Gold Coast

by Nelson DeMille

  Anyway, on the same subject, Susan reached over and grabbed me, finding, I’m afraid, not even four fingers’ worth of John. I informed her, “I’ve had too much to drink.”

  Susan does not take that as a rejection, but as a challenge. In fact, once she gets going she could make my tie hard.

  “Pretend,’’ she said, “that I’m Anna Bellarosa, and we swapped spouses for the night.”

  “Okay.’’ There was a distinct physical difference between Susan and Anna, so I had to pretend real hard. Susan switched off the lamp to facilitate this. She said, “I’m with Frank now, in the back of his car, and we’re getting out of our clothes as the chauffeur is driving us around.”

  I didn’t like that image, but a part of me must have because I felt that part getting harder in Susan’s hand, and she giggled. “See?’’ she said. “There you go.’’ She added, “And you’re going to fuck Anna Bellarosa now. She’s never been with any man except her husband, and she’s shy, terrified, but excited. And you know she’s going to love how you do it to her, and you’re wondering how and when you’re going to return her to her husband, and when he’s going to give me back to you, and what we’re all going to say to one another.”

  My goodness, what an imagination this woman had. And she knows what turns me on, which can be a little uncomfortable for me. I mean, now that I thought about it, the idea of wife-swapping had briefly crossed my fuzzy mind on the way home in the car.

  Anyway, there I was on my back, with Susan’s hand cupped around my penis, which was rising like an ICBM out of its silo. I heard her say, “Oh, my God, John, you’re bigger than Frank.”

  “What?”

  She said in a Brooklyn accent, “I can’t get alla this insida me. Please don’t put it in me. My husband will kill me for this. He’ll kill you.”

  “He’s fucking Susan right now,’’ I pointed out. “Your husband is fucking my wife.”

  She said, “I am betraying my husband. God forgive me.”

  I replied, “I’m just having sex.’’ I rolled over on top of her and brought her legs over my shoulders.

  “What are you doing?’’ she cried. “What are you going to do?”

  I thrust myself inside her and she let out a startled sound. As I made love to her, she moaned, sobbed, then settled down and began to enjoy herself. Between deep breaths, she gasped a few words in Italian that I didn’t understand, but they sounded sexy and raunchy.

  Well, look, I mean, we’re a little kinky, okay? But we knew where to draw the line and always had. But this time, for some reason, I had the feeling that we’d gone beyond the bounds of our game. Fantasy was one thing, but bringing people such as the Bellarosas into our bedroom was dangerous. What was happening to us?

  Afterward, as we lay on the bed, uncustomarily separated by a few feet of sheets, Susan said, “I think we should go away. On vacation.”

  “Together?”

  She let a few seconds go by, then replied, “Of course. We have to get out of here, John. Now. Before it’s too late.”

  I didn’t feel like asking what she meant by too late. I answered, “I can’t go now. There’s too much happening.”

  She didn’t say anything for a long time, then replied, “Don’t forget I asked.”

  And to be fair to her even in light of what happened, I’ll never forget that she asked.

  Twenty

  July. The best-laid summer plans of hardworking men often go astray, and this promised to be as screwed up a summer as I’d had since my induction into the army.

  Mr. Melzer got in touch with me as Frank Bellarosa had said he would. We met, at Mr. Melzer’s insistence, at my house. He arrived at the appointed hour, six P . M . on a Wednesday, and I showed him into my study.

  Mr. Melzer was a white-haired gentleman, rather soft-spoken, which had surprised me on the telephone, and his voice fit his appearance as I now saw. He was dressed in a dove-gray suit that was expensive and surprisingly tasteful. His shoes were not only real, but they were lizard at about a thousand dollars a pair. My, my, Mr. Melzer, you struck it rich, didn’t you? I wished Mr. Novac could see his former co-worker.

  We sat in my study, but I didn’t offer Mr. Melzer anything but a chair.

