Gold Coast

by Nelson DeMille

  “Yes.”

  “So you see, I’m a legitimate businessman.”

  “Please, Frank. It’s a little early in the morning for bullshit.”

  “Yeah?’’ He laughed. “Yeah, you see, I got Stanhope Hall in that briefcase now. I got a motel in Florida, I got one in Vegas, and I got land in Atlantic City. Land. That’s the only thing that counts in this world. They don’t make no more land, Counselor.”

  “No, they don’t, except in Holland where—”

  “There was a time when they couldn’t take land away from you unless they fought you for it. Now, they just do some paperwork.”

  “That’s true.”

  “They’re gonna take my fucking land.”

  “No, it’s just going to be used as collateral. You’ll get it back.”

  “No, Counselor, when they see that shit in your briefcase, they’re gonna come after it. Ferragamo is going to start a RICO thing next. They’re gonna freeze everything I got, and one day they’re gonna own it all. And that stuff you got in there makes their job easier. The murder bullshit smoked out a lot of my assets.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “But fuck them. Fuck all governments. All they want is to grab your property. Fuck them. There’s more where that came from.”

  I guess so, if Mancuso was correct. A lot more.

  “Hey, did I tell you I made an offer for Fox Point? Nine mill. I talked to that lawyer who you told me handles things here for the people who own the place.’’ He asked me, “You want to handle that for me?”

  I shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Good. I’ll give you a point. That’s ninety large.”

  “Let’s see if they accept nine. Don’t forget the Iranians.”

  “Fuck them. They’re not owners. They’re buyers. I only deal with owners. I showed this lawyer that my best offer was his client’s best offer. So he’s going to make his clients understand that. His clients are not going to know about any more Iranian offers. Capisce?”

  “I surely do.”

  “And now we got a place to swim. I’m gonna let everyone on Grace Lane keep using the beach. And nobody has to worry about a bunch of sand niggers running around wrapped in sheets. Capisce?”

  “Do you think you could avoid using that word?”

  “‘Capisce?’”

  “No, the other word.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Forget it.”

  He shrugged. “Anyway, you can count on ninety large in a few months. Glad you came?”

  “So far.’’ I said to him, “You’re obviously not too concerned about facing murder charges, racketeering charges down the line, or possible assassination.”

  “Ah, it’s all bullshit.”

  “It’s not, Frank.”

  “Whaddaya gonna do? You gonna curl up and die? You see a deal, you make a deal. One thing’s got nothing to do with the other.”

  “Well, but it does.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Just thought I’d mention it.’’ I poured myself more coffee and watched the sun burning through the mist outside the kitchen window. You see a deal. You make a deal. I recalled a story I’d had to read once in history class, up at St. Paul’s. In the story, two noble Romans were standing on the ramparts of their city, negotiating the price of a piece of land in the distance. The seller extolled the virtues of his land, its fertility, its orchards, and its proximity to the city. The potential buyer did his best to find some faults with the land to get the price down. Finally, they struck a deal. What neither man mentioned during or after the negotiations was that an invading army was camped on the land in question, preparing for an assault on Rome. The moral of this apocryphal story, for Roman schoolboys, and I suppose for modern preppies at St. Paul’s who were supposed to be sons of the American ruling class, was this: Noble Romans (or noble preppie twits) must show supreme confidence and courage even in the face of death and destruction; one went about one’s business without fear and with an abiding belief in the future. Or, as my ancestors would say, “Stiff upper lip.’’ I said to Bellarosa, “I didn’t know you’d closed on Stanhope Hall.”

  “Yeah. Last week. Where were you? You don’t do legal work for your father-in-law? What kind of son-in-law are you?”

  “I thought it would be a conflict of interest if I represented him for that transaction, and you for this matter.”

  “Yeah? You’re always thinkin’ about that kind of stuff.’’ He leaned toward me. “Hey, can I tell you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Your father-in-law is a little hard to take.”

  I had this utterly irrational mental flash: I could get Bellarosa to have William rubbed out. A contract. A closing. This is from your son-in-law, you son of a bitch. BANG! BANG! BANG!

