Anyway, I also drew up the petition for the variance on which we needed Mr. Frank Bellarosa’s autograph. Over dinner that Wednesday night, I said to Susan, “It is customary, as you know, to hand carry the petition to our neighbor and chat for a while about what we intend to do.”
Susan replied, “I’ll take it over.”
“Fine. I’d rather not.”
“It’s my stable. I’ll take care of it. Would you please pass me the meat loaf?”
“Meat loaf? I thought it was bread pudding.”
“Whatever.”
I passed whatever it was to Susan and said, “I suggest you go to Alhambra tomorrow during the day, so perhaps you can meet and deal with Mrs. Bellarosa, who I’m sure is not allowed to go to the bathroom without asking her husband’s permission, but who can pass the petition on to Il Duce, who can ask his consiglieri what to do.”
Susan smiled. “Is that what you suggest, Counselor?”
“Yes, it is.”
“All right.’’ She thought a moment. “I wonder what she’s like.”
I thought she might be like a busty blonde, which is why I was sending Susan and not me. “Could you pass me . . . that over there?”
“That’s spinach. I think I cooked it too long.”
“I’ll just have the wine.”
• • •
The next day, Susan called me at my New York office and informed me, “There was no one home, but I left the papers at the gatehouse with a young man named Anthony, who seemed to comprehend that I wanted them delivered to don Bellarosa.”
“All right.’’ I asked, “You didn’t say ‘don Bellarosa,’ did you?”
“No. Anthony did.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. And I want George to call us don and donna from now on.”
“I think I’d rather be called Sir John. See you about six-thirty.”
• • •
That evening, over one of Susan’s special dinners—steak au poivre with fresh spring asparagus and new potatoes, delivered hot from Culinary Delights—I remarked, “I’d call Bellarosa, but he’s unlisted.”
“So are we. But I wrote our phone number on my calling card.”
“Well . . . I suppose that’s all right.’’ Susan has calling cards, by the way, that say simply: Susan Stanhope Sutter, Stanhope Hall. This may sound to you like a useless and perhaps even pretentious thing to carry around, but there are still people here who use these cards, leaving them on a silver tray in the foyer after a visit. If the master and mistress are not at home, or are not receiving, the calling card—or visiting card, as it is also called—is left with the gatekeeper, maid, or nowadays anyone who’s around to take it. Mr. Frank Bellarosa, for instance, should have left his calling card with George when he first learned I was not receiving. I have calling cards, too, but only because Susan got them printed for me about twenty years ago. I’ve used four of them socially and a lot of them under wobbly table legs in restaurants.
As I was contemplating the importance of calling cards in modern society, the telephone rang. “I’ll get it,’’ I said. I picked up the extension on the kitchen wall. “Hello.”
“Hello, Mr. Sutter. Frank Bellarosa.”
“Hello, Mr. Bellarosa.’’ I glanced at Susan, who had taken the opportunity to transfer my asparagus to her plate.
Bellarosa said, “I’m looking at this thing here that your wife dropped off.”
“Yes.”
“You gonna build a stable?”
“Yes, if you have no objections.”
“What do I care? Am I going to smell the horse shit?”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Bellarosa. It’s quite a distance from your house but near your property line, so I need what is called a sideline variance.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.’’ Susan was finished with my asparagus and was eating my steak now. She doesn’t have that much of an appetite for her own cooking. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?’’ asked Bellarosa.
I turned my attention back to the phone. “Nothing. So, if you have no objections, would you sign that petition and mail it in the envelope to the village? I would appreciate that.”
“Why do you need my okay to do that?”
“Well, as I said, the new structure would be within a hundred yards of your property line, and the law—”
“Law?’’ exclaimed Mr. Bellarosa as if I’d used a dirty word. “Fuck the law. We’re neighbors, for Christ’s sake. Go ahead. I’ll sign the thing.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m looking at these plans you sent along, Mr. Sutter. You need somebody to build this thing?”
“No, I sent you those plans because the . . . the rules require that I show you the plans—”
“Yeah? Why? Hey, this thing is brick and stone. I could help you out there.”
“Actually . . . we’re moving an existing stable.”
“Yeah? That thing I saw the other week when I was there? That’s where the horses are now?”
“Yes.”
“You moving that whole fucking thing?”
“No, only part of it. You’ll see by the plans—”
“Why? You could build a nice new thing for less.”
“That’s true. Hold on.’’ I covered the mouthpiece and said to Susan, “Frank says we can build a nice new thing for less, and put down that fucking potato.”
“Language, John.’’ She popped the last potato into her mouth.
I turned back to the telephone. “The stables that you saw, Mr. Bellarosa, have some historical and architectural value,’’ I explained, wondering why I was bothering, and getting a bit annoyed that he’d drawn me into this conversation.
“So,’’ asked Mr. Bellarosa, “you got somebody to move that thing or not?”
“Actually, not yet. But there are some good restoration firms in the area.”
“Yeah? Listen, I have about a hundred greaseballs working over here trying to get this place fixed up. I’m gonna send the boss around to you on Saturday morning.”