  As he was a renegade, I had expected Mr. Melzer to have somewhat of a furtive look about him. But he seemed instead completely at ease, and at times rather grave, as if what we were discussing was very weighty and thus very expensive.

  I didn’t dislike the man immediately as I’d disliked Novac, but there was something a bit oily about Mr. Melzer, and I supposed he’d acquired that lubrication after he’d left the IRS, which is not known for greasing the shaft. The lizard shoes seemed appropriate footwear for Mr. Melzer.

  After fifteen minutes or so of conversation, he informed me, “I require twenty thousand dollars as a retainer.”

  That was actually reasonable considering the case. I would require more if it were my case. But then he added, “I take half of what I save you in taxes.”

  “Half? Attorneys are only allowed by law to charge a third of what they get a client in a civil suit.”

  “I’m not an attorney, Mr. Sutter. There is no law governing my fee. Also, you understand, I have rather heavy expenses.”

  “You don’t even have an office.”

  “I’ve got other expenses. You don’t want to know about them.”

  “No, I don’t.’’ I looked him in the eye. “And there will be no criminal charges for tax fraud.”

  “No criminal charges, Mr. Sutter.”

  “All right. You’re hired.”

  He added, “However, according to what you’ve told me, you do owe the government most of that money. Perhaps all of it. But I can and will get it reduced. I have a good incentive to do that. You see?”

  There is no harder worker than a former government employee who has discovered the word incentive.

  He continued, “And I will try to work out a payout schedule, but I must tell you, when they settle for less, they want it quickly.”

  “Fine. But I don’t want to see or hear from Novac again.”

  “I’ll deal with Steve.”

  Steve? I asked him, “How and when do you want to be paid your retainer?”

  “A check is fine, and now would be convenient.”

  “Not for me. I’ll send you a check next week. But I want you to begin work as of now.’’ When clients say this to me, I raise my eyebrows like lawyers do.

  But Mr. Melzer just waved his hand. “You are a friend of Mr. Bellarosa. There is no problem with payment.”

  That could be taken at least two ways. I stood and Mr. Melzer stood also. He went to the window. I said to him, “It’s easier to get out through this door.”

  He laughed softly and explained, “I was admiring your place when I drove in.’’ He motioned out the window. “It’s very impressive.”

  “It was.”

  “Yes, was. It’s incredible, isn’t it, Mr. Sutter, how the rich lived before income taxes?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “It always pained me, when I was with the government, to see how much hard-earned personal wealth was taken through taxes.”

  “It pains me, too, Mr. Melzer. Truly it does. And I’m happy for your conversion.’’ I added, “But we must all pay some taxes, and I don’t mind paying my fair share.”

  He turned from the window and smiled at me but said nothing.

  I walked to the door. “And you’re certain you don’t require my tax records?”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Sutter. I approach the problem differently.’’ He added, “It’s their records on you that interest me.”

  “I see. And how can I reach you if the need arises?”

  “I’ll call you in a week.’’ Mr. Melzer walked to the door, hesitated, and said, “You’re probably bitter about this, Mr. Sutter, and you’re probably thinking about some individuals who don’t pay their fair share of taxes.”

  “They have to live with tha
t mortal sin, Mr. Melzer. I simply want to settle up with my Uncle Sam. I’m a patriot, and a former Boy Scout.”

  Again, Mr. Melzer smiled. I could see that he thought I was a cut above the average tax cheat. He informed me, “People who don’t pay any taxes, the real tax evaders, appear to live like the old robber barons. But I assure you, eventually they go to jail. There is justice.”

  That was similar to what Mr. Mancuso had told me. That assurance must come with government work. They must know something I don’t know. I replied, “And I would be happy to sit on the jury.’’ I held the door open for him.

  He took another step toward the door, then again turned to me. “Perhaps I could use your services one day. I do very well, you understand, but I have no law degree.”

  “Which is why you do very well, instead of just fairly well.”

  He chuckled. “You’re well-known in the Manhattan IRS office. Did you know that?”

