The Godfather

The first bullet caught Don Corleone in the back. He felt the hammer shock of its impact but made his body move toward the car. The next two bullets hit him in the buttocks and sent him sprawling in the middle of the street. Meanwhile the two gunmen, careful not to slip on the rolling fruit, started to follow in order to finish him off. At that moment, perhaps no more than five seconds after the Don’s call to his son, Frederico Corleone appeared out of his car, looming over it. The gunmen fired two more hasty shots at the Don lying in the gutter. One hit him in the fleshy part of his arm and the second hit him in the calf of his right leg. Though these wounds were the least serious they bled profusely, forming small pools of blood beside his body. But by this time Don Corleone had lost consciousness.

Freddie had heard his father shout, calling him by his childhood name, and then he had heard the first two loud reports. By the time he got out of the car he was in shock, he had not even drawn his gun. The two assassins could easily have shot him down. But they too panicked. They must have known the son was armed, and besides too much time had passed. They disappeared around the corner, leaving Freddie alone in the street with his father’s bleeding body. Many of the people thronging the avenue had flung themselves into doorways or on the ground, others had huddled together in small groups.

Freddie still had not drawn his weapon. He seemed stu

In the half hour after the shooting of his father, So

“Yeah,” So

Phillips said quickly without preamble, “Somebody shot your father outside his place. Fifteen minutes ago. He’s alive but hurt bad. They’ve taken him to French Hospital. They got your brother Freddie down at the Chelsea precinct. You better get him a doctor when they turn him loose. I’m going down to the hospital now to help question your old man, if he can talk. I’ll keep you posted.”

Across the table, So

“Yeah, I’m sure,” the detective said. “A lot of blood but I think maybe he’s not as bad as he looks.”

“Thanks,” So

So

He dialed Hagen’s house and asked Hagen’s wife, “Did Tom come home yet?” She said, “No,” that he was not due for another twenty minutes but she expected him home for supper. “Have him call me,” So

He tried to think things out. He tried to imagine how his father would react in a like situation. He had known immediately that this was an attack by Sollozzo, but Sollozzo would never have dared to eliminate so high-ranking a leader as the Don unless he was backed by other powerful people. The phone, ringing for the fourth time, interrupted his thoughts. The voice on the other end was very soft, very gentle. “Santino Corleone?” it asked.

“Yeah,” So

“We have Tom Hagen,” the voice said. “In about three hours he’ll be released with our proposition. Don’t do anything rash until you’ve heard what he has to say. You can only cause a lot of trouble. What’s done is done. Everybody has to be sensible now. Don’t lose that famous temper of yours.” The voice was slightly mocking. So

He sat at the kitchen table, frowning. His wife asked, “So

It was Clemenza. The fat man’s voice came wheezing over the phone in gruntlike gasps. “You hear about your father?” he asked.

“Yeah.” So

“He’s alive,” So

“You’ll have to carry the ball, So

“Get over to my father’s house,” So

“That’s all?” Clemenza asked. “Don’t you want me to send some people to the hospital and your place?”

“No, I just want you and Paulie Gatto,” So

There was no longer any wheezing on the other end of the line. Clemenza’s voice was guarded. “Paulie was sick, he had a cold, so he stayed home. He’s been a little sick all winter.”