  “Hey, you listening? I said how do you get along with that guy?”

  “He lives in South Carolina.”

  “Yeah. Good thing. Hey, you want to see the painting?”

  “I’ll wait until it’s hung.”

  “Yeah. We’re gonna get some people here. Susan’s gonna be the guest of honor.”

  “Good.”

  “How’s she doin’? Don’t see her much anymore.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah. She around today? To keep Anna company?”

  “I think so. We don’t exchange daybooks.”

  “Yeah? You got a modern wife there. You like that?”

  “How’s Anna?”

  “She’s getting used to living here. She has all her crazy relatives drive out, and she shows off now. Donna Anna.’’ He added nonchalantly, “She got over that ghost thing.’’ He smiled at me unpleasantly. “You shouldn’t have told her that crazy story.”

  I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry if it upset her.”

  “Yeah? That was a hell of a story. The kids fucking. Madonn’. I told a lot of people that story. But I don’t know if I got it right. Then I told it to my guy, Jack Weinstein. He’s a smart guy like you. He says it was a book. That you got the story out of a book. It’s not a story about Alhambra. Why’d you do that?”

  “To amuse your wife.”

  “She wasn’t amused.”

  “Well, then to amuse myself.”

  “Yeah?’’ He didn’t look too pleased with me. “Somethin’ else,’’ he said. “Anna thinks you were the guy who growled at her. Was that you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why’d you do that?”

  I pictured myself at the bottom of the reflecting pool wearing concrete slippers unless I had a better answer than “To amuse myself.’’ I said, “Look, Frank, that was months ago. Forget it.”

  “I don’t forget nothin’.”

  True. “Well, then accept my apology.”

  “Okay. That I’ll do.’’ He added, “And that’s more than I usually do.’’ He stared at me, then tapped his forehead. “Tu sei matto. Capisce?”

  It helps when they use their hands. I replied, “Capisco.”

  “You people are all crazy.”

  We both went back to our newspaper, but after a few minutes of silence, he asked me, “How much am I paying you?”

  “Nothing. I’m returning a favor.”

  “Nah. You already did that by talking to Mancuso. Get me sprung today, and you get fifty large.”

  “No, I—”

  “Take it now, Counselor, because I might need you later for something, and if they grab all my money under RICO, you ain’t gonna get shit.”

  I shrugged. “All right.”

  “Good. See? You got ninety and fifty already and you ain’t even had your breakfast yet.’’ He wagged his finger at me. “And don’t forget to report it on your income tax.’’ He laughed.

  I managed a smile. Fuck you, Frank.

  We spoke about family for a while, and Frank asked me, “Your daughter still in Cuba?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you talk to her, tell her it’s number fours.�
��

  “Excuse me?”

  “Monte Cristo number four. I forgot to tell your son to tell her that. That’s the big torpedoes. Number four.”

  I wasn’t going to argue with him about smuggling, so I nodded. He asked me, “Do you think the old lady is going to stay in the gatehouse?”

  “I advised her to do that.”

  “Yeah? What would she take to get out?”

  “Nothing, Frank. That’s her home. Forget that.”

  He shrugged.

  I played with the idea of telling him that William Stanhope had probably contributed money to the Gold Coast Preservation Fund, earmarked for the Stanhope Hall zoning battle. But I couldn’t bring myself to reveal a confidence like that. However unethical William’s action was, it wasn’t illegal, and he’d confided his thoughts in front of me about four minutes before I told him to go fuck himself. But I did ask Bellarosa, “What are you going to do with Stanhope Hall?”

  “I dunno. We’ll see.”

  “You could use it to bury bodies.”

  He smiled.

  I asked him, “Where’s your son, Tony?’’ I’d met the little La Salle student the previous week, and he seemed like a sharp kid. He also reminded me of his father in his appearance and mannerisms. Bellarosa seemed very proud of him. I’d taken to calling the kid Little Don, but only in my mind, of course.

