The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  Uncle Sal dropped his cigarette on the patio, stepped on it, and said, “Your mother looks good.”

  Anthony glanced at the cigarette butt on his nice slate patio, but he didn’t say anything. So maybe he was thinking, “Why bother? He’s dead anyway.”

  Wouldn’t it be nice if Anthony Bellarosa and Salvatore D’Alessio somehow managed to have each other whacked?

  I hope I didn’t say that out loud, and I guess I didn’t because Uncle Sal turned to me and asked, “So, whaddaya up to?”

  “Same old shit.”

  “Yeah? Like?”

  Anthony interrupted this windy conversation and said, “John’s my tax guy.”

  “Yeah?” Uncle Sal looked at me for a long time, as if to say, “Sorry my boys missed you at Giulio’s.” Well, maybe I was imagining that.

  Aunt Marie announced, “I’m going in,” but before she left, she reminded Anthony, “Your mother needs you.” She should remind her husband of that, too.

  So I stood there with Anthony and Salvatore in manly silence, then I realized I was supposed to leave them alone. But I didn’t want to go back in the kitchen with the women—only faggots would do that—so I said, “I’m going to take a walk.” I addressed Uncle Sal. “Well, great seeing you again.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you have a card?”

  “What?”

  “Ciao.” I walked out toward the pool, well out of earshot and gunshot range. I looked at the shimmering pool, then out to where the German shepherd was glaring at me, which for some reason reminded me of Salvatore D’Alessio.

  Salvatore D’Alessio—Sally Da-da to his friends, and Uncle Sal to his nephew—was the real thing. I mean, this guy was not playacting the part of a Mafia boss like so many of these characters did. This was one mean and dangerous man. If I had to put money on who would whack whom first, I’d bet on Uncle Sal being at Anthony’s funeral, and not the other way around.

  And yet Anthony had the major motivation—personal vendetta—and also he seemed to have more brains, which I know is not saying too much.

  Bottom line here was this: Anthony wanted to kill Uncle Sal; Uncle Sal wanted to kill Anthony; Uncle Sal might still be annoyed at me for saving Frank’s life and making him look incompetent; Anthony wanted to kill Susan; I wanted Anthony Bellarosa and Salvatore D’Alessio dead.

  Who said that Sunday family dinners were boring?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I saw that Uncle Sal had left, and Anthony was now sitting in a chair under the pavilion. I took the chair across from him, and I noticed that the cigarette butt was gone.

  Neither of us spoke, but I thought Anthony was going to put me at ease about Uncle Sal by saying something like, “Under all that hair is a big heart,” but he acted as though Uncle Sal hadn’t been there, and commented instead on Aunt Marie, saying, “She’s a ballbuster.”

  I wasn’t sure if I needed to respond, but Anthony was still chafing at Aunt Marie’s public lecture, and he wanted me to know what he thought of her. I said, “Well, I think she’s fond of you, and she loves her sister.”

  “Yeah. Right.” He informed me, “She’s got two boys. Both in Florida. Nobody ever sees them.”

  I thought maybe their father ate them, but Anthony let me know, “They’re fucking beach bums.”

  I didn’t respond.

  He sat back, smoking, and I could see that Uncle Sal’s visit had put him in a bad mood, so possibly he was thinking about the best way to end these visits forever, which was why he’d thought about Uncle Sal’s wife and sons. His aunt was a ballbuster, and he’d like to make her a widow, like his mother, and his cousins were not a threat if by some chance something happened to their father.

  But maybe I was being too clever. Maybe he was thinking about his mother’s lasagna. I said to him, “Your uncle looked good.”

  He came out of his thoughts and replied, “Yeah. He uses the same polish on his hair and his shoes.” He looked at me, smiled, and said, “You asked him for his card.”

  “I wondered what sort of business he was in.”

  Anthony smiled again, then replied, “The family business.” He then assured me, “He didn’t know you were jerking him around.”

  That’s good.

  Anthony said to me, “You got balls.”

  I didn’t reply, but the subject of balls was out there, so Anthony felt he needed to tell me, “I should’ve shoved that cigarette butt up his ass, but every time I get pissed off at him, everybody thinks I’m the bad guy.”

