The Family Corleone Read Online Free PDF

toward his shoulder, “are you carrying a gun?”
    “Hey, Tom,” Sonny said, pushing his hand away. “Tell me something. You think Mama really believes that Pop’s in the olive oil business?”
    Tom didn’t answer. He watched Sonny and waited.
    “I got the bean shooter with me,” Sonny said, “because my brother might have been in trouble and might have needed somebody to get him out of it.”
    “Where do you even get a gun?” Tom said. “What’s going on with you, Sonny? Pop’ll kill you if you’re doing what it looks like you’re doing. What’s wrong with you?”
    “Answer my question,” Sonny said. “I’m serious. You think Mama really believes Pop’s in the business of selling olive oil?”
    “Pop
is
in the business of selling olive oil. Why? What business do you think he’s in?”
    Sonny glanced at Tom as if to say
Don’t talk like an idiot
.
    Tom said, “I don’t know what Mama believes. All I know is she asked me to talk to you about the money.”
    “So tell her I saved it up from working at the garage.”
    “Are you still working at the garage?”
    “Yeah,” Sonny said. “I’m working.”
    “Jesus Christ, Sonny…” Tom rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. They were on Canal Street, the sidewalks on either side of them lined with empty vendor stands. Now everything was quiet, but in a few hours the street would be crowded with people in their Sunday finery out for a stroll on a fall afternoon. He said, “Sonny, listen to me. Mama spends her whole life worrying about Pop—but about her children, Sonny, she doesn’t have to worry. Are you hearing me, hotshot?” Tom raised his voice a little to make his point. “I’m in college. You’ve got a good job at the garage. Fredo, Michael, Connie, they’re still kids. Mama can sleep at night because she doesn’t have to worry about her children, the way she has to worry, every waking moment of her life, about Pop. Think, Sonny.” Tom held one of the lapels of Sonny’s jacket between his fingers. “How much you want to put Mama through? How much is this fancy-tailored suit worth to you?”
    Sonny pulled onto the sidewalk in front of a garage. He looked sleepy and bored. “We’re here,” he said. “Go open the door for me, will you, pal?”
    “That’s it?” Tom said. “That’s all you got to say?”
    Sonny laid his head atop the bench seat and closed his eyes. “Jeez, I’m tired.”
    “You’re tired,” Tom repeated.
    “Really,” Sonny said. “I’ve been up since forever.”
    Tom watched Sonny and waited, until he realized, after a minute, that Sonny was falling asleep. “
Mammalucc’!
” he said. He gently grabbed a hunk of his brother’s hair and shook him.
    “What is it?” Sonny asked without opening his eyes. “Did you get the garage yet?”
    “You have a key for it?”
    Sonny opened the glove box, pulled out a key, and handed it to Tom. He pointed to the car door.
    “You’re welcome,” Tom said. He stepped out onto the street. They were on Mott, down the block from Sonny’s apartment. He thought about asking Sonny why he was keeping the car in a garage a block away from his apartment when he could just as easily park on the street outside his front door. He thought about it, decided against it, and went to open the garage.

3.
    S onny knocked once, opened the front door, and didn’t manage to get two steps into the chaos before Connie, screaming his name, leapt into his arms. Her bright yellow dress was scuffed and darkened where she must have gone down hard on her knees. Strands of silky dark hair, freed from the constraints of two bright-red bow-tie barrettes, whipped over her face. Behind Sonny, Tom closed the front door on an autumn breeze that picked up leaves and garbage off Arthur Avenue and swept them down Hughes and past the front steps of the Corleone home, where Fat Bobby Altieri and Johnny LaSala, a couple of ex-boxers from Brooklyn, stood atop the stoop smoking cigarettes and