Sunburn(54)

"Ya wanna talk ta me, Vincente?"

The Godfather pursed his loose lips, let out a hissing grunt. His fingers were linked across his wizened tummy. "Before you came, Bert, ya know what I was thinkin'? I was sittin' heah thinkin' it ain't right, it ain't fair, that somethin' goes sour right at de end. It goes sour inna middle, maybe ya got time, strength, ya can fix it. Or maybe you're lucky, ya can walk away. It goes sour right at de end, fuck can ya do? Can't do shit. Ya die wit' a bitter taste in your mouth."

Bert's dog was lying at his feet. He reached down and petted it, took solace from the feel of its veiny ears. A scrap of breeze moved across the yard, brought with it a smell of limestone dust and seaweed.

After a moment Vincente went on. "Gino fucked up bad. He mighta got himself killed."

"Mighta?"

The Godfather looked away, swallowed hard, fought a little battle with himself, and decided at last to confide in his old friend. He told Bert as much as he himself knew of Gino's subterfuge, Gino's fiasco. Bert listened with his chin on his fist; now and then he nodded. At the end, he said, "Marrone."

"So what the fuck do I do?" Vincente resumed.

"I gotta figure, if he ain't already dead he's wit' Messina. And, Messina, there's no way I can go ta him."

Bert absently petted his dog; white hairs the length of eyelashes came off between his fingers. "Vincente, due respect, maybe this ain't the time for—"

"Pride?" the Godfather interrupted. He was shaking his head, as at a hopeless position in chess. "Pride's got nothin' to do wit' it, Bert. I'd go on my fuckin' knees ta save my son. But it's this crazy bind Gino put me in. He tol' Ponte I'm the one who's takin' back that union  . So Messina thinks he's got a beef wit' me. He's gonna make nice while he thinks I'm fuckin' 'im? Or say I try ta set 'im straight, tell 'im it was Gino on his own—wha' does that accomplish? He thinks Gino's that ambitious, that much of a cowboy, he'll take 'im out for sure."

The Shirt looked at the ground and silently thanked God he had no children, thanked Him as well for the massive coronary that had cut the thread of his former life, freed him from its vicious logic and infernal circles of ambush and revenge. Without much conviction, he said, "There's gotta be some way."

"Bert." Vincente sighed. "I been thinkin' nonstop since yesterday. I ain't slept. I'm thinkin' So we make concessions, we give 'em back that union  . Then I realize Shit, that does nothin', it's their union   ta begin with. So then I figure, OK, we give up somethin' more. But wha' more do I have ta give away? On'y turf I can give away is Gino's—and the Fabrettis'd get alla that by clippin' 'im. The other capos—I can't give away what's theirs; sad truth, I don't have that kinda power. So then I tell myself Fuck it, get tough, fight. But Messina just stared down everybody by takin' out Carbone—he's gonna back down now?"

"Ya need a go-between," Bert blurted. "A peacemaker."

Vincente pulled up short at the suggestion. He'd expected a sympathetic ear but not advice. It took him a moment to disengage from his own tangled net of thought; then he said, "Yeah, Bert, that ain't a bad idea, but who the fuck is there? Looka my lieutenants. Sal Barzini: solid guy, but married to a niece of Emilio Carbone. Tony Matera: a hothead. Benny Spadino: I don't trust his loyalty—"

"Nah," said Bert, "'s'gotta be someone y'absolutely trust."

"Someone who knows how ta smooth things out, not make people nervous," Vincente added.

"A diplomat, like."

"A guy that everyone respects."

A small cloud crossed the sun; its shadow slipped over the yard and evened out the shade. The smell of chlorine seemed to grow sharper in the brief coolness. The old men looked away from each other. The same thought was pushing them both toward the same undodgeable conclusion, and neither wanted to presume to give it voice.

The cloud dragged its wispy tail behind it; full sunshine returned. Bert swiveled in his chair, cocked his head, and presented to Vincente a face that for all its ravages—the sagging chin, the wrinkled jowls, the droopy eyes—was full of readiness.

Vincente met his gaze, swallowed, and said, "Bert, nah, I couldn't ask ya."

"Ya didn't," said the Shirt, holding his prepared and willing posture.

"He might not even be alive," Vincente said.

"You're his father. Ya got a right ta know, at least."

Vincente looked away, chewed his lower lip. "I ain't used ta askin' anyone—"

Bert shushed him with a raised hand. The Godfather pushed some air out past his gums, then he reached up, removed his unraveling straw hat, and dropped it gently to the ground. Slowly he rose from his chair and held his arms out to his friend. Bert rose just as slowly; they brought their slack and skinny chests together and kissed each other on the cheek. "Bert," Vincente said, "I don't know how ta thank ya."