Gold Coast

by Nelson DeMille

  Susan interjected, “It’s . . . actually this is the dining room.”

  Bellarosa looked at her. “You sure?”

  “Yes. I was in this house when the last family lived here.”

  “That stupid decorator . . . then what’s the room over there?’’ He pointed through an archway.

  “That is the morning room,’’ Susan informed him.

  “Morning room?”

  I could have had fun with that one, but I left it alone.

  “It doesn’t matter,’’ Susan assured him. “These old houses are used in different ways now. Whatever works best for you.”

  “Except,’’ I said helpfully, “you can’t cook in the bathroom, or go to the bathroom in—”

  “John,’’ Susan interrupted, “we get the idea, darling.”

  We followed Mr. Bellarosa through the newly discovered dining room, then through the archway that led to the morning room. It was a rather large room, right off the butler’s pantry, which in turn led to the kitchen. Bellarosa seemed not in the least embarrassed to be entertaining us in the morning room—sometimes called the breakfast room—since, until very recently, he thought it was the dining room. But to be fair, I could see how a peasant might get confused. He pulled out two chairs at one end of a long dining table. “Sit,’’ he commanded.

  We sat. Mr. Bellarosa went to a sideboard from which he took a tray of cordials and crystal glasses that he set on the table in front of us. “Here. Help yourselves. Don’t be shy. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  He went through a swinging door into the butler’s pantry, and I watched his retreating back as he headed for the kitchen. The door swung closed. Five, four, three, two, one—

  “John, you were a bore.”

  “Thank you.’’ I examined one of the bottles. “Sambuca, my dear?”

  “Behave. I’m serious.”

  “All right. I don’t want to get us killed.’’ I poured us both a glass of sambuca. There was a plate of coffee beans on the tray, and I dropped a bean into each glass. I raised my glass to Susan. “Cheers.”

  “Centanni.”

  We drank. I asked, “What was that about the Cosa Nostra?”

  “Nostra casa, John. Our house. Welcome to our house.”

  “Oh. Why didn’t he say so?’’ I looked around the room as I sipped my cordial. The room was oriented to the south and east like most morning rooms to catch the rising sun at breakfast. Nowadays, this room in a mansion is used for almost all family meals as it is usually located close to the kitchen, but I suspected the Bellarosas ate in the kitchen and did their formal entertaining in the breakfast room, or perhaps the basement.

  The south and east walls of the room were all windows, and as I was looking out, colored floodlights suddenly came on, illuminating the newly reclaimed gardens in hues of red, blue, and green. I said to Susan, “The motion detectors must have picked up an approaching hit squad. If you hear gunshots, hit the floor.”

  “John.”

  “Sorry.”

  “And keep your voice low, please.”

  I grunted and poured two more. I like sambuca. It reminds me of penny licorice sticks. I surveyed the rest of the room. The furnishings were a sort of dark, formal Mediterranean, I guess, and seemed to go with the rest of the house.

  Susan, too, was evaluating the place and commented softly, “Not bad. He said they had a decorator, but they’re not using anyone around here, or I’d know about it.”

  “That’s why they’re not using anyone around here, Susan, or you’d even know Mrs. Bellarosa’s bra size.”

  She smiled. “Well, whoever they’re using doesn’t know a dining room from a breakfast room.”

  “But you straightened that out in your tactful way,’’ I said.

  She laughed. “What was I supposed to say?”

  I shrugged and poured my second or third. I was mellowing out a bit and decided to stop baiting Susan, who was nearly blameless for our being there. I asked her, “Did anyone buy this place after the Barretts left?”

  “No. It just sat vacant.’’ She stayed silent a moment, then added, “In my junior year when I was home for spring break, Katie Barrett called me from the city. I hadn’t heard from her in years. I met her at Locust Valley station and drove her here. We walked around for a long while, talking about when we were kids. It was sort of sad.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  Susan continued, “Then, a few years later, this place was infested with squatters. Some sort of hippie commune. They lived here without water or electricity, and in the winter they burned whatever wood they could find in the fireplaces. Everyone on Grace Lane complained, but the police took their time about getting them out.”

