The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  We greeted Elizabeth and her family again, and I took the opportunity to reintroduce Edward and Carolyn to Tom Junior and Betsy, whom they’d both not seen in at least ten years. I noticed now that there was an age difference of six or seven years between Elizabeth’s children and mine, which was significant at that age, but not an insurmountable obstacle if they liked each other. But perhaps the timing and the setting were wrong for me to try to fan the flames of passion. In fact, I didn’t even see a spark. Oh well.

  Tom Corbet and Laurence were there again, and I gave Tom credit for being a good ex-husband and an involved father. My own performance as an ex-husband, I thought, had been appropriate for the circumstances, and I would have been a better divorced father if I hadn’t left town for a decade. But that was water under the bridge, over the dam, under my hull, and an ocean away.

  I suggested that we move around, so we worked Parlor A a bit, then moved into the sitting room to see if there was anyone there that we needed to greet. You get points and give points for going to a wake, and everyone wanted their visit noted. We all get a turn in the coffin, so you have to do some advance work if you want a good crowd when it’s your turn.

  Susan, Edward, and Carolyn spoke to some people they knew, and it seemed to be a different crowd tonight, so I knew a few people as well, including Beryl Carlisle, a married lady who used to flirt with me whenever possible, and who was now divorced, as I was—so what was I doing tonight?

  Well, Susan and I were back together. Isn’t that great? And, in fact, there she is. Susan, come over and say hello to Beryl. Excuse me.

  When I lived here, the bane of my existence had been weddings and funerals—too many of both—not to mention christenings, engagement parties, birthdays, and retirement parties. I mean, if we have to celebrate people’s life transitions, why not a divorce party? I’m in.

  I checked my watch and saw that only twenty minutes had passed, though it seemed much longer. I made my way back to the lobby, where the exit sign beckoned.

  Susan was supposed to be rounding up the troops, but she was taking her time, and I waited, staring intently at one of those quasi-spiritual paintings—this one had sunlight streaming through the clouds into a forest, where little sylvan creatures lived in peace and harmony. Dreadful. But better than making more deadly conversation with my fellow mourners.

  Susan came up behind me and said, “We’re ready.”

  I turned and saw that our group had grown. Susan announced, “Tom and Betsy would like to join us.”

  That was a hopeful sign. But for some reason, my mother was also standing there, and she informed me, “Susan has also invited me to join you.”

  How did she get here? I recovered nicely and said, “Grandma never needs an invitation.”

  So off we went, with Edward and Carolyn bravely volunteering to ride with Grandma, who is new to driving, and has been for fifty years. Tom Junior and Betsy came with us, and they were happy to get sprung early from Walton’s, and they were chatty. Nice kids. I wondered if Betsy would like L.A. Tom told me he wanted to move to Manhattan. Or if he couldn’t afford Manhattan, then Brooklyn. Great idea.

  We were shown to a round table in the dining room at Seawanhaka, and I made sure the kids sat together, and that Susan sat between me and Harriet.

  The waitress took drink orders, but Harriet wasn’t drinking because she had to drive, though she drove the same, drunk or sober. I decided that Susan was the designated driver, so that left me to have a double Scotch on the rocks. The kids shared a bottle of white wine.

  They all seemed to be getting along well, and we didn’t intrude on their conversation, except that I mentioned how much I loved Los Angeles. I think I also said that Brooklyn was becoming the Left Bank of New York. Susan gave me a little kick under the table.

  Harriet was actually quite pleasant, but that had more to do with Susan than with me. She liked Susan, and always had, despite the fact that Susan had made a poor marital choice.

  A few other refugees from Parlor A drifted in, and Harriet and Susan worked the room a little, and I took the opportunity to go out on the back porch with my drink and look at the sailboats swaying at their moorings.

  Despite the money, and the relatively large population, this place sometimes has the feel of small-town America. That’s the nice part of living here. But it’s also the drawback. You can isolate yourself, especially if you have enough land and money—but you can’t really be anonymous.

