The Last Don - Mario Puzo [190]
“My father was a big hero though, right?” Cross said.
Vincent smiled for just a moment, his stone face almost softened. “Your father was a genius,” Vincent said. “He could plan an operation like Napoleon. Nothing ever went wrong when he planned it. Maybe once or twice because of bad luck.”
“So he planned the war against the Santadio,” Cross said.
“Ask the Don these questions,” Vincent said. “Now talk about something else.”
“OK,” Cross said. “Am I going to be knocked off like my father?”
The usually cold and stone-faced Vincent reacted violently. He grabbed the steering wheel and forced Cross to park on the side of the highway. His voice choked with emotion when he said, “Are you crazy? Do you think the Clericuzio Family would do such a thing? Your father had Clericuzio blood. He was our best soldier, he saved us. The Don loved him as much as any of his sons. Jesus Christ, why do you ask something like that?”
Cross said meekly, “I just got scared, you guys popping up.”
“Get back on the road,” Vincent said disgustedly. “Your father and me and Giorgio and Petie fought together during really rough times. There is no way we could go against each other. Pippi just got unlucky, a crazy jigaboo mugger.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence.
At the mansion in Quogue, there were the usual two guards at the gate and one man sitting on the porch. There did not seem to be any unusual activity.
Don Clericuzio, Giorgio, and Petie were awaiting them in the den of the mansion. On the bar was a box of Havana cigars and a mug filled with twisted black Italian cheroots.
Don Clericuzio sat in one of the huge brown leather armchairs. Cross went to greet him and was surprised when the Don pushed himself up to stand, with an agility that belied his age, and embraced him. After which he motioned Cross to the huge coffee table on which various dishes of cheeses and dried meats were spread.
Cross sensed that the Don was not yet ready to speak. He made himself a sandwich of mozzarella cheese and prosciutto. The prosciutto was thin slabs of dark red meat fringed with very tender white fat. The mozzarella was a white ball so fresh it was still sweating milk. It was tied off on top with a thick salty knob like the knot in a rope. The closest that the Don had ever come to boasting was that he never ate a mozzarella that was more than thirty minutes old.
Vincent and Petie were also helping themselves to food, while Giorgio served as bartender, bringing wine to the Don and soft drinks to the others. The Don only ate the dripping mozzarella, letting it melt inside his mouth. Petie gave him one of the twisted cheroots and lit it for him. What a wonderful stomach the old man had, thought Cross.
Don Clericuzio said abruptly, “Croccifixio, whatever you seek now from Rose Marie, I will tell you. And you suspect something amiss about your father’s death. You are wrong. I have had inquiries made, the story is true as it stands. Pippi was unlucky. He was the most prudent of men in his profession but such ludicrous accidents happen. Let me set your mind at rest. Your father was my nephew and a Clericuzio, and one of my dearest friends.”
“Tell me about the war with the Santadio,” Cross said.
BOOK VII
The Santadio War
CHAPTER 18
“IT IS DANGEROUS to be reasonable with stupid people,” Don Clericuzio said, as he sipped from his wine glass. He put his cheroot aside. “Pay strict attention. It’s a long story and everything was not what it seemed to be. It was almost thirty years ago . . .” He motioned to his three sons and said, “If I forget something important, help me.” His three sons smiled at the idea that he would forget something important.
The light in the den was a soft golden haze tinged with cigar smoke, and even the smell of the food was so sharply aromatic that it seemed to affect the light.
“I became convinced of that after the Santadio . . .” He paused a moment to sip his wine. “There was a time when the Santadio were our equal in power. But the