Fanucci was a rich gangster, he certainly did not carry his wealth with him. This
confirmed some of Vito's suspicions.
He knew he had to get rid of the wallet and the gun (knowing enough even then that
he must leave the gold piece in the wallet). He went up on the roof again and traveled
over a few ledges (ledge – планка, рейка). He threw the wallet down one air shaft and
then he emptied the gun of bullets and smashed its barrel against the roof ledge. The
barrel wouldn't break. He reversed it in his hand and smashed the butt against the side
of a chimney. The butt split into two halves. He smashed it again and the pistol broke
into barrel and handle, two separate pieces. He used a separate air shaft for each. They
made no sound when they struck the earth five stories below, but sank into the soft hill
of garbage that had accumulated there. In the morning more garbage would be thrown
out of the windows and, with luck, would cover everything. Vito returned to his
apartment.
He was trembling a little but was absolutely under control. He changed his clothes and
fearful that some blood might have splattered on them, he threw them into a metal tub
his wife used for washing. He took lye (щёлок) and heavy brown laundry soap to soak
the clothes and scrubbed them with the metal wash board beneath the sink. Then he
scoured (to scour – отчищать, оттирать) tub and sink with lye and soap. He found a
bundle of newly washed clothes in the corner of the bedroom and mingled his own
clothes with these. Then he put on a fresh shirt and trousers and went down to join his
wife and children and neighbors in front of the tenement.
All these precautions proved to be unnecessary. The police, after discovering the
dead body at dawn, never questioned Vito Corleone. Indeed he was astonished that
they never learned about Fanucci's visit to his home on the night he was shot to death.
47
He had counted on that for an alibi, Fanucci leaving the tenement alive. He only learned
later that the police had been delighted with the murder of Fanucci and not too anxious
to pursue his killers. They had assumed it was another gang execution, and had
questioned hoodlums with records in the rackets and a history of strong-arm. Since Vito
had never been in trouble he never came into the picture.
But if he had outwitted the police, his partners were another matter. Pete Clemenza
and Tessio avoided him for the next week, for the next two weeks, then they came to
call on him one evening. They came with obvious respect. Vito Corleone greeted them
with impassive courtesy and served them wine.
Clemenza spoke first. He said softly, "Nobody is collecting from the store owners on
Ninth Avenue. Nobody is collecting from the card games and gambling in the
neighborhood."
Vito Corleone gazed at both men steadily but did not reply. Tessio spoke. "We could
take over Fanucci's customers. They would pay us."
Vito Corleone shrugged. "Why come to me? I have no interest in such things."
Clemenza laughed. Even in his youth, before growing his enormous belly, he had a fat
man's laugh. He said now to Vito Corleone, "How about that gun I gave you for the truck
job? Since you won't need it any more you can give it back to me."
Very slowly and deliberately Vito Corleone took a wad of bills out of his side pocket
and peeled off five tens. "Here, I'll pay you. I threw the gun away after the truck job." He
smiled at the two men.
At that time Vito Corleone did not know the effect of this smile. It was chilling because
it attempted no menace. He smiled as if it was some private joke only he himself could
appreciate. But since he smiled in that fashion only in affairs that were lethal, and since
the joke was not really private and since his eyes did not smile, and since his outward
character was usually so reasonable and quiet, the sudden unmasking of his true self
was frightening.
Clemenza shook his head. "I don't want the money," he said. Vito pocketed the bills.
He waited. They all understood each other. They knew he had killed Fanucci and
though they never spoke about it to anyone the whole neighborhood, within a few
weeks, also knew. Vito Corleone was treated as a "man of respect" by everyone. But he
made no attempt to take over the Fanucci rackets and tributes.
What followed then was inevitable. One night Vito's wife brought a neighbor, a widow,
to the flat. The woman was Italian and of unimpeachable (безупречный,
безукоризненный; to impeach – брать под сомнение, бросать тень; порицать)
character. She worked hard to keep a home for her fatherless children. Her sixteen-
year-old son brought home his pay envelope sealed, to hand over to her in the old-
48
country style; her seventeen-year-old daughter, a dressmaker, did the same. The whole
family sewed buttons on cards at night at slave labor piece rates. The woman's name
was Signora Colombo.
