The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  “Make them a fair offer.” Like, leave or die.

  “Right. A good offer.” He led me into the small kitchen at the back of the apartment, and said, “We rip this out and make it the coffee room with a bar. So? What do you think?”

  “I think this restoration will attract a lot of local press. Do you want that?”

  “Good press for you. I’m a silent partner.”

  “Not for long.”

  “I know how to do this so my name never comes up. You don’t have to worry about that.”

  “You’ve already spoken to the realtor, Anthony.”

  “No. Anthony Stephano spoke to the realtor on the phone. And when the realtor gets here, my name is Anthony Stephano. Capisce?”

  “People know your face.”

  “Not like they knew my father’s face. I keep a low profile. The problem is the name, so we don’t use that name. And if anyone thinks my name is not Stephano, they’re not going to say shit. Right?”

  I suggested to him, “If you used your real name, you could get the seller down to two million.”

  He smiled. “Yeah? Why is that, John?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” I took a wild guess and said, “Maybe he’d be nervous.”

  He smiled again. Clearly he enjoyed the power and the glory of being don Bellarosa, and the notion that men would quake in their boots while talking business with him.

  On the other hand, I detected, or imagined, that there had been a subtle shift in the business practices of this organization in the last decade—or maybe it was Anthony’s style that seemed different from what I remembered when I was an honorary mobster.

  In any case, what remained the same was me; these people did not intimidate me. I was, after all, John Whitman Sutter, and even the dumbest goombah knew that there was a class of people who they weren’t supposed to whack, which was why, for instance, U.S. Attorney Alphonse Ferragamo was still alive. The Mafia had rules, and they did not like bad press, or any press at all.

  But even if there was no danger of getting whacked, there was always the danger of getting seduced, corrupted, or manipulated. I think that’s where I was now. But, I reminded myself, I was here not because of any moral failing on my part, or any further need to screw up my life for kicks—I’d already done that. It was because of Susan.

  This lady, of course, would normally be at the very top of any Do Not Hit list, except for the fact that she clipped a Mafia don. Whoops.

  So, what I needed to do was . . . what?

  Anthony returned to the subject and said, “I’m a legitimate businessman. Bell Enterprises. What maybe happened in the past is over. But if people want to think—”

  “Anthony. Please. You’re insulting my intelligence.”

  He didn’t seem happy that I interrupted his nonsense, but he said, “I’m telling you what you want to hear.”

  “I don’t want to hear bullshit. The best thing I can hear from you on that subject is nothing.”

  He lit a cigarette, then said to me, “Okay.”

  “What do you want from me? And why?”

  He sat on the windowsill, took a drag, and said, “Okay, here’s the real deal—I spoke to Jack Weinstein, my father’s old attorney. You remember him. He likes you. And he tells me that I need to speak to you, which I did. He says you are the smartest, most honest, most stand-up guy he’s ever dealt with. And this coming from a smart Jew who stood up to my father when he had to. But always in my father’s best interest. And Jack tells me I need a guy like you. Just to talk to. Just to get some advice. Like Jack did for my father. Somebody who is not a paesano. Understand?”

  “You mean, like a consigliere?”

  “Yeah . . . that only means counselor. People think it means . . . like something to do with the . . . people in organized crime. It’s Italian for counselor. Lawyers are called counselor. Right?”

  “So, this is Jack Weinstein’s old job?”

  “Yeah. And Jack says I also need somebody like the guys who used to follow the Caesars around and whisper in their ears, ‘You’re only a mortal man.’”

  “Is that a full-time job?”

  He forced a smile and said, “It was then. This guy reminded Caesar that he was a man, not a god. In other words, even Caesar has to take a shit like everybody else.”

  “And you feel you need to be reminded of this?”

  Again, he forced a smile and said, “Everybody does. Everybody who’s successful. And Jack thinks maybe I need this. Hey, everybody in Washington should have somebody like that following them around. Right?”

  “It might help.”

