The Gold Coast (14 page)
Authors: Nelson DeMille
I was reminded of my first impression of him, of a conqueror, curious about the effete society he had just trampled, maybe a little amused by the inhabitants, and certainly monumentally unimpressed by a culture that couldn’t defend itself against people like Frank Bellarosa. This, I would learn later, was an accurate first impression and was, as I discovered from the man himself, part of the Italian psyche. But at that moment, I was just glad he was leaving. I knew, of course, I would see him again, if not to eat lamb’s head together on Easter, then some other time in the near future. But I did not know, nor could I have possibly guessed, to what extent we three would bring ruin and disaster on one another.
Bellarosa smiled at us, and I was struck again by that gentle mouth. He said bluntly, “I’m going to be a good neighbor. Don’t worry. We’ll get along.’’ He ducked into his car and drove off up the sun-dappled lane.
I handed Susan the bag of lettuce. “Oil and vinegar.’’ I added, “You were a bit snooty.”
“Me? How about you?’’ She asked, “Well, do you want to drop by for a quick lamb’s ear or something?”
“I think not.”
She stayed silent a moment, then said, “It just might be interesting.”
I said, “Susan, you’re strange.”
She replied in a husky voice, “Yeah? Ya think so?’’ She laughed and turned back toward the tennis courts. I left the tray of seedlings on the ground and followed. “Do you think I should plant vegetables this year?”
“You’d better.’’ She laughed again. “This is bizarre.”
The word was
scary
, not
bizarre
, and we both knew that. Not scary in the physical sense perhaps; we weren’t going to get rubbed out for not showing up at Bellarosa’s house or not planting his seedlings or even for being a little curt with him. But scary in the sense that the man had the power to have people who annoyed him rubbed out. And despite Susan’s aloofness and what I hoped was my cool indifference toward the man, you did not deal with Frank the Bishop Bellarosa in the same way you dealt with the Remsens, the Eltons, or the DePauws. And the reason for that was not too subtle: Frank Bellarosa was a killer.
scary
, not
bizarre
, and we both knew that. Not scary in the physical sense perhaps; we weren’t going to get rubbed out for not showing up at Bellarosa’s house or not planting his seedlings or even for being a little curt with him. But scary in the sense that the man had the power to have people who annoyed him rubbed out. And despite Susan’s aloofness and what I hoped was my cool indifference toward the man, you did not deal with Frank the Bishop Bellarosa in the same way you dealt with the Remsens, the Eltons, or the DePauws. And the reason for that was not too subtle: Frank Bellarosa was a killer.
Susan said, “Maybe ‘Casa Bellarosa.’”
“What?”
“His place. Maybe I’ll get a nice sign made as a housewarming gift. Something in mother-of-pearl. Casa Bellarosa.”
I didn’t reply to what I thought was nearly an ethnic slur.
Susan pulled a leaf of radicchio from the plastic bag and munched on it. “A little bitter. It does need some oil or something. But very fresh. Want some?”
“No, thank you.”
“Should we have introduced Mr. Bellarosa to the Roosevelts? You know, like, ‘Jim and Sally, may I present our newest friend and neighbor, Frank the Bishop Bellarosa?’ Or would one say ‘don Bellarosa,’ to impress the Roosevelts?”
“Don’t be inane.’’ I asked Susan, “What did you think of him?”
She replied without hesitation, “He has a certain primitive charm and a self-assurance even in the face of my well-bred arrogance.’’ She paused, then said, “He’s rather better looking than I’d imagined.”
“I don’t think he’s good-looking.’’ I added, “And he dresses funny.”
“So do half the tweedbags around here.”
We walked back onto the court, where Jim and Sally were volleying. I said, “Sorry.’’ You should know that interrupting a tennis game for anything short of a death on the court is in bad taste.
Jim responded, “Susan said that might be your new neighbor.”
“It was.’’ I picked up my racquet and took the court. “Where were we?”
Sally asked, “Frank Bellarosa?”
“I think it was my serve,’’ I said.
Susan said to Sally, “We just call him Bishop.”
Three of us thought that was funny. I repeated, “My serve, two–love.”
