The Gold Coast (82 page)

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Authors: Nelson DeMille

BOOK: The Gold Coast
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Also, I wanted my piece of him.
But while I was telling myself the truth, I admitted that I still liked the guy. I mean, we had clicked right from the beginning. And if Frank Bellarosa had any conscious thoughts at that moment, he was thinking about what a good pal I was to stop him from bleeding to death.
Mamma mia
, we should have had a pizza delivered.
Well, trying to clear your head and your conscience at the same time is pretty exhausting, so I tuned in to a fantasy about Linda the sketch artist and fell asleep.

 

 

Thirty-five
The tough son of a bitch survived, of course, thanks mostly to my Eagle Scout and army first-aid skills. The press had made a big deal about my saving Bellarosa’s life, and one of those inane inquiring-photographer pieces in a tabloid asked:
Would you save the life of a dying Mafia boss?
All six respondents said yes, going on about humanity and Christianity and all that. Sally Da-da might have had a slightly different opinion if asked, and I sort of suspected he was pissed off at me.
Anyway, it was mid-October now, Columbus Day to be precise, and perhaps that had something to do with my deciding to pay a call on Mr. Frank Bellarosa, who had been discharged from the hospital about two weeks before and was convalescing at Alhambra.
I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since our unfortunate dinner at Giulio’s, and in fact, I hadn’t even sent a card or flowers. Actually, he owed
me
flowers. But I had followed the news accounts of his medical progress and so forth. Also, Jenny Alvarez and I had been meeting in Manhattan for lunch now and then, and she gave me the latest mob gossip. The latest was this: Unlike with some failed Mafia hits where the intended victim survives and is granted a sort of stay of execution in return for acknowledging that he deserved what he almost got, the contract on Frank the Bishop Bellarosa was still in force.
Ms. Alvarez and I, incidentally, had progressed in our relationship toward a more spiritual and intellectual plane, which means I wasn’t screwing her. Just as well. That really complicates things.
So, on that sunny, mild Columbus Day morning, I walked across the back acreage to Alhambra, where I was stopped near the Virgin Mary by two men wearing blue windbreakers on which were stenciled the letters FBI. They both carried black M-16s. I introduced myself, and they asked for identification, though they seemed to know who I was. I produced my IDs and one of them used a hand-held radio to call someone. I could hear part of the conversation, and it sounded as if the guy on the other end had to go see if Mr. Bellarosa was receiving, as they say. I guess he was, because one of the FBI guys said he had to frisk me and he did. He then escorted me toward the house.
I knew, of course, that the guard had changed at Alhambra. Well, two of them were dead for one thing. But Tony and the other characters I had seen floating around all summer had disappeared, either of their own volition or by government decree. Anyway, the Feds were in charge now, and Frank, though safer, was less free, like his birds in their gilded cages. He wasn’t actually under arrest; he had apparently switched sides according to the press. Hey, would you blame him?
Anyway, the FBI guy with the M-16 said to me as we walked, “You understand that he has dismissed you as his attorney, and anything he says to you is not privileged information.”
“I sort of figured that out.’’ Most FBI agents are lawyers, and maybe even this guy, with his government-issued L. L. Bean look-alikes and his rifle, was an attorney. I like to see attorneys do macho things. Good for the profession’s image.
I asked, “Is his wife home?”
“Not today. She stays with relatives on and off.”
“Is Mr. Mancuso here?”
“I’m not sure.”
We crossed the patio, which was covered with autumn leaves, and passed by the pizza oven, whose door was rusty. We entered the great house through the rear doors where another agent, wearing a suit, took charge and escorted me into the palm court.
The palm court was filled with bouquets and baskets of get-well flowers and smelled like a funeral home.
Mamma mia
, these people were into cut flowers. I peeked at a few cards, and on the biggest flower arrangement was a card that said:
Frank
,
Welcome home. Feel better. Love, Sal and Marie.
No. Could that be Sally Da-da? What was Anna’s sister’s name? I think it
was
Marie. What incredible gall.
Anyway, there were a few other
federales
in the palm court, and one of them ran a metal detector over me while I admired the flowers.
The detector went off and the guy said, “Please empty your pockets, sir.”
“It went off because I have brass balls,’’ I informed him, but I emptied my pockets just the same. I was wearing a tweed shooting jacket, perhaps not the best choice of attire for the occasion, and sure enough, in the side pocket was a clasp knife, which was missed by the frisk search, and which I use to extract jammed shotgun shells. But I didn’t mention that because these guys looked tense enough.
“May I have that, sir?”
I gave him the knife and he ran the detector over me again. While this was going on, I spotted a female nurse walking across the palm court. She was an older woman, not a hanky-panky nurse, and she looked tough, the kind who gives ice-water enemas without lubrication.
So, the gent escorted me up the stairs, but I said, “If he’s in his den, I know the way.”
He replied, “I have to take you all the way, sir.”
Good Lord, this place was getting grim.
We walked to the closed door of the den, and the agent knocked once and opened it. I walked in and the agent shut the door behind me.
Bellarosa was sitting in the easy chair where he’d sat that night we had grappa together. He was wearing a blue-striped bathrobe, and bedroom slippers, which somehow made him look older or perhaps just benign. I noticed he needed a shave.
Still sitting, he extended his hand toward me and said, “I can’t get up so easy.”
I took his hand and we shook. I saw now that his usually tanned skin was sallow, and I noticed a few purplish scars on his face and neck where the buckshot had hit him. “How are you, Frank?”