“That’s very kind of you, but—”
“Hey, no problem. These guys are good. Old World craftsmen. You don’t find guys like that in this country. Everybody here wants to wear a suit. You want to move a brick stable? No problem. These guys could move the Sistine Chapel down the block if the Pope gave them the go-ahead.”
“Well—”
“Hey, Mr. Sutter, these wops live cement. That’s how they learn to walk—with a wheelbarrow. Right? The boss’s name is Dominic. He speaks English. I personally guarantee his work. These guys don’t fuck up. And the price is going to be right. Saturday morning. How’s nine?”
“Well . . . all right, but—”
“Glad to help out. Just sign this thing, right?”
“Yes.”
“Go have your dinner. Don’t worry about it. It’s done.”
“Thank you.”
“Sure thing.”
I put the phone in the cradle and went back to the table. “No problem.”
“Good.”
“Is there anything left to eat?”
“No.’’ Susan poured me some wine. “What was he saying at the end there?”
“He’s sending Dominic here to look at the job.”
“Who’s Dominic?”
“Anthony’s uncle.’’ I sipped my wine and thought about this turn of events.
Susan asked, “Do you feel awkward now that you wouldn’t take his business?”
“No. I have a professional life and a private life. Professionally I won’t deal with him; privately I’ll deal with him only when I have to as a neighbor. Nothing more.”
“Is that true?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t ask him to send Dominic over. Mr. Frank Bellarosa is making it difficult for us to snub him.”
“He must like you. When he was in your office, did you get the impression he liked you?”
“I suppose. He thinks I’m sm
art.”
“Well, you are.”
“Sure. If I were smart, I never would have let you talk me into moving that stable, paying for half of it, and getting involved with Bellarosa.”
“That’s true. Maybe you’re not so smart.”
“What’s for dessert?”
“Me.”
“Again? I had that last night.”
“Tonight I have whipped cream on it.”
“And a cherry?”
“No cherry.”
• • •
On Saturday morning, Dominic arrived punctually at our back door at nine A . M . He had parked his truck on the main drive and walked the last hundred yards to our house in a light drizzle. He refused offers of coffee or a hat, so Susan and I showed him to the Bronco and we drove to the stables.
Dominic was a man in his late forties, built something like a gorilla that lifts weights. He wore green work clothes, and his skin was already very sun-darkened for April. I still wasn’t sure he spoke English or if he just pretended to. Susan speaks a little Italian and tried it out on Dominic, who kept looking at me as if he wanted me to translate or tell her to shut up.
Anyway, we all stood in the drizzle while Dominic gave the stable a cursory inspection.
Susan tried to make sure he understood we only wanted the central part moved, not the long wings or the carriage house. “And we want this cobblestone moved, too,’’ she said, “those stone troughs, the wrought-iron work, the slate roof. And it has to be put together the same way over there.’’ She pointed off in the distance. “Intatto, tutto intatto. Capisce? Can you do that?”
He looked at her as though she’d just questioned his manhood.
I said to Dominic, “We will take pictures of the stable from all angles.”
“Yes,’’ Susan said. “I don’t want it to wind up looking like the Colosseum, Dominic.”
He smiled for the first time.
“How much?’’ I asked. That’s my line.
Dominic pulled a scrap of a brown paper bag from his pocket, wrote a number on it, and handed it to me.
I looked at his written estimate. It wasn’t exactly itemized, containing only one number as it were, but the number was about half what I thought it should be. There are, as I’ve discovered over the years, many forms of bribes, payoffs, and “favors.’’ This was one of them. But what could I do? Susan was intent on this and so apparently was Frank Bellarosa. I said something to Dominic that I thought I’d never say to a contractor. I said, “This is too low.”
He shrugged. “I gotta no overhead, I gotta cheap labor.”
Susan didn’t bother to look at the number. She asked him, “When can you start?”
“Monday.”
“Monday of what year?’’ she inquired.
“Monday. Monday. Day after tomorra, missus. Three weeks, we finish.”
Of course this seemed like a homeowner’s fantasy come true, which it was. I said to Dominic, “We’ll think about it.”
Dominic looked at me, then said something odd. He said, “Please.’’ He cocked his head in the direction of Alhambra.
He didn’t exactly make a cutting motion across his throat, but I had the distinct impression that if Dominic went back to great Caesar without my okay, he was in trouble. I glanced at Susan, who seemed to be missing the subtleties here.
Susan said to me, “Oh, John, I’m not in the mood to shop around. If it’s too low, give him a bonus.’’ She laughed. “Monday, John. Capisce?”
Against all my better instincts, I said to Dominic, “All right.”
“Molto bene,’’ Susan said.
Dominic looked happy to be working for us for peanuts. I said to him, “You want a check now?”
He waved his hand. “No, no. We worka for Mr. Bellarosa. You talka ta him. Okay?”
I nodded.
Dominic said, “You taka you horses to Mr. Bellarosa stable whila we work.”
Susan shook her head. “We have many other stables here.’’ She motioned with her hand.
