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daughter could be in serious trouble. Unless you're suggesting that she is a" – here his

face became one of scholarly doubt – "a 'moll (любовница гангстера [mol]),' I believe

it's called."

Kay looked at her father in astonishment. She knew he was being playful in his

donnish (педантичный, высокомерный, чванный) way and she was surprised that he

could take the whole affair so lightly.

Mr. Adams said firmly, "However, rest assured that if the young man shows his face

here I shall immediately report his presence to the authorities. As will my daughter. Now,

if you will forgive us, our lunch is growing cold."

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He ushered the men out of the house with every courtesy and closed the door on their

backs gently but firmly. He took Kay by the arm and led her toward the kitchen far in the

rear of the house, "Come, my dear, your mother is waiting lunch for us."

By the time they reached the kitchen, Kay was weeping silently, out of relief from

strain, at her father's unquestioning affection. In the kitchen her mother took no notice of

her weeping, and Kay realized that her father must have told her about the two

detectives. She sat down at her place and her mother served her silently. When all

three were at the table her father said grace (молитва /перед едой/) with bowed head.

Mrs. Adams was a short stout woman always neatly dressed, hair always set. Kay

had never seen her in disarray (беспорядок /в одежде/; смятение [dıs∂'reı]). Her

mother too had always been a little disinterested in her, holding her at arm's length. And

she did so now. "Kay, stop being so dramatic. I'm sure it's all a great deal of fuss about

nothing at all. After all, the boy was a Dartmouth boy, he couldn't possibly be mixed up

in anything so sordid (грязный, низкий, подлый)."

Kay looked up in surprise. "How did you know Mike went to Dartmouth?"

Her mother said complacently (complacent [k∂m'pleısnt] – благодушный), "You

young people are so mysterious, you think you're so clever. We've known about him all

along, but of course we couldn't bring it up until you did."

"But how did you know?" Kay asked. She still couldn't face her father now that he

knew about her and Mike sleeping together. So she didn't see the smile on his face

when he said, "We opened your mail, of course."

Kay was horrified and angry. Now she could face him. What he had done was more

shameful than her own sin. She could never believe it of him. "Father, you didn't, you

couldn't have."

Mr. Adams smiled at her. "I debated which was the greater sin, opening your mail, or

going in ignorance of some hazard my only child might be incurring (to incur [ın'k∂:] –

подвергаться /чему-либо/; навлечь на себя). The choice was simple, and virtuous."

Mrs. Adams said between mouthfuls of boiled chicken, "After all, my dear, you are

terribly innocent for your age. We had to be aware. And you never spoke about him."

For the first time Kay was grateful that Michael was never affectionate in his letters.

She was grateful that her parents hadn't seen some of her letters. "I never told you

about him because I thought you'd be horrified about his family."

"We were," Mr. Adams said cheerfully. "By the way, has Michael gotten in touch with

you?"

Kay shook her head. "I don't believe he's guilty of anything."

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She saw her parents exchange a glance over the table. Then Mr. Adams said gently,

"If he's not guilty and he's vanished, then perhaps something else happened to him."

At first Kay didn't understand. Then she got up from the table and ran to her room.

Three days later Kay Adams got out of a taxi in front of the Corleone mall in Long

Beach. She had phoned, she was expected. Tom Hagen met her at the door and she

was disappointed that it was him. She knew he would tell her nothing.

In the living room he gave her a drink. She had seen a couple of other men lounging

around the house but not Sonny. She asked Tom Hagen directly, "Do you know where

Mike is? Do you know where I can get in touch with him?"

Hagen said smoothly, "We know he's all right but we don't know where he is right now.

When he heard about that captain being shot he was afraid they'd accuse him. So he

just decided to disappear. He told me he'd get in touch in a few months."

The story was not only false but meant to be seen through, he was giving her that much.

"Did that captain really break his jaw?" Kay asked.

"I'm afraid that's true," Tom said. "But Mike was never a vindictive (мстительный

[vın’dıktıv]) man. I'm sure that had nothing to do with what happened."

Kay opened her purse and took out a letter. "Will you deliver this to him if he gets in

touch with you?"

