The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  More importantly to me, it seemed as though there wasn’t going to be a long wake and a Mass, so Anthony Bellarosa might not feel the need to surface in public this week. Maybe I should send an e-mail to the Brooklyn Diocese explaining that I, the FBI, and the NYPD really wanted to see all the paesanos who showed up at the wake and the funeral Mass. What’s wrong with this cardinal? Didn’t he see The Godfather?

  Anyway, future plans for Mr. Gotti’s mortal remains and his immortal soul were on hold, awaiting, I guess, further negotiations. Maybe somebody should offer a big contribution to the diocese. Maybe somebody did, and the cardinal was holding out for more.

  Frank Bellarosa, incidentally, had no such problems. I was sure that his soul had as many black spots on it as Mr. Gotti’s did, but Frank thought ahead. And I think, too, he had a premonition of his approaching death, though not the way it actually happened.

  I recalled very clearly that the day after our Mafia theme party at the Plaza, Frank and I, with Lenny and Vinnie and a big black Cadillac, crossed the East River into the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, where Frank had grown up. We went to his boyhood church, Santa Lucia, and had coffee with three elderly Italian priests who told us how difficult it was to maintain the old church in a changing neighborhood, and so forth. Bottom line on that, Frank wrote a check for fifty large, and I guess the check cleared because when Frank’s time came—I glanced at Susan—a few months later, there was no problem having his funeral Mass at Santa Lucia.

  But times change, and the Catholic Church had apparently gotten tired of providing funeral Masses for the less desirable sheep in its flock, who were, of course, the people who most needed the sacrament.

  I thought, too, of Ethel’s wake at Walton’s, and her upcoming Saturday funeral service at St. Mark’s, presided over by the Reverend Hunnings, and then her interment in the Stanhopes’ private cemetery. Ethel Allard’s death was not going to make national news the way John Gotti’s had, or Frank Bellarosa’s before him.

  This makes sense, of course, even if it doesn’t seem fair; if you live large, you die large. But if there is a higher authority, who asks questions at the gate, and examines your press clippings, then that’s where things are sorted out.

  Susan said, “Good night,” and turned off her bedside lamp.

  I read the tabloids for a while longer, then kissed my sleeping beauty, patted my shotgun, and turned off my light.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Thursday morning dawned gray and drizzly. I was hoping for good weather so the Stanhopes could go out and play five rounds of golf.

  Susan, perfect hostess and loving daughter, was already downstairs, and I noticed that the arsenal had been put away somewhere, so as not to upset any houseguests or staff who might want to make our beds or clean the bathroom. I really needed to make Sophie comfortable with weapons. Maybe I’d teach her the Manual of Arms, and the five basic firing positions.

  I showered, dressed, and went down to the kitchen, where Susan had a pot of coffee made and a continental breakfast laid out on the island.

  We kissed and hugged, and I inquired, “Are your parents taking a run?”

  “They haven’t come down yet, but I heard them stirring.”

  “Should I bring some martinis up to them?”

  She ignored that—and I don’t blame her—and said, “I checked my e-mail, and Carolyn will be in on the 6:05 train, and she’ll take a taxi from the station.” She then filled me in on Edward’s itinerary and a few other things I needed to know, and I was happy to hear that we were going to skip the afternoon viewing at Walton’s. I’m sure Ethel would have liked to skip her entire funeral, but she had to be there, and we didn’t, and I knew she wouldn’t notice.

  Anyway, I poured coffee for myself and for Susan, who urged me to share her vitamins, which I politely declined. I did, however, sink my teeth into a granola muffin.

  So we sat at the table, reading the three tabloids that Sophie had gone out to buy, and I saw that Mr. Gotti was still in limbo at Papavero Funeral Home. The coffin was still closed, and only the family was allowed to visit. There was, however, some talk of a private funeral Mass in the chapel at the cemetery, by invitation only, date, time, and place to be determined. Well, that was a move in the right direction. Maybe the Brooklyn Diocese caught some flak from La Cosa Nostra Anti-Defamation League. I wondered, too, if Anthony Bellarosa and Salvatore D’Alessio had been invited.

