Gold Coast

by Nelson DeMille

  • • •

  Anyway, I spoke to Jack Weinstein in his Midtown office the next day, as you don’t talk about these things on the telephone. I outlined what Alphonse Ferragamo had said and added, “I know what Frank’s answer is going to be, Jack, but this is perhaps his one last chance to save his life, and to start a new life.”

  Weinstein stayed silent a few minutes, then said to me, “Okay, John, I’m Ferragamo and I have you for perjury and you’re looking at maybe ten in a federal prison. Okay, what I want from you is all the information you have on your friends and relatives and business partners that can put them away for cheating on their taxes, for playing fast and loose with SEC rules, for doing a little coke and marijuana, maybe for price-fixing, and for all those other little white-collar things that you winked at over the years. Okay, so your partners will go to jail, your wife’s family goes to jail, your family goes to jail, your old school buddies go to jail, and you go free. What do you say, John?”

  “I say fuck you, Alphonse.”

  “Precisely. And it goes deeper than that with those people, my friend. It’s some kind of ancient distrust of government, some primitive code of honor and of silence. Capisce?”

  “Yes, but the world has changed, Jack. Really it has.”

  “I know. But nobody’s told these people yet. You go tell Frank the world has changed and tell him to give up every last paesano he knows. Go tell him.”

  I stood to leave. “I suppose if Frank Bellarosa plays by the old rules, then he holds the old world together.”

  “I think that’s it.’’ He added, “But you do have to tell him what Ferragamo said. Schedule about two minutes for that conversation.”

  “Right.”

  “Hey, how does ‘Weinstein and Sutter’ sound?”

  Not real terrific, Jack. But I smiled and replied, “How about ‘Sutter, Weinstein and Melzer’?”

  He laughed. “Melzer? I wouldn’t share a match with that guy.”

  I left Weinstein’s office knowing that despite my ambivalent feelings about Frank Bellarosa’s being alive, well, and free, I had done my job.

  But to be certain, I did present Ferragamo’s offer to Bellarosa. However, I didn’t need a whole two minutes because after about thirty seconds, Bellarosa said to me, “Fuck him.”

  “That’s your final decision?”

  “Fuck him and fuck his dog. Who the hell does he think he’s dealing with?”

  “Well, he just took a shot at it. Don’t take it personally. He has a job to do.”

  “Fuck him and fuck his job.”

  Pride goeth before the fall. Right?

  • • •

  Anyway, Frank and I and Lenny and Vinnie drove to the rifle club one night. We went down to the basement with a bunch of other sportsmen, all armed with revolvers and automatics, and we blasted away at paper targets and drank wine all night. Jolly fun, almost like bird shooting out in the Hamptons, lacking only a beautiful autumn landscape, tweedy old gentlemen, vintage sherry, and birds. But not bad for Manhattan.

  Lenny and Vinnie, as it turned out, were really good shots, which I suppose I should have known. But I discovered it the hard way after losing about two hundred dollars to them on points.

  So there I was at a Mafia shooting range, blasting away at paper targets with my wife’s boyfriend and his Mafia pals, wondering if perhaps I should have taken in a movie instead. Anyway, we were all a little pie-eyed from the wine, and the shots were getting wilder, and one of the club members presented Bellarosa with a silhouette target on which someone had sketched in the features of Alphonse Ferragamo. The drawing was not Michelangelo quality, but it wasn’t bad, and you could identify Alphonse with the owl eyes, aquiline nose, thin lips, and all that. Frank hung the target and put four out of six rounds through its heart at thirty feet, much to everyone’s delight. It was not bad shooting considering he’d had enough wine to make him unsteady on his feet. But the whole incident made me a little uncomfortable.

  • • •

  The next few days passed with phone calls and meetings, mostly in the suite. I had expected a man like Bellarosa to have a girlfriend, or many girlfriends, or at least to get someone for a night. But I saw no signs of impropriety during the time we were at the Plaza. Maybe he was being faithful to his wife and mistress.

  As for my impropriety, Bellarosa said to me, “Hey, I don’t mind you bringing women up here, but no more lady reporters. She’s just trying to get something out of you.”