  Bellarosa answered me, “I sent him to his older brother for the rest of the summer.”

  “Which older brother?”

  He looked at me. “It don’t matter, and forget you heard that. Understand?”

  “Absolutely.’’ My Lord, you really had to think before you asked any questions of this man. The rich and famous were like that, of course, and I had wealthy friends who didn’t advertise the whereabouts of their children either. But they would tell me if I asked.

  He asked me, “Hey, your son still in Florida?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  He smiled again and went back to his paper. He was doing the crossword puzzle. “American writer, first name Norman, six letters . . . ends in r.”

  “Mailer.”

  “Never heard of him.’’ He filled in the boxes. “Yeah . . . that’s it. You’re a smart guy.”

  Filomena came into the kitchen, and she really was ugly, kind of hard to take in the morning. She and Frank chatted away in Italian for a few minutes, and I could tell his Italian wasn’t good because she was impatient with him. She dragged out all sorts of biscuit tins with Italian writing on them and dumped them on the table. She was giving Bellarosa a hard time about something, then started giving me a hard time.

  Frank explained to me, “She wants you to eat.”

  So, I ate. There were different kinds of breakfast biscuits, and they weren’t bad with butter. Bellarosa had to eat, too. Filomena watched us for a while, motioning to me to keep shoveling it in. Bellarosa said something sharp to her, and she gave it right back to him. This was sort of like a power breakfast, and Filomena had the power.

  Finally, Filomena found something else to do, and Frank pushed his plate away. “Pain in my ass.”

  “Well, that hit the spot.”

  He leaned toward me. “You know any men around here for her?”

  “Not offhand.”

  “She’s twenty-four, probably a virgin, cooks like a chef, cleans, sews, and works hard.”

  “I’ll take her.”

  He laughed and slapped me on the shoulder. “Yeah? You want an Italian woman? I’m gonna tell your wife.”

  “We’ve already discussed it.”

  We had another cup of coffee. It was approaching eight A . M ., and by this time I was beginning to think it was a little late for an arrest, but then Vinnie came into the kitchen as though he were walking on eggs. “Boss, they’re here. Anthony called from the gate. They’re coming.”

  Bellarosa made a motion of dismissal, and Vinnie dematerialized. Bellarosa turned to me. “You owe me fifty bucks.”

  I had the feeling he wanted it right then, so I gave it to him and he shoved it in his pocket. “See?’’ he said. “Ferragamo is a dishonest man. He lied to the grand jury and they gave him his indictment. So I’m getting arrested for something I didn’t do, and he knows I didn’t kill Juan Carranza. Now there’s going to be blood in the streets, and innocent people are going to get hurt.”

  People who get into trouble with the law start sounding like saints and martyrs. I’ve noticed that with my clients who get caught doing creative accounting.

  Bellarosa stood and said to me, “On January fourteenth of this year, on the day Juan Carranza was killed in Jersey by the DEA guys, I got a very good alibi.”

  “Good.’’ I stood, too, and grabbed my briefcase.

  “You never asked me about my alibi for that day because you’re not a criminal lawyer.”

  “That’s true. I should have asked.”

  “Well, as it so happens, I was here. That’s one of the days I drove out here to look at this place. I was here almost the whole day, walking around, eighty miles from where Carranza got hit. They blew his head off in his car on the Garden State Parkway. But I wasn’t anywhere near there. I was here.”

  “Was anyone with you?”

  “Sure. Someone’s always with me. Lenny was driving. Another guy was keeping me company.”

  I shook my head. “No one wants to hear that crap, Frank. That’s not an alibi. Did anyone around here see you?”

  He looked me in the eye. I don’t know why I hadn’t seen that coming. I said, “Forget it.”

  He pointed his finger at me. “Counselor, if you tell that judge at the bail hearing that you saw me that day, you blow Ferragamo out of the water, and I walk in two minutes, maybe without even posting bail.”

  “No.’’ I moved toward the door.

  “Hey, maybe you did see me. What were you doing that day? You out riding?”

  “No.”