  I stood and went to the wall phone, and Susan asked, “Who are you calling?”

  “Felix Mancuso.”

  “Why?”

  “To get an update.” I dialed Mr. Mancuso’s cell phone, and he answered. I said, “Hi, John Sutter.”

  “Good morning.”

  “And to you. Look, I don’t want to be a pest, but I was wondering if you’d heard anything about Anthony’s whereabouts or any news I can use?”

  He replied, “I would have called you. But I’m glad you called.” He informed me, “I did get your message about your chance encounter with Bellarosa’s driver, Tony Rosini—that’s his last name—and we’re following up on that.”

  That was about as much as I was going to get out of Felix Mancuso, and I didn’t want to pursue this with Susan in the room, so I told him something he didn’t know. “I was at the wake last night of Ethel Allard, whom I told you about, and one of the floral arrangements there—a really nice spray of white lilies—had a card signed from Anthony, Megan, Anna, and family.”

  Mr. Mancuso stayed silent a moment, then said, “His wife and his mother’s names are on the card. So I wouldn’t read too much into it.”

  That was my thought, too, and I was glad to have it confirmed. But to fully appreciate the underworld subtlety of this gesture, I asked, “Please explain.”

  So he explained, “Well, had it been signed with just Anthony’s name, then he was sending a message to you, and to your wife.”

  “It wasn’t our wake.”

  “Well, that’s the message.”

  “Which is . . . ?”

  “You know.” He advised me, “Put it out of your mind.”

  “Okay.” I was really glad I had Felix Mancuso to do cultural interpretations for me. I asked, “You got my message about Amir Nasim putting in a full security system here?”

  “I did. That’s good for everyone.”

  “Well, it’s not good for Iranian or Italian hit men.”

  “No, it’s not good for them.”

  I asked, “Did you urge Nasim to do that?”

  Mr. Mancuso replied, “He came to his own conclusions.”

  “Okay . . . but is this threat to him real?”

  “He has enemies.”

  There was no use pursuing that, so I updated him, “Susan’s parents have arrived and are in the house.”

  “Have you told them about your concerns?”

  “No. We’re telling them that this security has to do with Nasim.”

  “All right. No use alarming them.”

  I said, “So you suggest that they stay elsewhere.”

  “No. I didn’t say that.”

  “Well, I’ll take that up with Mrs. Sutter.”

  After a few seconds, Mr. Mancuso chuckled and said, “You should work for us.”

  “Thank you. I’ll pass that on.”

  He informed me, “I had a very nice talk with Mrs. Sutter yesterday.”

  “She said.”

  He continued, “I think she understands the situation, and she’s alert without being alarmed.”

  “Good. Did you tell her I want a dog?”

  He chuckled again, and replied, “I’ve been asking my wife to get a dog for twenty years.”

  “No one is trying to kill you.”

  “Actually, they are.” He added, “But that’s part of my job, and not part of yours.”

  “I hope not.”

  He said, “I’m impressed with Mrs. Sutter.”

  “Good. Me, too.” I added, “And she with you.”

  “Good. W
ell, is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Yes. I was reading in the tabloids about John Gotti and the Brooklyn Diocese and all that. Did you see that?”

  “I did.”

  “So, how does this affect Anthony’s possible appearance at the wake and the funeral?”

  “Well, there is no public wake, so all of Mr. Gotti’s friends and associates got a pass on that. But there will be a small, private funeral Mass at about noon in the chapel at Saint John’s Cemetery in Queens—that’s sort of the Mafia Valhalla—on this Saturday. So we’ll see who surfaces there.”

  The newspapers hadn’t said anything about the time, place, or date, but I guess Special Agent Mancuso had better sources than the New York Post. I said, “Coincidentally, I’m going to Mrs. Allard’s funeral service and burial on Saturday here in Locust Valley. So I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to make John Gotti’s send-off.”

  “I don’t think you’d be invited, Mr. Sutter.”

