The Gold Coast (83 page)

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Authors: Nelson DeMille

BOOK: The Gold Coast
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She put the tray on the table and poured two cups of coffee. Frank said something to her in Italian, and she said something back to him, and they were at it again. While they argued about whatever, she fixed his coffee with cream and sugar and buttered a biscuit for him. I could tell, despite the arguing, that there was affection between the two. I said to Bellarosa, “Tell her I like her.”
He smiled and spoke to Filomena in Italian.
She looked at me and made a sort of grunt, then snapped something at me.
Bellarosa translated, “She said you have a beautiful wife and you should behave.’’ He added, “Italian women think when you give them a compliment, you want to fuck them. They think all men are pigs.”
“They’re right.”
Filomena gave me a glance and left.
I had some coffee, but I noticed that Bellarosa ignored his and ignored the biscuits. I said to him, “Frank, I’m not here to do the government’s work, but I have to tell you, you should put on your Machiavellian thinking cap and consider what’s good for you and your wife and your sons.’’ I added, “I tell you this because I like you.”
He seemed to be actually thinking about that, then replied, “I’ll tell you something, Counselor, things are different now. Twenty years ago, nobody talked to the DA or the Feds. Now you got guys who want it both ways. They want to make the money, live the life, then they get into a little trouble with the law, and they don’t want to do a little time. You know? So they sing. They don’t understand that you got to be ready to do twenty years when you get into this business or you don’t get into this business. But now they all have middle-class ambitions, these men. They want to sleep with their wives and girlfriends every night, see their kids off to school, play golf even. In my uncle’s day, a man did his twenty years without a fucking peep, and he came out and his wife hugged him, his children kissed his hand, and his partners filled him in on the latest. Understand? But who’s got that kind of balls today? So the fucking U.S. Attorney offers deals. But I don’t make deals with Feds to save my own ass. My friends should’ve understood that. They should understand that Frank Bellarosa is not a fucking rat like half of them are. You know what I learned at La Salle? You lead by example. You don’t compromise your honor. If this thing, this organization, is going to go on, then I got to show everybody how to make it go on. I got to set the example even if they tried to kill me, and even if I’m surrounded now by Feds. That’s balls, Counselor. Balls.
Capisce?
”
Indeed I did. Misplaced balls, but balls nonetheless. “
Capisco.
”
He smiled. “Yeah. Hey, the organization may be a little fucked up these days, but you can’t say they don’t still have some class and style. They left you standing, didn’t they?”
I replied, “They understand bad press, too. Hitting you is one thing, hitting me is another.”
“Yeah. We still get good press. We want good press. We
need
good press. The
melanzane
and the Spanish shoot everybody, then they wonder why nobody likes them. Right?”
“Techniques vary, as I said.”
“Yeah, but those assholes don’t have any technique.”
I really didn’t want to debate the merits of competing criminal organizations. But Bellarosa had a point of sorts. To wit: Even if Sally Da-da wanted me dead because I annoyed him, he knew that killing me was not good press and not good business. So Gentleman John Sutter walked through blood and fire with nothing more than a ruined suit and tie, protected by an aura of perceived power and impeccable social credentials. No blue blood on the sidewalks of Little Italy. No wonder Frank didn’t think I needed a bulletproof vest. Just the same, I would have preferred to be wearing one when the goombah pointed the gun at me.
I regarded Bellarosa a moment. Though his face looked drawn and his frame looked somehow diminished to me, his paunch was trying to get out of his bathrobe. Truly, getting hit by three 8-gauge shotgun blasts, even when wearing a vest, was not good for one’s health. Seeing him there, a physical wreck, I couldn’t help but wonder if his mental state hadn’t deteriorated as well. I mean, he seemed okay, but there was something different. Maybe it was the Feds in the house. That would depress anyone.
He asked me to get him a bottle of sambuca, which was hidden behind some books on a shelf, and I found it. I also saw a vase of freshly picked marigolds on the shelf, big yellow marigolds of the type George and I planted at Stanhope Hall. Interesting.
I gave him the bottle, and he poured a good shot of it into his coffee cup and drank it, then poured another. “You want some?”
“It’s a little early.”
“Yeah.’’ He said, “That bitch of a nurse won’t let me drink. Because of the antibiotics I’m taking. Shit, the fucking sambuca is an antibiotic. Right? Here, put this back.”
I put the bottle back behind the books. My, how things had changed at Alhambra. Now
I
was depressed. I looked at my watch as if I had to leave. He saw me and said, “Sit down a minute. I gotta tell you something.’’ He motioned me by his side and said, “Sit here on this hassock.’’ He jerked his thumb at the ceiling, which I took to mean the place might be bugged.
I sat on the hassock close to him.
He leaned toward me and spoke softly, “Let me give you some advice, Counselor. I don’t hear much from the outside these days, but I do hear that Ferragamo is after your ass. And he ain’t doing that just to blow my alibi, he’s doing it because you pissed him off in court, and because you saved my life and fucked up his whole thing. So now he’s got vendetta on his brain. So watch yourself.”
“I know.’’ Irony of ironies; Frank Bellarosa was being offered a deal, and I was looking at ten years for perjury. And the one man who could testify against me was Frank Bellarosa. Bellarosa understood this, of course, and I’m sure the irony wasn’t lost on him. In fact, he smiled and said, “Hey, Counselor, I won’t rat you out. Even if they get me by the balls and I got to give up some people, I won’t rat you out to Ferragamo.”
I mean, this guy first got you into serious trouble, then got you out of it, then told you that you owed him a favor for his help, then you did him a favor that got you into more trouble, and round and round it went. Now I think he wanted me to say thank you. Speaking in the same low volume as he was, I said, “Frank, please don’t do me any more favors. I can’t survive many more of your favors.”
He laughed, but his ribs must have been busted up pretty bad because he winced, and his face went even whiter. He swallowed the last of the sambuca, stayed motionless awhile until his breathing steadied, then sat up a bit and asked me, “How’s your wife?”
“Which one?”
He smiled. “Susan. Your wife.”
“Why are you asking me? She comes here.”
“Yeah . . . but I haven’t seen her in a while.”
“Neither have I. She just got home yesterday.”
“Yeah. She went to see the kids at school. Right?”
“That’s right.’’ She had also taken another trip to Hilton Head before that, which included a journey to Key West to see her brother, Peter, who is apparently phototropic.
Susan and I never really did have a long talk, but we had a few sentences, and I suggested that she not come here anymore. She seemed to agree, but had probably come anyway; as recently as yesterday, in fact, if those flowers were from her. It must have slipped Frank’s memory.
Of course, I should have moved out, but moving out is hard to do. For one thing, I knew I was partly responsible for everything that had happened to us since April. Also, Susan was gone more than she was home, so moving out wasn’t a pressing issue. And Susan and I can go weeks and weeks without speaking, and my finances, to be honest, were shaky, and bottom line, I still loved her and she loved me and she had asked me to stay.
So there I was, a lonely house husband, living in my wife’s residence, nearly broke, still on the hook as a witness for a Mafia don, the possible target of a rubout, a social pariah, a captain without a boat, and an embarrassment to my law firm. The firm, incidentally, had sent me a registered letter at the Locust Valley office, which I decided to open. The letter asked me to disassociate myself from Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds, forthwith. The letter was signed by all the senior partners, active and retired, even the ones who couldn’t remember their own names, let alone mine. One of the signatures was that of Joseph P. Sutter. Pop’s a great kidder.
Well, screw Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds. They all needed a few whacks with a lead pipe. Meantime, they could offer me some incentives to leave.
Bellarosa said, “I’m glad she’s not pissed at me.”
I looked at him. “Who?”
“Your wife.”
“Why should she be?”
He replied, “For almost getting her husband killed.”
“Don’t be silly, Frank. Why, just the other day she was saying to me, ‘John, I can’t wait for Frank to get better so we can all go to Giulio’s again.’”
He tried to keep from laughing, but he couldn’t and his ribs hurt again. “Hey . . . cut it out . . . you’re killing me . . .”
I stood. “Okay, Frank, here’s something that’s not so funny. You know fucking well that Susan and I are barely speaking and you know fucking well why. If she wants to come here, that’s her business, but I don’t want you talking to me about her as if you’re making polite small talk. Okay?”
Bellarosa stared off into space, which I had learned was his way of showing that he wanted the subject changed. I said to him, “I have to go.’’ I moved toward the door. “Should I tell your nurse you need to use the potty?”
He ignored the taunt and said to me, “Hey, did I ever thank you for saving my life?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Yeah. You know why? Because ‘thank you’ don’t mean shit in my business. ‘Thank you’ is what you say to women and outsiders. What I say to you, Counselor, is I owe you one.”
“Jesus Christ, Frank, I hope you don’t mean a favor.”
“Yeah. A favor. You don’t understand favors. Favors are like money in the bank with Italians. We collect favors, trade favors, count them like assets, hold them and collect on them. I owe you a big favor. For my life.”
“Keep it.”
“No. You gotta ask a favor.”
I looked at him. This was like having an Italian genie. But you can’t trust genies. I said, “If you went to trial for murder, and I asked you not to have Jack Weinstein call me as your witness, would you do that even if it meant your getting convicted for a murder you didn’t commit?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “You ask, you get. I owe you my life.”
I nodded. “Well, let me think about it. Maybe I can come up with a bigger and better favor.”
“Sure. Hey, stop by again.”
I opened the door, then turned back to him. “Hey, these Indians are standing on the beach, you know, and Columbus comes ashore and says to them, ‘
Buon giorno
,’ and one of the Indians turns to his wife and says, ‘Shit, there goes the neighborhood.’” As I closed the door behind me, I heard him laughing and coughing.