  “No, she just likes my company.”

  “Hey, I know that type. They use their twats to get ahead. You don’t find that type in my business.”

  Indeed, no one in Frank’s business had female genitalia. If the government couldn’t get him on murder or racketeering, maybe they could nail him on discriminatory hiring.

  He went on, “I’m telling ya, Counselor, I’d rather see you talking to the devil than some puttan’ who’s trying to make a name for herself.”

  Well, what was I going to say? That I was infatuated with Jenny Alvarez and it was strictly personal? I mean, it was hard for me to hold the moral high ground after dragging Ms. Alvarez and a bottle of scotch into my room. You know? But did I have to listen to a sermon from Frank Bellarosa? Maybe I did.

  The Bishop went on, “Men’s business is men’s business. Women don’t play by the same rules.”

  “Neither do men,’’ I informed him.

  “Yeah. But some do. I try to keep my business in the family. You know? My own kind. That’s why I had to make you an honorary Italian.’’ He laughed.

  “Am I a Sicilian or a Neapolitan?”

  He laughed again. “I’ll make you a Roman because you’re a pain in the ass.”

  “I’m honored.”

  “Good.”

  Indeed, everyone in Frank’s world was male, and nearly all of them were Italian, and most of them were of Sicilian ancestry or from the city or region of Naples, as Bellarosa’s family was. This did make the rules of behavior and business easier, but there weren’t many outside ideas that penetrated this closed world.

  Jack Weinstein’s roots, though, were obviously not southern Italian, and he was perhaps Bellarosa’s link to the outside. I had learned, incidentally, that Weinstein’s family and Bellarosa’s family had known one another in Williamsburg. That section of Brooklyn, you should understand, was not predominantly Italian, but was mostly German, Jewish, and a little Irish. A real melting pot, to use an inaccurate term, since no one mixed much, let alone melted. However, because of the proximities of other cultures, the Williamsburg immigrants were not quite as insular as the immigrants in other areas of New York, who created tight little worlds. Thus, the Williamsburg Italians, such as those around Santa Lucia, went to school with and even made friends with non-Italians. This information came from Mr. Bellarosa, who didn’t use the words proximity and insular, but I understood what he was saying. Anyway, he and Weinstein went back a lot of years, which I found interesting, and like me, Jack Weinstein did not want to be, nor could he ever be, under Mafia constitutional law, the don. Thus, Weinstein was Bellarosa’s Henry Kissinger, if you’ll accept that analogy. So how did I fit into the Bellarosa crime family? Well, I was the noblest Roman of them all.

  • • •

  We checked out of the Plaza on Sunday and returned to Long Island in a three-car convoy, each car packed with Italian men and Italian food. I was in the middle car with Bellarosa, and the interior smelled of ripening cheese and cigars. I didn’t know if I would have to boil my clothes or burn them.

  Regarding Susan, she hadn’t called again; at least she hadn’t called me again. And I never did return her call and couldn’t if I wanted to since I’d thrown away her new unlisted number. So, to be honest, I was a little tense about walking through the front door.

  Bellarosa said to me, “The girls will be happy to see us.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “They probably thought we were having a good time in the city. Whenever you g
o away on business, they think you’re having a ball. Meantime, you’re busting your ass to make a buck. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Anyway, Anna’s cooking all my favorite things tonight.’’ Whereupon he rattled off all his favorite things in this sort of singsong voice that Italians use when talking about food. I actually recognized a few of the things. I’m an honorary Italian. Anyway, this food talk must have made him hungry because he ripped open a bag of biscotti and unwrapped a hunk of cheese that smelled like gym socks. He borrowed a stiletto from Vinnie and went to work on the cheese. Executive lunch. He asked, “Want some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You know what a garbage truck is called in an Italian neighborhood?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Meals on wheels.’’ He laughed. “Tell me one.”

  “Did you hear about the dumb Mafia guy who tried to blow up a police car?”

  “No.”

  “He burnt his mouth on the tail pipe.”

  He liked that one and slid the Plexiglas divider open and told it to Lenny and Vinnie, who laughed, though I could tell they didn’t get it.