  “I think you handled it quite well.” I reminded him, “He is your uncle.”

  “Yeah. By marriage. But still, you got to show respect. Right?”

  “Right.” Right up until the time you kill him.

  “But he’s got to show respect, too.”

  “I agree.” I had no doubt that men in Anthony’s world had been killed for far less than throwing a cigarette butt on their host’s patio. It was all about respect, and not embarrassing a goombah in public, but it was also about family ties, the pecking order, and ultimately about the balance of power that needed to be preserved. And maybe that was why neither of these two had made a move on the other yet. Meanwhile, they’d go on pissing each other off until one or the other snapped.

  Anthony gave me some good advice and said, “Don’t fuck with him. He can’t take a joke.”

  I doubted if Uncle Sal even understood a joke.

  Then Anthony said, “I think this is going to be a busy week.”

  That seemed to come out of nowhere, but it was apparently a preface to something rather than an offhand remark, so I went along with it and asked, “Why?”

  “Well, from what I hear, John Gotti has only a few days left.”

  I didn’t respond.

  Anthony continued, “There’ll be a three-day wake and a big funeral. You know?”

  Again, I didn’t respond.

  Anthony went on, “So, I got to be there.” He explained, “I mean, I don’t have any business with him, but I know the family, so you have to show your respect. Even if by being there, some people get the wrong idea.”

  Right. Like, the police and the press might mistake you for a mobster.

  He looked at me and said, “You went to my father’s funeral. Out of respect.”

  I wasn’t sure why I’d gone to his father’s funeral, except maybe I felt some . . . guilt, I guess, that it was my wife who’d killed him. I didn’t respect Frank Bellarosa, but, I guess, despite all that had happened, I liked him. So I said to Anthony, “I liked your father.” I added, “And your mother.”

  He looked at me and nodded, then said, “Afterwards, like years later, I realized what a ballsy move that was. I mean, to go to my father’s funeral when it was your wife who killed him.”

  I had no reply to that.

  He continued, “I’ll bet you got a lot of shit about that from your friends and family.”

  In fact, I hadn’t. And that was because no one was speaking to me after that. My father, however, did comment, “That showed poor judgment, John.” Even my mother, who loves all things multicultural, said, “What were you thinking?” My sister, Emily, had also called me and said, “I saw you on TV at Bellarosa’s funeral. You stood out like a sore thumb, John. We need to get you a black shirt and a white tie.” She’d added, “That took guts.”

  Anthony said to me, “You probably got some shit in the press, too.”

  I did get a few mentions, but nothing that was really critical or judgmental; mostly the media was happy to report on the irony of the alleged killer’s husband being at the funeral. Well, maybe the media doesn’t understand irony, but they do understand entertainment value.

  My good friend Jenny Alvarez had helped set the tone by reporting on TV that “unnamed sources have described John Sutter as a man who puts his professional responsibilities above his personal feelings, and as the attorney of record for Frank Bellarosa, he felt he should be there for his deceased client’s family.”

/>   That was a bit of a stretch, not to mention a contradiction, but Jenny liked me, and when a reporter likes you, they’ll find, or make up, unnamed sources to say nice things about you. If she was a really honest journalist, she’d have added, “In the interests of full disclosure, I need to report that I slept with Mr. Sutter.”

  Anthony said to me, “Hey, if you want to go with me, that would be good.”

  I felt that one Mafioso funeral in a lifetime was already one too many, so I said to him, “I, too, have a busy week. But thank you.”

  “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  Neither of us spoke for a minute as Anthony smoked and stared off at his swimming pool.

  I’m not a Mafia buff, but I’m an attorney with a good brain who once worked for Frank Bellarosa, so I started putting some things together, to wit: John Gotti’s death might cause some uncertainty among his business associates, and maybe some opportunities. And if I thought about Anthony and Sally Da-da coexisting in an uneasy truce for all these years, I might conclude that the only way this had been possible was if this truce had been mandated by someone like John Gotti—and he was not long for this world. Therefore, if my deductions were correct, Anthony and his uncle Sal would soon be free to kill each other. And that, perhaps, was why Anthony was in full security mode.