  He moved toward me. “Maybe your wife was out riding. Maybe she saw me. Maybe I should talk to her.”

  I dropped the briefcase and came toward him. “You son of a bitch!”

  We stood there, about a foot apart, and I kept thinking about the lead pipe. I said, “I am not going to commit perjury for you, and neither is my wife.”

  We stared at each other and finally he said softly, “Okay. If you don’t think you got to say that to get me sprung, then you don’t have to say it. Just get me sprung.”

  I poked my finger at him. “Don’t try that shit on me again, Frank. Don’t you ever ask me to do anything illegal. I want an apology or I walk out of here.”

  I couldn’t read anything in his normally expressive face, except that his eyes were somewhere else, then he focused on me. “Okay. I apologize. Okay? Let’s go.’’ He took my arm, I took the briefcase, and we went out to the palm court.

  Lenny and Vinnie stood at the small peep windows that flanked the front door. Vinnie turned to his boss. “Somethin’ screwy here.”

  Bellarosa brushed him aside and looked out the window. “I’ll be goddamned. . . .’’ He turned to me. “Hey, look at this.”

  I moved to the window, not knowing what I expected to see—tanks, SWAT teams, helicopters, or what. I did expect to see vehicles, and in the vehicles at least a dozen men: federal types in suits and maybe a few uniformed county police and detectives so that everyone felt they had a piece of the action. But what was coming up the long cobblestone drive now was a solitary man on foot, taking his time, looking at the flower beds and poplars, as though he were out for a stroll.

  As the man got closer—actually long before that—I recognized him. I turned to Bellarosa. “Mancuso.”

  “Yeah?”

  Lenny, at the other window, exclaimed, “He’s alone! The son of a bitch is alone.’’ He turned to Bellarosa. “Let’s off the motherfucker.”

  I didn’t think that was a good idea.

  Bellarosa said, “The man has balls. What balls he has.”

  Vinnie was scandalized. “They c
an’t do that! They can’t send one guy!”

  Mr. Mancuso wasn’t alone, of course, but had the full weight and power of the law with him. That was the lesson to be learned this morning, not only by Frank Bellarosa and his men, but by me.

  Lenny said, “Here he comes!’’ He put his right hand inside his jacket, reaching, I hoped, for his appointment book. But no, he drew his revolver and said, “Should we take him, boss?’’ Actually, he didn’t sound too sincere.

  Bellarosa replied, “Shut up. Put that away. Both of you get back. Over there. Counselor, you stand there.”

  Lenny and Vinnie moved far back near a column, and I stood to the side.

  There were three raps on the door.

  Frank Bellarosa strode to the door and opened it. “Hey, look who’s here.”

  Mr. Mancuso held up his badge case, though we all knew who he was, and got right to the point. “I have a warrant for your arrest, Frank. Let’s go.”

  But Bellarosa did not make a move to leave and both men stared at each other, as if they had both anticipated this moment for years and wanted to let it hang there awhile to be fully appreciated. Finally Bellarosa said, “You got some balls, Mancuso.”

  Mancuso replied, “And you are under arrest.’’ Mancuso pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. “Hands to your front.”

  “Hey, goombah, let me take care of a few things first. Okay?”

  “Cut the goombah stuff, Frank. Are you resisting arrest?”

  “No, no. I just want to talk to my wife. No funny stuff. I was waiting for you. Look, we got a civilian here.’’ He stepped aside and motioned toward me. “See? You know him. He’ll vouch for me.”

  Mr. Mancuso and I made eye contact, and I could tell that he already knew I was there. I said to him, “Mr. Mancuso, you can see that my client was expecting this arrest, and he has made no attempt to resist or to flee. He wants some time to speak to his wife. That is reasonable and customary.’’ I didn’t know if that was true or not, but it sounded as if it could be. I think that’s the way they do it in the movies.

  Mr. Mancuso said to Bellarosa, “All right, Frank. Ten minutes. Just a hug and a smooch. No boomba, boomba.”

  Bellarosa laughed, though I was certain he wanted to smash Mancuso’s face with a lead pipe.