Susan showed the Roosevelts the bag of radicchio and they all examined it as though it were Martian plant life or something.
“It’s getting dark,’’ I said.
“What did he want?’’ Jim asked Susan.
Susan answered, “He wants us to eat this and plant a vegetable garden.”
Sally giggled.
Susan continued, “And he wants to know if he’s supposed to put a sign out front that says Alhambra. And,’’ Susan added, “he invited us over for Easter dinner.”
“Oh, no!’’ Sally squealed.
“Lamb’s head!’’ Susan exclaimed.
“Oh, for God’s sake,’’ I said. I’ve never seen a game delayed for conversation on the court except once at the Southampton Tennis Club when a jealous husband tried to brain the pro with his Dunlop Blue Max, but everyone got back to business as soon as the husband and the pro disappeared around the clubhouse. I said, “My muscles are tightening. That’s the game.’’ I gathered my things and walked off the court. The other three followed, still talking, and I led the way back to the house.
It was still warm enough to sit in the garden, and Susan brought out a bottle of old port. For hors d’oeuvres there was cheese and crackers, garnished with radicchio, which even I found amusing.
I drank and watched the sun go down, smelled the fresh horse manure in the rose garden, and tried to listen to the birds, but Susan, Sally, and Jim were chattering on about Frank Bellarosa, and I heard Susan using the words “deliciously sinister,’’ “interestingly primitive,’’ and even “intriguing.’’ The man is about as intriguing as a barrel of cement. But women see different things in men than men see in men. Sally was certainly intrigued by Susan’s descriptions. Jim, too, seemed absorbed in the subject.
If you’re interested in the pecking order on my terrace, the Stanhope and the Grace sitting across from me are considered old money by most American standards, because there wasn’t much American capital around until only about a hundred years ago. But the Roosevelt sitting beside me would think of the Graces and Stanhopes as new money and too much of it. The Roosevelts were never filthy rich, but they go back to the beginning of the New World and they have a respected name and are associated with public service to their country in war and peace, unlike at least one Stanhope I could name.
I told you about the Sutters, but you should know that my mother is a Whitman, a descendant of Long Island’s most illustrious poet, Walt Whitman. Thus, in the pecking order, Jim and I are peers, and our wives, while rich, pretty, and thin, are a step down the social ladder. Get it? It doesn’t matter. What matters now is where Frank Bellarosa fits.
As I listened to Susan and the Roosevelts talk, I realized they had a different slant on Frank Bellarosa than I did. I was concerned about Mr. Bellarosa’s legal transgressions against society, such as murder, racketeering, extortion, and little things like that. But Susan, Sally, and even Jim discussed larger issues such as Mr. Bellarosa’s shiny black car, shiny white shoes, and his major crime, which was the purchase of Alhambra. Susan, I think, acts and speaks differently when she’s around people like Sally Grace.
I was also struck by the fact that these three found some entertainment value in Mr. Frank Bellarosa. They spoke of him as if he were a gorilla in a cage and they were spectators. I almost envied them their supreme overconfidence, their assurance that they were not part of life’s circus, but were ticket holders with box seats opposite the center ring. This aloofness, I knew, was bred into Sally’s and Susan’s bones from childhood, and with Jim, it just flowed naturally in his blue blood. I suppose I can be aloof, too. But everyone in my family worked, and you can only be so aloof when you have to earn a living.
Listening to Susan, I wanted to remind her that she and I were not ticket holders at this particular event; we were part of the entertainment, we were inside the cage with the gorilla, and the thrills and chills were going to be more than vicarious.
At my suggestion, the subject turned to the boating season. The Roosevelts stayed until eight, then left.
I remarked to Susan, “I don’t see anything amusing or interesting about Bellarosa.”
“You have to keep an open mind,’’ she said, and poured herself another port.
“He is a criminal,’’ I said tersely.
She replied just as tersely, “If you have proof of that, Counselor, you’d better call the DA.”
Which reminded me of the underlying problem: If society couldn’t get rid of Frank Bellarosa, how was I supposed to do it? This breakdown of the law was sapping everyone’s morale—even Susan was commenting on it now, and Lester Remsen was convinced the rules were out the window. I wasn’t so sure yet. I said to Susan, “You know what I’m talking about. Bellarosa is a reputed Mafia don.”
