flecked with blood. 

Clemenza smacked him hard on the side of his head. Fermo yelped. “Yeah, I mind. Fucking idiot. Trying to make my friend’s death comfortable here, this big-shot has a fucking problem. Dump the body, and then dump the car too. Separately. See if you can manage that.” He wiped the muzzle of his gun with his handkerchief; couldn’t help glancing up, at the house, to the study window. “D’ya mind, he says to me. The nerve of you, kid.”  

After Tessio, things cooled down, and then kept cooling down, until they became real cold. There weren’t open hostilities yet between the Corleone and the Barzini families; but there were little things. Small-time debtors getting the shakedown just before collection day; button men following the bagmen down alleys, flashing their pieces but not actually touching the money. Clemenza was sick of the subtlety. The Don seemed to be restless, too: he was flying out to Hollywood more often to look after their interests there, and probably also to escape for a while. With the heat still on Tattaglia and Sollozo and the New York families in general, made sense to keep things subtle. 

Or, it would’ve made sense, had Don Hudson Corleone been anyone else.

It started with the summons to testify before the legislative assembly on the impacts of legalizing parimutuel betting state-wide. The Don’s first subpoena! They all drank to that before getting down to brass tacks. 

Tom counselled the Don to make an appearance, for politeness’ sake. Stick to the party line. Nod, look serious, look contrite. Yes, Madam Chairwoman, certainly. Yes, Assemblyman, of course. I’m a tax-paying private citizen and I share your grave concerns about the epidemic of gambling. No, it contributes nothing to my big fat bottom line. I’m a thinking-feeling person and I cry whenever I see someone spend their disposable income on a scratchcard. That sort of thing.   

Don Hudson Corleone strolled up the steps of the State Capitol in a grey silk dupioni suit and blue suede shoes. He took out his metal-rim sunglasses, put them on, and then looked up at the watery little Albany sun like it was a sight to marvel at. 

The photo of him, looking up at the sky, sucking in his cheeks as he lit a cigarette, sold to AP News for $200. 

Within a week it had been reproduced in every major newspaper and publication in the free world. And some outside it, too. Apparently it got real popular with a peasant guerrilla group fighting against a feudal monarchy in South India. 

Within the columns of the Shinhan Minbo, published weekly out of San Francisco by the Korean National Association, opinion writers fiercely debated whether the Don’s new status as a global style icon was helping or hindering the Korean independence movement. 

Glamour magazine ran a special issue on trousers over the decades. For the high-waist wide-legged style, they put Katherine Hepburn and the Don side by side. 

A New-York Evening Post editor was soon asked to resign after approving the publication of a list of the most eligible bachelors of New York, with the Don coming in at number one. The editor was reinstated after readers flooded the Post’s offices with furious letters arguing that the firing was an injustice and that the ranking itself had been perfectly correct.

Turned out that having a popular, beautiful, well-dressed Don did wonders for the Sicilian mafia, from a public relations standpoint. DOJ agents got real polite; the cops on your payroll bought you coffee, the ones that weren’t tipped their hats at you; and journalists lobbed softball after softball like they were gearing up for their local tournament. 

“I’m a man of many legitimate business interests,” the Don clarified to one, from Life Magazine.

Bravely, she dared, “And your illegitimate interests?”

The Don cocked his head and grinned. “Those tend to be married.” She blushed deeply as he took her left hand and inspected it. “Ah, see? What’d I tell you.”

“Vogue called,” said Tom, tired. “They want to do a photo feature.” 

“Didn’t they call yesterday?” 

“That was Vogue New York. This one’s Vogue Italia.” 

The Don perked up. “Wait a minute. That’s the best Vogue.” 

Old Vito was lying down on the study sofa in a dressing gown and his hands folded on his belly. Without opening his eyes, he rasped, “Remind me. I don’t recall your duties that involve prancing around with some finocchios from the fashion magazines.”

“Oh, you don’t?” The Don walked up to the sofa, pressed a fond hand to his old man’s crown. “As I understood it, that was a key requirement.” 

Old Vito swatted the hand away, but he was smiling.

Tom rubbed at his forehead. “Maybe we offer them an interview with Giuseppe. That might get them off our backs."  

“Franco?” The Don yelped. “No, no no no. Leave him out of this. What if they publish where he lives, huh? What if someone puts a hit on my fucking tailor? Or worse, steals him away?” He looked mournful at the thought. “No one knows my silhouettes like Franco.”

