“Sure. Three boys, God bless ’em, they’re healthy and smart. The oldest guy, Frankie, is married and lives in Jersey. Tommy is in college. Cornell. He’s studying hotel management. I got a place in Atlantic City for him to run. Tony is at boarding school. He goes to La Salle, where I went. All my kids went there. You know the place?”
“Yes, I do.’’ La Salle Military Academy is a Catholic boarding school for boys, out in Oakdale on the south shore of Long Island. I have Catholic friends who have or had sons there, and I attended a fund-raiser there once. Its campus is on the Great South Bay and was once an estate, one of the few on the Atlantic side of this island, and belonged, I believe, to an heir to the Singer sewing machine fortune. “A very fine school,’’ I said.
Bellarosa smiled, proudly, I thought. “Yeah. They made me learn there. No bullshit there. You ever read Machiavelli? The Prince?”
“Yes, I did.”
“I can quote whole pages of it.”
And, I thought, you can probably write the sequel to it. I had heard rumors, and now it was confirmed, that boys with certain types of family connections, such as Mr. Bellarosa’s, were alumni of this school. On a somewhat higher level, there were a number of leaders from certain Latin American countries who were La Salle graduates, including General Samoza, formerly of Nicaragua. This same school had also produced men who had made their marks in politics, law, the military, and the Catholic clergy. An interesting school, I thought, sort of the Catholic version of the Eastern Establishment Wasp prep school. Sort of. I asked, “Didn’t White House Chief of Staff John Sununu go there?”
“Yeah. I knew the guy. Class of ’57. I was ’58. Knew Peter O’Malley, too. You know him?”
“Dodgers’ president?”
“Yeah. What a place that was. They break your balls there, the good Christian Brothers. But maybe not so much anymore. The whole fucking country got soft. But they broke my balls back then.”
“I’m sure it did you some good,’’ I said. “Perhaps you’ll be rich and famous someday.”
He went along with the joke and replied, “Yeah. Maybe if I didn’t go there, I would’ve wound up in jail.’’ He laughed.
I smiled. Certain things about Frank Bellarosa were making sense now, including his nearly intelligent accent, and, I guess, his nickname, the Bishop. A Catholic military school had always struck me as a contradiction in terms, but I suppose on one level there was no contradiction. “So,’’ I asked, “were you a soldier?”
Bellarosa replied, “If you mean an army soldier, then no.”
“What other kind of soldier is there?’’ I asked innocently.
He looked at me, and his lips pursed in thought a moment before he replied, “We are all soldiers, Mr. Sutter, because life is war.”
“Life is conflict,’’ I agreed, “but that’s what makes it interesting. War is something else.”
“Not the way I handle conflicts.”
“Then maybe you should take up conflict as a hobby.”
He seemed to ponder that, then smiled. “Yeah.’’ He returned to the subject of his alma mater. “I had six years at La Salle, and I got to appreciate military organization, chain of command, and all that. That helped me in my business.”
“I suppose it would,’’ I agreed. “I was an army officer and I still find myself applying things I learned in the military to my business and my life.”
“Yeah. So you see what I mean.”
“I do.’’ So there I was, having an almost pleasant chat with the head of New York’s most powerful crime family, talking about food, kids, and school days. It seemed a relaxed conversation, despite my innuendos regarding his business, and I admit the man was an okay guy, not in the least slimy, stupid, or thuggish. And if the conversation were being taped and played back to a grand jury or at a cocktail party, there would be a few yawns. But what did I expect him to talk about? Murder and the drug trade?
There was a chance, I thought, that he didn’t want anything more than to be a good neighbor. But as a lawyer, I was skeptical, and as a socially prominent member of the community, I was on my guard. No good could come of this, I knew, yet I was reluctant to end the conversation. Yes, Emily, evil is seductive. Looking back on all of this, I can’t say I didn’t know or wasn’t warned. I asked him, “And did the religious part of La Salle’s curriculum leave as lasting an impression on you as the military aspect?”
He thought a moment, then replied, “Yeah. I’m scared shitless of hell.”
I remembered the Virgin at the end of his reflecting pool. I said, “Well, that’s a start.”
He nodded, then looked around my office, taking in the wood, the hunting prints, the leather, and the brass, probably thinking to himself, “Wasp junk,’’ or words to that effect. He said, “This is an old law firm.”
“Yes.’’ I supposed he thought if the furniture was old, the firm was old, but I had underestimated his interest in me, because he added, “I asked around. My lawyer knew the name right away.”
“I see.’’ I had the outlandish thought that he was going to make me an offer for the place, and decided that two million would be fair.
“Anyway,’’ he said, “here’s the thing. I’m buying a piece of commercial property on Glen Cove Road, and I need a lawyer to represent me at contract and closing.”
“Are we talking business now?”
“Yeah. Start the clock, Counselor.”
I thought a moment, then said, “You just indicated you have a lawyer.”
“Yeah. The guy who knew your firm.”
“Then why don’t you use him for this deal?”
“He’s in Brooklyn.”
“Send him cab fare.”