“Not bad.”
“You look like shit.”
He laughed. “Yeah. I can’t get around much. No exercise. They’re still finding fucking pellets in my legs, and my chest feels like I got hit by a truck. I gotta use these canes now.’’ He grabbed a cane by the side of the chair. “Like my grandmother.’’ He lifted the cane. “I whack anybody who walks past.’’ He swung the cane and tapped me playfully on the hip and laughed. “Like my old grandmother. Have a seat.”
I sat in the chair opposite him.
“You want some coffee? Filomena’s still here. She’s the only one left. The rest are fucking Feds. Even the nurses are fucking Feds. You want coffee?”
“Sure.”
He picked up a walkie-talkie and bellowed, “Coffee!’’ He put the radio down and smiled. “I keep them all busy.”
He really did look like shit, but I didn’t sense any brain impairment. In fact, he seemed sharp as ever, just a bit subdued, though that might be a result of painkillers.
I asked, “How’s Anna?”
“She’s okay. She’s with her crazy sister in Brooklyn.”
“Marie? The one who’s married to Sally Da-da?”
He looked at me and nodded.
I said, “You know the Feds think it was your brother-in-law.”
He shrugged.
I went on, “He’s in charge now. Right?”
“In charge of what?”
“The empire.”
He laughed. “Empire? I don’t know about no empire.”
“You better know, Frank, or you’ll wake up one morning and nobody’s going to be outside with M-16s. It’ll just be you and your canes and Sally Da-da paying a call.
Capisce
?”
He smiled. “Listen to you. You sound like fucking Mancuso.”
“The papers said you were cooperating.”
He snorted. “More bullshit. More Ferragamo bullshit, trying to make me look like a rat. The prick still wants me dead.”
In truth, I hadn’t given much credence to the possibility that Frank Bellarosa was now working for Alphonse Ferragamo. I said, “Look, Frank, I’m not your attorney anymore according to Jack Weinstein, but if I were, I’d advise you to cooperate with the government. I assume you’re at least contemplating that, or you wouldn’t be surrounded by FBI.”
He played with the crook of his cane for a while, and he looked like an old man, I thought. He said, “I’m being protected because I’m a witness to a killing. Vinnie’s killing. Just like you. You know? And I’m the target of organized crime.’’ He smiled.
I said, “Frank, you don’t owe any loyalty to people who tried to kill you. This is your last chance to stay out of jail, to stay alive, and to go someplace with Anna and start over.”
He looked at me for a full minute, then asked, “What’s it to you?”
Good question. I replied, “Maybe I care about Anna. Maybe I care about justice.’’ I added, “I’m a citizen.”
“Yeah? Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Citizen. Frank Bellarosa doesn’t talk to the Feds.”
“Your own people tried to kill you, Frank.”
“That was a misunderstanding. You know how that happened. Fucking Ferragamo set me up. But I got it all straightened out now with my people.”
“Do you? Then go take a ride in the country with Sally Da-da.”
“Hey, Counselor, you don’t know anything about this.”
“I know I saw the business end of two double-barreled shotguns. I saw Vinnie’s head splash open like a pumpkin, and I saw you do a backflip through the window.”
He smiled. “You see why I pay my lawyers so much?”
Speaking of which, I hadn’t seen a nickel from him so far, but I wasn’t going to bring it up. I did say, however, “I’d like you to explain to me why I was fired.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Lots of reasons. What did Jack tell you?”
“Not much. He just said I caught a break and I should be thrilled. This is true. He also said he would call me as your alibi witness if you wind up standing trial for murder. That is not so thrilling.”
“Yeah. Well, we’ll see.’’ He added, “The Feds don’t like you. So I did them a little favor and let you go.”
“That’s interesting. And what favor are they doing you in return?”
He didn’t reply, but said, “That don’t mean we can’t still be friends. In fact, we’re better off as just friends and neighbors. Right?”
“I suppose. Am I still an honorary Italian?”
He laughed. “Sure. Hey, better yet, I’m making you an honorary
Napoletano.
You know why? Because you stood there and flipped that guy the bird when he was thinking about putting you away.”
How in the name of God could he know that? But I knew better than to ask.
Bellarosa was getting himself into a lighter mood and he said, “Hey, you still fucking that Alvarez broad or what?”
“I’m a married man.”
He smiled.
I said, “She did tell me that the word on the street is that your brother-in-law still has a contract out on you. And you let your wife sleep there?”
“One’s got nothing to do with the other.”
I guess I still didn’t understand Italian family relationships. I tried to imagine a situation where Susan went to stay with relatives who were trying to kill me. Actually, something like that happens every time she goes to Hilton Head. But William Peckerhead only
wants
me dead; he’s too cheap to hire anyone to do the job. I said to Bellarosa, “Sally sent you flowers. Does he come here and visit you?”
He didn’t answer my question directly, but said, “The guy’s a Sicilian. The Sicilians have this expression: You hold your friends close, but your enemies closer.
Capisce?
”
“I do, but I think you’re all nuts.
I
am not nuts, Frank.
You
are all nuts.”
He shrugged.
I asked him, “Do they pay the two guys for a near miss?”
He smiled. “They can keep the half they got up front. They don’t get the other half.’’ He added, “I woulda done it different.”
“How so?”
He replied as though he’d thought this out. “Well, the shotguns were all right to knock people down and fuck up everybody’s mind. You know? But you gotta finish the guy you’re after with a bullet in the head, because lots of guys wear a vest now. Right?”
“Techniques vary, I’m sure. Hey, Frank, how come you were wearing a vest and not me?”
“I told you, you’re a civilian. Don’t worry about it. Hey, you want a vest? I’ll give you one of mine.’’ He laughed.
There was a knock on the door, and an FBI guy came in followed by Filomena, who was carrying a tray. I stood to help her, but she made it clear I was in her way, so I sat down. There aren’t many women whose appearance would be improved by a beard, but Filomena was one of them.

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