  “Actually, I was. By Anthony.”

  “Really? Well, I’ll be there, as an uninvited guest, and if I see anyone there who you know, I’ll speak to them on your behalf.”

  “Thank you. And please call me.”

  “I will.”

  I said to him, “Speaking of the dead, Anna Bellarosa told me that she and her three sons visit dead Dad’s grave every Father’s Day.” I glanced at Susan, who had been listening to my conversation, but now went back to the newspaper. I continued, “So that may be a good time and place to look for Anthony.”

  Mr. Mancuso replied, “Good thought. We’ll also double the stakeout at Bellarosa’s house and his mother’s house in Brooklyn on Father’s Day.”

  It would be good, I thought, if Anthony felt he needed to be at his father’s grave on Father’s Day—maybe to get inspired, or maybe to avoid getting yelled at by Mom. And of course there’d be the dinner at his house, or Mom’s house. But Anthony really wasn’t stupid enough to go home or to Mom’s—but he might go to the cemetery. I reminded Mr. Mancuso, “Santa Lucia Cemetery.”

  “I know. I was there.” He stayed silent a moment, then he was thoughtful enough to remind me, “You went to Frank Bellarosa’s funeral Mass and burial.”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “We should have a few beers one night.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Good.” I asked him, “Are you and the county police in touch?”

  “Detective Nastasi and I spoke last night.”

  “I’m happy to hear that. And are you still assigned to this case?”

  “Until it’s resolved.”

  “Great.” I asked him, “How is the war on terrorism going?”

  “Pretty good today.”

  “Well, it’s still early.”

  He informed me, “Every day that nothing happens is a good day.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  Our business concluded, we signed off with promises to speak again, and I sat down and contemplated my granola muffin. I said to Susan, “This tastes funny.”

  “It’s made with yogurt. What was he saying on his end?”

  I filled her in, but decided not to mention Mr. Mancuso’s suggestion that her parents get out of our house. Or was that my idea? Anyway, I thought I should hold on to that and use it if the Stanhopes became insufferable. Also of course, I really didn’t want to alarm everyone, especially Edward and Carolyn.

  But Susan asked me, “What was he saying about my parents?”

  “Oh, he said if he heard anything that would change our alert level here, then he’d advise us, and we should ask your parents to find other accommodations.”

  She thought about that, then said, “I would be very upset if I had to tell Edward and Carolyn about our problem and ask them to sleep elsewhere.”

  “Not a problem. Mancuso said the children will be fine here. It’s only your parents who would have to leave.”

  “I don’t understand . . .” Then she understood and said to me, “John, that’s not funny, and not nice.”

  “Sorry. It’s my ace in the hole.” I suggested, “Think about it. Less chance of friction. More chance of bonding.”

  She actually seemed to be thinking about it, and said, “Let’s see how it goes today.”

  “Okay.” I pointed out, “You seemed a bit impatient with them last night.”

  “It was a long, tense, and emotional day.”

  I didn’t reply, which was good because I heard Them on the stairs.

  William and Charlotte came into the kitchen, and Susan kissed her parents, and I satisfied myself with “Good morning.”

  William, I recalled, liked his cold cereal in the morning, and Susan had lined up six boxes on the counter of these godawful sugar concoctions, and William picked something with cocoa in it that I wouldn’t feed to the pigs.

  Charlotte doesn’t eat breakfast and doesn’t drink coffee, so Susan had set out a chest of herbal teas, and Susan boiled water for the old bat.

  I mean, it wasn’t even 8:00 A.M., and I was already strung out.

  I was impressed, however, that to look at them, you would never know that they had consumed enough gin and wine last night to float a small boat. Amazing. Maybe they had annual liver transplants.

  Anyway, the four of us sat around the kitchen table and made small talk.

  Then William said to me offhandedly, “I didn’t realize from Susan’s e-mail and phone calls that you were actually staying here.”