  I liked London because in London I had no past, and as in any big city, you could keep to yourself, or you could find company, anytime and anyplace, on any day you wished. Here you were part of a community, whether you liked it or not.

  I could see why young people—like the four sitting at the table—would want to live in L.A., or New York, or anyplace where they could do what they wanted, when they wanted, and do it with whomever they wanted.

  I didn’t know if my London days were over for sure, or if I’d wind up in Manhattan, or here, or in Walton’s. It was hard to believe that two idiots—Anthony Bellarosa and William Stanhope—could alter my future, and Susan’s future, and our future together.

  Harriet drove the Corbet kids back to their mother’s house, and the Sutters headed back to Stanhope Hall.

  I said to Edward and Carolyn, “I’m glad you were able to spend some time with Grandma Harriet.”

  They agreed, and Carolyn said, “She’s really neat.”

  Maybe it is me. I said, “Make sure you keep in touch with her.” Aside from a few thousand sea otters, she’s got only four likely human heirs, and she’s not fond of two of them.

  I asked, offhandedly, “How did you guys get along with Tom and Betsy?”

  No reply.

  I said, “You seemed to be having a good time.”

  Edward said, “They’re nice.”

  I pressed on, “They seem like great kids.”

  No reply.

  Susan said, “John.”

  I didn’t reply.

  Before we got to Grace Lane, Susan called Sophie on the house phone and chatted a moment, before asking her, “Do we have onions for tomorrow?”

  Sophie replied, “We got no onions here.”

  “Okay, I’ll get some tomorrow. See you in a few minutes.” She glanced at me, and I nodded, happy that Sophie didn’t have a gun to her head, which was what “no onions” meant.

  We hadn’t actually told Sophie about the little Mafia problem, of course, or even about the Iranian assassin problem. We just told her that we’d put in some security in case of trespassers or maybe burglars. She didn’t seem too happy about that, but she understood the concept of coded passwords: onions or no onions. We’d actually gone through tomatoes, garlic, and cucumbers before we settled on onions. She liked onions.

  When we got to Grace Lane, I used Susan’s cell phone to call the gatehouse and announce our imminent arrival. So when we got to the gates, they were already open, and the ASS guy waved us through. Maybe this would work out.

  Back in the guest cottage, the four of us sat in the upstairs family room and talked, as we’d done so many nights, so many years ago. And it was almost like old times. Better yet, it was like we’d been doing this for the last ten years.

  I looked at Susan and saw she was as happy as I’d ever seen her. Well, it’s true; we don’t know what we have until we lose it. And if we can get it back, it’s better than it was the first time.

  At about midnight, we all hugged, kissed, and said good night.

  I said to Edward and Carolyn, “Try to be down for breakfast at nine.”

  Susan said, “Sleep as late as you want.”

  Who’s in charge here?

  Susan and I got ready for bed, which included breaking out the arsenal. She said to me, “I want the shotgun tonight.”

  “You had the shotgun last night.”

  “No, I had the carbine.”

  “Why do you always do this?”

  She laughed, then gave me a big hug and sa
id, “John, I’m so happy. But I’m also frightened.”

  “Are you?”

  “A little. Sometimes.”

  “That’s okay.” I let her know, “Mancuso left a message. Anthony is still missing.”

  “Good.”

  Not good. I said, “He may show up Saturday at Gotti’s funeral, and Mancuso will be there.”

  “He should arrest him.”

  I’d rather have Uncle Sal whack him, which would solve a lot of people’s problems. But for now, Uncle Sal was a bit jittery, too.

  I said to her, “I promise you, this will all be over very soon.”

  She didn’t want to know how I knew that, and she moved on to another problem and informed me, “Edward and Carolyn understand that their grandfather disapproves of our marriage, and that he may end my allowance, and possibly disinherit me.”

  “Okay. And do they understand that the same thing may happen to them?”

  “I didn’t raise that issue.”

  “Well, you should have.”

  “John, that will not happen.”

  “All right.” I asked, “Did you tell them to be extra sweet to Grandma and Grandpa?”

  “I did not.” She assured me, “They love their grandparents and don’t need to be told to be nice to them.”