 

 

Thirty-six
I finally decided to go to my Wall Street office to tidy up my affairs there. I sat in my office, my father’s old office, and wondered how I could have wasted so many years of my life in that place. But by an act of pure will, I got down to work and did for my firm and my clients basically what I’d done in the Locust Valley office; that is, I wrote memos on each client and each case, and I parceled everything out to specific attorneys who I thought would be best suited to each case and each client. That was more than my father had done, and more than Frederic Perkins had done before he jumped from the window down the hall.
Anyway, despite my loyalty and conscientiousness, I was as welcome at 23 Wall Street as a four-hundred-point drop in the Dow. Nevertheless, I soldiered on for over a week, speaking to no one but my secretary, Louise, who seemed annoyed at me for having left her holding the bag for the last several months, trying to answer all sorts of questions from clients and partners regarding Mr. Sutter’s files and cases.
Anyway, in order to put in long days in the Wall Street office, and for other reasons, I was living at the Yale Club in Manhattan. This is a very large and very comfortable establishment on Vanderbilt Avenue, and the rooms are quite nice. Breakfast and dinner aren’t bad either, and the bar is friendly. There’s a stock market Teletype off the cocktail lounge so you can see if you can afford the place; there’s a gym with a swimming pool and squash courts, and the clientele is Yale. What more can a man ask for? One could almost stay here forever, and many members in my situation would do just that, but the club discourages overly long stays for wayward husbands, and in recent years, wayward wives. Regarding the latter, one could get into trouble at the club, but I had enough trouble, so after dinner I would just read the newspapers in the big lounge and have a cigar and port like the other old tweedbags, then go to bed.
I did bring Jenny Alvarez to dinner one night, and she said, apropos of the club, “What a world you live in.”

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