Bellarosa smiled. “Maybe you know him. Jack Weinstein.”
“Oh.’’ Mr. Weinstein is what is known as a mob lawyer, a minor celebrity in late twentieth-century America. “Can’t he handle a real estate transaction?”
“No. This is one smart Jew, you know? But real estate is not his thing.”
“What,’’ I asked sarcastically, “is his thing?”
“A little of this, and a little of that. But not real estate. I want a Long Island guy, like you, for my Long Island business. Somebody who knows the ropes out here with these people.’’ He added, “I think you know all the right people, Mr. Sutter.”
And, I thought, you, Mr. Bellarosa, know all the wrong people. I said, “Surely you have a firm that represents your commercial interests.”
“Yeah. I got a regular law firm in the city. Bellamy, Schiff and Landers.”
“Didn’t they handle your closing on Alhambra?”
“Yeah. You checked that out?”
“It’s public record. So why don’t you use them?”
“I told you, I want a local firm for local business.”
I recalled the conversation I had with Lester Remsen regarding the Lauderbach estate, and I said to Bellarosa, “My practice is rather select, Mr. Bellarosa, and to be blunt with you, my clients are the type of people who believe that an attorney is known by the company he keeps.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I could lose clients if I took you on as a client.”
He didn’t seem offended, merely doubtful that I knew what I was talking about. He said with pointed patience, “Mr. Sutter, Bellamy, Schiff and Landers is a very upright firm. You know them?”
“Yes.”
“They don’t have a problem with my business.”
“This is not New York City. We do things differently here.”
“Yeah? That’s not what I’m finding out.”
“Well, you just found out that we do.”
“Look, Mr. Sutter, you have a Manhattan office. Run my business out of there.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I told you, my clients . . . no, actually, I personally do not wish to represent you, and you know why.”
We both sat in silence a moment, and several thin
gs ran through my mind, none of them pleasant. It’s generally not a good policy to argue with people who are armed, and I hoped that was the end of it. But Frank Bellarosa was not used to taking no for an answer. And in that respect, he wasn’t much different from most American businessmen. He knew what he wanted and he wanted to get to yes, while I wanted to stay at no.
He crossed his legs and pulled at his lower lip, deep in thought. Finally, he said, “Let me explain the deal, then if you decide no, we shake hands and stay friends.”
I didn’t recall the exact moment when we became friends, and I was upset to learn that we had. Also, I did not want to hear about the deal, but I couldn’t be any more blunt without being insulting. Normally, I’m a lot smoother in these situations, but in some curious way, it was Frank Bellarosa himself who had caused me to change my style. Specifically, I blamed him in part for my fight with Susan, though he didn’t know that, of course. And the fight had led to one thing after another, culminating in the new John Sutter. Hooray. And while I could appreciate a man like Frank Bellarosa now, I wasn’t going to work for him. In fact, I found it easier to tell him to buzz off. I said, “I can recommend a firm in Glen Cove that would probably handle your business.”
“Okay. But let me ask your opinion about this deal first. Just neighborly advice. No formal agreement, no paperwork, and don’t bill me.’’ He smiled. “I’m buying the old American Motors showroom on Glen Cove Road. You know it?”
“Yes.”
“Prime property. Good for something. Maybe a Subaru dealership. Maybe Toyota. Some Jap dealership or other. Do you think that would be good?”
Against my better judgment, I gave him my opinion. “I personally don’t buy Japanese, and most of the people I know around here don’t either.”
“Is that so? Glad I asked. You see what I mean? You know the territory, and you’re honest. Anybody else woulda just seen dollar signs.”
“Maybe. I’ll give you another piece of free advice, Mr. Bellarosa—you don’t just buy property and decide what kind of car dealership you want to put in there. These dealerships are tightly controlled, with territories and all sorts of other requirements that you may not be able to meet. You must know that.”
“You’re asking me if I know about territories?’’ He laughed. “Anyway, I can get whatever dealership I want.”
“Is that so?”
“That is so.”
I should introduce Mr. Bellarosa to Lester, but they probably wouldn’t like or trust each other. They did, however, have that one thing in common: they wanted you to believe that everyone was doing it, doing it, doing it. I honestly believe that there is not as much corruption in this country as there is the perception of corruption, and it is that perception that a man like Frank Bellarosa uses to demoralize and ultimately corrupt businessmen, lawyers, police, judges, and politicians. But I wasn’t buying it.
“So,’’ he continued, “I’m offering six million for the land and the building. You know the property. Is that about right?”
“I’m not sure what the market is at the moment,’’ I said, “but I had the impression you had already struck a deal and just needed an attorney at the closing.”
“Well, yes and no. There’s always room to negotiate, right? The owners have some better offers, but I made my best offer, and I have to show them that my best offer is their best offer.”
“That’s a novel approach to business.”
“Nah. I do it all the time.”
I studied Bellarosa’s face, and he smiled at me, then said, “I don’t want to screw the guy, but I don’t want to get screwed either. So let’s say six is fair. So what do you get? A point? That’s sixty thousand, Mr. Sutter, for a few days’ work.”