  I replied, “Well, I moved in only a day or so ago.” I explained, “Upon Ethel’s death, Mr. Nasim, as you know, was able to reclaim the gatehouse, and he wanted to install his security people there—as you saw—so that left me homeless in New York, and Susan was kind enough to let me use my old bedroom here.”

  He thought about that, then pointed out, quite correctly, “That’s also her bedroom.”

  Susan explained, unnecessarily, “We’re sleeping together.”

  William, of course, knew that by now. Hello? William? But I guess he wanted to hear it from the sinners’ own mouths. Meanwhile, I was sure he and Charlotte had not been too judgmental of Susan when she lived and dated in Hilton Head. I mean, really, Susan is an adult, and I have adult tendencies, and it’s none of their business what we do behind closed doors. Not to mention we’d already been married to each other, and we had two children, for God’s sake. But, as I say, William is a control freak, plus, of course, this really had to do with John Sutter, not propriety.

  Anyway, we dropped that subject, and William shoveled spoonfuls of milk-sodden Cocoa Puffs into his mouth, and Charlotte sipped tea made out of Himalayan stinkweed or something.

  I was thinking of an excuse to excuse myself, but then William said to Susan, “Your mother and I were thinking that you have enough company with Edward and Carolyn coming—and John here—so we’ve decided to stay at The Creek.”

  Thank you, God.

  Susan objected, and I did my part by saying, “Won’t you reconsider?” Maybe you should go home.

  Anyway, we went back and forth, and when I was sure they were adamant, I said, “Maybe you can stay just one more night.”

  “Well . . .”

  Oh my God. What did I do?

  Then William stuck to his guns and said to Susan, “Please call The Creek and see if a cottage is available.”

  Charlotte chirped in, “We’ve always enjoyed staying there, and it’s no reflection on your wonderful hospitality, dear.”

  I replied, “I understand that.”

  Charlotte looked at me and said, “I was speaking to Susan.”

  “Of course.”

  Susan went to the phone, called The Creek, and secured a cottage for Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope, her parents, and instructed the club to put all charges on her bill, including food, beverage, and incidentals. William was happy. I was giddy.

  I said to Susan, “See if you can get Mom and Dad golf privileges. And don’t forget the cabana. And maybe tennis lessons.”

/>   Susan ignored me, finalized the arrangements, then hung up and said, “You’re booked until Monday.”

  So it was settled. I guess the Stanhopes didn’t want to share a house with me, and probably they were afraid of another spontaneous or planned house gathering, and I’m sure they found the guards at the gate to be inconvenient. Not to mention the possibility of Iranian assassins hiding in the bushes.

  But for the record, everyone agreed that it might work out better if Mom and Dad had their own space, close to here, but not too close, though we were all a little disappointed, of course.

  I inquired, “Can I help you pack?”

  William assured me that they could do that themselves, but he asked if I’d carry their luggage to the car.

  I replied, “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Charlotte slipped up and said, “We’re packed.”

  “Well, then”—I stood and said—“I’ll just go and get your things.”

  And off I went, taking the steps four at a time.

  So, within half an hour, William, Charlotte, John, and Susan were outside saying ciao, but not arrivederci.

  William announced that he and Charlotte had some old friends they wanted to see, and maybe they’d play golf with them and have lunch and also dinner, and unfortunately wouldn’t be at Ethel’s wake today or tonight, and they were sorry to miss Edward and Carolyn this evening, and so forth.

  But we’d all get together Friday night at the funeral home, then play it by ear—whatever that meant. I hoped it meant we wouldn’t see them until the funeral service Saturday morning, if then. But we were all on for Father’s Day, and I reminded William, sotto voce, that we’d speak no later than Monday morning. I winked, but he didn’t return the wink.

  Susan and I stood in the forecourt and waved as they drove off. I flashed William the V-sign, but I don’t think he saw it.

  Susan and I walked back to the house, and she said, “Well, I’m a little disappointed, but a little relieved.”

  “I know exactly how you feel.”

  “Come on, John. You practically pushed them out the door.”

  “I did not. He stumbled.”

  We returned to the kitchen, and I tried another muffin. “This smells and tastes like manure.”