  I had another thought that maybe Susan had also been included in this Do-Not-Whack arrangement—the Mafia was all about making money, and avoiding bad press for killing civilians—but maybe after John Gotti’s funeral, Anthony might feel free to deal with Susan.

  The other possibility was that I was spending too much time with Anthony, and I was starting to think the way I imagined he and his goombahs thought.

  The subject of Gotti’s imminent death seemed to be closed, and dinner hadn’t been announced, so I thought this was the time to give Anthony my good news about Susan and me, but before I could do that, he asked me, “What are your kids doing?”

  I had learned, long before the Bellarosas came into my life, to be circumspect with strangers regarding the location and activities of my children. I mean, neither the Sutters nor the Stanhopes were celebrities, like the Bellarosas, but the Stanhopes were rich, and there were people who knew this name. My great hope in this regard was that a kidnapper would snatch William, ask for a million-dollar ransom, and be turned down by Charlotte. Anyway, to answer Anthony’s question, I said, “My son is living on the West Coast, and my daughter is an ADA in Brooklyn.”

  This information got his attention, and he said, “Yeah? She works for Joe Hynes?”

  The legendary Brooklyn District Attorney is named Charles J. Hynes, but his friends call him Joe. I didn’t think that Mr. Hynes and Mr. Bellarosa were friends, but I was certain they knew each other, professionally. I replied, “She works with the Feds on organized crime murders,” which was not true—but how could I resist saying that?

  Anthony thought about this awhile, then looked at me and said, “I never heard of her.”

  I replied, innocently, “Why would you?”

  “I mean . . . yeah. Right.” He observed, “There’s not much money in that.”

  “It’s not about the money.”

  He laughed. “Yeah? I guess if you already have money, then nothing is about the money.”

  “You have money. Is that how you think?”

  He looked at me, then replied, “Sometimes. Sometimes it’s about the power.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.” He lit another cigarette and looked out over his five acres and the adjoining properties, and said to me, “This all belonged to my father.”

  I didn’t reply.

  He continued, “You’re going to get me compensated for this.”

  I was tired of this subject, so again, I didn’t reply. Also, it was now time to tell him that Susan and I were back together, and that I was not going to work for him. I began by asking him, “Why did you tell your uncle that I was doing tax work for you?”

  “Because you are.”

  “Anthony, we didn’t shake hands on that.”

  “You having second thoughts?”

  “I’m past second thoughts.”

  “You trying to shake me down for more money?”

  “The money is fine—the job sucks.”

  “How do you know until you try?”

  I ignored the question, and asked him again, “Why did you tell your uncle I was working for you?”

  He replied, “He thinks you have some power. Some connections. And that’s good for me.”

  “Why would he think that?”

  “Because he’s stupid.”

  “I see.” The king hires a sorcerer who has no magical powers, but everyone thinks he does, which is the same thing as far as the king and his enemies are concerned. Maybe I should ask for more money. Or, at least a bulletproof vest in case Sally Da-da wanted me whacked for working for Anthony.

  Anthony further informed me, “When you work for me, you don’t need to have anything to do with my uncle.”

  “That’s a disappointment.”

  Anthony got the sarcasm and chuckled.

  I raised a new issue, known as a strawdog, and said, “With my daughter working for the Brooklyn DA, you might not want me working for you.”

  “You’re not going to be involved with anything that ever has to do with what your daughter does.”

  I had this funny thought of Carolyn working on the case of TheState v. John Sutter. “Sorry, Dad. It’s business, not personal.” I said to Anthony, “Maybe not, but it could be embarrassing to my daughter if the press ever made the connection between me, you, and her.”

  “Why?”

  “Anthony, you may be shocked to hear this, but some people think you are involved in organized crime.”

  He didn’t seem shocked to hear that, and neither did he seem annoyed that I’d brought it up. He said to me, “John, I have five legitimate companies that I own or run. One of them, Bell Security Service, is landing big contracts all over since 9/11. That’s where the money comes from.” He leaned toward me and said, “That’s all you got to know, and that’s all there is to know.” He sat back and said, “I can’t help what my family name is. And if some asshole in the newspaper says anything about me, I’ll sue his ass off.”