“Turn that up, will ya,” said Clemenza. His signora gave him an unimpressed look. She held up her soapy hands. Sure, sure. Clemenza squeezed behind her and went over to the radio, adjusted the dial. “Just don’t forget who got you his autograph.”

“You remind me of this every day, ah? So how do I forget?” She tilted her cheek, accepted the proffered kiss. 

….this is Bob Hope, your trusty host, with a message for all the mothers out there. Campbell’s Vegetable Soup will have your children saying those magic words: More, Mommy! Words that I myself have said in my sleep several times, according to my wife, after a rich hearty dinner of Campbell’s Vegetable Soup. Now, I have with me here a luminary of the film industry. He was nominated for his first Academy Award last year for his work as an idealistic young doctor in David Lean’s latest romantic tragedy, Brief Encounter. His British accent took everyone by storm. They can’t believe he’s a Yank: It’s Mr. Connor Storrie! I last saw you about a week ago. I think you must be ageing in reverse, because you look a week younger. 

Bob, you always say the nicest things.  

Now, congratulations on your latest feature film. The credits list Vito and Hudson Corleone as executive producers. Hudson Corleone has been making news of late. People seem to think he’s a snazzy dresser. The Corleone family also has unsavory connections with, let’s say, a word that rhymes with snob. How about that?

The Italian snob, I’m very familiar. You mean Sophia Loren, of course.  

Don’t listen to a word he says, Sophia! Cover your ears! 

Well, the Corleone family have been patrons of the arts for some time; I’m grateful for their largesse. As for Hudson Corleone’s recent notoriety, can you blame the people? The man dresses well. 

New York’s most eligible bachelor, if the papers are to be believed. I think he’d have stiffer competition for the title, though, if you lived in New York. 

Now see, that’s very kind of you. I have to confess, I think so too. Much stiffer.

They ought to have an East and West Coast Conference for this sort of thing.  

Winner of each division meets in a bloody battle to the death, you mean to say? 

I’d accept nothing less. Now, let’s suspend our beautiful repartee for a moment so I can sell some more of Campbell’s Vegetable Soup. Ladies, you’d be silly to make it yourself…   

It was spring-time, peonies and lilacs and magnolias bursting out from everywhere like they had something urgent to say, when Barzini finally made his move. 

He had his men hit old Vito twice in the chest while he was out at the afternoon fruit market, shopping for blueberries for little Santino. Fredo was with him. Didn’t even know he’d been covering his father’s dead body on the pavement, and then inside the car, shielding him from the windows, until later, at the hospital, when the doctor suggested gently that Vito’d probably died within minutes.

Tom, good consigliere that he was, asked the question no one wanted to. “Do we wait before moving?”

Sonny, crouched on the floor, looked up at that with murderous red-rimmed eyes. 

“We don’t wait,” said the Don. He kept futzing with the ring on his pinky finger, then the watch, then back to the ring. “Sorry, Tom. Maybe it's the smart move. But we don’t wait.” Then, to no one in particular: “Fucking blueberries. He was so far out of the game he was buying his own blueberries.” 

What could you even say to that? It was true, and it wasn’t. Old Vito may have retired, but the only way to leave this game was by casket. 

They put a hundred men out on the streets and, before dawn, found Barzini’s hidey-hole: the cellar of one of Tattaglia’s old nightclubs, out in Ozone Park. 

Clemenza shuffled around the bodies of the men they’d gunned down. These were gonna have to be moved, somehow. They were clogging up the doorway that led down to the cellar. Then the Don came in and just kicked a few of the bodies down the stairs. That worked, too. 

He made his way down, Clemenza following close behind, down to where Barzini was on his knees, wrists bound behind him, flinching against the muzzle of the gun that was being held to his head. 

The Don strode right up to Barzini. He leaned down, grabbed Barzini’s chin. Inspected his face. 

“Looks like Emilio Barzini to me,” he said to Clemenza, casually yanking Barzini forward so that Clemenza could confirm. “Unless they replaced him with an identically puffy-faced slob.”

Clemenza nodded. It was him. 

“Don Corleone,” began Barzini. Probably he’d prepared a nice pretty speech full of clever arguments for the preservation of his life. But the Don had drawn his Colt as soon as Clemenza had nodded. 

After the echo of the shot faded, he looked for a while at Barzini’s toppled-over body. Blood began to bloom along the cold stinking cement floor. Then he nodded to his men, and turned to leave. Eagerly, the Don’s soldiers crowded around the corpse. Starting firing rounds into it. The Don climbed up the stairs, and Clemenza once more followed.

