The Godfather

 “The Godfather” By Mario Puzo
 
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police car sirened a path through them. Directly behind the police was the Daily News 
radio car and even before it stopped a photographer jumped out to snap pictures of the 
bleeding Don Corleone. A few moments later an ambulance arrived. The photographer 
turned his attention to Freddie Corleone, who was now weeping openly, and this was a 
curiously comical sight, because of his tough, Cupid-featured face, heavy nose and thick 
mouth smeared with snot. Detectives were spreading through the crowd and more 
police cars were coming up. One detective knelt beside Freddie, questioning him, but 
Freddie was too deep in shock to answer. The detective reached inside Freddie’s coat 
and lifted his wallet. He looked at the identification inside and whistled to his partner. In 
just a few seconds Freddie had been cut off from the crowd by a flock of 
plainclothesmen. The first detective found Freddie’s gun in its shoulder holster and took 
it. Then they lifted Freddie off his feet and shoved him into an unmarked car. As that car 
pulled away it was followed by the Daily News radio car. The photographer was still 
snapping pictures of everybody and everything. 
* * * 
In the half hour after the shooting of his father, Sonny Corleone received five phone 
calls in rapid succession. The first was from Detective John Phillips, who was on the 
family payroll and had been in the lead car of plainclothesmen at the scene of the 
shooting. The first thing he said to Sonny over the phone was, “Do you recognize my 
voice?” 
“Yeah,” Sonny said. He was fresh from a nap, called to the phone by his wife. 
Phillips said quickly without preamble, “Somebody shot your father outside his place. 
Fifteen minutes ago. He’s alive but hurt bad. They’ve taken him to French Hospital. 
They got your brother Freddie down at the Chelsea precinct. You better get him a doctor 
when they turn him loose. I’m going down to the hospital now to help question your old 
man, if he can talk. I’ll keep you posted.” 
Across the table, Sonny’s wife Sandra noticed that her husband’s face had gone red 
with flushing blood. His eyes were glazed over. She whispered, “What’s the matter?” He 
waved at her impatiently to shut up, swung his body away so that his back was toward 
her and said into the phone, “You sure he’s alive?” 
“Yeah, I’m sure,” the detective said. “A lot of blood but I think maybe he’s not as bad as 
he looks.” 
“Thanks,” Sonny said. “Be home tomorrow morning eight sharp. You got a grand 

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