  As best I could figure, Jack Weinstein, a smart man, easily recognized that young Anthony was in over his head. But Jack saw the potential, and if he could keep Anthony alive long enough, then the young tiger would grow up big, strong, and hopefully smart enough to rule, kill, and scare the crap out of his enemies. And Jack, perceptive man that he was, thought of John Sutter to take the job that he once had with Frank, and maybe, too, to take the place of Anthony’s deceased father. I mean, was I flattered to be thought of as a possible father substitute to a young man whose ambition it was to grow up to be as dangerous and deceitful as his real father? And if I succeeded at this, maybe someday Anthony would want to fuck my wife if I had one.

  This whole situation had a touch of irony and maybe farce to it—but it wasn’t funny. It would have been funny if Susan wasn’t in this room, but she was, and both Anthony and I knew that.

  I said to him, “So, that’s what Jack thinks you need. A counselor and someone to tell you when your head is getting too big. What do you think you need from me?”

  “I need someone I can trust, someone with no connections to my business. Someone who can’t gain by my loss. I need your brains and your no-bullshit advice.”

  His father had additionally been impressed with my pedigree, my respectability, and my white-shoe law firm. The pedigree was still there, but Anthony wasn’t interested in that; he was buying brains and balls today. I asked him, “Advice on what?”

  “On whatever I need advice on.”

  “But then I’d hear things I don’t want to hear.”

  “That won’t happen.” He added, “And even if it did, we have a lawyer-client relationship.”

  “We do?”

  “That’s up to you, Counselor.”

  “What’s the pay?”

  “Two hundred a year. That’s the annual retainer. And you can do whatever else you want to make a buck. Like work on getting my father’s assets back. Or tax law. In fact, I need a tax lawyer.”

  I had the thought that he had more need for a priest and a smack in the ass from his mother than a consigliere or someone to tell him to get over himself. And maybe that should be my first piece of advice to him. Meanwhile, I asked, “Is that it?”

  “Pretty much. You get this office, too.”

  “Can I say no to the moose head?”

  He smiled, stood, and threw his cigarette in the sink. “Sure. So?”

  “Well . . . let me think about it.”

  “That’s all I want you to do.” He added, “I know you’ll come to the right decision.”

  “You can be sure of that.”

  “And call Jack Weinstein. He wants to say hello. He’s in Florida. Maybe you want to go down there for a visit.”

  I didn’t respond to that, and said, “I’ve got a busy day. Thank you for the ride.”

  “Yeah. Go find Tony. He’ll take you home.”

  “I need the exercise.”

  We both walked into the living room, and I moved toward the exit door. I said to him, “If I take this office, the bookstore downstairs stays. Same rent.”

  He didn’t reply.

  I asked him, “Did you apologize to that waitress?”

  “No.”

  “Are you capable of taking any advice?”

  “Yeah. When I trust and respect the person giving it.”

  “I hope you find that person.”

&
nbsp; “I did. Jack Weinstein. And my father. One is dying, and the other is dead. They referred me to you.”

  “Okay. And don’t seem too anxious with this realtor. People sense when you want something so badly that you’ll pay anything for it. Make sure this is what you want. And check out his story about the building. Capisce?”

  “Capisco.”

  I left.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Well, if my arithmetic was correct, I could be a millionaire if I brokered the house deal between Susan and Amir Nasim, then recovered the Bellarosa assets that had been seized by the government.

  Neither of these goals seemed attainable, but I did have a solid job offer in hand—consigliere to don Anthony Bellarosa. How would that look on my résumé? Would my law school classmates be impressed at my next reunion?

  I’ve known people—like myself—who’ve played by the rules most of their lives, then something awful happened that made them lose faith in the system, or in God or country. These people are then open to temptation and become prime candidates for a fall from grace.

  Well, I could justify any behavior or any bad decision, but at the end of the day, I needed to decide who John Sutter was.

  But first, I needed to clean the bathroom. Elizabeth Allard would be here soon.

  I didn’t grow up cleaning anything—not even in the Army, where I was an officer. I did clean my boat, however, so I was no stranger to Mr. Clean.

  I finished the upstairs bathroom, then straightened out my bedroom in case Elizabeth really did want to see her old room.