This is what you call a moment of truth. But there had been a lot of them in the last few weeks. Stealing ten million from an old lady was illegal and immoral. Earning sixty thousand dollars legally from a crook was borderline. I said, “I thought we agreed I was giving you free neighborly advice.”
“We also agreed you would listen to the deal.”
“I listened. Tell me how you can get any car dealership you want.”
He waved his hand in dismissal of my petty concerns and said, “There is no problem with the real estate end of this deal. It’s straight. Trust me on that.”
“Okay, I trust you.’’ I leaned toward him. “But maybe the source of the money for this deal is not so straight.”
He looked at me, and I could see I had pushed his patience a bit too far. He said coolly, “Let the government worry about that.”
I couldn’t argue with that, because I had made a similar point with Mr. Mancuso only yesterday. I stood. “I sincerely appreciate your confidence in me, Mr. Bellarosa, but I suggest you use Cooper and Stiles in Glen Cove. They will have no problem with the deal or the fee.”
Bellarosa stood also and gathered his coat and hat. He said, apropos of nothing, “I’ve been reading up on the soil here. It’s that glacial outwash you said.”
“Good.”
“I put in a grape arbor. Concord table grapes from upstate. They do good here according to the book.”
“The book is right.”
“But I want to do a wine grape. Anybody around here grow wine grapes?”
“Mostly out east. But the Banfi Vintners in Old Brookville have been successful with chardonnay. You should talk to them.”
“Yeah? You see what I mean?’’ He tapped his forehead. “You’re a smart man, Mr. Sutter. I knew that. No Jap cars, chardonnay grapes.”
“No charge.”
“I’ll give you a case of my first wine.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bellarosa. Just don’t sell any wine without tax stamps.”
“Sure. What do you think of Saabs?”
“Good choice.”
“How about Casa Bianca? White House. Instead of Alhambra.”
“Sort of common. Sounds like a pizza place. Work on that.”
He smiled. “Give my regards to Mrs. Sutter.”
“I certainly will. And my best regards to your wife, and I hope she has gotten over her upset.”
“Yeah, you know women. You talk to her, okay?”
I opened the door for Mr. Bellarosa and we shook hands. He left with two parting words. “See ya.”
I closed the door behind him. “Yeah.”
I went to the window and watched him walk across Birch Hill Road through the rain.
The village of Locust Valley is not all upper middle class, and there is another side of the tracks. And when I was thirteen, before I went up to St. Paul’s, I had the opportunity to know some tough guys. The odd thing, as I recall, was that many of them thought I was an okay guy for a twit. One of them, Jimmy Curcio, a killer-in-training if ever there was one, used to shake my hand every opportunity he got. The little monster was irrepressible in his friendliness, and one time, I now remember, he was standing in the schoolyard with a group of his capos and foot soldiers around him, and as I was passing by, he tapped his forehead and said to them, “That’s a smart guy.”
I watched Frank Bellarosa approach his Cadillac and was not surprised to see a chauffeur—maybe I should say a wheelman or bodyguard—jump out and open the rear door for him. Vanderbilts and Roosevelts may drive their own cars these days, but not don Bellarosa or his kind.
I turned from the window, went back to the fire, and poked at it. Actually, I am a smart guy. And Frank Bellarosa, I was learning, was smarter than I had thought. I suppose I should have known that stupid people don’t get that far and live that long in his business.
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?
Twelve
I rattled around the big old house on Birch Hill Road all day, ignoring the ringing phone, watching the rain, and even doing some work.
No one else, except the mailman, came by, and I was irrationally annoyed that my employees had actually taken the day off on my made-up holiday. I would have written a nasty memo to the staff, but I can’t type.
At about five P . M ., the fax machine dinged, and I walked over to it out of idle curiosity. A piece of that horrible paper slithered out, and I read the handwritten note on it:
John,
All is forgiven. Come home for cold dinner and hot sex.
Susan
I looked at the note a moment, then scribbled a reply in disguised handwriting and sent it to my home fax:
Susan,
John is out of the office, but I’ll give him your message as soon as he returns.
Jeremy
Jeremy Wright is one of the junior partners here. I suppose I was pleased to hear from Susan, though it was not I who needed forgiving. I wasn’t the one rolling around in the hay with two college kids, and I wasn’t the one who thought Frank Bellarosa was good-looking. Also, I was annoyed that she would put that sort of thing over the fax. But I was happy to see that she had regained her sense of humor, which had been noticeably lacking recently, unless you count the laughing from the hayloft.
As I was about to walk away from the fax machine, it rang again and another message came through:
Jerry,
Join me for dinner, etc.?
Sue
I assumed, of course, that Susan had recognized my handwriting. I replied:
Sue,
Ten minutes.
Jerry
On the way home, I saw that the sky was clearing rapidly with wisps of black cirrus sailing across a sunny sky as the southerlies brought the warm weather back. Long Island is not a large land mass, but the weather on the Atlantic side can be vastly different from the Sound side, and the East End has its own weather patterns. All of this weather is subject to change very quickly, which makes life and boating interesting.
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