  Unlike, for instance, John Sutter. I said, “All right.” No use speculating; we’d see who was right about that. I moved on to another important question and asked, “Where’s my Yale T-shirt?”

  “In the wash.”

  “How long will it be in the wash?”

  “For a long time.”

  This sounded to me like it might be in heaven. I like to sleep au naturel, anyway, so I got undressed and got into bed.

  Susan got undressed, too, and said, “You were very nice to your mother tonight.”

  “She’s a lovely woman.”

  “She loves you, John.”

  “I can tell.”

  “And I want to do something nice for you for being so good with my parents, your mother, and for behaving in the funeral home.”

  “What sort of positive reinforcement did you have in mind?”

  “I was thinking of a blow job.”

  “That’s just what I was thinking.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Carolyn made it down for breakfast at 9:00 A.M., but Edward did not. Susan reminded me, “It’s six A.M. in Los Angeles.”

  I replied, “We’re in New York. And six A.M. anywhere in the world is a good time to rise and shine.”

  Mother and daughter rolled their eyes and went back to their granola and newspapers.

  It was a rainy day, so our options were limited, but we decided to go into the city and hit a museum, then, of course, Susan wanted to shop for clothes with Carolyn. My mission was to bully Edward into buying a suit and some new sports jackets.

  While we were waiting for Prince Edward to arise, I scanned the tabloids and found a piece about John Gotti. The latest in the ongoing saga of Mr. Gotti’s inconvenient body was that it was still resting comfortably at the Papavero Funeral Home, but as Mancuso already knew, it would be moved to a chapel at St. John’s Cemetery in Queens on Saturday morning, which was tomorrow. The public was not invited.

  On that subject, there was still no word from Mr. Mancuso regarding Anthony Bellarosa’s whereabouts, but Mr. Mancuso did say he’d call us either way from the cemetery to let us know whether or not Anthony was among the select group of invited friends and family. My hunch was still that Anthony Bellarosa’s next public appearance would be at Uncle Sal’s funeral, or his own. As long as it wasn’t my or Susan’s funeral.

  Anyway, the article in the tabloid went into some background about Mr. Gotti’s career, including people he personally murdered, and people whom he had ordered to be murdered, including his boss, Paul Castellano, who’d been shot in front of Sparks, one of my favorite steakhouses. Give that place another bullet. It occurred to me that if I’d had my partners whacked ten years ago, I’d still be at 23 Wall Street, and the only name on the door would be mine.

  Well, that would be an extreme management style, and probably not appropriate for a white-shoe law firm. But still . . .

  On the personal front, the article mentioned the tragic death of Mr. Gotti’s twelve-year-old son Frank, who had been killed in the street in front of the Gotti home in Howard Beach, Queens, as a result of a neighbor, named John Favara, running over the boy while he was riding his minibike. The death was ruled an accident, but accident or not, four months later, Mr. Favara disappeared, never to be seen again. I recalled when this tragedy happened, and when I read of Mr. Favara’s disappearance four months later, I wondered if anyone had suggested to him that he might have a better and longer life if he moved out of the neighborhood.

  But you should never criticize other people’s bad decisions. I mean, as unlikely as it seems, anyone could find himself living next door to a Mafia don who has a personal vendetta against him. In fact, I knew of one such couple. Maybe they should move.

  Another personal bit of information about the late John Gotti was that he, like Frank Bellarosa, was a big fan of Niccolò Machiavelli. Well, it’s good to see tough guys trying to improve their minds by reading the Renaissance masters. You’re never too old to learn something new about human nature, how to win friends and influence people, and running a principality or a criminal empire.

  On that subject, the article also mentioned that Mr. Gotti saw himself as a Caesar. So apparently he tried to combine these two different management styles—dictatorial and cunning. Apparently, too, he’d succeeded to some extent, just as had Frank Bellarosa, who, in addition to being Machiavellian, was also a big fan of Benito Mussolini.