  Assuming we were going to move some items out, I was dressed in jeans, running shoes, and a polo shirt.

  The cuckoo clock in the kitchen chimed 4:00, then 4:15. I kept busy by reviewing the pertinent paperwork in the dining room, which kept my mind off . . . well, Elizabeth.

  A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. If my bad luck had returned, it was Susan. If not, it was Elizabeth. Really bad luck would be both of them.

  I went to the door, but didn’t look through the peephole to see whom Fate had brought to my doorstep.

  I opened the door to—Elizabeth. She smiled and said, “Let’s cut to the chase and have sex.”

  Or did she say, “Sorry I’m late, traffic’s a mess”?

  Assuming the latter, I replied, “Saturday traffic is always a mess,” then we hugged and air-kissed, and she entered.

  She was also wearing jeans and running shoes, and a blue T-shirt that said “Smith,” which I assumed was not her alias, but rather her daughter’s alma mater. She said, “I’m dressed to work.”

  “Good. Me, too.”

  Then she said, “But I brought a change of clothes if you’ll let me buy you dinner later.”

  A kaleidoscope of images raced through my mind—clothes on the floor, the bathroom, the shower, the bedroom, the bed—

  “Unless you’re busy.”

  “Busy? No. I’m free.” I reminded her, “I just got here.”

  She smiled, then glanced around and observed, “Nothing changes here.”

  “No. But I was happy to see that.” I said, “I made coffee.”

  “Good.”

  She put her large canvas handbag on the floor, and I led her into the kitchen. She asked, “How are you getting on here?”

  “Fine.” I added, “It was good of your mother to extend an open invitation.”

  “She likes you.”

  “I’m not sure about that.”

  Elizabeth smiled again and replied, “She doesn’t always show her feelings.”

  “I have a mother like that.”

  I poured coffee into two mugs, and asked, “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Black.” She inquired, “How is your mother?”

  “We’ve spoken twice since I’ve been back, but I haven’t actually seen her yet.”

  “Really? I can’t imagine not seeing either of my children the minute they return from a trip.”

  I thought about that and replied, “I haven’t seen Carolyn yet, and she’s a fifty-minute train ride away in Brooklyn.”

  “Well, you’ve only been back . . . how long?”

  “About two weeks.” I suggested, “Why don’t we sit on the patio?”

  We went out the back door and sat in two cast-iron chairs that had survived the scrap-metal drives of 1942–45. The table was of the same vintage, and I recalled that George used to scrape and paint the furniture every spring.

  Elizabeth commented, “Mom and Dad had morning coffee out here nearly every day.”

  “That’s very nice.” I asked her, “How is she doing?”

  “She looked well this morning. Better than usual.”

  In my experience, that’s not always a good sign with the terminally ill, but I said, “I’m glad to hear that.” I added, “I was going to stop by to see her today, but . . . I had an appointment in Oyster Bay.”

  Elizabeth nodded, then looked around and remarked, “It’s so peaceful here.” She informed me, “I enjoyed growing up here. It was like . . . this secluded place with a wall around it . . . it kept the outside world away.”

  “I guess that’s the point.”

  She asked me, “Did you like living in the guest cottage?”

  “I did after the Stanhopes moved to South Carolina.”

  She smiled, but didn’t say anything like, “What assholes they were.” I suppose after years of living here as the child of estate workers, she’d been conditioned not to say anything derogatory about the lord and lady of the manor. Nevertheless, I continued, “If William hadn’t hit the lucky gene pool, he’d be cleaning toilets in Penn Station.”

  “Now, now, John.”

  “Sorry. Was that unkind?”

  “You’re a bigger person than that.”

  “Right. And Charlotte would be turning tricks on Eighth Avenue.”

  She suppressed a smile, then changed the subject and said, “The crabapple trees look good.”

  “I think Nasim has them pruned, sprayed, and fertilized.”

  “I remember picking crabapples for weeks so Mom could make her jelly.”

