The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
167
Against his better judgment, Vito Corleone accepted their offer. The clinching argument 
was that he would clear at least a thousand dollars for his share of the job. But his 
young companions struck him as rash, the planning of the job haphazard, the 
distribution of the loot foolhardy. Their whole approach was too careless for his taste. 
But he thought them of good, sound character. Peter Clemenza, already burly, inspired 
a certain trust, and the lean saturnine Tessio inspired confidence. 
The job itself went off without a hitch. Vito Corleone felt no fear, much to his 
astonishment, when his two comrades flashed guns and made the driver get out of the 
silk truck. He was also impressed with the coolness of Clemenza and Tessio. They 
didn’t get excited but joked with the driver, told him if he was a good lad they’d send his 
wife a few dresses. Because Vito thought it stupid to peddle dresses himself and so 
gave his whole share of stock to the fence, he made only seven hundred dollars. But 
this was a considerable sum of money in 1919. 
The next day on the street, Vito Corleoue was stopped by the cream-suited, 
white-fedoraed Fanucci. Fanucci was a brutal-looking man and he had done nothing to 
disguise the circular scar that stretched in a white semicircle from ear to ear, looping 
under his chin. He had heavy black brows and coarse features which, when he smiled, 
were in some odd way amiable. 
He spoke with a very thick Sicilian accent. “Ah, young fellow,” he said to Vito. “People 
tell me you’re rich. You and your two friends. But don’t you think you’ve treated me a 
little shabbily? After all, this is my neighborhood and yon should let me wet my beak.” 
He used the Sicilian phrase of the Mafia, “Fari vagnari a pizzu.” Pizzu means the beak 
of any small bird such as a canary. The phrase itself was a demand for part of the loot. 
As was his habit, Vito Corleone did not answer. He understood the implication 
immediately and was waiting for a definite demand. 
Fanucci smiled at him, showing gold teeth and stretching his nooses-like scar tight 
around his face. He mopped his face with a handkerchief and unbuttoned his jacket for 
a moment as if to cool himself but really to show the gun he carried stuck in the 
waistband of his comfortably wide trousers. Then he sighed and said, “Give me five 
hundred dollars and I’ll forget the insult. After all, young people don’t know the 
courtesies due a man like myself.” 
Vito Corleone smiled at him and even as a young man still unblooded, there was 
something so chilling in his smile that Fanucci hesitated a moment before going on. 

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