  I suspected I was, but didn’t know for certain. I asked, “Do they throw darts at my picture?”

  “Actually, when I worked there, we had a whole wall in the coffee room captioned ‘Rogues’ Gallery.’” He smiled, but I was not amused. He added, “Not photos, of course, but names and Social Security numbers. Not of tax cheats, you understand, but of attorneys and CPAs who beat the IRS at their own game. They don’t like that. So, you see, I knew you, or of you, before I heard from you.’’ He paused, then said, “So, it is ironic, is it not, that you should find yourself in need of tax assistance from me?”

  Irony to me often smells like a put-up job, and that’s what he was hinting at. So I asked him, “Do you believe this case is a personal vendetta against me?”

  He let a meaningful second pass before answering, “Who can say for sure? Bureaucrats can be so petty. The point is, even if they did single you out, they did find something, did they not? Even if it is a technicality.”

  A rather expensive technicality. Well, if the only fitting death for a lion tamer is to get eaten by a lion, then the only fitting financial death for a tax man is to get eaten by the IRS.

  Mr. Melzer returned to his original subject and asked, “I would like to call on you for advice.”

  This was hardly the moment to tell him to fuck off, so I said, “I’m available for my usual hourly rate.”

  “Good. And would you be available for more extensive work? For instance, would you consider forming a limited partnership?”

  Mamma mia, I was getting more offers than a Twelfth Avenue whore. I replied wryly, “I hardly think that a man who is facing charges of tax fraud would be an asset to you, Mr. Melzer.”

  “You’re too modest.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “Mr. Sutter, I could double your present income in the first year.”

  “So could I, Mr. Melzer, if I chose to. Good evening.”

  He took the heavy hint, put it around his neck, and left with a hanging head.

  I felt I needed a shower, but made a drink instead. I loosened my tie and sat in my armchair, wiping my forehead with a handkerchief.

  These old houses, all stone and with no duct work, are nearly impossible to air-condition properly, and my study was hot in the July heat. I could get a few window air conditioners, I suppose, but that looks tacky, and people around here are more concerned with appearances than comfort. That’s why we wear ties and jackets in the heat. Sometimes I think we’re crazy. Sometimes I know we are.

  I sipped on a gin and tonic, my summer drink, made with real Schweppes quinine to ward off malaria, and real Boodles gin to ward off reality.

  Double your present income. My God, I thought, this used to be a nation that produced useful goods, built railroads and steamships, and subdued a continent. Now we perform silly services, make paper deals, and squander the vast accumulated capital of two hundred years of honest labor.

  If Melzer could double my income to about $600,000, then Melzer must be good for over a million himself. And what did he do for that million? He fixed tax problems that were in large part created by people like himself. And the bozo probably went to a second-rate state university and squeaked out a degree in accounting. I made myself another drink.

  Communism was dead, and American capitalism had a bad cough. So who and what would inherit the earth? Not the meek, as the Reverend Mr. Hunnings preached. Not the parasites, such as Melzer, who could survive only while the organism was alive. Not Lester Remsen, who, though he specialized in mining and industrial stocks, wouldn’t know a lump of coal from a cow pie. And certainly not me or my children, who had evolved along very narrow lines to be masters of a world that no longer existed.

  People like the Stanhopes might survive because their ancestors had stashed away enough acorns to last for a long time. People like Bellarosa might survive if they could make deals with the new wolves in the woods. Evolution, not revolution. That was what America was all about. But you had to evolve fast.

  I took my gin and tonic and went out on the back terrace. Susan, who had taken to drinking Campari and soda this summer (probably because it was served at Alhambra), joined me outside. She asked, “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. But I need to borrow twenty thousand from you.”

  “I’ll have a check drawn to you tomorrow.”

  “Thank you. I’ll have it back to you as soon as I unload some stocks. What is your interest rate?”

  “The vig is one percent a week, compounded daily, and you got ninety days to pay up the principal or I break your legs.’’ She laughed.

