Authors: Nelson DeMille
The Gold Coast (90 page)
The real estate deal, I thought, may have been for real, but it was also bait. I knew it, and he knew I knew it. We’re both smart guys.
But why me?
Well, if you think about it, as he obviously had done, then it made good business sense. I mean, what a team we would make: my social graces, his charisma, my honesty, his dishonesty, my ability to manage money, his ability to steal it, my law degree, his gun.
It was something to think about, wasn’t it?
Eighteen
We did not have the Bellarosas to our house the next evening as Anna suggested. In fact, as far as I knew, we had no immediate plans to see them again. Susan is the social secretary in our house and keeps a leather-bound calendar as her mother did. The Stanhopes did, at one time, have an actual social or private secretary, and I suppose the art has been passed down. I’m not very good at social planning, so I suppose I’ve allowed Susan to take full charge. I don’t even think I have veto power anymore, as you might have noticed. So, regarding the Bellarosas, I was waiting for word from my resident Emily Post.
Susan had begun her painting of Alhambra’s palm court, and that fact, plus the fact that her horses were still there, took Susan to Alhambra nearly every day. Susan, by the way, had decided on oils instead of water, so I knew this was going to be about a six-week project.
Susan Stanhope Sutter and Mrs. Anna Bellarosa seemed to be forming a tentative relationship, perhaps even a genuine friendship according to Susan. This relationship, I was certain, was encouraged by Frank Bellarosa, who not only wanted his wife to have friends in the area, but also wanted her to get off his back about the move from Brooklyn to this dangerous frontier.
Susan barely mentioned Frank, and I never inquired after him. If I pictured him at all in this threesome, it was as a busy man who watched Susan set up her easel for a few minutes, jollied the two women along, and kept to himself for the rest of the day—or more likely, got into his limo and disappeared into the great city for a day of lawbreaking.
It is very difficult, I imagine, to run a large crime empire, especially since the emperor cannot say much over the telephone or, similarly, cannot send detailed instructions by fax or telex. Personal contact, the spoken word, handshakes, facial expressions, and hand gestures are the only way to run an underground organization, whether it be political or criminal. I recalled that the Mafia supposedly had its origins as an underground resistance organization during some foreign occupation of Sicily. I could certainly believe that, and that would explain why they were such a long-running hit in America. But maybe their act was getting a little old as the second millennium drew to a close. Maybe.
Susan said to me one evening, “I saw the strangest thing next door.”
“What?”
“I saw a man kiss Frank’s hand.”
“Why is that strange? My junior partners kiss my hand every morning.”
“Be serious, please. I’ll tell you something else. Everyone who enters that house is taken into the coatroom and searched. I can hear that sound that a metal detector makes when it goes off.”
“Are you searched?”
“Of course not.’’ She asked, “Why is he so paranoid?”
“He’s not. People really are out to get him. Why don’t you understand that?”
“Well, I suppose I do. But it just seems so bizarre . . . I mean, right next door.”
“Has Mr. Mancuso spoken to you yet?”
“No. Will he?”
“Perhaps.”
But other than that brief conversation, there wasn’t much mention of Frank, as I said.
Regarding Anna, Susan was more current. She told me that Anna did not ride horses, play tennis, sail, or engage in any athletic activities. This did not surprise me. Susan tried to get Anna on Yankee, but Anna wouldn’t even go near the snorting beast. Anna Bellarosa, however, was interested in painting, as it turned out. According to Susan, Anna watched and asked questions about what Susan was doing. Susan encouraged her to get an easel and paints and offered to give her lessons, but Anna Bellarosa seemed as reluctant to paint as she was to ride, or to try anything new, for that matter. As fond as Susan seemed of the woman, I had the impression she was a bit exasperated by Anna’s timidness. I informed Susan, “Her reason for existence is cooking, cleaning, sex, and child care. Don’t cause her any anxiety.”
“But I have the feeling that her husband would like her to develop new skills.”
So would
your
husband, Susan. Like cooking and housekeeping. In truth, I’d rather have a Susan than an Anna as my lifelong companion, but if I could combine the best qualities of both women, I’d have the perfect wife. But then what would I have to complain about?
your
husband, Susan. Like cooking and housekeeping. In truth, I’d rather have a Susan than an Anna as my lifelong companion, but if I could combine the best qualities of both women, I’d have the perfect wife. But then what would I have to complain about?
