The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
51
beer and walked out into the dark street. Perfect. It was after midnight. There was only 
one other bar that showed light. The rest of the stores were closed. The precinct patrol 
car had been taken care of by Clemenza. They wouldn’t be around that way until they 
got a radio call and then they’d come slow. 
He leaned against the four-door Chevy sedan. In the back seat two men were sitting, 
almost invisible, although they were very big men. Paulie said, “Take them when they 
come out.” 
He still thought it had all been set up too fast. Clemenza had given him copies of the 
police mug shots of the two punks, the dope on where the punks went drinking every 
night to pick up bar girls. Paulie had recruited two of the strong-arms in the family and 
fingered the punks for them. He had also given them their instructions. No blows on the 
top or the back of the head, there was to be no accidental fatality. Other than that they 
could go as far as they liked. He had given them only one warning: “If those punks get 
out of the hospital in less than a month, you guys go back to driving trucks.” 
The two big men were getting out of the car. They were both ex-boxers who had never 
made it past the small clubs and had been fixed up by Sonny Corleone with a little 
loan-shark action so that they could make a decent living. They were, naturally, anxious 
to show their gratitude. 
When Jerry Wagner and Kevin Moonan came out of the bar they were perfect setups. 
The bar girl’s taunts had left their adolescent vanity prickly. Paulie Gatto, leaning against 
the fender of his car, called out to them with a teasing laugh, “Hey, Casanova, those 
broads really brushed you off.” 
The two young men turned on him with delight. Paulie Gatto looked like a perfect outlet 
for their humiliation. Ferret-faced, short, slightly built and a wise guy in the bargain. They 
pounced on him eagerly and immediately found their arms pinned by two men grabbing 
them from behind. At the same moment Paulie Gatto had slipped onto his right hand a 
specially made set of brass knuckles studded with one-sixteenth-inch iron spikes. His 
timing was good, he worked out in the gym three times a week. He smashed the punk 
named Wagner right on the nose. The man holding Wagner lifted him up off the ground 
and Paulie swung his arm, uppercutting into the perfectly positioned groin. Wagner went 
limp and the big man dropped him. This had taken no more than six seconds. 
Now both of them turned their attention to Kevin Moonan, who was trying to shout. The 
man holding him from behind did so easily with one huge muscled arm. The other hand 

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