  I glanced at her. “Where did you learn that? Next door?”

  “No, no. I’m reading a book about the Mafia.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? You read books on local trees, I read books on local wildlife.’’ She added, “Those wiseguys are not nice people.”

  “No kidding.”

  “But they make much better interest on their investments than my stupid trustees do.”

  “So tell Bellarosa you want to capitalize his loan-sharking.”

  She thought a moment, then said, “Somehow, I think Frank is different. He’s trying to go a hundred-percent legitimate.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Of course not. Anna did. But in a roundabout way. She doesn’t even admit he’s head of a Mafia family. I guess, like me, she never saw it in the papers.”

  “Susan,’’ I replied, “Frank Bellarosa is the number-one criminal in New York, perhaps in America. He could not legitimize his business or his life even if he wanted to, and I assure you he does not want to.”

  She shrugged. “Did you see that article in today’s Times?”

  “Yes. Are you reading the newspapers now?”

  “Someone told me to read that.”

  “I see.’’ The article in question concerned an announcement made by Mr. Alphonse Ferragamo, the United States Attorney for New York’s Southern District. Mr. Ferragamo stated that he was presenting evidence to a federal grand jury that was looking into allegations that Mr. Frank Bellarosa, an alleged underworld figure, was involved in the death of a Mr. Juan Carranza, a Colombian citizen and a reputed drug dealer. The federal government was involved in the case, Mr. Ferragamo stated, because both the victim and the suspect were reputed to be involved in ongoing interstate and international racketeering. Thus, the government was seeking a federal indictment for first-degree murder.

  I always liked the New York Times’ understated style, calling everyone “Mr.,’’ and inserting lots of “reputed’’s and “alleged’’s. It all sounded so civilized. The Times should have heard what I heard in Bellarosa’s study: fucking Ferragamo, fucking Carranza, fucking Feds, spics, shitheads, and melanzane. I made a mental note to pick up tomorrow’s New York Post and Daily News and get the real scoop.

  Susan said, “Carolyn and Edward will be home tomorrow or the next day. But only for a few weeks, I’m afraid.”

  “I see.’’ Neither of them had come home directly after school. Carolyn had gone to th
e summer home of her roommate’s parents in Cape Cod, and Edward had remained at St. Paul’s for some vague reason, probably having to do with a girl. I asked Susan, “Where are they going in a few weeks?”

  “Carolyn is going to Cuba with a student exchange group to promote world peace and perfect her Spanish. Edward and some other graduating seniors are going to Cocoa Beach where there is a house available to them. I don’t think they’re going to promote world peace.”

  “Well, but that’s admirable on both counts. World peace begins with inner peace, with solving the problem of the groin area first.”

  “That’s very profound, John.”

  I don’t think she meant that. I should tell you that Susan finances these trips of Carolyn’s and Edward’s. The Stanhope money, in fact, has been a problem in the children’s upbringing from the beginning. I don’t say that Carolyn and Edward are spoiled; they are bright and they work hard in school. But their early nurturing was left to nannies hired by the Stanhopes. And their formative years were spent in boarding schools, which, while customary around here, is not mandatory. But I went along with it. So now, in a way, I barely know my children. I don’t know what they think, what they feel, or who they are. Neither does Susan. I think we missed something, and I think they did, too.

  July, so far, sucked.

  • • •

  Lester Remsen called me at my Locust Valley office one morning. The purpose of the call was social not business. Or more accurately, it was the business of being social. “John,’’ he said, “we had a meeting up at the club last night, and the subject was you.”

  “Who was at the meeting?”

  “Well . . . that’s not important—”

  “It most certainly is to me if I was the subject of the meeting.”

  “It’s more important what the meeting was about. It was about—”

  “If it’s important, Lester, we will present the topic at the next regularly scheduled meeting of the board. I will not be talked about behind my back in an unscheduled session of self-appointed busybodies who want to remain anonymous. This is a nation of law, and I am a lawyer. Capisce?”