  I nodded. The sixties were sort of a test to see how much anarchy the system could take, and as it turned out, the system backed off.

  Susan added, “I remember my father was angry with the police. He told them that the bank didn’t take so long to get the Barretts out and they owned the place.”

  Again I nodded. There was certainly a moral there, and it had something to do with authority versus power, with voluntary compliance versus come and get me, pigs. Frank understood that. I said, “Well, maybe the police will run Mr. Bellarosa off.”

  “Not if he pays his taxes, John.”

  “True.’’ I guess I came into the picture here after the hippies, and I recall that Alhambra was used a few times for designer showcases. Although I never availed myself of the opportunity to see what these strange people do to the great houses, I’ve been told by other men that interior decorators with cans of mauve paint and rolls of iridescent wallpaper could do more damage to a vacant mansion than a hundred vandals.

  I recalled, also, that in the middle and late seventies there were a few charity functions held at Alhambra, either in the house or on the half-acre patio in the summer. If the plumbing still works in these old mansions, and if the Long Island Lighting Company is paid up front for turning on the juice, then these houses can be rented from the bank or the county on a short-term basis for charity events, tours, designer showcases, movie sets, and such. So homes that once held Vanderbilts, Astors, and the like are now available to anyone with a few bucks and a need for floor space.

  Susan once went to one of these charity things without me—a Save the Beluga Caviar Sturgeon benefit or something—but this was the first time I’d ever actually been inside Alhambra, though I knew that in the last fifteen years or so, it had really fallen apart—its plumbing gone, windows broken, roof leaking—becoming unfit for interior decorators and even the charity ball crowd, who will usually dance and eat anywhere for a good cause.

  In most respects, Alhambra’s history is not much different from a few dozen other great houses that I know of. I asked Susan, “Didn’t you tell me you were here right before Bellarosa bought this place?”

  “Yes, last autumn with Jessica Reid, the realtor, and a few other ladies. We were just snooping around. Jessica had a key, though you didn’t need one because half the padlocks were broken.”

  “I guess none of you bought the place.”

  “It was really in awful condition. There were squirrels in the house, and birds had built nests all over.”

  “There are still birds in the house.”

  “Well, anyway, it was sad, you know, John, because I remember it as a happy, loving home when the Barretts lived here. But now it’s coming alive again. It’s amazing what a few hundred thousand dollars can do.”

  “Yes, it is, which is nothing. Try a few million. And he’s not done yet. Maybe this place will be what brings down the don. Join the home improvement club, Frank. Bottomless pit.”

  “See, you two have something in common already.”

  “Yes. He told me that Mrs. Bellarosa wants to move the reflecting pool six feet to the left.”

  “John.”

  “Sorry.’’ I had another drink. Maybe the sambuca wasn’t mellowing me. Maybe it makes people mean. I glanced at my watch.
More than five minutes had gone by, and I was beginning to wonder if Bellarosa was pulling his Mussolini routine. Then I noticed a telephone on a small stand across the room. It was an elaborate instrument with several lines, one of which was lit. The don was dialing and dealing.

  I looked around the room again and saw now above the sideboard a cheaply framed print. It was Christ, his arms outstretched, with a bright-red heart—a stylized exoskeletal organ—shining from his breast. At the bottom of the print were the words Sacred Heart of Jesus. I drew Susan’s attention to the picture.

  She studied it a moment, then observed, “It looks very Catholic.”

  “Looks like a pistol target.”

  “Don’t be blasphemous.’’ Susan turned back to me. “You see, they’re religious people. A religious person wouldn’t be mixed up with’’—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“with drugs, prostitution, or any of that.”

  “I never thought of that,’’ I said dryly.

  I must admit that despite my cavalier attitude, I was a bit concerned about meeting Mrs. Bellarosa. Not that I’d done anything particularly offensive or threatening—I’d just growled at her on my hands and knees—but that might be hard to explain if she called me out on it. Or worse yet, she might be the hysterical type. I had a mental picture of her screaming and pointing at me. “Frank! Frank! He’s the one! He’s the one! Kill him!”

