The Godfather

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 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
364
Upstate in the city of Buffalo, a small pizza parlor on a side street was doing a rush 
trade. As the lunch hours passed, business finally slackened off and the counterman 
took his round tin tray with its few leftover slices out of the window and put it on the shelf 
on the huge brick oven. He peeked into the oven at a pie baking there. The cheese had 
not yet started to bubble. When he turned back to the counter that enabled him to serve 
people in the street, there was a young, tough-looking man standing there. The man 
said, “Gimme a slice.” 
The pizza counterman took his wooden shovel and scooped one of the cold slices into 
the oven to warm it up. The customer, instead of waiting outside, decided to come 
through the door and be served. The store was empty now. The counterman opened the 
oven and took out the hot slice and served it on a paper plate. But the customer, instead 
of giving the money for it, was staring at him intently. 
“I hear you got a great tattoo on your chest,” the customer said. “I can see the top of it 
over your shirt, how about letting me see the rest of it?” 
The counterman froze. He seemed to be paralyzed. 
“Open your shirt,” the customer said. 
The counterman shook his head. “I got no tattoo,” he said in heavily accented English. 
“That’s the man who works at night.” 
The customer laughed. It was an unpleasant laugh, harsh, strained. “Come on, unbutton 
your shirt, let me see.” 
The counterman started backing toward the rear of the store, aiming to edge around the 
huge oven. But the customer raised his hand above the counter. There was a gun in it. 
He fired. The bullet caught the counterman in the chest and hurled him against the 
oven. The customer fired into his body again and the counterman slumped to the floor. 
The customer came around the serving shelf, reached down and ripped the buttons off 
the shirt. The chest was covered with blood, but the tattoo was visible, the intertwined 
lovers and the knife transfixing them. The counterman raised one of his arms feebly as if 
to protect himself. The gunman said, “Fabrizzio, Michael Corleone sends you his 
regards.” He extended the gun so that it was only a few inches from the counterman’s 
skull and pulled the trigger. Then he walked out of the store. At the curb a car was 
waiting for him with its door open. He jumped in and the car sped off. 
Rocco Lampone answered the phone installed on one of the iron pillars of the gate. He 
heard someone saying, “Your package is ready,” and the click as the caller hung up. 

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