The Family Corleone by Ed Falco Page B

was silent.
    “Pop!” Fredo said. “Michael took a nickel from my coat pocket!” Fredo’s eyes were already brimming with tears.
    Vito looked at Michael. His youngest son reminded Vito of himself as a boy. He seemed happiest playing alone, and he spoke very little.
    Michael met his father’s eyes and shook his head.
    Vito slapped Fredo and then held him by the chin.
    “Well, it was in my pocket!” Fredo yelled, furious. “And now it’s gone!”
    “And so you accuse your brother of being a thief?”
    “Well,” Fredo said, “the nickel’s gone, isn’t it, Pop?”
    Vito squeezed Fredo’s chin a little harder. “I ask you again,” he said. “You accuse your brother of being a thief?” When Fredo’s only response was to turn his eyes away, Vito let him go and said, “Apologize to Michael.”
    Fredo said, “I apologize,” halfheartedly.
    Behind them, the front door opened and Sonny came into the foyer. He was dressed in overalls from his work at the garage, and his face was smeared with grease along his jaw and on his forehead. Carmella, who had been watching from the kitchen doorway, gave Vito a look.
    Vito told the boys to go up to their room and not to come down till dinner, a punishment for Fredo, whereas Michael would have gone to his room anyway and read or entertained himself. When Sonny came into the living room, Vito said, “You come all the way to the Bronx to take a bath again?”
    Sonny said, “I don’t mind getting some of Ma’s cooking while I’m here. ’Sides, Pop, I want to take a bath in my place, I got to do it in the kitchen.”
    Carmella came into the room undoing her apron. “Look at you,” she said. “You got grease all over!”
    “That’s what happens when you work in a garage, Ma.” Sonny leaned down and wrapped up his mother in a big hug. “I’m gonna go get cleaned up,” he said, looking to Vito.
    “You’ll stay for dinner?” Carmella asked.
    “Sure, Ma,” Sonny said. “What are you making?” he asked, on the stairs, on the way up to his room.
    “Veal parmigiana,” Carmella said.
    Vito said, “You want to check the menu? See if it’s to your liking?”
    Sonny said, “Everything Mama makes is to my liking. Right, Ma?” Without waiting for an answer, he hurried up the stairs.
    Carmella gave Vito another look after Sonny disappeared from sight.
    Vito said, softly, “I’ll talk to him,” and pulled himself up from his seat. He checked the timepiece in his vest pocket and saw that it was a few minutes before six. On his way to the stairs, he turned on the radio and rolled the tuner slowly over the station numbers. When he found a news broadcast, he listened for a minute and then kept searching, hoping to find an Italian opera. The news was all about the Fusion ticket and reformers and the new mayoral candidate, a Neapolitan big shot, a
pezzonovante
who was running as a reformer. When Vito came to a Pepsodent testimonial, followed by the
Amos ’n’ Andy
show, he listened long enough to figure out that the Kingfish had once again gotten Andy into a predicament of some kind, and then he turned off the set and went up to Sonny’s room. He knocked once and Sonny opened the door a sliver to peek out, and then opened it all the way and said, “Pop!” evidently surprised to find his father knocking at his door. He was bare chested, with a towel slung over his shoulder.
    Vito said, “Well? Can I come in?”
    Sonny said, “Sure. What did I do?” He opened the door fully and moved out of Vito’s path.
    Sonny’s room was small and simple: a single bed against one wall with a crucifix over a wood headboard; a dresser with an empty cut-glass, footed candy dish in the center of it; sheer white muslin curtains over two windows. Vito took a seat on the bed and motionedfor Sonny to close the door. “Put a shirt on,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”
    “What’s this about, Pop?” Sonny took his crumpled shirt from the top of the dresser and slipped into