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really had to go； his bowels were loose。 He did it very quickly； then reached behind the enamel water cabinet until his hand touched the small； blunt…nosed gun fastened with tape。 He ripped the gun loose； remembering that Clemenza had said not to worry about leaving prints on the tape。 He shoved the gun into his waistband and buttoned his jacket over it。 He washed his hands and wet his hair。 He wiped his prints off the faucet with his handkerchief。 Then he left the toilet。
Sollozzo was sitting directly facing the door of the toilet； his dark eyes blazing with alertness。 Michael gave a smile。 〃Now I can talk；〃 he said with a sigh of relief。
Captain McCluskey was eating the plate of veal and spaghetti that had arrived。 The man on the far wall had been stiff with attention； now he too relaxed visibly。
Michael sat down again。 He remembered Clemenza had told him not to do this； to e out of the toilet and blaze away。 But either out of some warning instinct or sheer funk he had not done so。 He had felt that if he had made one swift move he would have been cut down。 Now he felt safe and he must have been scared because he was glad he was no longer standing on his legs。 They had gone weak with trembling。
Sollozzo was leaning toward him。 Michael； his belly covered by the table； unbuttoned his jacket and listened intently。 He could not understand a word the man was saying。 It was literally gibberish to him。 His mind was so filled with pounding blood that no word registered。 Underneath the table his right hand moved to the gun tucked into his waistband and he drew it free。 At that moment the waiter came to take their order and Sollozzo turned his head to speak to the waiter。 Michael thrust the table away from him with his left hand and his right hand shoved the gun almost against Sollozzo's head。 The man's coordination was so acute that he had already begun to fling himself away at Michael's motion。 But Michael； younger； his reflexes sharper； pulled the trigger。 The bullet caught Sollozzo squarely between his eye and his ear and when it exited on the other side blasted out a huge gout of blood and skull fragments onto the petrified waiter's jacket。 Instinctively Michael knew that one bullet was enough。 Sollozzo had turned his head in that last moment and he had seen the light of life die in the man's eyes as clearly as a candle goes out。
Only one second had gone by as Michael pivoted to bring the gun to bear on McCluskey。 The police captain was staring at Sollozzo with phlegmatic surprise； as if this had nothing to do with him。 He did not seem to be aware of his own danger。 His veal…covered fork was suspended in his hand and his eyes were just turning on Michael。 And the expression on his face； in his eyes； held such confident outrage； as if now he expected Michael to surrender or to run away； that Michael smiled at him as he pulled the trigger。 This shot was bad； not mortal。 It caught MeCluskey in his thick bull…like throat and he started to choke loudly as if he had swallowed too large a bite of the veal。 Then the air seemed to fill with a fine mist of sprayed blood as he coughed it out of his shattered lungs。 Very coolly； very deliberately； Michael fired the next shot through the top of his white…haired skull。
The air seemed to be full of pink mist。 Michael swung toward the man sitting against the wall。 This man had not made a move。 He seemed paralyzed。 Now he carefully showed his hands on top of the table and looked away。 The waiter was staggering back toward the kitchen； an expression of horror on his face； staring at Michael in disbelief。 Sollozzo was still in his chair； the side of his body propped up by the table。 McCluskey； his heavy body pulling downward； had fallen off his chair onto the floor。 Michael let the gun slip out of his hand so that it bound off his body and made no noise。 He saw that neither the man against the wall nor the waiter had noticed him dropping the gun。 He strode the few steps toward the door and opened it。 Sollozzo's car was parked at the curb still； but there was no sign of the driver。 Michael turned left and around the corner。 Headlights flashed on and a battered sedan pulled up to him； the door swinging open。 He jumped in and the car roared away。 He saw that it was Tessio at the wheel； his trim features hard as marble。
〃Did you do the job on Sollozzo？〃 Tessio asked。
For that moment Michael was struck by the idiom Tessio had used。 It was always used in a sexual sense； to do the job on a woman meant seducing her。 It was curious that Tessio used it now。 〃Both of them；〃 Michael said。
〃Sure？〃 Tessio asked。
〃I saw their brains；〃 Michael said。
There was a change of clothes for Michael in the car。 Twenty minutes later he was on an Italian freighter slated for Sicily。 Two hours later the freighter put out to sea and from his cabin Michael could see the lights of New York City burning like the fires of hell。 He felt an enormous sense of relief。 He was out of it now。 The feeling was familiar and he remembered being taken off the beach of an island his Marine division had invaded。 The battle had been still going on but he had received a slight wound and was being ferried back to a hospital ship。 He had felt the same overpowering relief then that he felt now。 All hell would break loose but he wouldn't be there。
**********
On the day after the murder of Sollozzo and Captain McCluskey； the police captains and lieutenants in every station house in New York City sent out the word： there would be no more gambling； no more prostitution； no more deals of any kind until the murderer of Captain McCluskey was caught。 Massive raids began all over the city。 All unlawful business activities came to a standstill。
Later that day an emissary from the Families asked the Corleone Family if they were prepared to give up the murderer。 They were told that the affair did not concern them。 That night a bomb exploded in the Corleone Family mall in Long Beach； thrown from a car that pulled up to the chain； then roared away。 That night also two button men of the Corleone Family were killed as they peaceably ate their dinner in a small Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village。 The Five Families War of 1946 had begun。