Hagen shook his head. "If I accepted that letter and you told a court of law I accepted

that letter, it might be interpreted as my having knowledge of his whereabouts

(местонахождение). Why don't you just wait a bit? I'm sure Mike will get in touch."

She finished her drink and got up to leave. Hagen escorted her to the hall but as he

opened the door, a woman came in from outside. A short, stout woman dressed in black.

Kay recognized her as Michael's mother. She held out her hand and said, "How are you,

Mrs. Corleone?"

The woman's small black eyes darted at her for a moment, then the wrinkled, leathery,

olive-skinned face broke into a small curt smile of greeting that was yet in some curious

way truly friendly. "Ah, you Mikey's little girl," Mrs. Corleone said. She had a heavy

Italian accent, Kay could barely understand her. "You eat something?" Kay said no,

meaning she didn't want anything to eat, but Mrs. Corleone turned furiously on Tom

Hagen and berated (to berate – ругать, бранить) him in Italian ending with, "You don't

even give this poor girl coffee, you disgrazia." She took Kay by the hand, the old

woman's hand surprisingly warm and alive, and led her into the kitchen. "You have

coffee and eat something, then somebody drive you home. A nice girl like you, I don't

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want you to take the train." She made Kay sit down and bustled (to bustle – торопиться,

суетиться) around the kitchen, tearing off her coat and hat and draping them over a

chair. In a few seconds there was bread and cheese and salami on the table and coffee

perking (to perk – вскидывать голову; подаваться вперед; /здесь/ возвышаться,

быть установленым наверху) on the stove.

Kay said timidly, "I came to ask about Mike, I haven't heard from him. Mr. Hagen said

nobody knows where he is, that he'll turn up in a little while."

Hagen spoke quickly, "That's all we can tell her now, Ma."

Mrs. Corleone gave him a look of withering contempt (с «уничтожающим»

презрением; to wither [‘wıр∂] – вянуть; иссушать). "Now you gonna tell me what to do?

My husband don't tell me what to do, God have mercy on him." She crossed herself.

"Is Mr. Corleone all right?" Kay asked.

"Fine," Mrs. Corleone said. "Fine. He's getting old, he's getting foolish to let something

like that happen." She tapped her head disrespectfully. She poured the coffee and

forced Kay to eat some bread and cheese.

After they drank their coffee Mrs. Corleone took one of Kay's hands in her two brown

ones. She said quietly, "Mikey no gonna write you, you no gonna hear from Mikey. He

hide two – three years. Maybe more, maybe much more. You go home to your family

and find a nice young fellow and get married."

Kay took the letter out of her purse. "Will you send this to him?"

The old lady took the letter and patted Kay on the cheek. "Sure, sure," she said.

Hagen started to protest and she screamed at him in Italian. Then she led Kay to the

door. There she kissed her on the cheek very quickly and said, "You forget about Mikey,

he no the man for you anymore."

There was a car waiting for her with two men up front. They drove her all the way to

her hotel in New York never saying a word. Neither did Kay. She was trying to get used

to the fact that the young man she had loved was a cold-blooded murderer. And that

she had been told by the most unimpeachable source: his mother.

Chapter 16

Carlo Rizzi was punk sore at the world. Once married into the Corleone Family, he'd

been shunted aside (to shunt – переводить на запасный путь; /здесь/ откладывать в

сторону, оставить не у дел) with a small bookmaker's business on the Upper East

Side of Manhattan. He'd counted on one of the houses in the mall on Long Beach, he

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knew the Don could move retainer families out when he pleased and he had been sure

it would happen and he would be on the inside of everything. But the Don wasn't

treating him right. The "Great Don," he thought with scorn. An old Moustache Pete

who'd been caught out on the street by gunmen like any dumb small-time (мелкий,

незначительный, второсортный) hood. He hoped the old bastard croaked (to croak –

каркать; /разг./ умереть). Sonny had been his friend once and if Sonny became the

head of the Family maybe he'd get a break, get on the inside.

He watched his wife pour his coffee. Christ, what a mess she turned out to be. Five

months of marriage and she was already spreading, besides blowing up. Real guinea

broads all these Italians in the East.

