The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
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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 comfortable. 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 come 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 

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