  This sounded so convincing that I was ready to send a contribution to the Italian-American Anti-Defamation League. But before I did that, I should speak to Felix Mancuso about Anthony Bellarosa.

  Anthony reached into his pocket and said, “You want a card? Here’s my card.”

  I took it and saw it was a business card that said, “Bell Enterprises, Inc.,” and there was an address in the Rego Park section of Queens, and a 718 area code phone number, which is also the borough of Queens.

  Anthony said, “See? I’m a legitimate businessman.”

  “I see that. The proof is right here.”

  He didn’t think that was too funny, but he said, “I wrote my cell and home number on the back.” He added, “Keep that to yourself.”

  There was little more to say on this subject, and dinner still hadn’t been announced, so I began, “Anthony . . .” I have some good news and some bad news. “I want you to know that—”

  Kelly Ann ran out of the house and announced, “Dinner in ten minutes—” Then she saw the cigarette in the ashtray and shouted, “Daddy! You’re smoking! You’re going to die!”

  Personally, I didn’t think Daddy was going to live long enough to die from smoking, but I didn’t share that with Kelly Ann.

  Anthony’s response to being busted was to throw me under the bus by saying, “Mr. Sutter smokes, sweetheart. That’s not Daddy’s cigarette. Right, John?”

  “Right.” I reached over and took the cigarette, but Kelly Ann was no dummy and shouted, “Liar, liar! Pants on fire!” Then she turned and ran into the house, and I could hear her shouting, “Mommy! Daddy is smoking!”

  Anthony took the cigarette from me, drew on it, then snuffed it ou
t and explained, “Those fucking teachers. They tell them that drugs, alcohol, and smoking are the same thing. They’re fucking up the kids’ heads.”

  I didn’t respond, but I did think about poor Anthony, surrounded by controlling, ball-busting females. His mother, his aunt, his wife, his daughter, and maybe even his mistress. It was a wonder he hadn’t turned gay. More importantly, he seemed to have little control over his domestic life, unlike his father who was the undisputed padrone of Alhambra. Plus, Anthony didn’t have the testicoli to tell his six-year-old daughter to sta’ zitto. Well, that’s my observation, and about half of my Italian. My other thought was that maybe he was a lightweight, and I shouldn’t worry too much about Susan.

  I stood and said, “I’d like to use your phone.”

  “Sure.” Anthony walked me toward another set of double doors at the far end of the house and advised me, “You got to get a cell phone.”

  “I’ll leave a quarter next to the phone.”

  “You’ve been gone too long. Leave a buck.” He opened one of the doors and said, “That’s my den. You can find your way to the dining room.”

  I entered the dark, air-conditioned room, and he closed the door behind me.

  Anthony’s den was very masculine—mahogany, brass, leather, a wet bar, and a big television—and I guessed he took refuge in here whenever the estrogen levels got too high in the rest of the house.

  The walls were lined with bookshelves, and I spotted his father’s collection of books from La Salle Military Academy. Frank, as I said, was a big fan of Machiavelli, but he also read St. Augustine and St. Ambrose so he could argue theology with priests. I wondered where he was now, and whom he was arguing with.

  Anthony, on the other hand, favored the pagans, and I saw shelves lined with books about the Roman Empire, and I knew that Anthony wasn’t the first Mafia don to be impressed with how the Romans ran things, and how they settled their problems by whacking entire nations. Unfortunately, people like Anthony become educated beyond their intelligence, and they become more dangerous than, say, Uncle Sal.

  Anyway, I found the phone on his desk and dialed Elizabeth’s cell phone. As the phone rang, I had two thoughts: One was that there was nothing in or on this desk that Anthony wouldn’t want me, his wife, or the FBI to see; the other was that his phone was probably tapped by one or more law enforcement agencies, or maybe even by Anthony’s business competitors, and perhaps by Anthony himself so he could check up on Megan. But now, with cell phones, the taps on landline phones would not be so interesting, so maybe no one was bothering with a phone tap. Nevertheless, I’d watch what I said.