Susan also informed me that Anna had a lot of questions about “how you do things around here.’’ But I think these were more Frank’s questions than Anna’s.
Regarding the haunting of Alhambra, Susan mentioned to me a few days after she began her canvas that Anna had gone to Brooklyn by limousine one morning and returned a few hours later with two priests. “They all looked pretty grim,’’ Susan said. “They went around splashing holy water all over the place, and Anna was crossing herself eight times a minute.’’ Susan added, “I sort of pretended not to notice, but it was hard to ignore them. Anna said they were blessing the house, but I think there was more to it than that.”
“They’re very superstitious people,’’ I said. “You didn’t upset her with any of your ghost stories, did you, Susan?”
“No, of course not. I told her there are no ghosts in Alhambra.”
“Well, I’m sure she feels better now that the house is all sprinkled.”
“I hope so. They gave me the shivers.”
Anyway, there is a silver lining in every dark cloud, and in this case the silver lining was Italian food. Not that Susan was learning how to cook—no, she can no more cook than I can levitate. But she was bringing home a portion of the Bellarosas’ evening fare almost every night: Tupperware containers heaped with ravioli, baked ziti, eggplant parmigiana, fried zucchini, and other things with unpronounceable names. I had really struck pay dirt here, and I actually looked forward to dinner at home for the first time in twenty years.
Susan also brought home tomato seedlings and zucchini plants to add to her garden of radicchio, basil, green peppers, and eggplant. She never mentioned this to me, but I saw the new plants one day while I was out walking. Also, all the vegetables were now marked, correctly, I think, so we knew what we were rooting for (pardon the pun). Apparently, too, Susan had picked up some pointers from someone on vegetable gardening, because everything looked healthy, and by the end of May it seemed as though we might have a bumper crop. Stanhope Hall would now be a self-sustaining fiefdom, at least in regard to certain vegetables, and all its inhabitants—all four of us if you count the Allards—would be delivered from the ravages of scurvy and night blindness.
So far, to be honest, the changes in my life that had come about as a result of the cultural contact with the neighboring fiefdom, to continue the metaphor, were for the better. The clash of cultures had not materialized in any significant way, but there was time for that.
I had no doubt that I had established a personal relationship with Frank Bellarosa, but I was not certain of the nature of that relationship; or if I did know, I wasn’t letting on to anyone, myself included, what it was. And whatever it was, it seemed to be on hold, because by the end of that month, I had not heard a word from him, directly or indirectly.
As for any business relationship with him, I considered that whole episode in his library as a bit of madness. Surely he must have regretted taking me into his confidence, which was probably why I hadn’t heard from him. I mean, he certainly didn’t think that he had retained me as his attorney. Right?
On the last Wednesday in May, Susan went to a meeting of the Gazebo Society, held at the old Fox Point waterfront estate at the end of Grace Lane. She mentioned this to me after the fact, and when I asked her if she had invited Anna Bellarosa, she said she had not and offered no explanation.
I knew that this relationship with the Bellarosas was going to be a problem, and I had tried to tell that to Susan. But Susan is not the type who thinks ahead. Everyone, I suppose, had friends, neighbors, or family with whom they’d rather not be seen in public. Much of that feeling is subjective; your goofiest cousin, for instance, may be a hit at your cocktail party. But with the Bellarosas, it was not a matter of my perception or interpretation as to their social acceptability; it was just about everyone’s judgment. Yes, we would get past the front door at The Creek or Seawanhaka, and we would be shown to a table and even waited on. Once.
So, if in fact the Sutters and the Bellarosas were going to get together for dinner or drinks in public, I would be well advised to pick a restaurant out of the area (but even that was fraught with danger, as I myself discovered about a year ago when I was having dinner on the South Shore with a client, female, young, beautiful, who liked to touch when making a point, and in walked the damned DePauws. But that’s another story).
Anyway, I suppose the four of us could go to Manhattan if we had to have dinner. The city is supposed to be anonymous, but it seems I’m always running into someone I know in Midtown.
