"Some people think Delgatto called the hit on Carbone," said Mark Sutton.
"That's fuckin' stupid," said the Shirt.
"Gino's in town too," said Hawkins. "We thought maybe there's a confab going on."
The sun went a shade redder and seemed to spin as it made its arcing dive for the horizon. "You try havin' a confab wit' Gino," Bert suggested. "See if ya can follow two words he says."
A moment passed. Then Hawkins said, "Bert, there's no hard feelings between us, right?"
He petted his dog. "Ya mean just because ya killed me? 'Course not. Best thing that ever happened. Wit'out ya killed me, I could be standin' theah like you. Red eyes, runny nose—"
"So maybe you'll help us out this time," Ben Hawkins said.
"Don't make me laugh, I got chapped lips."
"You're an easy guy to talk to, Bert," said Hawkins. "Maybe Vincente said something, maybe the Fabrettis have been in touch."
"I'm retired," said the Shirt. "Thanks to you."
Mark Sutton put his hands on his hips and bent forward with a show of menace. "You're not retired as far as we're concerned."
The Shirt looked deeply unimpressed. "Where'd ya find this guy," he said to Hawkins, "the high school gym?"
"Be nice, Bert," urged Ben Hawkins. "Who knows, maybe sometime there'd be something we could do for you."
Bert peered off at the ocean. The sun was a finger's breadth above it now, pouring an endless stream of molten stuff that put a red trough in the water. The line of flame spilled straight toward Bert the Shirt but then was intercepted by the bulk of Mark Sutton's quadriceps. "There is," the old man said to Hawkins. "Ya could ask Muscles heah ta please stop standin' in my light."
18
That evening, sitting outside on the patio, Joey Goldman said, "Pop, I think that's great. Terrific. I'm happy for ya."
The bastard son half rose from his chair, leaned across the low metal table, and touched his father's shoulder. The touch was part squeeze, part pat on the back, it seemed more like something a father would do to a son than vice versa, and the upside-downness of the moment made both men feel a little shy. Vincente looked down and almost smiled. Writing a book—OK, telling a book—the newness of it, the unlikeliness, did in fact make him feel somehow boyish, pleasantly green. For a couple of breaths he basked in the quiet pleasure of realizing that even now, at the age of seventy-three, he could still surprise himself, still strike off toward the unexpected. He savored that realization until he could no longer ignore the fact that Gino, his firstborn, his heir, had made no response whatever to his news.
Finally he could not help asking, "And you, Gino, you got anything ta say?"
The heavy man shifted in his chair, he turned onto a hip so that his ample backside was lifted slightly toward his father and his jowly sulking face was held away. He sucked his teeth, pushed out his lips, and said at last, "I think it's wrong. Ya want the truth, I think it fucking stinks."
Overhead, crisp winter stars were shining; the cloudless sky seemed empty of all movement. A blue gleam hovered above the lightly rippled surface of Joey Goldman's swimming pool. Gino's vehemence came as a rude insertion in the stillness.
"You of all people, Pop," he went on. "Blabbin'. Spillin' your guts. Tellin' everyone about us. It ain't right."
Joey watched his father, waited for the old man to defend himself, to put Gino in his place. But Vincente just sat, his hands folded in his lap, his long hairy ears apparently unstung by his son's complaints. It was the younger brother who could not keep silent.
"Gino, it's a different world out there," he said. "What're we talking heah, Sicilian passwords? Secret handshakes? Ya think Pop's gonna give away any deep dark secrets, ya think he's gonna say things that could hurt—"
"That ain't the point," said Gino.
"No?" said Joey. "Then what is the point?"
Asked for logic, Gino swiveled farther in his chair, presented a wider swath of his ass. He chewed a fingernail, grunted, then finally said, "The point is that who we are, what we do, it's like . . . separate."
Joey crossed his legs, hugged an ankle. "Separate from what?"
Gino gestured broadly, tried to pluck an answer out of the cool and empty air. "From everything. From how the other jerks live, how they do their business, how they settle things—"
"All the more reason," Joey said, "that someone should tell the story from the inside—"
The Godfather interrupted. He broke in with a rumble; there was a low rasp that readied the air before the words came out. "Gino, you got any money?"