The Sicilian - Mario Puzo [103]
Michael said, “Yeah, but what about Andolini?”
Clemenza shrugged. “He’s your father’s cousin. He’s been one of Guiliano’s right-hand men for the last five years. But before that he was close with Don Croce. Who knows? He’s dangerous.”
Michael said, “Andolini is bringing Guiliano’s fianceé here. She’s pregnant. We have to ship her to the States and she sends back a code word to Guiliano saying that the route works and then Guiliano comes to us. I promised we’d do it. Is that okay?”
Clemenza whistled. “I never heard Guiliano had a girl. Sure we can do it.”
They went outside to a huge garden. Michael could see guards at the gate and down at the beach at least six armed men strolling up and down. There was a large motorboat docked against a short pier. In the garden itself was a group of men obviously waiting for an audience with Peter Clemenza. There were about twenty of them, all typical Sicilians with their dusty clothes and brimmed caps, like poorer versions of Don Domenic.
In a corner of the garden, beneath a lemon tree, was an oval wooden table with rustic wooden chairs around it. Clemenza and Michael sat in two of the chairs and then Clemenza called out to the group of men. One of them came over and sat down. Clemenza asked questions about the man’s personal life. Was he married? Did he have children? How long had he worked for Don Domenic? Who were his relatives in Trapani? Did he ever think of going to America to make his fortune? The answer to this last question was invariably a Yes.
An old woman in black brought out a huge jug of wine mixed with fresh lemons, then brought out a tray with many glasses. Clemenza offered each man he interviewed a drink and a cigarette. When he had finished and the last one was gone and the group had left the garden, Clemenza said to Michael, “Any of them hit you wrong?”
Michael shrugged and said, “They all seemed the same to me. They all want to go to America.”
Clemenza said, “We need fresh blood back home. We lost a lot of men and we might lose a lot more. Every five years or so I come home and bring about twelve guys back with me. I train them myself. Little jobs first—collections, strong-arm, guard duty. I test their loyalty. When I feel the time is right and the opportunity comes along, I give them a chance to make their bones. But I’m very careful about that. Once they get that far they know they have a good living for the rest of their lives as long as they remain loyal. Everybody here knows I’m the recruiter for the Corleone Family and every man in the province wants to see me. But my brother picks them out. Nobody gets to see me without his okay.”
Michael looked around the beautiful garden with its many colored flowers, fragrant lemon trees, the old statues of the gods dug from ancient ruins, other newer ones of holy saints, the rose-colored walls around the villa. It was a lovely setting for the examination of twelve murderous apostles.
In the late afternoon the small Fiat reappeared at the villa gates and was waved through by the guards. Andolini was driving, and beside him there was a girl with long jet-black hair and the exquisite oval features of a painter’s Madonna. When she got out of the car Michael could see she was pregnant; though she wore the modest loose dress of the Sicilian woman it was not black, rather a hideous floral rose and white. But her face was so pretty the dress didn’t matter.
Michael Corleone was surprised to see the small figure of Hector Adonis get out of the back seat. It was Adonis who made the introductions. The girl’s name was Justina. She had none of the shyness of the young; and at only seventeen years of age, her face had the strength of an older woman, as if she had already tasted the same tragedies of life. She studied Michael closely before she bowed her head to acknowledge his introduction. As if she were studying him to find any hint of treachery in his face.
One of the old women took her away to her room