  That wouldn’t get us off on the right foot at all. I realized I shouldn’t have come here, but I knew I would probably bump into Mrs. Bellarosa eventually. Though if enough time had been allowed to pass, she might forget what I looked like, or I could grow a mustache.

  With that thought, an idea came to me. As nonchalantly as I could, I took my reading glasses out of my breast pocket and put them on. I pulled a few bottles toward me and began reading the labels.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Susan looking at me. She asked, “Interesting?”

  “Yes. Listen to this. ‘Capella is a unique liqueur, produced from the nicciole, which is a native Italian nut. Capella is produced and bottled in Torino—’”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Not yet.’’ I poured another sambuca for both of us.

  “That’s enough.”

  “He said not to be shy.”

  We drank in silence a few more minutes. The light on the telephone was out now, but then the phone rang once and was picked up somewhere, and a line button stayed lit. I pictured the don in the kitchen, supervising coffee and dessert while he was doing business on the phone, writing names on the wall of people to be killed.

  “Are you going to keep your glasses on?”

  I turned back to Susan. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Why is it that you never painted this place?’’ I asked, sort of changing the subject.

  She seemed momentarily confused by the sudden shift but replied, “I suppose it was too sad. But I did take a roll of color slides when I was here with Jessica. Mostly of the palm court. You should have seen what it looked like.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Well, I’ll show you the slides. Why are you wearing—”

  “Tell me what it looked like when you were here.”

  She shrugged. “Well . . . the glass dome was broken, and water had gotten in. There was grass growing on the floor, lichen mushrooms, moss on the walls, and ferns growing out of cracks in the stucco. An incredibly good study of ruin and decay.’’ She added, “I thought I might paint it from the slides.”

  I looked at her. “I do not want you selling them a painting.”

  She replied, “I thought I’d give it to them as our housewarming gift.”

  I shook my head.

  “They would appreciate it, John. Italians love art.”

  “Sure.’’ I cocked my head toward the Sacred Heart of Jesus print on the wall. “Listen, Susan, that is much too extravagant. It could take you months to complete a canvas. And you never gave one away before. Not even to family. You charged your father six thousand dollars for the painting of the love temple.”

  “He commissioned it. This is a different situation. I want to paint Alhambra’s palm court as a ruin. Also, we came here empty-handed, and finally, we owe him a big favor for the stable.”

  “No, I’m all evened up with him on favors—I gave him free advice. And I’ll give you some free advice—don’t get involved.”

  “I don’t feel we have repaid the favor, and if I want to—”

  “What happened to the Casa Bellarosa sign in mother-of-pearl? Better yet, why don’t you bake them a cake? No—maybe that’s not a good idea. How about a bushel of horse manure for his garden?”

  “Are you finished?”

  “No.”

  But before we could have a fight, Mr. Frank Bellarosa burst through the swinging door, rear end first, carrying a big electric coffee urn. “Okay, here’s the coffee.’’ He set the urn on the sideboard and plugged it in. “We got espresso, too, if anybody wants.’’ He took the seat at the head of the table and poured himself a glass of capella. “You try this yet?’’ he asked me.

  “No,’’ I replied, “but I know that it’s made from the nicciole nut.”

  “Yeah. Like a hazelnut. How’d you know that?”

  I smiled at Susan and answered Bellarosa. “I read the label.” “Oh, yeah.’’ He took some roasted coffee beans out of the dish and dropped two into Susan’s glass and two into mine. He said, “You either put no beans in, or you put three. Never more and never less.”

  Damned if I was going to ask him why, but Susan bit. “Why?’’ she asked.

  “Tradition,’’ Bellarosa replied. “No—superstition,’’ he admitted with a soft chuckle. “The Italians are very superstitious. The three beans are for good luck.”

  “That’s fascinating,’’ Susan said.

  Actually, it was bullshit. I asked Bellarosa, “Are you superstitious?”

  He smiled. “I believe in good luck and bad luck. Don’t you?”