  We rode in silence for a while, and I reflected on the present state of affairs. Despite the unspoken and unresolved issues between Frank Bellarosa and me, I was still his lawyer, and if I took him at his word, his friend. I could believe that if it weren’t for the fact that I was also his alibi, and he was protecting his interest in me, which sort of colored things.

  Actually I didn’t want to be his lawyer anymore, or his friend or his alibi. I could have told him that a few days ago, but since his arraignment it had become vastly more complicated for me to cut my ties to him. As a lawyer, and therefore an officer of the court, what I had said in court was perjury, even though I hadn’t been under oath. And as a lawyer, if I recanted what I’d said, I’d probably be facing disbarment, not to mention a bullet in the head. There was, of course, this other side to being made an honorary Italian. It wasn’t all wine and rigatoni, it was also omertà—silence—and it was us against them, and it was some sort of unspoken oath of loyalty that I must have taken, accepting Frank Bellarosa as my don. Mamma mia, this shouldn’t happen to a High Episcopalian.

  Bellarosa impaled a hunk of cheese on the point of the knife and held it under my nose. “Here. You make me nervous when you watch me eat. Mangia.”

  I took the cheese and bit into it. It wasn’t bad, but it stunk.

  Bellarosa watched me with satisfaction. “Good?”

  “Molto bene.’’ Not only were we partners in crime, but we were beginning to talk and smell the same.

  After a few minutes of silence, he said to me, “Hey, I know you’re pissed about some things, you know, things that you think I did to you, like the Melzer thing. But like I told you once, sometimes you can’t get even. Sometimes you got to take the hit and be happy you’re still on your feet. Then the next time you’re a little tougher and a little smarter.”

  “Thank you, Frank. I didn’t realize all you’ve done for me.”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  “Don’t do me any more favors. Okay?”

  “Okay. But here’s some more free advice. Don’t do me those kinds of favors, either. You don’t talk to people like that reporter broad, and you don’t even think about ways to even up the score. I’m telling you that for your own good. Because I like you, and I don’t want to see nothing happen to you.”

  “Look, Frank, I’m not into vendetta like you are. I took the hit and I learned my lesson as you said. But if I was into revenge for the Melzer thing and for those other things, I guarantee you, you wouldn’t even see it coming. So we let bygones be bygones, and we finish out our business, and we part friends. Capisce?”

  He looked at me a long time, then said, “Yeah, you’re smart enough to take a shot at me, but you ain’t tough enough.”

  “Fuck me again and we’ll find out.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  I could tell he wasn’t real happy with me, but he thought about it and said, “Well, I’m not going to fuck you again, so we’ll never find out. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  He put out his hand and I took it. We shook, but I wasn’t sure what we were shaking on, and I don’t think he knew either. Neither did he believe me that I wasn’t looking for revenge, and I didn’t believe that he wouldn’t screw me again the first time it was in his interest to do so.

  Anyway, as we approached the expressway exit to Lattingtown, Bellarosa said in a tone of conciliation, “Hey, come on over for dinner tonight. We got lots of food. Anna invited a bunch of people over. All relatives. No businesspeople.”

  “Are we related?”

  “No, but it’s an honor to be invited to a family thing.”

  “Thank you,’’ I said noncommittally.

  “Good. Susan, too. I think Anna talked to her already.’’ He added, “Hey, I got an idea. Let’s make this the picture party. Everybody’s going to be there who I want to see the picture. Let’s do that.”

  I had the distinct impression everybody knew about this already. In polite suburban society, this would be a sort of friendly ruse to get a couple back together again. But Frank Bellarosa had all sorts of other angles as usual.

  He said, “Your wife will be the guest of honor. That okay with you?”

  Well, the prospect of spending an evening at an Italian family homecoming party for a Mafia don with my estranged wife as the guest of honor was not that appealing, as you may conclude.

  “Okay? See you about six.”

  Vinnie suddenly burst out laughing and slid back the Plexiglas. He looked at me. “Burned his mouth on the tail pipe. I get it.”

  I should have taken the train home.

