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uld have to pay the Black Hand terrorist and the two hundred dollars from Tessio and the two hundred dollars from Clemenza。 If he did not kill Fanucci； he would have to pay the man seven hundred dollars cold cash。 Fanucci alive was not worth seven hundred dollars to him。 He would not pay seven hundred dollars to keep Fanucci alive。 If Fanucci needed seven hundred dollars for an operation to save his life； he would not give Fanucci seven hundred dollars for the surgeon。 He owed Fanucci no personal debt of gratitude； they were not blood relatives； he did not love Fanucci。 Why； then； should he give Fanucci seven hundred dollars？
And it followed inevitably； that since Fanucci wished to take seven hundred dollars from him by force； why should he not kill Fanucci？ Surely the world could do without such a person。
There were of course some practical reasons。 Fanucci might indeed have powerful friends who would seek vengeance。 Fanucci himself was a dangerous man； not so easily killed。 There were the police and the electric chair。 But Vito Corleone had lived under a sentence of death since the murder of his father。 As a boy of twelve he had fled his executioners and crossed the ocean into a strange land； taking a strange name。 And years of quiet observation had convinced him that he had more intelligence and more courage than other men； though he had never had the opportunity to use that intelligence and courage。
And yet he hesitated before taking the first step toward his destiny。 He even packed the seven hundred dollars in a single fold of bills and put the money in a convenient sick pocket of his trousers。 But he put the money in the left side of his trousers。 In the right…hand pocket he put the gun Clemenza had given him to use in the hijacking of the silk truck。
Fanucci came promptly at nine in the evening。 Vito Corleone set out a jug of homemade wine that Clemenza had given him。
Fanucci put his white fedora on the table beside the jug of wine。 He loosened his broad multiflowered tie； its tomato stains camouflaged by the bright patterns。 The summer night was hot； the gaslight feeble。 It was very quiet in the apartment。 But Vito Corleone was icy。 To show his good faith he handed over the roll of bills and watched carefully as Fanucci； after counting it； took out a wide leather wallet and stuffed the money inside。 Fanucci sipped his glass of wine and said； 〃You still owe me two hundred dollars。〃 His heavy…browed face was expressionless。
Vito Corleone said in his cool reasonable voice； 〃I'm a little short； I've been out of work。 Let me owe you the money for a few weeks。〃
This was a permissible gambit。 Fanucci had the bulk of the money and would wait。 He might even be persuaded to take nothing more or to wait a little longer。 He chuckled over his wine and said； 〃Ah； you're a sharp young fellow。 How is it I've never noticed you before？ You're too quiet a chap for your own interest。 I could find some work for you to do that would be very profitable。〃
Vito Corleone showed his interest with a polite nod and filled up the man's glass from the purple jug。 But Fanucci thought better of what he was going to say and rose from his chair and shook Vito's hand。 〃Good night； young fellow；〃 he said。 〃No hard feelings； eh？ If I can ever do you a service let me know。 You've done a good job for yourself tonight。〃
Vito let Fanucci go down the stairs and out the building。 The street was thronged with witnesses to show that he had left the Corleone home safely。 Vito watched from the window。 He saw Fanucci turn the corner toward 11th Avenue and knew he was headed toward his apartment； probably to put away his loot before ing out on the streets again。 Perhaps to put away his gun。 Vito Corleone left his apartment and ran up the stairs to the roof。 He traveled over the square block of roofs and descended down the steps of an empty loft building fire escape that left him in the back yard。 He kicked the back door open and went through the front door。 Across the street was Fanucci's tenement apartment house。
The village of tenements extended only as far west as Tenth Avenue。 Eleventh Avenue was mostly warehouses and lofts rented by firms who shipped by New York Central Railroad and wanted access to the freight yards that honeybed the area from Eleventh Avenue to the Hudson River。 Fanucci's apartment house was one of the few left standing in this wilderness and was occupied mostly by bachelor trainmen； yard workers； and the cheapest prostitutes。 These people did not sit in the street and gossip like honest Italians； they sat in beer taverns guzzling their pay。 So Vito Corleone found it an easy matter to slip across the deserted Eleventh Avenue and into the vestibule of Fanucci's apartment house。 There he drew the gun he had never fired and waited for Fanucci。
He watched through the glass door of the vestibule； knowing Fanucci would e down from Tenth Avenue。 Clemenza had showed him the safety on the gun and he had triggered it empty。 But as a young boy in Sicily at the early age of nine； he had often gone hunting with'his father； had often fired the heavy shotgun called the lupara。 It was his skill with the lupara even as a small boy that had brought the sentence of death upon him by his father's murderers。
Now waiting in the darkened hallway； he saw the white blob of Fanucci crossing the street toward the doorway。 Vito stepped back； shoulders pressed against the inner door that led to the stairs。 He held his gun out to fire。 His extended hand was only two paces from the outside door。 The door swung in。 Fanucci； white； broad； smelly； filled the square of light。 Vito Corleone fired。
The opened door let some of the sound escape into the street； the rest of the gun's explosion shook the building。 Fanucci was holding on to the sides of the door； trying to stand erect； trying to reach for his gun。 The force of his struggle had torn the buttons off his jacket and made it swing loose。 His gun was exposed but so was a spidery vein of red on the white shirtfront of his stomach。 Very carefully； as if he were plunging a needle into a vein； Vito Corleone fired his second bullet into that red web。
Fanucci fell to his knees； propping the door open。 He let out a terrible groan； the groan of a man in great physical distress that was almost ical。 He kept giving these groans； Vito remembered hearing at least three of them before he put the gun against Fanucci's sweaty； suety cheek and fired into his brain。 No more than five seconds had passed when Fanucci slumped into death； jamming the door open with his body。
Very carefully Vito took the wide wallet out of the dead man's jacket pocket and put it inside his shirt。 Then he walked across the street into the loft building； through that into the yard and climbed the fire escape to the roof。 From there he surveyed the street。 Fanucci's body was still lying in the doorway but there was no sign of any other person。 Two windows had gone up in the tenement and he could see dark heads poked out but since he could not see their features they had certainly not seen his。 And such men would not give information to the police。 Fanucci might lie there