The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
33
Michael nodded. Then Sonny in the back seat asked his father, “Johnny says you’re 
getting him squared away with that Hollywood business. Do you want me to go out there 
and help?” 
Don Corleone was curt. “Tom is going tonight. He won’t need any help, it’s a simple 
affair.” 
Sonny Corleone laughed. “Johnny thinks you can’t fix it, that’s why I thought you might 
want me to go out there.” 
Don Corleone turned his head. “Why do you doubt me?” he asked Johnny Fontane. 
“Hasn’t your Godfather always done what he said he would do? Have I ever been taken 
for a fool?” 
Johnny apologized nervously. “Godfather, the man who runs it is a real.90 caliber 
pezzonovante. You can’t budge him, not even with money. He has big connections. And 
he hates me. I just don’t know how you can swing it.” 
The Don spoke with affectionate amusement. “I say to you: you shall have it.” He 
nudged Michael with his elbow. “We won’t disappoint my godson, eh, Michael?” 
Michael, who never doubted his father for a moment, shook his head. 
As they walked toward the hospital entrance, Don Corleone put his hand on Michael’s 
arm so that the others forged ahead. “When you get through with college, come and talk 
to me,” the Don said. “I have some plans you will like.” 
Michael didn’t say anything. Don Corleone grunted in exasperation. “I know how you 
are. I won’t ask you to do anything you don’t approve of. This is something special. Go 
your own way now, you’re a man after all. But come to me as a son should when you 
have finished with your schooling.” 
* * *
The family of Genco Abbandando, wife and three daughters dressed in black, clustered 
like a flock of plump crows on the white tile floor of the hospital corridor. When they saw 
Don Corleone come out of the elevator, they seemed to flutter up off the white tiles in an 
instinctive surge toward him for protection. The mother was regally stout in black, the 
daughters fat and plain. Mrs. Abbandando pecked at Don Corleone’s cheek, sobbing, 
wailing, “Oh, what a saint you are, to come here on your daughter’s wedding day.” 
Don Corleone brushed these thanks aside. “Don’t I owe respect to such a friend, a 
friend who has been my right arm for twenty, years?” He had understood immediately 

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