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."
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"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
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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.
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"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.
The gunman said, "Fabrizzio, Michael Corleone sends you his regards." He extended
the gun so that it was only a few inches from the counterman's skull and pulled the
trigger. Then he walked out of the store. At the curb a car was waiting for him with its
door open. He jumped in and the car sped off.
Rocco Lampone answered the phone installed on one of the iron pillars of the gate.
He heard someone saying, "Your package is ready," and the click as the caller hung up.
Rocco got into his car and drove out of the mall. He crossed the Jones Beach
Causeway, the same causeway on which Sonny Corleone had been killed, and drove
out to the railroad station of Wantagh. He parked his car there. Another car was waiting
for him with two men in it. They drove to a motel ten minutes farther out on Sunrise
Highway and turned into its courtyard. Rocco Lampone, leaving his two men in the car,
went to one of the little chalet-type bungalows. One kick sent its door flying off its hinges
and Rocco sprang into the room.
Phillip Tattaglia, seventy years old and naked as a baby, stood over a bed on which
lay a young girl. Phillip Tattaglia's thick head of hair was jet black, but the plumage of
his crotch was steel gray. His body had the soft plumpness of a bird. Rocco pumped
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four bullets into him, all in the belly. Then he turned and ran back to the car. The two
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men dropped him off in the Wantagh station. He picked up his car and drove back to the
mall. He went in to see Michael Corleone for a moment and then came out and took up
his position at the gate.
Albert Neri, alone in his apartment, finished getting his uniform ready. Slowly he put it
on, trousers, shirt, tie and jacket, holster and gunbelt. He had turned in his gun when he
was suspended from the force, but, through some administrative oversight they had not
made him give up his shield. Clemenza had supplied him with a new .38 Police Special
that could not be traced. Neri broke it down, oiled it, checked the hammer, put it
together again, clicked the trigger. He loaded the cylinders and was set to go.
He put the policeman's cap in a heavy paper bag and then put a civilian overcoat on
to cover his uniform. He checked his watch. Fifteen minutes before the car would be
waiting for him downstairs. He spent the fifteen minutes checking himself in the mirror.
There was no question. He looked like a real cop.
The car was waiting with two of Rocco Lampone's men in front. Neri got into the back
seat. As the car started downtown, after they had left the neighborhood of his apartment,
he shrugged off the civilian overcoat and left it on the floor of the car. He ripped open
the paper bag and put the police officer's cap on his head.
At 55th Street and Fifth Avenue the car pulled over to the curb and Neri got out. He
started walking down the avenue. He had a queer feeling being back in uniform,
patrolling the streets as he had done so many times. There were crowds of people. He
walked downtown until he was in front of Rockefeller Center, across the way from St.
Patrick's Cathedral. On his side of Fifth Avenue he spotted the limousine he was looking
for. It was parked, nakedly alone between a whole string of red NO PARKING and NO