  I actually remembered Elizabeth as a young teenager climbing the trees that summer when Susan and I got married and moved into the guest cottage. I recalled, too, that Elizabeth went to boarding school, so I didn’t see much of her. As for Elizabeth’s tuition at boarding school—as with her college tuition—Ethel was still collecting on her special relationship with Augustus long past the time when the old gent even remembered getting laid.

  Anyway, I said, “That reminds me—there are cases of crabapple jelly in the basement for you.”

  “I know. I actually don’t like the stuff.” She laughed and continued, “After years of picking, washing, boiling, canning . . . well, but I’ll take it.”

  “I took a jar.”

  “Take another. Take a case.”

  I smiled.

  We sat there for a minute, surveying the grounds, then Elizabeth said, “Mom made me promise to harvest her garden.” She added, “But . . . she may be gone before it’s ready.” She asked me, “Did you speak to . . . what’s his name?”

  “Amir Nasim. Yes, I did.” I continued, “He seems a decent enough man, and he has no problem with me staying on through the summer, but . . . he’d like to have his property back by September the first, unless Ethel is still . . . with us.”

  She nodded, then asked me, “Did you ask him if he wanted to sell the gatehouse?”

  “I did. He wants to use it himself.”

  “Well, that’s too bad. I mean, sitting here, I’m getting nostalgic . . . I really loved this place.” She asked, “Do you think he’d change his mind?”

  I saw no reason to keep Nasim’s concerns in confidence, so I replied, “He has some security issues.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I think it means he believes that people from the old country may want to harm him.”

  “My goodness . . . where’s he from? Iran?”

  “Yes.”
I offered my thoughts and said, “He may be paranoid. Or, if he’s correct, then the gatehouse may become available when he’s assassinated and they settle his estate.” I smiled to show I was joking.

  Elizabeth pondered all that, then said, “That’s unbelievable . . .”

  “I think so, too. But in any case, I believe he wants to put his security people in the gatehouse.” I thought about telling her of Nasim’s desire to buy Susan’s guest cottage, but I decided not to bring up Susan’s name at all. Instead, I kept it light and asked, “Isn’t there a local ordinance against political assassination?”

  She forced a smile, but clearly she was disturbed by this news, and disappointed that the gatehouse was not for sale.

  I stood and said, “Wait here.” I went into the overgrown kitchen garden and came back with the wooden sign and held it up by its half-rotted stake. I asked, “Do you remember this?”

  She smiled and said, “I do. Can I have that?”

  “Absolutely.” I laid the sign on the table, and we both looked at the faded and peeling paint. The black lettering had nearly disappeared, but it had left its outline on the white background and you could make out the words “Victory Garden.”

  Elizabeth asked me, “Do you think I should put this on Mom’s grave?”

  “Why not?”

  She nodded and said, “That entire World War Two generation will be gone soon.”

  “True.” I was especially anxious for William Stanhope to be gone. I mean, I didn’t wish him any harm, but the old bastard was in his late seventies, and he’d outlived whatever small usefulness he might have had.

  On that subject, William had actually shown up for World War II, making him a member of the Greatest Generation, though barely. He didn’t talk much about his wartime experiences, but not because he’d been traumatized by the war. In fact, as I’d learned from Ethel Allard, William Stanhope had a rather easy war.

  As Ethel related the story to me once, her employer and benefactor Augustus Stanhope had sold his seventy-five-foot motor yacht, The Sea Urchin, to the government for a dollar, as did many of the rich along the East Coast during this national emergency—you couldn’t get fuel anyway—and The Sea Urchin was refitted by the Coast Guard as an anti-submarine patrol boat. Then Augustus’ dilettante son, William, joined the Coast Guard, and in what could be described as a startling coincidence, Lieutenant (j.g.) William Stanhope was assigned to duty aboard the former Stanhope yacht. In another stroke of good fortune, The Sea Urchin was berthed at the Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club, and William, not wanting to use up scarce government housing, patriotically billeted himself at Stanhope Hall. William did go out on anti-submarine patrols and, depending on whom you speak to—William the Fearless, or Ethel the Red—he did or did not encounter German U-boats. Most likely not, and most probably he spent a good deal of shore time on Martha’s Vineyard and the Hamptons.