Also, there seems to be some sort of odd connection between Mafia dons dining out and Mafia dons being murdered, splattering blood all over innocent people and that sort of thing. This may seem a bit paranoid, but it’s happened often enough to be a real possibility, and for me to plan for; thus, if I were dining out with the don, I would seriously consider wearing an old suit.
I believe Bellarosa when he tells me that the Mafia still maintains high, professional standards of murder, and in fact innocent people usually suffer no more than a stomach upset at these traditional dinner-hour murders. And of course, the dinner or what’s left of it is always on the house for spectators as well as participants in the rubout. The murder, naturally, has to be committed
in
the restaurant to qualify for a freebie; not outside the front door as happened a while ago in front of one of New York’s best steak houses. Hearing shots fired outside does not get you off the hook for the bill, unless you faint. On a more serious note, civilians have gotten caught in the crossfire, and there was at least one tragic case of mistaken identity some years ago when two suburbanite gentlemen were gunned down by accident in a Little Italy restaurant in front of their wives.
in
the restaurant to qualify for a freebie; not outside the front door as happened a while ago in front of one of New York’s best steak houses. Hearing shots fired outside does not get you off the hook for the bill, unless you faint. On a more serious note, civilians have gotten caught in the crossfire, and there was at least one tragic case of mistaken identity some years ago when two suburbanite gentlemen were gunned down by accident in a Little Italy restaurant in front of their wives.
So, to sup or not to sup? Considering what Frank himself said about the U.S. Attorney, Alphonse Ferragamo, trying to provoke a gang war, I would opt for Chinese take-out. But what if my crazy wife asks them out to dinner? All things considered, I don’t know if it would be worse to dine with the Bellarosas at The Creek and face social ostracism, or to go to Manhattan for a jittery dinner at a nice little place that Frank insists on showing us, where the food is great, the owner is a
paesano
, and everyone sits at banquettes with their backs to the wall.
paesano
, and everyone sits at banquettes with their backs to the wall.
Well, of course there are other options, and I don’t mean to suggest that two headstrong people such as Frank and Susan could get me to do something I don’t want to do. If the situation arises, I will insist on having Frank and Anna to our house for a quick drink and coffee to go.
• • •
A few days before the Memorial Day weekend, Dominic and his crew put the finishing touches on the stable. All in all, it was a masterful job of demolition and reconstruction. It was actually a bit eerie to see a familiar landmark disappear, then reappear in the same shape and form, in a new location. Dominic and his husky elves could indeed move the Sistine Chapel down the block if they had the Pope’s okay. And if they had the don’s okay, they could move my house onto Alhambra’s patio. I was almost afraid to go on vacation.
And so that glorious day arrived when Zanzibar and Yankee came home. I suggested tricolored bunting and garlands of flowers, but Susan ignored my suggestions and kept the ceremony simple and dignified, with only Dominic in attendance. I figured he was there to collect his money, but when I asked for the bill, he just jerked his thumb toward Alhambra. I gave him a bonus of five hundred dollars in cash for his men, and he seemed very happy for his men and looked as if he couldn’t wait to distribute it.
Anyway, I sent a note over to Frank via Susan, but another week passed and still no bill. Now I owed the guy drinks and a chunk of cash, not to mention the fact that I was eating well.
Susan says that Italian food makes her passionate, and I, too, had noticed that our sex life, always good, had gotten better. Maybe Mrs. B. had found the right combination of Italian herbs and spices. One evening, over one of these Alhambra take-out dinners, I said to Susan, “My God, your tits are growing. Get the recipe for this ravioli.”
“Don’t be a wiseass, John.’’ She added, “You’ve put on a needed inch yourself, and I don’t mean your waist.”
Touché. But anyway, I think our increased sexual appetites were more psychological than culinary in origin, and perhaps a result of the perfect spring weather, which always makes my sap run hot, to use a tree metaphor. But who knows? When you’re middle aged, whatever works is right. Suffice it to say, Susan and I were getting it on in the bedroom and kitchen. We weren’t doing as well in the other rooms, however, as Susan, always somewhat distant, seemed now distracted, as if she had something on her mind. So I asked her one day, “Is something bothering you?”
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