  “No,’’ I replied, “I’m a Christian.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Everything,’’ I informed him.

  “Yeah?’’ He thought a moment, then said, “Yeah, I know what you’re saying. But with the Italians, you got evil omens, evil signs, good omens, three coins in the fountain, three beans in the sambuca, and all that stuff.”

  “That’s pagan,’’ I said.

  He nodded. “Yeah. But you got to respect it. You just don’t know.’’ He looked at me. “You just don’t know.’’ He changed the subject. “Anyway, I got no cappuccino. I bought a beautiful machine direct from a restaurant when I was in Naples a few months ago. I had it shipped, but I think it got swiped at Kennedy. The guy in Naples says he sent it, and I believe him, so I asked around Kennedy, and nobody knows nothing. Right? And the Feds complain about organized crime there. You think organized crime steals coffee machines? No. I’ll tell you who steals there—the melanzane.’’ He looked at Susan. “Capisce?”

  “The eggplants?”

  Bellarosa smiled. “Yeah. The eggplants. The blacks. And the Spanish, and the punk airport rent-a-cops. They steal. But whenever there’s a problem anyplace, it’s organized crime, organized crime. Wrong. It’s disorganized crime that’s screwing up this country. The hopheads and the crazies. Capisce?” He looked at both of us.

  I was, finally, at a loss for words after this bizarre monologue, so what could I say but, “Capish.”

  Bellarosa laughed. “Ca-peesh. Have another.’’ He filled my glass with sambuca, and I tried the word again, but this time in my mind. Capisce.

  Susan, who as I said is a little naive in some ways, asked the head of New York’s largest crime family, “Did you report the theft to customs?”

  “Sure.’’ Bellarosa chuckled. “That’s all I need. Right? The papers get hold of that story and they’d laugh me out of town.”

  “What do you mean?’’ Susan asked.

  Bellarosa shot me a glance, then sa
id to Susan, “They think I steal from the airport.”

  “Oh, I see. That would be ironic.”

  “Yeah. Ironic.’’ Bellarosa sipped his capella delicately. “Ah. Very nice.’’ He looked at Susan. “My wife’s coming. She has to make sure everything is perfect. I said to her, ‘Relax. These are our neighbors. They’re good people.’” He looked at me. “But you know how women are. Everything’s a big deal. Right?”

  “No comment,’’ I replied wisely. Just then the swinging door opened. I adjusted my eyeglasses and prepared to stand, but it was not Mrs. Bellarosa. It was a homely young woman in a plain black dress and a maid’s apron, carrying a tray. She placed the tray on the sideboard, then set the table with cups and saucers, silverware, napkins, and such. She turned and left wordlessly, with no bow, curtsy, or even an Italian salute.

  Bellarosa said, “That’s Filomena. She’s from the other side.”

  “The other side of what?’’ I inquired.

  “The other side. Italy. She doesn’t speak much English, which is all right with me. But these paesan’ pick it up fast. Not like your Spanish. You wanna get ahead in this country, you gotta speak the language.’’ He added, “Poor Filomena, she’s so ugly she could never marry an American boy. I told her if she stayed with me three years and didn’t learn English, I’d give her a dowry and she could go back to Naples and get herself a man. But she wants to stay here and be an American. I’ll have to find somebody blind for her.”

  I looked at Bellarosa. This was indeed the don, the padrone, in his element, running people’s lives for them, being both cruel and generous.

  Susan asked him, “Do you speak Italian?”

  He made a little motion with his hand. “Cosí, cosí.’’ He added, “I get by. The Napoletan’ understand me. That’s what I am. Napoletano. But the Sicilian’—the Sicilians—who can understand them? They’re not Italian.’’ He asked Susan, “Where did you learn Italian?”

  “Why do you think I know Italian?”

  “Dominic told me.’’ He smiled. “He said to me—in Italian—‘Padrone, this American lady with red hair speaks Italian!’” Bellarosa laughed. “He was amazed.”

  Susan smiled. “Actually, I don’t speak it well. It was my language in school. I took it because I majored in fine arts.”