He reached out and felt Connie's soft spreading buttocks. She smiled at him and he

said contemptuously, "You got more ham than a hog." It pleased him to see the hurt

look on her face, the tears springing into her eyes. She might be a daughter of the Great

Don but she was his wife, she was his property now and he could treat her as he

pleased. It made him feel powerful that one of the Corleones was his doormat (половик

для вытирания ног).

He had started her off just right. She had tried to keep that purse full of money

presents for herself and he had given her a nice black eye and taken the money from

her. Never told her what he'd done with it, either. That might have really caused some

trouble. Even now he felt just the slightest twinge of remorse (угрызения совести;

twinge – приступ боли). Christ, he'd blown nearly fifteen grand on the track (играя на

скачках) and show girl bimbos (bimbo – глупая красотка легкого поведения).

He could feel Connie watching his back and so he flexed his muscles as he reached

for the plate of sweet buns on the other side of the table. He'd just polished off ham and

eggs but he was a big man and needed a big breakfast. He was pleased with the

picture he knew he presented to his wife. Not the usual greasy dark guinzo husband

(guinzo – итальяшка) but crew-cut blond, huge golden-haired forearms and broad

shoulders and thin waist. And he knew he was physically stronger than any of those so

called hard guys that worked for the family. Guys like Clemenza, Tessio, Rocco

Lampone, and that guy Paulie that somebody had knocked off. He wondered what the

story was about that. Then for some reason he thought about Sonny. Man to man he

could take Sonny, he thought, even though Sonny was a little bigger and a little heavier.

But what scared him was Sonny's rep, though he himself had never seen Sonny

anything but good-natured and kidding around. Yeah, Sonny was his buddy. Maybe with

the old Don gone, things would open up.

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He dawdled (to dawdle – тратить, тянуть время, бездельничать) over his coffee. He

hated this apartment. He was used to the bigger living quarters of the West and in a

little while he would have to go crosstown to his "book" to run the noontime action. It

was a Sunday, the heaviest action of the week what with baseball going already and the

tail end of basketball and the night trotters (trotter – рысак) starting up. Gradually he

became aware of Connie bustling around behind him and he turned his head to watch

her.

She was getting dressed up in the real New York City guinzo style that he hated. A

silk flowered-pattern dress with belt, showy bracelet and earrings, flouncy (flounce –

оборка) sleeves. She looked twenty years older. "Where the hell are you going?" he

asked.

She answered him coldly, "To see my father out in Long Beach. He still can't get out

of bed and he needs company."

Carlo was curious. "Is Sonny still running the show?"

Connie gave him a bland look. "What show?"

He was furious. "You lousy little guinea bitch, don't talk to me like that or I'll beat that

kid right out of your belly." She looked frightened and this enraged him even more. He

sprang from his chair and slapped her across the face, the blow leaving a red welt

(след, рубец /от удара/). With quick precision he slapped her three more times. He

saw her upper lip split bloody and puff up. That stopped him. He didn't want to leave a

mark. She ran into the bedroom and slammed the door and he heard the key turning in

the lock. He laughed and returned to his coffee.

He smoked until it was time for him to dress. He knocked on the door and said, "Open

it up before I kick it in." There was no answer. "Come on, I gotta get dressed," he said in

a loud voice. He could hear her getting up off the bed and coming toward the door, then

the key turned in the lock. When he entered she had her back to him, walking back

toward the bed, lying down on it with her face turned away to the wall.

He dressed quickly and then saw she was in her slip. He wanted her to go visit her

father, he hoped she would bring back information. "What's the matter, a few slaps take

all the energy out of you?" She was a lazy slut.

"I don't wanna go." Her voice was tearful, the words mumbled. He reached out

impatiently and pulled her around to face him. And then he saw why she didn't want to

go and thought maybe it was just at well.

He must have slapped her harder than he figured. Her left cheek was blown up, the

cut upper lip ballooned grotesquely puffy and white beneath her nose. "OK," he said,

"but I won't be home until late. Sunday is my busy day."

He left the apartment and found a parking ticket on his car, a fifteen-dollar green one.