  Thirty-three

  The convoy turned into Stanhope Hall and proceeded up the gravel drive of Bellarosa’s newly acquired fiefdom until we reached the little enclave of Susan Stanhope, where I bid my felonious friends good-day and carried my suitcase up to the front door.

  Susan’s Jaguar was out front, but with horse people that doesn’t necessarily mean anyone is at home, and as I entered the house, it had that empty feeling about it. So the joyful reunion was postponed.

  I went to my den and erased twenty-six messages on my answering machine, then took a stack of faxes and burned them in the fireplace unread. I did go through my mail because I respect handwritten letters. There was only one of those, however, a letter from Emily, which I put aside. Everything else turned out to be business mail, bills, ads, and assorted junk, which I also burned.

  I sat down and read Emily’s letter:

  Dear John,

  Where in the name of God did you get that horrid tie? I kept adjusting the color on my TV, but the tie didn’t go with the suit unless your face was green. And I see you still don’t carry a pocket comb. I saw that Spanish woman—Alvarez, I think—on the affiliate station here, and she hates you or loves you. Find out which. Gary and I are fine. Come on down. Soon!

  Love,

  Sis

  I put the letter in my desk drawer and went into the kitchen. We have a family message center, formerly known as a bulletin board, but the only message on it said, Zanzibar, vet, Tuesday A . M . Fuck Zanzibar. He can’t even read, and he’s not allowed in the kitchen anyway.

  I carried my suitcase upstairs and entered the former master bedroom, now called the mistress bedroom, and threw my suitcase in the corner. I changed into jeans, Docksides, and T-shirt and went into the bathroom. My mouth still smelled of that cheese, so I gargled with mint mouthwash, but it didn’t do any good. The stuff was in my blood.

  I left the house and got into my Bronco, which I had trouble starting after it had sat idle for a while. George Allard was indeed dead. The engine finally turned over, and I headed down the driveway. I was on my way to go see my boat, but as I approached the gatehouse, Ethel stepped out of the door and stood in the drive, wearing her Sunday flower dress. I stopped the Bronco and go
t out. “Hello, Ethel.”

  “Hello, Mr. Sutter.”

  “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,’’ she replied.

  “You look well.’’ Actually she didn’t, but I’m pretty easy on recent widows, orphans, and the severely handicapped.

  She said to me, “It’s not my place to say this, Mr. Sutter, but I think the press is treating you unfairly.”

  Was this Ethel Allard? Did she use that George-ism “it’s not my place to say this’’? Obviously this woman was possessed by the ghost of her husband. I replied, “That’s very good of you to think so, Mrs. Allard.”

  “This must be very trying for you, sir.”

  I think my eyes moved heavenward to see if George was up there smiling. I said to Ethel, “I’m sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused you regarding unwanted visitors.”

  “That’s all right, sir. That’s my job.”

  Really? “Nevertheless, I do appreciate your patience. I’m afraid this might go on for some time.”

  She nodded, actually sort of bowed her head the way George used to do to show he’d heard and understood. This was a little spooky, so I said, “Well, you take care of yourself.’’ I moved back toward the Bronco.

  She informed me, “Mrs. Sutter and I went to church this morning.”

  “How nice.”

  “She said you might be coming home today.”

  “Yes.”

  “She asked me to tell you if I saw you that she will be on the property this afternoon. She may be tending her garden or riding or at the stables. She asked that you look for her.’’ Ethel added hesitantly, “She hasn’t seemed herself the last few days.”

  Neither have you, Ethel. Neither has anyone else around here. Just then, I would have given anything to go back to April when the world was safe and dull. Anyway, I really didn’t want to see Susan; I wanted to see my boat, but I couldn’t very well ignore Ethel’s message, so I said, “Thank you. I’ll take a look around.’’ I got back into the Bronco, turned around, and headed back up the long drive.

  I drove to the stable and looked inside, but Susan wasn’t there, though both horses were. I put the Bronco into four-wheel drive and drove across the property to Stanhope Hall, but I didn’t see her tending her vegetables in the terrace gardens. I drove past the gazebo and the hedge maze, but there was no sign of her.