The Don was walking along Beach Park, suede loafers in hand. Clemenza tried to maintain an imposing figure by his side, dissuade any kids with muddy hands and trowels from getting too close. It was kind of hard to walk imposing-like on the sand, though. And this was soft sand. Clemenza wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, glanced to the side. The Don seemed deep in thought. 

It had been a week since the funeral. 

Barzini Junior had come by, so had Stracci and Cuneo. They’d all kissed the signet ring, murmured their thanks to the Godfather; to the capo dei capi. 

Santino Junior kept asking where Nonno was. 

Seagulls pinwheeled overhead. The Don suddenly asked, “How come you want your own family, Clemenza?” 

Clemenza looked at him, trying to see if this was another one of his jokes. But the Don was frowning and his bottom lip was out, like how it got when he was concentrating hard. 

“Control,” Clemenza said, after thinking about it. “I want more control over my life. I want to provide for the people I love. Money’s not too bad, neither,” he added. 

The Don smiled. He then looked down, at his feet in the sand, then towards the great ocean. “I like control. I don’t know if I believe in it. I thought I’d be bobbing around, without love, without family, carried by the currents of life’s sewage till I died. Then my father showed up. Showed me a different way. But you can’t control everything, can you? And you’re always going to let down the people you love.” The Don kept looking out, like he was waiting for something to emerge from the waves. “Still, my father made me believe I could control it all.” 

Clemenza nodded. He didn’t want to point out the obvious, but. “You kinda do, you know. Control it all. Capo dei capi, all that.” 

“I kinda do, don’t I. Capo dei capi, baby.” He spread his arms, turned to one side, then the other, waiting for the applause; Clemenza, laughing, gave it to him. 

The Don’s arms fell to his side. “Anyway,” he said, starting to walk again. “I need someone to take over Barzini’s interests. Someone who can really bully Barzini Junior. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”  

He looked back after a few steps, to where Clemenza was still rooted to the spot. 

“Me?” Clemenza felt vaguely like he’d taken a cast-iron pan to the head. 

“Yeah, you.” The Don grinned. “I’m not talking to the trash and seaweed, now, am I?”

The Don then patiently endured several minutes of Clemenza’s garbled expressions of gratitude. Should’ve worded a few things better, here and there, but Clemenza couldn’t find it in himself to be too embarrassed. Not like the Don kept him around for his eloquence. They started making their way back, past the sunning civilians, to the boardwalk and the concession stands. 

“Ever wonder what life would be like as a cotton candy seller?”

“No,” said Clemenza, honestly. “That what you’d be, if you weren’t Don?”

“Me? I’d probably be serving breadsticks at a restaurant somewhere,” said the Don, absently. “Probably dropping them all over babies, and getting yelled at, and…” he trailed off. A complicated expression passed his face. His eyes widened; and all of a sudden his mouth was twitching, like he was trying his damnedest not to smile. 

Clemenza followed the Don’s gaze to the boardwalk. A familiar figure stood, suit jacket folded across an arm, shielding his face against the sun. 

“Mr. Clemenza.” Mr. Storrie smiled charmingly as they approached. “Don Corleone. Tom Hagen said you’d be here.” Mr. Storrie looked at the Don. His smile wavered slightly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for the funeral.” 

“It’s all right,” said the Don. It certainly seemed like he meant it. He looked more all right than he had the whole week. 

Mr. Storrie regarded their feet. “You didn’t go in the water?” 

The Don looked down at his feet, then up again. “No?” Then: “I can see from your face that I’ve made a huge mistake.”

“Well, good. As long as you can see it from my face.” Mr. Storrie looked to Clemenza. “Peter, do you mind if I take the Don back to the beach? I’ll have him back to you soon.” 

Clemenza looked at the Don uncertainly. “Boss, you want me to come?” 

“Nah, you’re beat. You’ll start shooting into the sand if I make you walk all that way again. Why don’t you take up a post here?” 

“You got it,” said Clemenza, relieved. He sat down heavily on the boardwalk edge. Watched the Don and Mr. Storrie walk back towards the shoreline. 

“Roll up your pants,” Mr. Storrie was saying. “No, not—egads! Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to roll up your pants!” 

It was real decent of Mr. Storrie to come out all the way to the beach. The Don needed more friends who could cheer him up. 

A cloud passed overhead just then, providing some reprieve. Clemenza took off his hat, and rested his sandy feet.