Book Two
Chapter 12
Johnny Fontane waved a casual dismissal to the manservant and said； 〃See you in the morning； Billy。〃 The colored butler bowed his way out of the huge dining room…living room with its view of the Pacific Ocean。 It was a friendly…goodbye sort of bow； not a servant's bow； and given only because Johnny Fontane had pany for dinner。
Johnny's pany was a girl named Sharon Moore； a New York City Greenwich Village girl in Hollywood to try for a small part in a movie being produced by an old flame who had made the big time。 She had visited the set while Johnny was acting in the Woltz movie。 Johnny had found her young and fresh and charming and witty； and had asked her to e to his place for dinner that evening。 His invitations to dinner were always famous and had the force of royalty and of course she said yes。
Sharon Moore obviously； expected him to e on very strong because of his reputation； but Johnny hated the Hollywood 〃piece of meat〃 approach。 He never slept with any girl unless there was something about her he really liked。 Except； of course； sometimes when he was very drunk and found himself in bed with a girl he didn't even remember meeting or seeing before。 And now that he was thirty…five years old； divorced once； estranged from his second wife； with maybe a thousand pubic scalps dangling from his belt； he simply wasn't that eager。 But there was something about Sharon Moore that aroused affection in him and so he had invited her to dinner。
He never ate much but he knew young pretty girls ambitiously starved themselves for pretty clothes and were usually big eaters on a date so there was plenty of food on the table。 There was also plenty of liquor； champagne in a bucket； scotch； rye； brandy and liqueurs on the sideboard。 Johnny served the drinks and the plates of food already prepared。 When they had finished eating he led her into the huge living room with its glass wall that looked out onto the Pacific。 He put a stack of Ella Fitzgerald records on the hifi and settled on the couch with Sharon。 He made a little small talk with her； found out about what she had been like as a kid； whether she had been a tomboy or boy crazy； whether she had been homely or pretty； lonely or gay。 He always found these details touching； it always evoked the tenderness he needed to make love。
They nestled together on the sofa； very friendly； very fortable。 He kissed her on the lips； a cool friendly kiss； and when she kept it that way he left it that way。 Outside the huge picture window he could see the dark blue sheet of the Pacific lying flat beneath the moonlight。
〃How e you're not playing any of your records？〃 Sharon asked him。 Her voice was teasing。 Johnny smiled at her。 He was amused by her teasing him。 〃I'm not that Hollywood；〃 he said。
〃Play some for me；〃 she said。 〃Or sing for me。 You know； like the movies。 I'll bubble up and melt all over you just like those girls do on the screen。〃
Johnny laughed outright。 When he had been younger； he had done just such things and the result had always been stagy； the girls trying to look sexy and melting； making their eyes swim with desire for an imagined fantasy camera。 He would never dream of singing to a girl now； for one thing； he hadn't sung for months； he didn't trust his voice。 For another thing； amateurs didn't realize how much professionals depended on technical help to sound as good as they did。 He could have played his records but he felt the same shyness about hearing his youthful passionate voice as an aging； balding man running to fat feels about showing pictures of himself as a youth in the full bloom of manhood。
〃My voice is out of shape；〃 he said。 〃And honestly； I'm sick of hearing myself sing。〃
They both sipped their drinks。 〃I hear you're great in this picture；〃 she said。 〃Is it true you did it for nothing？〃
〃Just a token payment；〃 Johnny said。
He got up to give her a refill on her brandy glass； gave her a gold…monogrammed cigarette and flashed his lighter out to hold the light for her。 She puffed on the cigarette and sipped her drink and he sat down beside her again。 His glass had considerably more brandy in it than hers； he needed it to warm himself； to cheer himself； to charge himself up。 His situation was the reverse of the lover's usual one。 He had to get himself drunk instead of the girl。 The girl was usually too willing where he was not。 The last two years had been hell on his ego； and he used this simple way to restore it； sleeping with a young fresh girl for one night； taking her to dinner a few times； giving her an expensive present and then brushing her off in the nicest way possible so that her feelings wouldn't be hurt。 And then they could always say they had had a thing with the great Johnny Fontane。 It wasn't true love； but you couldn't knock it if the girl was beautiful and genuinely nice。 He hated the hard； bitchy ones； the ones who screwed for him and then rushed off to tell their friends that they'd screwed the great Johnny Fontane； always adding that they'd had better。 What amazed him more than anything else in his career were the plaisant husbands who almost told him to his face that they forgave their wives since it was allowed for even the most virtuous matron to be unfaithful with a great singing and movie star like Johnny Fontane。 That really floored him。
He loved Ella Fitzgerald on records。 He loved that kind of clean singing； that kind of clean phrasing。 It was the only thing in life he really understood and he knew he understood it better than anyone else on earth。 Now lying back on the couch； the brandy warming his throat； he felt a desire to sing； not music； but to phrase with the records； yet it was something impossible to do in front of a stranger。 He put his free hand in Sharon's lap； sipping his drink from his other hand。 Without any slyness but with the sensualness of a child seeking warmth； his hand in her lap pulled up the silk of her dress to show milky white