Vito Corleone's wife said, "The Signora has a favor to ask of you. She is having some
trouble."
Vito Corleone expected to be asked for money, which he was ready to give. But it
seemed that Mrs. Colombo owned a dog which her youngest son adored. The landlord
had received complaints on the dog barking at night and had told Mrs. Colombo to get
rid of it. She had pretended to do so. The landlord had found out that she had deceived
him and had ordered her to vacate her apartment. She had promised this time to truly
get rid of the dog and she had done so. But the landlord was so angry that he would not
revoke (отменить, взять назад) his order. She had to get out or the police would be
summoned (to summon [‘sΛm∂n] – требовать исполнения) to put her out. And her
poor little boy had cried so when they had given the dog away to relatives who lived in
Long Island. All for nothing (ни за что ни про что), they would lose their home.
Vito Corleone asked her gently, "Why do you ask me to help you?"
Mrs. Colombo nodded toward his wife. "She told me to ask you."
He was surprised. His wife had never questioned him about the clothes he had
washed the night he had murdered Fanucci. Had never asked him where all the money
came from when he was not working. Even now her face was impassive. Vito said to
Mrs Colombo, "I can give you some money to help you move, is that what you want?"
The woman shook her head, she was in tears. "All my friends are here, all the girls I
grew up with in Italy. How can I move to another neighborhood with strangers? I want
you to speak to the landlord to let me stay."
Vito nodded. "It's done then. You won't have to move. I'll speak to him tomorrow
morning."
His wife gave him a smile which he did not acknowledge, but he felt pleased. Mrs.
Colombo looked a little uncertain. "You're sure he'll say yes, the landlord?" she asked.
"Signor Roberto?" Vito said in a surprised voice. "Of course he will. He's a good-
hearted fellow. Once I explain how things are with you he'll take pity on your
misfortunes. Now don't let it trouble you any more. Don't get so upset. Guard your
health, for the sake of your children."
49
The landlord, Mr. Roberto, came to the neighborhood every day to check on the row
of five tenements that he owned. He was a padrone, a man who sold Italian laborers
just off the boat to the big corporations. With his profits he had bought the tenements
one by one. An educated man from the North of Italy, he felt only contempt for these
illiterate (неграмотные, бескультурные) Southerners from Sicily and Naples, who
swarmed (to swarm – кишеть, роиться; swarm – рой, стая) like vermin (паразиты
['v∂:mın]) through his buildings, who threw garbage down the air shafts, who let
cockroaches (тараканы) and rats eat away his walls without lifting a hand to preserve
his property. He was not a bad man, he was a good husband and father, but constant
worry about his investments, about the money he earned, about the inevitable expenses
that came with being a man of property had worn his nerves to a frazzle (потертые или
обтрепанные края платья) so that he was in a constant state of irritation. When Vito
Corleone stopped him on the street to ask for a word, Mr. Roberto was brusque
(отрывистый, резкий, бесцеремонный [brusk]). Not rude, since anyone of these
Southerners might stick a knife into you if rubbed the wrong way, though this young
man looked like a quiet fellow.
"Signor Roberto," said Vito Corleone, "the friend of my wife, a poor widow with no man
to protect her, tells me that for some reason she has been ordered to move from her
apartment in your building. She is in despair. She has no money, she has no friends
except those that live here. I told her that I would speak to you, that you are a
reasonable man who acted out of some misunderstanding. She has gotten rid of the
animal that caused all the trouble and so why shouldn't she stay? As one Italian to
another, I ask you the favor."
Signor Roberto studied the young man in front of him. He saw a man of medium
stature but strongly built, a peasant but not a bandit, though he so laughably dared to
call himself an Italian. Roberto shrugged. "I have already rented the apartment to
another family for higher rent," he said. "I cannot disappoint them for the sake of your
friend."