“But missus, Mr. Bellarosa stables all cleana for you. We maka lotta noise here with the jacka hammas. . . .’’ He demonstrated using a jackhammer and reproduced the noise quite well. Dadadadada. He added, “No gooda for you horses.”
That clinched it for Susan and she said, “I’ll take them over Monday.”
We got into the Bronco, and I drove back to where Dominic’s truck sat in the main drive. I left Susan in the car and walked Dominic to the truck. I asked him, “Is Mr. Bellarosa home?”
He nodded.
“When you get to his house, tell him to call me.”
“Okay.”
I took my wallet out and handed Dominic my calling card. He examined both sides, obviously looking for a phone number. I guess the man never saw a calling card. “Mr. Bellarosa has my number,’’ I explained. “Just give him the card and tell him to call me now.”
“Okay.”
I took a hundred dollars from my wallet and gave it to Dominic, who shoved it into his pocket without examining either side. “Thanka you too much.”
We shook hands. “See you Monday.’’ I walked back to the Bronco and drove it up to the house. Susan and I went in through the back way to the kitchen. I showed her the scrap of paper and said, “Bellarosa is subsidizing this job.”
She glanced at the piece of paper. “How do you know that?”
“After fifteen years of getting quotes for work here and having your father tell me it’s too much, I know prices.”
Susan, who was in a good mood, wasn’t about to be baited. She smiled, and said, “As St. Jerome wrote, ‘Never look a gift horse in the mouth.’”
There are certain advantages to a classical education, and spouting fourth-century Roman saints to make a point with your spouse may be one of them. I replied, “As a wiser man said, ‘There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.’”
I poured two cups of coffee, and the phone rang. I answered it. “Hello.”
“Mr. Sutter.”
“Mr. Bellarosa.”
“You all squared away there?’’ he asked.
“Maybe,’’ I replied. “But I don’t think he can bring the job in for that price.”
“Sure he can.”
“How?”
“Cheap labor, low overhead, and your materials.”
I glanced at Susan, who was watching me closely, then said to Bellarosa, “All right. Whom do I pay?”
“You pay me. I’ll take care of the boys.”
The last thing I wanted was to have one of my checks drawn to Frank the Bishop Bellarosa. “I’ll give you cash,’’ I said.
He replied, “I take cash for a lot of things, Mr. Sutter, but I thought people like you want a record of everything.”
Not everything, Frank. I responded, “It’s still legal to pay in cash in this country. I will need a paid bill, from Dominic, on contractor’s letterhead.”
Bellarosa laughed. “Now I got to get letterheads printed up for the guy. That’s how you get into overhead.”
“Perhaps you can get a rubber stamp for his brown paper bags.”
Bellarosa was in a merry mood and laughed again. “Okay. You need something to show capital improvement for the government if you sell or something, right? Okay. No problem. Hey, what are these cards your wife and you got with nothing on them?”
“They have our names on them,’’ I said. “That’s how you know they’re ours.”
“Yeah. But then it just says Stanhope Hall. Where’s the phone number, the zip, and all that?”
“They’re calling cards,’’ I informed him.
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. It’s an old custom.”
“Yeah?”
“Anyway,’’ I continued, back on the subject, “I just wanted to let you know that Dominic seems very professional and was very pleasant to deal with.’’ So don’t kill him.
“Good. He knows his bricks and cement. It’s in the blood. You know? Y
ou seen the Baths of Caracalla? That stuff impresses me. They don’t build like that anymore. Two thousand years, Mr. Sutter. You think this shit around here is going to be around in two thousand years?”
“We’ll see. Also, about the horses, thank you for the offer, but we’ll have them boarded while—”
“Nah. Why throw your money away? I got a stable here. It’s all ready, and it’s nice and close by for you. I boarded out my dog once and it died.”
“But we both went to boarding school,’’ I reminded him, “and we’re still alive.”
He thought that was very funny. I don’t know why I feel compelled to use my razor-sharp wit on him. Maybe because he laughs.
He was still laughing as he said, “Hey, I got to tell my wife that one. Okay, look, Mr. Sutter, I want you to know I got no hard feelings about the other thing. Business is business, and personal is personal.”
“That’s true.’’ I looked at Susan, who was reading the local non-newspaper at the kitchen table. I said to Bellarosa, “My wife and I would like to thank you for your help in this and for signing the variance petition.”
“Hey, no problem. I noticed that thing was in your wife’s name.”
I hesitated, then replied, “This is her property. My estate is in the shop for repairs.”
Ha, ha, ha. I hoped he was writing these down. Then, being about fifty-percent certain the phone was tapped, and Mr. Mancuso or someone like him was listening in, I said distinctly, “If the job goes over cost, I insist on paying the difference. I will not accept a low bid, even as a personal favor, Mr. Bellarosa, because you owe me no favors, and I owe you no favors, and it would be good if we didn’t get into owing favors.”
“Mr. Sutter, you gave me some good advice the other day. I don’t see no bill, so that was a favor. I’m repaying the favor.”
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