She finished her port, let out a deep breath, and said, “Look, John, it’s been a long day, and I’m tired.”
Indeed it had been a long day, and I, too, felt physically and emotionally drained. I remarked, unwisely, “Hay fights take a lot out of a person.”
“Cut it out.’’ She stood and moved toward the house.
“Did we beat the Roosevelts or not?’’ I asked. “Do I get my sexual favor?”
She hesitated. “Sure. Would you like me to go fuck myself?”
Actually, yes.
She opened the French door that led into the study. “I’m certain you recall that we are due at the DePauws at nine for late supper. What one might call an Easter thing. Please be ready on time.’’ Susan went into the house.
I poured myself another port. No, I did not recall. What was more, I didn’t give a damn. It occurred to me that if certain people found Frank Bellarosa not bad looking, “deliciously sinister,’’ “interestingly primitive,’’ “intriguing,’’ and worth an hour’s conversation, then maybe those same people found me nice and dull and predictable. That, coupled with the hay fight earlier in the afternoon, got me wondering if Susan was getting a bit restless herself.
I stood, took the bottle of port, and walked out of the garden and into the dark. I kept walking until I found myself some time later at the hedge maze. A bit under the influence by now, I stumbled into the maze, whose paths were choked with untrimmed branches. I wandered around until I was sure I was completely lost, then sprawled out on the ground, finished the port, and fell asleep under the stars. Screw the DePauws.
Ten
I could hear birds singing close by, and I opened my eyes but could see nothing. I sat up quickly in disoriented panic. I saw now that I was engulfed in a mist, and I thought for a moment that I had died and gone to heaven. But then I burped up some port and I knew I was alive, though not well. By stages I recalled where I was and how I’d gotten there. I didn’t like any of the recollections, so I pushed them out of my mind.
Overhead, the first streaks of dawn lit up a purple and crimson sky. My head felt awful, I was cold, and my muscles were stiff as cardboard. I rubbed my eyes and yawned. It was Easter Sunday, and John Sutter had indeed risen.
I stood slowly and noticed the bottle of port on the ground and recalled using it as a pillow. I picked it up and took the final swallow from it to freshen my mouth. “Ugh . . .”
I brushed off my warm-up suit and zipped the jacket against the chill. Middle-aged men, even those in good shape, should not wallow around on the cold ground all night with a snoot full of booze. It’s not healthy or dignified. “Oh . . . my neck . . .”
I coughed, stretched, sneezed, and performed other morning functions. Everything seemed to be working except my mind, which couldn’t grasp the enormity of what I’d done.
I took a few tentative steps, felt all right, and began pushing aside the branches of the hedge maze. I tried following the trail of footprints and broken twigs of the night before, but tracking is not one of my outdoor skills, and I was soon lost. Actually, I started out lost. Now I was missing in action.
The sky was getting lighter, and I could make out east from west. The exit from the maze was on the eastern edge of the hedges, and I moved generally that way whenever I could, but I found myself crossing my path again and again. Whoever laid out this labyrinth was some kind of sadistic genius.
A full half hour after I’d begun, I broke out onto the lawn and saw the sun rising above the distant gazebo.
I sat on a stone bench at the entrance to the maze and forced myself to think. Not only had I walked out on Susan and missed a social engagement, but I had also missed sunrise services at St. Mark’s, and Susan and the Allards were probably frantic with worry by now. Well, maybe Susan and Ethel were not frantic, but George would be worried and the women, concerned.
I wondered if Susan had bravely gone to the DePauws with regrets from her husband, or had she called the police and stayed by the phone all night? I guess what I was wondering was if anyone cared if I was dead or alive. As I was brooding over this, I heard the sound of hoofs on the damp earth. I looked up to see a horse and rider approaching out of the sun. I stood and squinted into the sunlight.
Susan reined up on Zanzibar about twenty feet from where I stood. Neither Susan nor I spoke, but the stupid horse snorted, and the snort sounded contemptuous, which set me off, illogical as that may seem.
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