  People like this—Italian or otherwise—love power, and they love to wield power. And you can tell where they’re coming from by the role models they choose. Anthony Bellarosa—Little Caesar—however, was, I thought, basically a man with delusions of grandeur, and he was a failed successor to his father’s empire. But this was not my problem—my problem was that he was a dangerous thug who acted on impulse. His instincts, like his father’s, may have been good, because it certainly wasn’t his brains that had kept him alive so long. I recalled that outthinking Frank Bellarosa was like matching wits with a worthy opposing general; outthinking Anthony was like trying to outthink a predatory animal, who has no intellect—just an empty stomach that needs to be filled.

  Well, back to John Gotti. The article also mentioned Mr. Gotti’s penchant for two-thousand-dollar Brioni suits. I said to Susan, “I’m going to buy Edward a Brioni suit.”

  “Are they good suits?”

  “Excellent. About two thousand dollars.” I added, “Handmade in Italy.”

  “You should buy one for yourself.”

  “Why not? Maybe we’ll get a deal.”

  Edward appeared around 10:00 A.M., and while he was having coffee, Susan made him his favorite breakfast of fried eggs, sausage, and heavily buttered biscuits. This is also my favorite breakfast so I said, “I’ll have the same.”

  “No you won’t.”

  I mean, someone was trying to kill us, so what difference did it make to my longevity if I ate unhealthy foods? What am I missing here?

  Susan had decided to get a car and driver for our city adventure—no waiting in the rain for taxis and no parking hassles—and the car showed up at eleven. It’s true—rich or poor, it’s nice to have money.

  Our first stop in Manhattan was the Frick Museum on Fifth Avenue, and I asked Susan if her friend Charlie Frick worked there. She didn’t reply, so I don’t know, and I didn’t see her there.

  We sucked up one hour and twenty-seven minutes of art, then had a great lunch at La Goulue, one of my favorite restaurants on the Upper East Side.

  Edward, deep down inside, is a New Yorker, and most of his friends live in this city, but he’s chosen a career and maybe a life that will keep him on the West Coast. Susan can’t come to grips with this, but if she had the Stanhope
fortune, she’d find a way to get Edward back. Ironically, for an investment of only about fifty thousand dollars, I could have asked Anthony to think of a way to speed up her inheritance. That’s really not a nice thought. It’s moot, anyway; I had my chance, but the timing was wrong.

  After lunch, the car dropped Edward and me off at Brioni’s on East 52nd, and the ladies stayed with the car to sack and pillage along Madison and Fifth Avenues.

  Edward is as fond of shopping as I am, but we did get him a Brioni suit with matching accessories. Edward really didn’t want a two-thousand-dollar suit, but I told him it would make his mother happy, and it was her Amex card, so all it was costing him was some time and a little boredom. The suit would be ready in eight weeks and sent to Los Angeles. In my next life, I want to be Susan Stanhope’s son. Actually, she did tell me to get one for myself, but we needed to start economizing, though Susan hadn’t come to grips with that yet.

  Edward and I decided that was enough shopping for one day, and Edward called the car on his cell phone, and we were picked up and delivered to the Yale Club on Vanderbilt Avenue.

  We sat in the big main lounge, read the newspapers, talked, and had a few glasses of tomato juice into which, I believe, someone had added vodka.

  Susan called Edward’s cell at five, and he said we were having afternoon tea at the Yale Club. He’s a good boy. Chip off the old block.

  Rush-hour traffic in the rain on a Friday was a mess, so we didn’t get home until after 7:00 P.M.

  I was shocked to discover that the trunk of the car was filled with boxes and bags, and it took the four of us, plus the driver, to carry them into the house. But before I could make a sarcastic remark, Susan announced, “Carolyn and I bought you a tie.”

  Well, I felt just awful about what I almost said, so I did say, “Thank you. I hope you didn’t spend too much.”

  I thought I should tell Susan, privately, that she should be storing her acorns for what might be a money famine, but she had as much information as I did on that subject, so maybe that’s what she was doing—storing Armani, Escada, Prada, and Gucci for lean times. Good thinking. Plus, with the Brioni suit, we’d kept the Italian economy in good shape.